He opened his suitcase. He had packed one of his favourite books and tonight he needed it. He needed the release from the real world. He opened the magazine at the centre pages. A girl was looking up at him. She had real auburn hair. George knew it was real because it was the same top and bottom.

He slipped off his clothes and hung them up neatly in the wardrobe, then relaxed on the bed in his underpants. This time tomorrow he would be in the USA. He allowed himself a grin. He’d be in Florida, starting a new life.

His tongue was just poking from the corner of his mouth now as he concentrated his energies, thinking up different situations and pastimes for the girl on the page.

George was beginning to feel better.

Patrick smiled at Tony Jones.

‘So what you’re saying is, Tony, you took the blood test for the bloke?’

He nodded, his eyes aimed at the floor.

‘You actually went and took the blood test - the blood test that I’m paying for - so that piece of shite could walk free?’

‘It wasn’t like that, Mr Kelly. He had me by the bollocks . . .’

‘I’ll have you by them in a minute, mate.’ Willy’s voice was low and menacing.

Tony looked at Patrick in distress.

‘I’ve been selling snuff movies. He bought them. Said he’d rope me into it . . .’ His voice was desperate.

It was quiet for a while. Kelly and Willy both stared at the man in front of them with slitted eyes, as if trying to understand just what it was in front of them.

‘Snuff movies? You sell snuff movies. You deal with scum who rent out little boys, you sell death, and you want me to be lenient with you? You want me to say, “Oh, don’t worry, Tone, long as you make a good bit of bunce . . .”’

Patrick swung back his fist and began punching Tony Jones in the face and head. He could feel the bruising on his knuckles as they came into contact with the man’s skull, felt the first trickle of blood as Jones’s eyebrow split, and still he could not stop. Rage was inside his head, fuelled by the pictures of Mandy’s broken face and body. The knowledge that she had been buggered, raped and humiliated by a sadist who had no more thought for her than he’d have had for a mad dog.

And it was all this man’s fault! He pandered to him, was the means by which this George Markham fed his sick fantasies. Finally, spent, he walked to the corner of the lock-up garage. Outside he heard the scraping of the Rottweiler belonging to one of his repomen. It sniffed underneath the door, making tiny whining sounds. Every so often he heard Jimmy Danks quieten the beast. It occurred to Patrick that Tony could be dead soon.