Jason had grown up around hard drugs and dealt them from the age of eleven, but he’d never quite got on with them. He opted for clarity. Drugs sullied his mind, and he knew that control was impossible when the brain started to bend. Sure, he had fun – when it was safe – but he knew his limits and wanted to live beyond thirty. In a warped kind of way, he admired Guns Akers, but he’d never let on. Guns never lost control, and out of everyone, he was the surest candidate for surviving. And he had the bag. Tyrone had confessed that, instead of destroying the gear, or storing it somewhere safe, he’d panicked and given it to his best friend. Jason should have known that Tyrone would go running to Guns after he’d squealed like a baby as he watched his bitch die. He was furious with himself for losing control, but he couldn’t help it; sticking the blade in had felt so good. But it also meant that his clothes had been covered in blood. The knife had become sticky and he’d only stopped thrusting when he’d lost his grip and cut himself.

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘I’m going for some air.’ Something about being in the same room as his brother and the goonies who surrounded him made him claustrophobic.

He stuck to the landing in the hallway, just to get some space; he knew he could go no further. If he could convince Guns to work with him and set Adam up, they could walk away with two hundred K and disappear. The rig in Cumbria was over for now, but there’d be others. Jason had good contacts all over the country; maybe he could start afresh in Europe. Paris was fast becoming the new centre of illicit trade in substances, and everyone spoke English.