Mike felt his heart lift; he had the money and the means to make his lad feel like someone. As his son walked towards the front door, he noticed how his shoulders were pulled back, his head was high, and his awkward gait was replaced with a confident swagger. And so he should be confident, thought Mike. Ricky is a Regan, and we have a history of holding our own.

***

Mike drove to the Daylight Inn pub; it was one of the largest in the area and was surrounded by shops and a train station. It had been years since Mike had had a few drinks in there. He was somewhat surprised to find a bouncer on each of the three exits. He inwardly laughed at the state of them and wondered if with their black stab proof vests and walkie-talkies they could actually have a half-decent ruck. Willie and Staffie came bounding up behind him, all ready for the action.

‘Lou’s on his way. Liam, that great oaf, is still trying to park that oversized Beemer.’ Willie looked over at his son trying a parallel park. ‘I swear me boy’s a tent short of a fucking circus. The little fucker only nearly filled the beast with petrol instead of diesel and had a row with the pump attendant over it.’

‘Cor, Willie, the apple ain’t fallen far from the tree, then, eh?’ laughed Staffie.

Willie had to laugh; it was true. Liam had inherited his temper and infinite recklessness, and, like himself, he had a reputation, even at the tender age of nineteen. He was certainly a fucker.

Mike and Ricky laughed together; Liam looked so much like Willie it was untrue. Apart from the scar down Willie’s face, he was his double; he was tall and lanky with a face that only his grandmother could love, yet he had a heart of gold.

Ricky watched Liam step out of the car. They had known each other as youngsters, and the homecoming party had them instantly reacquainted.

Finally, Lou turned up dressed as usual in a three-piece suit, as if he might be going into a business meeting. He was about to ruffle Ricky’s hair but noticed the gel holding it in place and patted his arm instead. ‘Where’s Arty? I thought he was coming?’

Staffie pulled on a cigarette and griped. ‘I left him in the bathroom. I swear to God, his mother has tried to bring him up looking like a fucking tart. I nearly choked on the fucking spray of smelly shit, and what’s with all this fucking face balm and tanning crap? I don’t know if I’ve got a son or a fucking daughter.’