Terrence Allen looked awful; he was hungry, tired, and he stank, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was stuck in this shithole for the foreseeable future – at least until he could find a safe place abroad somewhere. He was in seriously deep shit, and there was no way out for him at the moment.

Petey looked around the flat; it was a junkie’s dream. He saw the remains of wasted lives and wasted dreams. These flats had been nice once with face brickwork, Georgian windows, large airy rooms, and what were now classed as antique fireplaces. They had even sported beautiful ornamental ironwork on the balconies. Built after the war as homes fit for heroes, they were now condemned. They would have been sought after if they had been private instead of council.

Seeing Terrence Allen reduced to this was actually quite enjoyable, he decided. The man was still being a Grade-A arsehole even though he was so deep in the shit a taskforce of Irish navvies couldn’t fucking dig him out of it.

‘This place is worse than a fucking tip. Even the stairs stink of piss as you walk up them. You would think animals had lived here, not human fucking beings.’

Terry was in no mood for chit chat, especially when it reminded him of how low he had sunk. ‘What are you doing, Petey? A GNVQ in stating the fucking obvious?’

Petey laughed; he could be very funny at times, could old Terry.

‘Is Billy all right?’

Petey guessed he had already sussed out the answer, but he accepted the question had to be asked. ‘Your brother was a fucking diamond, Tel. He was tortured – you know my Uncle Daniel – he does enjoy a nice family torture, bless him. He cut Billy’s fingers off, put a blowtorch to his feet, the whole shebang, and that brother of yours never uttered a fucking word out of place. Even my dad and my Uncle Daniel were impressed with his stoicism. Though, as you can imagine, his attitude did rather aggravate the situation. But, the main thing is, we are in the clear.’

Terry was nodding; he had known Billy would not break. He had been a man of few brain cells, but an overabundance of front. He had been worried for nothing. He was only sorry the news of his brother’s death had not really affected him more. Terrence knew that his brother had always been loyal to him; unfortunately, he had never returned that particular favour.

‘Where’s his body?’

Petey smiled. ‘He was crushed. They slung him in the boot of an old Ford Sierra. A fitting end really – he was never a car man, was he? Drive any heap of old shit, him. No class. He looked what he was – cheap and nasty.’