Connor eyed Joey with dislike. The business was doing well and the work was almost entirely legitimate these days. He was expanding, too – in the process of buying up another yard, with Benedict’s help. They’d splashed out on new signage, new lorries. Things were on the up. But the thought of Joey hanging around at work as well as around the house was a pain in the arse. Connor could never forget that Joey was far from reliable. He liked the drugs too much, he was too hair-trigger in temperament. And – worst of all – he had fucked Connor’s sister and got her railroaded into marriage.

‘Aysha would like it,’ said Joey with an angelic smile.

‘Fuck what Aysha would like,’ said Connor. ‘Get work if you want, but you won’t get it with me – clear?’

Joey was fuming at the way Connor dismissed him. He hadn’t expected things to pan out like this, or he would never have bothered marrying Aysha, he’d have just legged it. The pay-off was supposed to be loads of dosh from work shoved his way, a nice big pile of it to stash away for his own personal use, buy plenty of E, hire a prossie or two because for sure Aysha wasn’t up for it; his wife had turned out to be a chilly bitch. But that wasn’t happening.

‘I’m part of the family now,’ he moaned to his dad when he went back to the estate to visit. Dad had his feet up in front of the TV as usual, watching the racing. ‘And the fuckers are treating me like dirt.’

‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ said Dad through a blue fug of cigarette smoke. ‘They’ll get used to the idea.’ He glanced up at his son, who was pacing around the grubby carpet. ‘Get Aysha to put the screws on, that’ll do the trick.’

‘Tried that. She’s had a go. No result. That Connor? He’s an obstinate sod. He won’t let bygones be bygones,’ said Joey moodily. A job in the yard would have been good; there would have been plenty of chances to pocket stock and sell it on at a good profit.

‘One of the blokes down the club said there was something going,’ said Dad.

Joey looked at his father. When he wasn’t draped over the sofa, drinking beer and smoking fags, Dad sometimes frequented the local working men’s club – which was a laugh, because Dad had never done a stroke of work in his entire life.

‘Oh? What is it?’

‘Clearing gardens.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘No – pay’s handsome. Big houses, people with more money than sense. Old dears left in bloody great mansions when their husbands have fallen off the twig, they got cash to burn.’

‘Fucking hard work, that,’ said Joey.