And he was in an especially fantastic mood since the birth of his only child eighteen months previously – a son, Alfie Junior. He loved that boy with a vengeance. No one would ever have believed he could feel as he did about his son, least of all Alfie. The boy’s mother, Annette, was a young girl he had picked up with two years ago – pretty, with a killer body and the personality of a lettuce. Just his type – no real conversation. But she had been a virgin, a fact that had shocked and thrilled him all at the same time. He liked her well enough; she was like a pet – he rang and she came round. He had never heard of her being with anyone else, and she didn’t frequent the clubs. He had met her on one of her first jaunts out on the town for a mate’s birthday, otherwise he would never have laid eyes on her, or she him. He had liked that she was greener than the proverbial grass, and he had quite liked that she was not a chatterbox. Annette expected him to do the talking and, after years of Essex girls and East-End birds who could talk the hind leg off a fucking camel, that was quite a novelty. So he had seen her again and again.

When she had told him she was up the duff he had been sceptical to say the least. But he had asked around and, in fairness, no one could say a word against her. So he had seen her all right, looked after her and, when the child was born, he had been amazed at the feelings that seeing the boy had awakened in him. He was his double, in every way. If you put his baby photos beside his boy’s, there was no difference. It was uncanny. He was an ugly baby, as he himself had been, but Alfie didn’t care.

For the first time in his life he understood what family meant. What blood meant. He had looked into that boy’s eyes and he had seen the future, his future, seen his name being carried on by another generation, and he had been compelled to give him his name. And give the boy’s mother a house. He had found that inside him somewhere was a nice bloke.