‘The pub’s shut up. Jesus, Staffie, Ricky ain’t answering his phone, and he knows I’d be bleedin’ worried. He wouldn’t do that to me. Something’s fucking wrong.’

Staffie patted his back. ‘Listen, Mike, he’s still only eighteen, just a lad. He’s likely to be with a bird. You know how it is.’

‘Nah, something ain’t right. I can feel it.’

Arty rushed over to the pub and banged hard on the main door, but no one answered. Mike hurried around to the side of the pub and banged on that door. Suddenly, a light came on, and the door opened. Two men appeared – the landlord and one of the bouncers.

‘Kendall, the barmaid, where does she live?’ demanded Mike.

With a cocky leer, the bouncer, still in his stab proof vest, stepped forward. ‘We don’t give out addresses, mate. Sorry.’

Staffie appeared just in time to stop Mike throwing a deadly punch. ‘No, Mike, wait, mate.’

The bouncer realized he’d cocked up: the man asking the questions looked as though he would burst a vein in his temple. ‘Look. Sorry, but we have to keep information like that private. I mean, I don’t know who you are . . . ’

Mike was losing his patience; in one quick movement, he grabbed the bouncer with a hand around his throat. ‘I said, what’s her fucking address?’

The landlord’s face turned white; afraid, he reached for the phone on the wall, but Arty managed to pull him back. ‘And what the fuck d’ya think you’re doing?’

Shaken up, the landlord nervously replied, ‘I’m calling the police.’

Staffie gave a loud mocking laugh. ‘Yeah, mate, you do that, and we’ll tell them how you’ve let dealers in here to peddle this shit Flakka gear. Now, me mate wants Kendall’s address, so I suggest unless you wanna have this place shut down, you do as you’re fucking told.’

As Mike looked away from the bouncer and glanced at Staffie, the guy tried to throw a punch. But that was a big mistake. Mike flicked his head to the side to miss the contact, and with one almighty crack, he headbutted the bouncer and watched him hit the deck. Then, with a kick to the stomach, Mike stepped back. ‘Cunt!’ he spat.

Arty had heard how hard Mike was, but he’d never actually seen him in action. Arty was a Face and could ruck, just like his father, but Mike was on another scale. Arty would have needed a metal cosh to do the damage Mike managed with no tools whatsoever.

The landlord froze, staring at his toughest bouncer squirming around on the floor, with his head split open and his eyes bloodshot. ‘Shit! Look, just go, yeah? That Kendall bird lives over there, above the hairdresser’s. But you ain’t gonna hurt her, are ya? She’s a good kid.’