Charlie was used to living in his father’s shadow. Frank Gallagher ran his own show and Charlie had to accept that he was merely the gopher – go for this, go for that. While he may have accepted it, Charlie was not exactly happy with his lot. He wanted to be a big man but did not quite know how to get a start. Everyone in the organisation knew he was just the message boy but one day he intended to show them.

Frank glowered round the table waiting for some response. The recipients of his stare looked at each other, hoping somebody else would respond. Someone had to speak and eventually Mick ‘Mad Dog’ Clark took up the challenge. Clark was not involved in the actual business of supplying drugs. His particular trade was enforcement.

The Gallagher business was based on a practice known as ‘laying on’. Drugs would be supplied to a dealer who would then be responsible for selling them. From the proceeds he would make the necessary payment to Gallagher headquarters. In the event that he was tardy in coming forward with the cash he could expect a visit from Mick Clark.

Mad Dog’s reputation for effective ruthlessness preceded his every step; the prospect of his calling was usually sufficient to insure that the funds were forthcoming. If a pointed reminder was required, Clark’s favoured weapon was a sharpened screwdriver which he would drive into the thigh or backside of his victims. This usually had the desired effect.

‘It’s the Boyles, gaffer,’ someone ventured.

‘I know it’s the fucking Boyles, or at least it’s that shit, Kevin. What I want to know is, what the fuck are you going to do about the Boyles?’

‘Why don’t we tell the old man about his precious son? He has always claimed he would never do the stuff. He might put the brakes on him.’

‘Very good, Mick. What is rattlin’ about inside that skull of yours? It’s no yer fucking brains. I can just see me phoning Hugh Boyle and saying, “Excuse me, Hughie, but did you know your wee boy is making a mint out of punting drugs and causing me a serious cashflow problem? Any fucking chance you might ask him to give it a rest for a wee while? Frank, I’m sorry to hear about your wee problem. Of course I’ll tell him to be a good boy. Would you like me to smack him in the fucking mouth while I’m at it? No bother at a’.” Gie’s a fucking break, will you! If you’ve fuck all sensible to say, then say fuck all.’

‘Waste the cunt!’

‘Eh?’ Gallagher stared at his son, not knowing whether to laugh or explode.

‘Waste the cunt. Why not?’

‘Why not? Why fucking not?’

Gallagher turned to the assembled company spreading his arms wide.

‘He asks me why not.’