Taking a package from the back of the car, he placed it inside his jacket and pulled the zip up high before looking around. A group of kids were staring at him, one with his mouth wide open. They’d been kicking a football back and forth down the alley that hugged the side of the terraced houses. The flashing lights of the car had interrupted their game.

‘What you looking at?’ he shouted. The shortest of the group gave him the finger, before turning and tearing down the alley, his friends following fast behind. They all wanted to be like the man in the red Ferrari.

He climbed into his car, the sound of loud music exploding through the quiet street. The neighbours were relieved when his car disappeared down the road.

Twenty-three years old, Atif spent daylight hours at the gym trying to make up in muscle what he lacked in height. The evenings were spent making money.

He pulled into another terraced street, where his friend Aslam was waiting on a bench in the low sunlight, playing with his phone.

Atif greeted him warmly and told him to get in. ‘Bro, it’s been time, man!’

Aslam was a student at Manchester. His parents had encouraged him to move away in the hope that he’d leave his old friends behind. ‘Yeah, just, you know, been studying and that.’

‘Right. Right. Good for you, bro. Good for you. Me, I didn’t like it. Uni wasn’t for me. Dropped out.’

‘What were you studying?’

‘Politics and law. Then Abba got sick, I came back to help Mum an’ that… You know how it is, family.’ He stopped under the weight of the conversation, and pulled at his jacket. ‘It’s all good, though. See this?’ he said. ‘Ralph Lauren. Cost me a few hundred quid. There’s no way I could afford this if I was a student. Or even if I was working in an office. I make plenty Gs selling this shit. It’s the milk round that pays for my mum and sisters,’ he said, and winked at Aslam as he pushed the package further down into his jacket. Real men didn’t talk about their feelings in this town; they drove fast and flashed their cash.

He took a left into a narrow one-way road off Stourley Street. There were cars parked on either side, the drivers still in their seats. Aslam was about to mention this when his friend stopped the car. He watched Atif reach out of the window, his fist becoming a handshake as it met the hand of the driver parked alongside him. When he brought his fist back into the car, he was holding a twenty-pound note. He flicked his fingers making a clicking sound.