Dicky knew they had made a colossal fuck-up. Neither of them had thought it through. Dicky wished he wasn’t so drunk. The reality of the situation was dawning on him, and he knew he and his brother looked every inch the complete cunts they were.

Rob, however, was experiencing no such qualms. He was still determined to make his mark, make a public statement to the world. But, as a man who had never once had the nous to plan ahead, to try and cover any eventualities that might occur if things were to go wrong, he was not taking onboard that the men who had accompanied them were now backing away, realising they were outnumbered and outclassed. He was being treated as a minor irritation, and not as a serious problem.

Rob was quite affronted that they had not been granted immediate access to the Costello home. He had believed they would be ushered in like visiting royalty. But they were still outside the gates, and that was not going to change.

Rob was shouting now. ‘Just tell him we are here, will you? It’s a fucking party, ain’t it? We are fucking guests.’

A heavyset man in his late fifties stood in front of the gates. He sighed. It was like dealing with football hooligans – all drink and bravado and not a brain cell between the lot of them.

‘As I said before, you are not on the guest list. I would strongly advise you to put the weapons away and get yourselves home.’

The security was much heavier than they had anticipated. Dicky had counted at least seven men on the gates alone, and that was without the security for the cars that lined the country lane leading up to the property. These men were not about to be intimidated by anyone, and they were more than willing to do what they were paid to do.

Still, it was a shock to see just how Patrick Costello actually lived. Even from outside the electric gates, the house looked like something from a film set. It was lit up like Battersea Power Station for a start, and the drive – if they ever got past the gates, of course – appeared to be a good seven hundred yards long. The night air was filled with the sound of music, conversations and laughter. Everyone in that house was completely unaware that anything was amiss.

Dicky had already clocked the brick wall that surrounded the property, knew that it was as secure as Parkhurst. No one was getting in there without a fucking Sherman tank.

The only thing they had achieved tonight was signing their own death warrants, after showing the world just how amateur the Barbers actually were. It was a joke – a bad one at that.