‘I was out of order, Boysie. I couldn’t function without you, bruv. Me and you, well, we’re one really. We function as one. Without you I’d be nothing, mate. Nothing. There’s only two things important to me in this life, you and The Aunt.’

Boysie bit his lip, then of one mind the brothers embraced.

‘We’ll get the fuckers, Danny Boy, me and you. We’ll find them, we’ll hunt them down, and we’ll blow them off the face of the earth.’

Peter Pargolis stood in The Two Puddings in Stratford with a large brandy in one hand and a large woman named Cynthia Malling in the other. Cynthia was a speciality brass. She could do things with her huge breasts that defied not only most people’s physical capabilities but also the imagination of even the most dedicated porn lover. Davey Mitchell had provided her for his good friend’s evening entertainment.

Davey watched Pargolis as he sipped his drink fastidiously. Say what you liked about the bubbles, they were a good crew if you was in with them. He knew that Pargolis was intent on taking over some of the East End businesses of the Cavanaghs and reckoned he had a good chance of fulfilling his dream. Davey was to get a nice little slice of the action himself, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with the Greek.

Full of beer and good-humoured camaraderie, he looked around the small pub and saw one of the Cavanaghs’ henchmen, Dicky D‘Arcy, standing watching them with another man, a black man he’d never seen before. Seeing his chance to bring himself up more in the estimation of Pargolis, he began to bait D’Arcy. Mitchell’s big mouth always was his downfall.

‘Oi, D’Arcy! Where’s the twins tonight then? At home with Mummy, are they? Fucking pair of slags ... How’s Boysie then? His new wife looks right fucked off. Found out the twins are stuck up each other’s arses, has she?’

Pargolis and his men laughed. Cynthia didn’t, she had too good a knowledge of the Cavanaghs to be seen laughing at their expense.

Dicky D’Arcy lifted two fingers at Mitchell.

‘Why don’t you shut your mouth and give your arse a chance, Mitchell? What’s wrong? Had a large shandy, have we and can’t take it?’

Mitchell was serious now. He pointed at D’Arcy with a thick tobacco-stained finger.

‘You tell them two pricks that their days are numbered. They don’t scare me, mate. The pavement stinks of them, it stinks. Well, soon those pavements will be ours. Tell them that from me.’