After all, Charlie reasoned to himself, he kept her, didn’t he? Her and her husband? It was him who paid for the roof over their heads, he was the boss here, wasn’t he?

Yes. He fucking well was.

He remembered it so well. Felt bad about it. Of course he did. But turned on by it too. He’d put his cup down, crossed the kitchen. Her eyes had flared with fear as he moved, and he liked that, he loved it when people were scared of him. Then he’d pulled her into his arms. She’d put her fists against his chest, but he was far too strong for her.

‘Please,’ she said, turning her head away.

‘Come on,’ he’d said, and kissed her.

‘No.’

‘Come on,’ he said against her mouth. Then he put the boot right in. ‘Or I’ll tell Terry you started it.’

Her eyes widened. ‘He wouldn’t . . .’

‘Don’t kid yourself. He’d believe me. Me, his mate since we first started crawling, or some woman who’s come late on the scene? No contest. I could tell him the sun was pulled up on a fucking rope and he’d believe me.’

‘No . . .’ It was a plea.

‘Yes. Now come on.’

She’d been delicious. She’d cried a bit, but what choice did she have? She let him do the deed.

And what the hell, what was her problem? All cats were grey in the dark and a cock was a cock. It wasn’t as if she was a virgin or anything.

He had to keep it to himself. He knew Jill would, too. Neither of them would want to distress Terry or cause him pain, upset the bloody applecart.

‘So you’ve cancelled the adoption plans,’ said Terry.

‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, snapping back to the here and now.

‘Probably for the best.’

‘I know that.’

‘But Nula don’t know.’

‘Nah.’

‘She’ll be pissed when she finds out,’ warned Terry.

‘I know that too.’

33

They parked up outside the pub where they were meeting their contact, and went in through a dark, seedy little bar and from there to the back room.

‘Charlie!’ Landon Bloom greeted him with a hug. He was a big man, fat around the middle, florid of face but sharp of eye. ‘Good to see you.’

Then he shook Terry’s hand. They sat down. Landon was one of the ten-kilo blokes, a local gang boss, and he was doing well out of the drugs trade. He also ran door contracts and protection rackets on the side, and although he lived in this dingy little hole and was sitting there in a dog-eared shirt, torn cardigan, shiny trousers and worn brogues, he was worth millions.

‘So what’s the problem then, Landon?’ asked Charlie, when they had addressed the civilities, asked about each other’s wives and kids. He felt they’d skirted the issue long enough. ‘Trouble?’