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  Pat Brodie was aware of all this; he had dealt with Jimmy Bricks all his life and he knew how to handle them. He was a dangerous little fuck, and he would need constant monitoring at all times. That was also par for the course where looney tunes like him were concerned. They had a terrible habit of killing people for all the wrong reasons, mainly their wives or their birds, occasionally even a stranger who was stupid enough to front them up on a nice sunny afternoon.

  That would always be Jimmy’s Achilles heel: the destruction of a drunken punter in the pub or the loud-mouthed bastard in the restaurant who didn’t realise what they were taking on. That would be his nicking if he wasn’t careful; anger put so many people in clink, it was unbelievable.

  The people Jimmy was paid to harm or remove from his orbit were a different ball game: there was no emotion then; no room for anger or resentment. It was just a job, no more and no less. Brodie understood this man’s mindset and he also knew how to utilise it for his own gain. It was, as he always said, the nature of the beast, and they were beasts, all of them. They just didn’t know how to classify themselves.

  Jimmy was a young man who needed guidance, who needed someone to keep him on the straight and narrow. Brodie was going to be that person and he was going to take care of him, not only as an asset to his business but as someone he could mould, could make into a second-in-command.

  Pat Brodie had to run a business and so he needed nutcases but this time, as an added bonus, he was involved with someone he liked and respected. The boy had potential and balls, the two main ingredients for their kind of life.

  Jimmy had taken Dennis out with a deliberately long and completely unnecessary violence that had been tightly controlled but obviously hugely enjoyable to the man himself. Pat had been impressed and disgusted all at the same time. But this was exactly what was needed. From now on, Jimmy Brick would be a byword for hate and despair, pain and terror. His rep would stop trouble before it began because no one would want to tangle with a fuckhead like Jimmy. Those who did would then see the error of their ways quick smart. He was like a cancer, he would get you in the end. He was like a guarantee of calm because now he had started his reign of terror only a fucking lunatic would be stupid enough to take him on.

  Patrick was in the market for a Jimmy Brick because Jimmy would earn his inflated wage by going down for him at some point. As long as no one could prove who ordered a beating or a murder, no one could ever knock on Pat’s door, it was as simple as that. Jimmy was a good bloke but also his own personal fall guy if everything ever fell out of bed. Jimmy Brick was the new Dave Williams. Not that he would ever point that out, of course, he was too shrewd by half.

  Smiling, Patrick poured himself a large brandy and, sipping it, he looked out of the grimy window at people going about their daily business in Soho.

  He was pleased with himself, happy with his life and what it could bring him in the near future. He knew Jimmy had been a shrewd move on his part and he was happy to relax now and wait for him to bring in the money, the poke, the peace of mind. He had been the resident nutter for too long, it was time he took a back seat. He could relax and just make the odd appearance when it was deemed necessary. People had no idea of the war that was waged on a daily basis; of how keeping yourself on top took nearly all your time. Soho was a place where fortunes were made, and fortunes were lost on the turn of a card; or the chatter of a belligerent employee. Where people were expendable and life was of no real consequence.

  ‘You are who you beat.’ That was said by the man he had shot here so many years ago and Brodie knew that had been a lesson well learned by the both of them.

  He looked out the window again, enjoying the sights and the sounds as he always had. This was his second home and when he wasn’t with Lil, this was the only other place he felt comfortable, felt as if he belonged.

  Nothing in Soho was ever really kosher, and no one ever admitted to anything ever. Even people’s names were just pretend, like the whole place was pretend. More so even than the theatres that abounded; the stories they acted out for their audiences night after night were not a patch on the real-life stories happening on the streets outside their doors.

  Brodie sighed and wondered at a man like himself, someone who could see this place as anything other than a cesspool. It destroyed people on a regular basis, especially the women; their turnover was phenomenal in comparison with other places that dealt in flesh and pornography, like Shepherds Market. That was where the Soho girls were likely to end their days, or Notting Hill and, worst-case scenario, for the diseased or for the beaten and scarred, the dock areas, what was left of them anyway. But as a man this didn’t really affect him so he could turn a blind eye, choose to ignore the price women paid so he could smoke his expensive cigars and pat himself on the back over his success. That was the secret of Soho and its patrons: as long as you kept your minions at arm’s length and didn’t dwell too much on the price that would be exacted by the punters, you could relax, relax and enjoy the spoils of a war that had never really been declared on the unsuspecting girls who saw Soho as some kind of refuge. At first, girls could lose themselves there; no one would find them if they were clever enough to keep their real identities a secret. But it was a vicious circle and, like any circle, it had no beginning and no end. The great job they had acquired, the independence they thought was so important, eventually turned out to be the worst things that could ever happen to them. It was a seductive life for young runaways. It seemed glamorous and exciting, money for old rope, money that was easily earned and easily spent because it was always going to be there the next day and the day after that and the day after that, until years had passed and they were caught in the never-ending cycle that was prostitution. Every year their punters became less well-heeled and every year their expectations were lowered. In the end they would be on the street hustling for enough money to keep them stoned and out of it enough to forget what their lives had become.

  This was a dangerous game and it was an earner, but not for the women of course.

  The only real winners were the men like him, the men who used the women they found on a daily basis and discarded them when they were not needed any more. Over the years the girls, at least most of them, had become like animals to him; he had no real feelings for them. How could he when they had no feelings for themselves?>

  It didn’t do to dwell on anything for too long in his job, especially as he was long past caring these days and he made sure of that much at least. He only cared about his family; anyone else was just collateral damage, no more and no less.

  He stared out of the window. Late afternoon was a favourite time for him in Soho, the streets were just getting busy with people who were expecting a good night out and who were either ignorant or uncaring about how that would eventually come about. The night drawing in also brought out all the locals. The staple of Soho evenings, the reason people congregated here night after night. It was a mixture of the young, the stupid, the used and the users. Then, of course, there were the people like him, without whom none of the former could ply their wares. Whatever anyone thought of him and his peers, they were the staple diet of Soho, they kept the place ticking over and kept the mystique that attracted the punters and the revellers.

  Everyone loved a Face, a villain, and everyone liked to be associated with the glamour that villainy provided for them. The rich and famous were drawn to people like him, like moths to a flame. It was how it worked and he milked it for all it was worth. What else could he do?

  This was one of the reasons he needed a Jimmy Brick. The clubs were frequented by Names these days; they were the meeting ground for the great and the good, and in reality they paid enough protection, and owned enough filth to ensure that their more exotic customers got a free pass and peace of mind. Now he had to sort out the final piece of the puzzle and, once that had been obtained, he could relax with the best of them.

  He watched the strippers passing each other on the street as they made
their way from club to club, calling out to each other, glad to see their counterparts as it made them feel less lonely and less afraid of what the night might bring. The scouts were already at work, trying to talk the punters into the strip bars or the hostess clubs, promising the earth and delivering nothing but the empty promise of good times to be had. The air was cold enough to make all their breath visible and the scantily dressed women upped their usual pace, hurrying into the warmth of their next club.

  Patrick Brodie loved the West End, and he felt at home there.

  He had no worries about losing his crown because he had earned it, fair and square, and he was respected and, more importantly, he was feared. He had made sure of that, and he was proud of it as well. Soho was a shithole to the majority of people. To him it was just a means to an end.

  Lil, the love of his life, was cooking another baby and once she was delivered of it, she would be back to her usual self. His kids were smart, handsome and well-looked after. He had money all over the show, a beautiful home and he had what he had never believed was possible for a man brought up as he had been. He had happiness inside himself, real happiness, even if he didn’t look like he did. Only Lil, his Lil, knew how happy he was and how much he cherished his life with her. Everything else was as nothing when measured against his family.

  God had been good to him, he knew, and he thanked him every Sunday by paying his respects and enjoying the peace and tranquillity that church seemed to bring him.

  Life, he felt, was good.

  ‘My party is going to be the best party ever and you can invite any of your friends, Lance.’

  Pat Junior was feeling magnanimous, even though his brother had been irritating him all day. He knew that he was being overly nice about Lance and his wicked tongue and though he had decided that he was just a really annoying little brother like any other, he understood his brother’s unhappiness better than Lance did.

  ‘Why would my friends want to go to your crappy party?’

  Pat Junior shrugged at his brother’s words. ‘Well, the offer is there if you want to ask anyone.’

  He stopped himself from saying, ‘if you have anyone to ask that is’, but he knew it was pointless because he didn’t get any kind of thrill from hurting his brother’s feelings. He knew Lance had the burden of knowing that their mum didn’t really have a lot of time for him, though she pretended to, and that his Nanny Annie had too much time for him, which he guessed was why his mum got so annoyed with his brother.

  His nan seemed to take Lance over as soon as she stepped on to the premises and that suited him because Pat hated her, really hated her, though he had never admitted that to anyone out loud, of course. He knew his mum put up with her and the girls liked her because she was enamoured with them like everyone else was. Twins did that, they made people take notice of them somehow. He adored his little sisters, and he understood why they made such an impression. But Lance was hard work and he felt for his brother even as he got angry with him.

  So he sighed heavily, saying, ‘Well you can ask anyone you want, OK?’

  Lance nodded, feeling bad now. He knew Pat Junior was at the end of his considerable patience so he smiled and, as always, it changed his whole face; he looked handsome and innocent. The way he would have looked all the time if he wasn’t always on the look out for slights or what he saw as insults.

  ‘Thanks, mate. I’ll think about it, all right?’

  Pat Junior nodded.

  And then they both sat down and watched Jackanory together in what was, for once, almost a friendly silence.

  Lil walked in and saw her two sons together and smiled at them. They were both so alike and even Lance seemed happy for a change. As she sat down herself and sipped at a cup of tea, she wished that she could feel this contentment more often. But it was so difficult for her because she knew she couldn’t.

  Lance was watching her warily from the corner of his eye and the guilt that she felt because of him rose up inside her as it always did and made her feel so bad about herself that she almost cried. She tried as hard as she could with him, but the urge to slap this child of hers was overwhelming.

  She watched as Patrick Junior glanced at his brother and then slipped his hand into Lance’s, all the while acting like there was no atmosphere in the room and there was nothing to be worried about. It was the way that Lance grabbed at his brother’s hand as if he was saving him from drowning that was the worst thing of all. Because she knew that Patrick was, as usual, acting as a wall that kept her and her second son as far away from each other as was physically possible and she did nothing to stop him.

  Lil appreciated her eldest son’s help and loved him all the more because she knew he was doing it all for her; she knew that he had no real time for Lance either.

  Like her husband with Dennis Williams, who had eventually worn out his welcome, her son had the same attitude with his brother. Unlike Dennis Williams though, Lance had the sense to keep on his brother’s good side.

  Lil was worried though. Dennis had nearly brought trouble to her door and even though Pat had sorted it, she was still smarting from it. No matter what Pat said or, more to the point, didn’t say, she had her mother to rely on where gossip was concerned.

  The Williams brothers would always be trouble to them, she was convinced of that much at least.

  Dave was nervous and he wondered what kind of reception he was going to get in Patrick’s office. He hoped against hope that he would be alone, that he didn’t have to talk to him with an audience of any kind. He felt Pat owed him that much at least but he couldn’t demand it; his days of demanding anything were long gone.

  The fact he was invited to the club was a touch because he knew that if Pat Brodie was going to do anything to him it would not be where he could be seen or heard. He needed to know the score, not just for him, but for his brothers who were waiting for him to let them know if they were safe or not. The family had been divided and all he could do now was to try to iron out their differences as best he could. If that meant swallowing his knob then he was willing to do it like a professional hostess. Dave was more than aware that anything he was given now would be the dregs and he had to accept that and work his way back into Pat’s good books. He had to try to salvage something of their working relationship so that his brothers and himself could at least earn a crust of some sort.

  He was also worried about what had happened to Dennis. He knew Jimmy had been on board, so he knew that it wasn’t going to be anything he wanted to hear, though he would listen to the gory details if necessary and accept it with as good a grace as he could.

  At the end of the day, he had to keep reminding himself that, no matter what, he had to do what was best for the rest of the family, himself included. That the old days were dead and gone. He had to take what was offered with as much pride and dignity as he could muster, and eventually it would all blow over.

  At least that is what he kept telling himself.

  As he parked his car and walked slowly through the evening bustle that was Soho, he felt the sickness rising inside his chest. This had once been his stomping ground, had once been the epitome of everything he had ever wanted or indeed ever achieved but now the streets were cold and unfriendly and he didn’t feel a part of it all any more.

  The flashing neon lights and the garish posters with nude women and their strategically placed stars, were alien to him. Sex was on sale everywhere, but underlying that was the stench of pimps and the Brodies, all out to take whatever they wanted.

  The smell of Chinese food mixed with pasta was sickening and the grey-skinned women who only seemed to come alive at night looked sinister; their make-up and cheap clothes suddenly showing him just how false the world he had inhabited for so long really was.

  Soho was all top show and if you scratched the surface you were reminded that it was all built on lies and pretence; he had been part of that pretence once and now he was being forced on to the sidelines. It was a very cruel lesson and one
he would remember all his life.

  No one acknowledged his existence any more. There were no friendly waves or the humorous shouting he had become used to. He saw people deliberately turning away from him, as if he was diseased, and in a way he was. He was now an outsider looking in and it felt worse than anything he had ever experienced before in his life.

  As Dave walked into the warmth of the club, he was left with no illusions about his status in the community where he had once been a leading player.

  The head girl, Lynda Marks, looked him up and down with obvious distaste before saying archly, ‘I’ll let him know you’re here, shall I?’

  Her whole demeanour told him just how far he had fallen and it was this more than anything that really hit him where it hurt.

  If the hostesses felt they could talk down to you then you really were about as low as you could possibly get.

  But he knew he had to take whatever was dealt him, because he had fucked up big time. It would be years before he was even accepted back into the lower echelons of the world he had come to see as his own; let alone be trusted. He had to make sure that Patrick Brodie understood that he was here today, cap in hand and with all the humility he could muster, in the hope that he could salvage at least something from this debacle. At least get a living for himself and his brothers. He needed to find out whether Dennis was alive or dead and if they at least had something left to bury or whether he had to tell his mother there were no remains to cry over, nothing tangible to grieve for. As he waited for his audience he was sweating with nerves and dry-mouthed with fear.

  ‘Look at that pair of maggots!’ Annie’s voice was soft for once and, as was her wont these days, it was the sight of her twin granddaughters that was the cause of it.