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Pat stretched with tiredness, rubbing his rough hands across his face and eyes.

He had achieved most of what he had set out to do. In fact, he had found it much easier than he would have believed. He had taken back what had been theirs in the first place and now he had to convince certain people that they were working directly for him. Le

Pat also wanted to find out where his father's money had gone; even Le

But Pat knew a lot more than anyone realised; he had listened and watched his father as a kid and he had also known a lot more about who had been involved in the main businesses than anyone realised, his mother included.

Pat had promised himself that he would make amends, not just for him, but for his whole family. Every time he had been humiliated by Brewster or his mother had slipped out and brassed herself for a few quid, the urge for retribution had been overwhelming. His father had been murdered and he was going to pay back everyone involved for that.

Pat was going to track down his father's assets if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth. He had to make it all right, he had to make sure that his family were secure at last.

Pat knew he was capable of keeping the businesses going and he also knew that his rep was already in place through his sojourn in prison. He had to act normal now, had to make sure that he was trusted and respected by all the people he would be dealing with. Then he would bide his time and when he had all the information to hand, all fucking hell would be let loose.

Pat saw his father's last moments every day of his life and he was not going to let that go, no way. He missed his father and he had ferreted out so much information with friendly chats and well-thought-out questions that he knew more about his father's last few deals than anyone else, especially the people his father had been dealing with. He was a good lad and he knew that was what his reputation was based on. But he was his father's son and, one day, people would realise that.

'You all right, Pat?'

Lance had seen him staring into space. Ever since they were kids, Patrick had gone off into his own world; he just sat and stared at nothing.

Lance hated it, hated the fact that Pat was not on his wavelength. He watched Patrick close his eyes and then, taking a few deep breaths, he came back to the real world once more.

'You were fucking miles away.'

Pat laughed. 'If only you fucking knew the half of it.'

They laughed together then. Lance was much happier, knowing that Le

Pat wouldn't understand his actions, he knew, but he had done what he could to keep all their heads above water. Pat had always made him feel inadequate; he had fucked up big time when they were kids, and he regretted that, had regretted it ever since. He had been a kid and he had not understood what he had done to that girl. If he saw her now he felt bad inside.

Pat was remembering the day his father died. His father's murder had made him understand at an early age what being dead really meant, had shown him how much blood the human body actually held. His father's blood had been everywhere, it was sprayed all over the walls and covered the floor. It had been everywhere and he could remember seeing pieces of his father's brain tissue on the floor beside his body that night. That sight had never left him, had never left any of them. It had changed all their lives; in seconds, all they knew and all they had believed in had disappeared. Pat remembered going to the hall the next day. The balloons and the bunting were still up and the food, laid out ready to eat and enjoy, was now dried-up and stale. The presents still piled up on a table. Patrick had never again celebrated a birthday.

Pat thought about how much he missed his times with his father; the evenings when he would talk him through life and his role in the family. His father had asked him to do errands for him; a bit of ducking and diving, and so he knew much more about what had been going on than anyone realised. He would bide his time and get the money back. Get the lot back and, when he did, he would slaughter the person involved and enjoy every second of it.

Everyone knew that he had taken out Brewster and he was pleased about that. He'd wanted Le

It had started his legendary status off perfectly and it was almost a public service. It wasn't a murder, it was more a culling and Le

Jimmy Brick was in the Prospect of Whitby pub; he was having a drink with a few old mates and his reception had pleased him no end. As he saw the drinks being bought, and heard the jokes being told, he settled down and felt the relief once more at being part of the wi

'Hey, Jimmy, I hear that Brewster was well fucking gutted when he was taken out. Is that true?'

Jimmy gri

Everyone laughed again and Jimmy was aware that Spider was smiling with the others but not, in any way, committing himself. But then, Spider never had overcooked the turkey; he was far too shrewd and still was, by the looks of it. Jimmy knew how fragile villains' friendships could be; unless you were born and bred with someone, how the fuck could you really trust them? Jimmy's instinct was telling him that he couldn't trust Spider as far as he could throw him.

He also understood that Lance had absented himself from the main event and that told him that he was also someone to watch closer than a filth with stolen goods.

He drank his drink and he watched the people around him; he knew how to play the game and it was why he was still on the dance floor all these years later. Young Patrick Brodie was going to be his golden goose; it was like having Pat back in the team. Like his father, he had the spark, that little bit of extra something that made people listen to him and respect him. And he also had the violent streak that was so attractive in men of their ilk.

Jambo Delaney was a good-looking man. He had broad shoulders, a strong jaw and he walked with a straight-backed strut that made him very attractive to the opposite sex. He had been given the nickname Jambo, Swahili for hello, as a young man. Everyone wanted to say hello to him; he had that kind of face, that kind of demeanour about him. No one could not like him, it was impossible not to like him. He had no bad points really. Not only was he great company, he also fitted in with any crowd. But he could, when required, have a row too. A real row, a row that stopped errant husbands from forcing their opinions on him or trying to get a reaction of any kind.