cooking oil.
Yesterday, they sent in that young scrote Louis with the tail of poor Pulford’s dog. Levi thinks he might not be able to bear this cruelty much longer, but then he thinks about how his mother is being looked after by Brandon and Haddaway, and how they have to develop fresh talent like Louis so the older gangsters, like him, can get a higher ride. You’ve got to keep building layers of fodder between yourself and the law, but bringing in the tail of that dog – fucksakes. He hated to see that copper’s face break up the way it did.
He will have to put more heat on the copper, so he takes out the sachet of black paint that Louis brought him and he smears out the shape of the paring knife in the cabinet – his favourite knife. He uses it to chop onions and peel potatoes. He is mustard, according to Chef – but if Chef knew anything, why the fuck would he be working in Pentonville nick with Levi and a prick like Mister Crawshaw?
There are good screws and bad screws, and Mister Crawshaw is one of the worst screws. Levi shouldn’t be left alone with the knives. What if he was a slasher? And he knows for sure that Crawshaw brings in smack and it’s him that sorts out access to that poor copper. They say the POs are worse than the inmates: they choose to come into jail. Some of them think they can do some good, can heal, or at least stem a tide – but not Crawshaw. And it makes a difference when you have a man’s teenage daughter in the palm of your fist.
He can hear them coming, so Beef blows on the black paint where the paring knife should be, and he puts the knife back. Tomorrow, or the next day, when he takes the knife and wraps it in baking paper and slips it between his butt cheeks so they can’t feel it when they pat him down, they won’t see white where the knife should be.
‘Come on, Salmon, put your fuckin’ yoghurt gun back in your Calvins and let’s get you back to your pad, you cunt,’ shouts Crawshaw.
Roadknight and Chef laugh and Crawshaw locks the cabinet and comes up close to Levi. ‘Beef,’ he whispers, patting him down lazily and stinking of smoke, ‘I’ve had word to take you to see our friend again.’
Levi’s heart sinks but he puts on his soldier face and flexes, nods slow. ‘Bring it.’
‘They say you’ve to fucking take him to the edge. But don’t get all gangster. Don’t spoil it for fucking everybody.’
Crawshaw pushes him out of the door and together they slope back to the wing. Everyone else is locked down and as they walk along the fire road between the wings, they get abuse and whistles and catcalls. Levi puts an extra roll to his walk, buffs up his chest and gives his sign when he passes the pads of his soldiers, who call out to him, ‘Beef’! It makes him look big, but each day of bird he flies in here, he feels a little smaller. What can a man do, when all he’s good for is being big and bringing hurt?
Fourteen
‘Ahaa. Abie Myers revisits his past,’ says Josie, watching the old boy amble from the parked Bentley towards the grandstand.
Flicking through the racecard, Staffe says, ‘He’s got a horse in the three-fifty – View From Above.’
‘Not trained by Attilio Trapani?’ says Josie.
‘I’m afraid not.’ He scans the rest of the meetings at the back of the racecard to see if Abie Myers has any other horses running today. ‘He’s got another, at Newmarket in a Group Two race. This one is a seller.’
‘What language are you speaking?’
‘He’s come here with an outsider’s chance of winning £1,300, rather than go to Newmarket to see probably the best horse he has got racing for a first prize of nearly £100,000.’
‘It’s not the money that matters, though, surely. Not for Abie, when he’s just come into twenty million quid.’
‘It’s about the winning.’ Staffe locks the car, parked up at the side of the Fox on the Downs pub, opposite Brighton’s racecourse high above the town. You can see the sea, a smear of
Yesterday, they sent in that young scrote Louis with the tail of poor Pulford’s dog. Levi thinks he might not be able to bear this cruelty much longer, but then he thinks about how his mother is being looked after by Brandon and Haddaway, and how they have to develop fresh talent like Louis so the older gangsters, like him, can get a higher ride. You’ve got to keep building layers of fodder between yourself and the law, but bringing in the tail of that dog – fucksakes. He hated to see that copper’s face break up the way it did.
He will have to put more heat on the copper, so he takes out the sachet of black paint that Louis brought him and he smears out the shape of the paring knife in the cabinet – his favourite knife. He uses it to chop onions and peel potatoes. He is mustard, according to Chef – but if Chef knew anything, why the fuck would he be working in Pentonville nick with Levi and a prick like Mister Crawshaw?
There are good screws and bad screws, and Mister Crawshaw is one of the worst screws. Levi shouldn’t be left alone with the knives. What if he was a slasher? And he knows for sure that Crawshaw brings in smack and it’s him that sorts out access to that poor copper. They say the POs are worse than the inmates: they choose to come into jail. Some of them think they can do some good, can heal, or at least stem a tide – but not Crawshaw. And it makes a difference when you have a man’s teenage daughter in the palm of your fist.
He can hear them coming, so Beef blows on the black paint where the paring knife should be, and he puts the knife back. Tomorrow, or the next day, when he takes the knife and wraps it in baking paper and slips it between his butt cheeks so they can’t feel it when they pat him down, they won’t see white where the knife should be.
‘Come on, Salmon, put your fuckin’ yoghurt gun back in your Calvins and let’s get you back to your pad, you cunt,’ shouts Crawshaw.
Roadknight and Chef laugh and Crawshaw locks the cabinet and comes up close to Levi. ‘Beef,’ he whispers, patting him down lazily and stinking of smoke, ‘I’ve had word to take you to see our friend again.’
Levi’s heart sinks but he puts on his soldier face and flexes, nods slow. ‘Bring it.’
‘They say you’ve to fucking take him to the edge. But don’t get all gangster. Don’t spoil it for fucking everybody.’
Crawshaw pushes him out of the door and together they slope back to the wing. Everyone else is locked down and as they walk along the fire road between the wings, they get abuse and whistles and catcalls. Levi puts an extra roll to his walk, buffs up his chest and gives his sign when he passes the pads of his soldiers, who call out to him, ‘Beef’! It makes him look big, but each day of bird he flies in here, he feels a little smaller. What can a man do, when all he’s good for is being big and bringing hurt?
Fourteen
‘Ahaa. Abie Myers revisits his past,’ says Josie, watching the old boy amble from the parked Bentley towards the grandstand.
Flicking through the racecard, Staffe says, ‘He’s got a horse in the three-fifty – View From Above.’
‘Not trained by Attilio Trapani?’ says Josie.
‘I’m afraid not.’ He scans the rest of the meetings at the back of the racecard to see if Abie Myers has any other horses running today. ‘He’s got another, at Newmarket in a Group Two race. This one is a seller.’
‘What language are you speaking?’
‘He’s come here with an outsider’s chance of winning £1,300, rather than go to Newmarket to see probably the best horse he has got racing for a first prize of nearly £100,000.’
‘It’s not the money that matters, though, surely. Not for Abie, when he’s just come into twenty million quid.’
‘It’s about the winning.’ Staffe locks the car, parked up at the side of the Fox on the Downs pub, opposite Brighton’s racecourse high above the town. You can see the sea, a smear of
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