And he’d done alright. He had kids all over the borough nicking iPods and jacking sat navs and car stereos – but that was small change next to phones. He was turning over 100 phones a day now, more on weekends, mostly iPhones and Galaxies. Candy from babies, that’s what it was. He did a little drug dealing too, but he’d figured that was much riskier and the competition fierce and vicious. He wasn’t quite ready to take on some of the big gangs yet.

He was starting to feel like a big fish in a shitty little goldfish bowl though, swimming around in his own filth. At night, when he looked out of his window, he could see all the lights stretched out across London and he knew he wanted more. He needed to step up. And to do that, he needed more capital than the phones and stolen gadgets brought in.

The question was, where was it going to come from?

He and RiRi approached a couple of Jerome’s foot soldiers, Curtis and Milo. When they weren’t stealing iPhones off soft college kids they were a rap duo who totally sucked ass. He lifted his chin in greeting and the two rappers did the same.

‘Alright, Jerome. Alright RiRi.’

The dog sniffed Curtis’s leg then lay down on the hot asphalt with her legs stretched out before her.

‘Yo, look at that,’ Curtis laughed. ‘Bitches always be lying down for the Ty Master.’

At this, Milo made a desperate ‘cut it’ gesture at his rap-mate, but Curtis was high on something and laughed loudly at his own joke.

Jerome took off RiRi’s chain, stepped behind Curtis and slipped it round his throat, pulling hard. Curtis made a satisfying choking sound, desperately attempting to get his fingers beneath the chain.

‘Apologise,’ he said calmly.

Curtis rasped and Jerome loosened the chain a little.

‘I’m sorry, Jerome, man. I didn’t mean no disrespect.’

‘Not to me. Say sorry to Rihanna.’

Jerome pulled the chain tighter. Milo gawped at his friend as his face turned purple. Jerome felt his biceps flex satisfyingly as he increased the pressure. Then he let go, the other man dropping to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping.

‘Say sorry to her.’

Curtis crawled towards the staffie, who lifted her chin and regarded him imperiously.

‘I’m . . . sorry . . . Rihanna,’ the rapper said.

They watched the dog, Curtis trembling with fear as he waited to see what the terrier would do.

RiRi hauled herself up and trotted in the opposite direction.

‘Apology not accepted,’ Jerome said. The blood was pounding inside his head now. It felt good. Better than being inside Carla, better than one of Aunt Jacqui’s BJs, better even than getting paid.