‘And?’
It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t anything. It was annoying that’s what it was. ‘And! Fucking “and”? Is that all you’ve got to fucking say? We are fucking being mugged off like a pair of prize cunts, and all you can say is fucking
and
!’
But Kevin Bryant wasn’t listening to his friend any more; he was already planning his next step, and he knew better than anyone that he had to box very clever. If Jonny P had made it this far then he was armed and extremely dangerous. Obviously he was being protected, and he would have made sure that this little exercise was going to work out in his favour. Anger was a fruitless exercise – not that Bertie would see it that way, ofcourse. What was needed now was a long, hard, sensible
think,
and he wasn’t going to be able to do that with Bertie wittering on like a fucking old fishwife.
‘Bertie.’
‘What!’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Bertie did as requested, but he was seething inside. If Jonny Parker was allowed a walk on this kind of calumny then the London they knew and loved would be his for the taking. This was a direct affront to them and everything they had achieved, and if Kevin didn’t strike quickly it would be their turn for the machetes next. Fucking machetes! What was wrong with a common or garden sawn-off? Were these people fucking animals or what? Bertie shook his head in utter disbelief at the skulduggery of some people.
Unlike Bertie, Kevin Bryant knew exactly why the man had been taken out with machetes. This was a statement as well as a killing. It was telling him and everyone else that Jonny P had the black vote of confidence. That meant Brixton, Tulse Hill, Norwood, et al, were happy to be on his payroll. He was carving up the city and, in fairness to him, he was doing it very well. Credit where credit was due, he had worked a fucking blinder, and Kevin Bryant admired a shrewd business head. So few Faces possessed one; most were daydreamers who never saw the big picture, were shocked and outraged when they were taken out by a more superior intelligence. Anyone could get a decent earn – it was keeping the fucker that took the time and the trouble. A good earn was like an unfaithful wife; you loved them, you fucked them, but you kept watch on them twenty-four seven. Otherwise they fucked you over in more ways than one.
But Kevin Bryant wasn’t finished yet; he still a few miles to go on his clock, and when he retaliated, he would retaliate big time. But it had to be perfect, it had to be well planned, it hadto be executed with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of aggravation. He could put on a show as well as the next man, and he was determined to do just that.
Jonny P was euphoric. He had taken out Joseph without any real resistance at all. But that was all well and good – now he had to either take out Bryant completely, or try to negotiate some friendly terms with him, whatever seemed the most viable option.
Personally, he felt it was best to take the man out. Kevin was a loose cannon. He was a hard fuck in his own way, and that was to be taken into consideration. No one
ever
knew what Kevin Bryant was thinking, so it was difficult to negotiate with him. No one played cards with him any more either, he had a legendary poker face. Years ago, Jonny had watched Kevin take a twenty-grand pot on a ten high. He had also been playing those cards with some very naughty boys, the very same bad boys they had both overtaken on their quest for the pavements of their youth.
It was important to run your own neighbourhood. It meant a loyalty that was almost guaranteed, providing, of course, you looked after your own, and they had both done just that. But, whereas Jonny was a likeable fellow, Kevin Bryant wasn’t. Respected, yes, but liked? That was a different kettle of fish altogether. No one approached Kevin, he wasn’t that kind of bloke, whereas Jonny was accosted wherever he went. He always made sure people had a few quid in their
It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t anything. It was annoying that’s what it was. ‘And! Fucking “and”? Is that all you’ve got to fucking say? We are fucking being mugged off like a pair of prize cunts, and all you can say is fucking
and
!’
But Kevin Bryant wasn’t listening to his friend any more; he was already planning his next step, and he knew better than anyone that he had to box very clever. If Jonny P had made it this far then he was armed and extremely dangerous. Obviously he was being protected, and he would have made sure that this little exercise was going to work out in his favour. Anger was a fruitless exercise – not that Bertie would see it that way, ofcourse. What was needed now was a long, hard, sensible
think,
and he wasn’t going to be able to do that with Bertie wittering on like a fucking old fishwife.
‘Bertie.’
‘What!’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Bertie did as requested, but he was seething inside. If Jonny Parker was allowed a walk on this kind of calumny then the London they knew and loved would be his for the taking. This was a direct affront to them and everything they had achieved, and if Kevin didn’t strike quickly it would be their turn for the machetes next. Fucking machetes! What was wrong with a common or garden sawn-off? Were these people fucking animals or what? Bertie shook his head in utter disbelief at the skulduggery of some people.
Unlike Bertie, Kevin Bryant knew exactly why the man had been taken out with machetes. This was a statement as well as a killing. It was telling him and everyone else that Jonny P had the black vote of confidence. That meant Brixton, Tulse Hill, Norwood, et al, were happy to be on his payroll. He was carving up the city and, in fairness to him, he was doing it very well. Credit where credit was due, he had worked a fucking blinder, and Kevin Bryant admired a shrewd business head. So few Faces possessed one; most were daydreamers who never saw the big picture, were shocked and outraged when they were taken out by a more superior intelligence. Anyone could get a decent earn – it was keeping the fucker that took the time and the trouble. A good earn was like an unfaithful wife; you loved them, you fucked them, but you kept watch on them twenty-four seven. Otherwise they fucked you over in more ways than one.
But Kevin Bryant wasn’t finished yet; he still a few miles to go on his clock, and when he retaliated, he would retaliate big time. But it had to be perfect, it had to be well planned, it hadto be executed with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of aggravation. He could put on a show as well as the next man, and he was determined to do just that.
Jonny P was euphoric. He had taken out Joseph without any real resistance at all. But that was all well and good – now he had to either take out Bryant completely, or try to negotiate some friendly terms with him, whatever seemed the most viable option.
Personally, he felt it was best to take the man out. Kevin was a loose cannon. He was a hard fuck in his own way, and that was to be taken into consideration. No one
ever
knew what Kevin Bryant was thinking, so it was difficult to negotiate with him. No one played cards with him any more either, he had a legendary poker face. Years ago, Jonny had watched Kevin take a twenty-grand pot on a ten high. He had also been playing those cards with some very naughty boys, the very same bad boys they had both overtaken on their quest for the pavements of their youth.
It was important to run your own neighbourhood. It meant a loyalty that was almost guaranteed, providing, of course, you looked after your own, and they had both done just that. But, whereas Jonny was a likeable fellow, Kevin Bryant wasn’t. Respected, yes, but liked? That was a different kettle of fish altogether. No one approached Kevin, he wasn’t that kind of bloke, whereas Jonny was accosted wherever he went. He always made sure people had a few quid in their
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