The Business by Martina Cole

split second; he hadn’t hit bone, or even the cloth of the man’s jacket. The knife, which had a six-inch blade and a carved bone handle, had not encountered any kind of resistance at all. It had entered the man’s body silently and slickly. It had achieved its objective though; it had stopped him in his tracks.
    Jason couldn’t believe how easy it had been. As Dooley dropped on to his knees, clasping his chest with both of his huge rough hands, all Jason Parks could think about was that there was no real blood. Nothing. Yet he knew the man was dying in front of his eyes.
    Jason knew that he had delivered a fatal blow, and he was genuinely sorry for that. It was the speed of the action that had thrown him though: with a split second he had taken this man’s life.
    As Gerald Dooley lay on the filthy ground, the men gathered around stood in silence, all in shock at what had just happened. Each of them was acutely aware that in a few short seconds their lives had been changed irrevocably.
    Gerry lay there, his huge bulk completely still now, looking incongruous on the cold ground where only minutes before he had been standing, talking and breathing and alive.
    For Jackie Martin and the Dooley brothers, this man’s death had left them without a spearhead, without any kind of leadership. Without him to guide them, they were not even sure how they were supposed to react to his death. It was Des Pollard who, with his own interests in mind, took control of the situation.
    Des already knew that Jason’s father was out of the picture. By all accounts he was as dead as a fucking doornail, and that his death had been hastened somewhat by Gerald Dooley would soon be common knowledge. So the Filth would hear about it sooner rather than later, which was a good thing in some respects as it would stop them all from shoving their noses in where they weren’t wanted. So, making a decision that he felt would be the best for all concerned, especially for him and the people who frequented this establishment, he took matters into his own hands.
    Taking the knife from Jason Parks, he saw the absolute shock, horror, that this kind of random violence often caused. Unlike professional acts of aggression, for either financial reasons, or for the furtherance of a cause, for example the collection of a gambling debt or such like, this kind of violence caused far more trouble than it was worth. This was wanker’s violence, the sort of shite that happened outside cheap nightclubs, where young men with too much drink and not enough brain cells made the biggest mistake of their lives over either a female or pride. This kind of stupidity had no place in their world, where any violence was controlled and was no more than a means to an end.
    While Gerald Dooley was still in the land of the living, his determination to avenge his daughter’s rather dubious reputation was acceptable. After all, he had his creds, and he was therefore within his rights to do whatever he felt was necessary to sort out the situation. Now, though, that had changed.
    For starters, Des had a dead Face on his premises, and that was something that had to be sorted out, sooner rather than later .
    ‘Get inside, all of you.’
    Des knew that the door to the main bar area was already locked and bolted, so there was no fear of anyone wandering in on top of them all. Two of his own sons were already lifting the huge carcass of Gerald Dooley off the floor and into a nearby van. Des was gutted; the van was nearly new and now it would have to be disposed of at the same time as the body. The clean-up operation was done quickly and quietly, with the minimum of fuss. It wasn’t the first time someone had expired on these premises and he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last. This was more about damage limitation than anything else. He was saving his own arse, and he was also sensible enough to know that all the people involved would be eternally grateful for his ministrations in