Jamsie did as he was told, and Petey stood with his cousins, watching the scene with mounting trepidation; even he could see the man was beyond help, unable to even keep his remaining eye focused on anything or anyone around him. No one there had any kind of care or interest in the pain he was experiencing, except to see how it might benefit them. Petey saw his family and the Life in stunning clarity then; he was a fool not to have realised the truth before now. He saw his father slip his coat off and fold it up neatly, before carefully walking through the blood and placing it in the other office. Then he walked back towards his brother and, taking out a lighter, he ignited the flame, before lighting himself a large Cuban cigar.

Danny and Davey lifted up the man’s right foot, and Petey watched as his uncle adjusted the flame, and then held it an inch away from the man’s sole.

The scream was horrendous. Laughing nastily, his uncle said loudly, ‘I ain’t letting you go quietly, you cunt. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll finish you now. Quick and clean.’

Billy Allen was barely conscious, but he still managed to spit out, ‘Fuck you, Bailey.’

The smell of burning skin was overwhelming, and Petey felt the food he had eaten a few hours earlier attempting to make its way back out into the world at large. It took every ounce of willpower to stop himself throwing up all over the place. He saw his cousin Danny watching him intently, well aware of what was ailing him; he felt a spark of shame at this obvious weakness on his part. He knew that in the Life it was kill or be killed – you had to be able to do whatever was required to keep not only yourself but your family safe. He had never believed that he was this feeble, though he had always recognised, deep down, that he wasn’t as comfortable as his cousins with the more violent aspects of their work. Oh, he could hold his end up, he could do what was necessary, but he had always been a great believer in delegating the less savoury tasks to other people. He was fine with administering a good hiding, teaching someone a lesson, but torture – that was a different thing altogether. Now he saw why his father and his uncle were so revered, respected by so many people. They had no such qualms, and neither did his cousins by the looks of it. He lit a cigarette, more as an excuse to look away from the bloodied mess that had once been Billy Allen, than because he actually wanted a smoke.

Daniel Bailey took the man’s pulse and, shaking his head in annoyance, he said loudly, ‘He ain’t going to last much longer.’