Martina Cole - Close

This was tantamount to mutiny as far as he was concerned and Dave would be made to pay for that: made to pay for his public humiliation and his loss of face. He was not going to rest until Dave had paid out for every fucking slight, real or imagined, that came his way over this debacle.

Dennis had already requested a mirror and as he looked at his badly swollen and stitched face and head, the anger once more overwhelmed him. Dave, his older brother, the person he looked up to and admired, had beaten him to within an inch of his life and he was not going to let that go.

And the fact that no one had been in to see him was also something to be addressed in the near future. His mother, the fucking poncing cunt she was, had obviously decided to take the side of who she thought was the victor. His brothers could fuck off as well, they should have been by his side, making sure that it never happened. Well, his memory was long and his temper was short, and he would pay them back with such fucking force they would think Hitler had been reincarnated and was back among them all, bombing the East End once again. Only this time, south London was going to get a turn.

Dennis knew how to play the long game and that is exactly what he was going to do. He was going to make a comeback that would shame Henry Cooper; he was going to bide his time and then, when it was all quiet and everyone thought it had blown over, he would strike with all the force he could muster.

He could hear his own breathing now; it was laboured and wheezy. He was seriously ill and, for the first time in his life, Dennis felt vulnerable and tearful, even frightened. It was an emotional time and something he would never care to repeat. Or ever forgive.

Patrick sat on the bed and watched Lil as she slept. She looked so young and so tired, even in her deep sleep, that he felt the urge to wake her and reassure her that everything was going to be OK.

He looked around the room; it was spotless. Even the bed was relatively tidy because Lil very rarely moved once she had crashed out. He tiptoed from the room and snuck downstairs to the kitchen. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he pondered on the recent events.

The Williams brothers had caused a shifting in position for all the main players on their very limited stage. They were never going to be taken seriously again; in fact they were more or less liabilities. Their debts alone put them at the bottom of the scale as far as the punters they dealt with were concerned, and he would have to reassess the part they played in his organisation. It was a difficult situation and he didn't relish having to sort it out, but in a way he was relieved, because he was going to have to push them out eventually anyway. They were not cost-effective any more and their useless grasp of any outside business was making them a laughing stock.

In his heart of hearts he knew that he should have given them a few crumbs from the drug dealing; Spider would have swallowed. But in all honesty, they were already getting on his nerves by that point. It wasn't Dave so much; he was a good guy. It was Dennis and the younger ones; they believed that they were the dog's gonads and they were anything but. They were thugs, common or garden thugs, the same kind you could see in any local pub around the Smoke.

They were fucking local heroes who would only be remembered because they could fight. Maybe they would get a lump to add a bit of excitement to their reps, then spend the rest of their lives talking about the men they had mingled with while in poke. He had known this for a long time, and now he had the proof of it.

Patrick sipped at his tea, liberally laced with brandy, and sighing, he lit himself a Dunhill cigarette. The radio was on low and he could hear the strains of the Eagles and 'Hotel California'.

He glanced around the brand-new kitchen and felt his usual sense of pride in the home he had created with his Lil. It had everything that a woman could want; every labour-saving device on the market and the freezer and fridge were always laden with food. Like Lil, he needed to be surrounded with luxuries; too much food was preferable to not enough, something they had both experienced while growing up. His children had fresh fruit and veg on tap, they had juices and sweets; they wanted for nothing. They were good kids and he was proud of them.

As Patrick poured himself out another cup of tea, the kitchen door opened and he turned to see his eldest son standing there in his pyjamas, his hair tousled and his tired eyes bright with pleasure at seeing his father.

Patrick smiled at the boy. Getting up, he fetched another cup and as Pat Junior went to get the biscuits, they both pondered on how many times they had done this before. Pat Junior lay on red alert at night, his ears tuned for the sounds of his father's presence in the house.

He was up within seconds of hearing him come in.

When they sat down together, it was with a congenial atmosphere; they were very alike and they both enjoyed the other's company. As always, Patrick waited for his son to sip at his tea, scoff a few biscuits and then start off the conversation.

It was a ritual now, their special time together, and they both knew it was a memory they would keep all their lives.

'How's it going, son?'

Pat Junior shrugged. 'You know, Dad, the usual.'

As he said that, he pulled a paper bag from inside his pyjama top. 'It's all there, Dad. I can go back next week as well if you want.'

He was deadly earnest and his handsome, boyish face was alight with expectation. A part of Patrick was proud of his son; the little jobs he gave him were worthless in many respects but he knew the boy liked earning his own few quid. Another part of him was sorry that he had taken to it so well. What he did was drop off a few bets at a friendly bookies; they were bets that were not worth much money, but Patrick took them personally because the men he dealt with were old and trusted mates. They still expected his personal touch, even though he was a busy man, but as most of them had helped his rise in one way or another, he gave them the respect they saw as their due. It had been a bonus that the bookie Patrick owned was within walking distance of his son's school and he liked the way the boy had kept it secret from everyone. He had the Brodie genes all right.

Patrick smiled, a smile that crinkled up his face and was a rare sight outside of this house. 'All there is it, son? You didn't have a dip?'

Pat Junior looked scandalised and was suddenly flustered as he said, with total honesty, 'I wouldn't, Dad, never…'

Patrick grinned again. 'I was winding you up, son, don't take things so seriously.'

He ruffled the boy's hair and pushed the biscuit tin towards him once more. Taking out a chocolate digestive, Pat Junior dipped it in his tea.

'How's everything here?'

'The usual, Dad. Mum is very tired lately and the twins are hard work. But me and Lance do what we can. Nanny Annie is a pain in the you know where, but Mum can sort her out. I make sure the rubbish is put out and any errands are done.'

This was all said with a matter of factness that made Patrick want to laugh, but he didn't because he knew his boy had a lot of dignity.

'What about school?'

Pat Junior was less forthcoming about that, as his father knew would be the case.

'No more fighting?'

'I wasn't fighting for me, was I? It was Lance I was defending. For all his bulk he can't really have a row and yet he talks a good fight, as you know.'

Indignation was threaded through the words and, once more, Patrick was reminded of his son's total honesty.

Lance was a chancer. He was a nice enough lad, but he had the weakness of the Brodie grandparents running through him like a stick of Southend rock.

'Did you talk with your brother about it?'