someone would come after them. Pat bought a debt occasionally, for a favour, and collected it quickly and efficiently.
So Pat assumed that Jamie had made a complete fuck up; it was not, after all, a robbery. So it had to be a score being settled, or someone who had decided it was cheaper for them if Jamie was off the scene once and for all.
Either way, Pat wasn't too worried. It had nothing to do with him and anyway, he was confident he would know the reason sooner rather than later. He was sorry, of course. Jamie was all right, and whoever did it was on a fucking death wish because they must know that Jamie paid them protection money, and so this was a double insult. What kind of an advert was this for the firm? Naturally, someone would have to pay for that. But if it was a private bet, they would not step in, so he was happy enough to wait until he had the full SP and take it from there.
Now though, young Terry's demise within hours of Jamie's, put a different complexion on it completely. This felt personal, was personal, Pat would lay money on it, even though the irony of that thought nearly made him smile. He still wasn't too worried though because he was confident in his role as a man to be reckoned with. There had to be a logical explanation, he was sure. He needed to see Dicky and find out what he knew about the situation. Young Terry had to have been up to a bit of private skulduggery.
A chill passed through his body all the same and he ordered a large brandy to counteract it. He was suddenly very uneasy. Paranoia went with the territory, he had known that when he took all this on, it was what kept them on their toes and was part and parcel of their lives. When evil whispered there was always someone willing to take heed. He knew that, trouble was how they earned a living after all. But now he had a feeling that this was not just the usual one-up, this was real trouble, serious trouble.
No one watching Patrick would ever have guessed his thoughts in a million years. He looked relaxed and untroubled. Like a politician caught with his cock in his hand and a friend's son naked beside him, he was fronting it out. No one watching him could see him question or ponder on anything that had occurred; as he was hearing about the afternoon's atrocities, so were they. He was fronting all right, but he was also watching everyone around him carefully in case they might be involved in some way. In case he picked up a nuance, or a vibe.
In Pat's world you were guilty until proven otherwise and, even then, he would keep an open mind.
Dicky Williams was angry. He knew it was a fruitless anger though, because there was nothing he could do about it. Terry was dead and nothing would bring him back, but he was still reeling from the realisation that his little brother had been murdered.
It had not been what he would call a happy or even productive few hours. In fact, it had made him feel so vulnerable and so convinced that there was more serious skulduggery afoot that he was on the verge of harming someone just to vent his colossal anger and therefore get some respite. Pat had explained on the blower that the only relevant thing he had heard was concerning Freezing Freddie, and he had no real proof that it had anything to do with the day's events. Dicky was convinced though that Pat knew more than he was letting on.
It seemed that Fucking Freddie Dwyer, the cold and callous piece of shit, had managed to get himself a serious capture. He had been caught, so the word on the street had it, with a large amount of money and drugs. The house he scavenged from had been overrun at daybreak by a crowd of filth who hailed from New Scotland Yard and went under the name of the Flying Squad. The Flying Squad had actually been around since 1919 and no one had given a flying fuck about them until the early seventies when they were suddenly in everyone's faces. They were as bent as a barrister's cock and about as effective on serious crime
So Pat assumed that Jamie had made a complete fuck up; it was not, after all, a robbery. So it had to be a score being settled, or someone who had decided it was cheaper for them if Jamie was off the scene once and for all.
Either way, Pat wasn't too worried. It had nothing to do with him and anyway, he was confident he would know the reason sooner rather than later. He was sorry, of course. Jamie was all right, and whoever did it was on a fucking death wish because they must know that Jamie paid them protection money, and so this was a double insult. What kind of an advert was this for the firm? Naturally, someone would have to pay for that. But if it was a private bet, they would not step in, so he was happy enough to wait until he had the full SP and take it from there.
Now though, young Terry's demise within hours of Jamie's, put a different complexion on it completely. This felt personal, was personal, Pat would lay money on it, even though the irony of that thought nearly made him smile. He still wasn't too worried though because he was confident in his role as a man to be reckoned with. There had to be a logical explanation, he was sure. He needed to see Dicky and find out what he knew about the situation. Young Terry had to have been up to a bit of private skulduggery.
A chill passed through his body all the same and he ordered a large brandy to counteract it. He was suddenly very uneasy. Paranoia went with the territory, he had known that when he took all this on, it was what kept them on their toes and was part and parcel of their lives. When evil whispered there was always someone willing to take heed. He knew that, trouble was how they earned a living after all. But now he had a feeling that this was not just the usual one-up, this was real trouble, serious trouble.
No one watching Patrick would ever have guessed his thoughts in a million years. He looked relaxed and untroubled. Like a politician caught with his cock in his hand and a friend's son naked beside him, he was fronting it out. No one watching him could see him question or ponder on anything that had occurred; as he was hearing about the afternoon's atrocities, so were they. He was fronting all right, but he was also watching everyone around him carefully in case they might be involved in some way. In case he picked up a nuance, or a vibe.
In Pat's world you were guilty until proven otherwise and, even then, he would keep an open mind.
Dicky Williams was angry. He knew it was a fruitless anger though, because there was nothing he could do about it. Terry was dead and nothing would bring him back, but he was still reeling from the realisation that his little brother had been murdered.
It had not been what he would call a happy or even productive few hours. In fact, it had made him feel so vulnerable and so convinced that there was more serious skulduggery afoot that he was on the verge of harming someone just to vent his colossal anger and therefore get some respite. Pat had explained on the blower that the only relevant thing he had heard was concerning Freezing Freddie, and he had no real proof that it had anything to do with the day's events. Dicky was convinced though that Pat knew more than he was letting on.
It seemed that Fucking Freddie Dwyer, the cold and callous piece of shit, had managed to get himself a serious capture. He had been caught, so the word on the street had it, with a large amount of money and drugs. The house he scavenged from had been overrun at daybreak by a crowd of filth who hailed from New Scotland Yard and went under the name of the Flying Squad. The Flying Squad had actually been around since 1919 and no one had given a flying fuck about them until the early seventies when they were suddenly in everyone's faces. They were as bent as a barrister's cock and about as effective on serious crime
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