What the newspapers didn’t report was that knife crime was just as bad out of London as it was in it. And by concentrating on the capital, they gave breathing space to those intent on controlling their gang members in the provinces. In Penrith, they had visitors from Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow and Aberdeen all the time. A gang was a transient being, like a locomotive: it picked up at every stop. As long as everyone knew the rules, they all co-existed side by side. It was a loose term for a way of life that gave allegiance to those who were hard and mean enough to take control. As such, it was precarious at best. There were no membership contracts or fees; the ultimate price was your life. For the past couple of years, the Cotton brothers had managed the estates in and around Penrith, from where they ran county-lines drug operations and kept rivals in check. The most important thing on the streets was to avoid aggro with the brothers, who thought nothing of ordering a hit or doing it themselves. They were both mean motherfuckers.

Jackson stayed independent by the skin of his teeth. He was in charge of his own yard, and he came and went when he pleased; he earned his own money and he never messed with girls who were owned by gang members. There was one sure way of getting sliced, and that was fucking a gang girl. He played the game and knew how to work all sides expertly. He was a gold mine of information and made it his business to gather it, in all its forms, for insurance. Crucially, he gave no one a reason to come after him. He did his work and kept his mouth shut, and everyone was happy. So far. He kept out of trouble by making himself necessary. Twenty years old was senior in terms of the street, and he knew a lot of shit.

Sure, he saw people hunted down and taken out, but that was their deal, not his. He’d survived this far, and had no intention of changing anything. Not one thing. Say nuffin’.