He knew that George Thomas could hear his approach because the man was once again vocal with his threats. No doubt about it, he was a game old fucker; he had to give him that. As Ray picked up the sulphuric acid he was sorry in a way that he had to blind him, even partially. He knew the pain would knock the fucker out, and then he would give him a quick shot of liquid oxycodone and Bob was your uncle – as the Southerners said – and Fanny was your fucking aunt. The Two Js could dump him, and then Ray would get the bleach out and scrub his workplace clean. He liked a clean workspace; there was nothing worse than people who left too many clues behind them. It was a fool’s game, and could lead to nothing but trouble.

George’s screams died down to a faint moan and, when he finally lost consciousness, Ray Donovan was actually relieved. He liked the man, and had nothing whatsoever against him. His final job was to shatter his right ankle and basically hobble him. There was no getting away from it: George Thomas had fucked off Micky Biggs royally. But his was not to reason why, as his old mum used to say.

He rang the Two Js and set about cleaning his instruments. Once George had been taken away he would concentrate on the cellar itself. He checked his watch and was pleased to note that if he got his arse in gear he would be in time to catch News at Ten. He liked the news; he felt that people should keep up with current events. It was the sign of a lively mind.

George was groaning in pain, and now the noise was beginning to get on Ray’s tits. The sooner he was out of here the better.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

Jack was with Micky, assuring him that the job he had requested had been done. Micky Biggs was over the fucking moon, as he kept saying again and again. He put the fifty thousand pounds in cash on the table in a small holdall, and he knew that Jack Johnson trusted him too much to count it while he was there.

‘He did everything I asked?’

Jack nodded imperceptibly. He didn’t like the way Micky was taking such a pleasure in George Thomas’s downfall. Jack Johnson could be funny like that.

‘He was blinded in his left eye, and his right ankle was hobbled, per your instructions. My source tells me they are leaving him on the steps of the Old London, as you also requested.’

Micky was smiling from ear to ear now. He had his business back, and he had meted out a punishment that could in no way come back and bite him on his tiny but well-shaped arse. As Micky sipped his drink he had an almost beatific smile on his face.