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little fuss; he was too young and too dangerous for them and they all decided to retire from the game. He had everyone behind him and he had the edge because of that. This new generation were nutcases; they wanted it all and they wanted it as quickly as possible. Drugs had moved the goal posts and the old lot didn't want any part in it.
    Billy should have seen that coming.
Chapter Two
    Pat loved the docks at night. Even the stench of the river was something to be enjoyed. As a kid, after his mother had walked out, he had played here while waiting for his father to finish his fighting. A street fighter, he had sporadically made money with magnificent wins. As the drink got him though, he lost more often than not. Then the money had not been as plentiful and that had just made him drink all the more.
    One of the reasons he had disappeared as well, Pat decided, was his gradual loss of face and reputation. He understood now how hard that must have been for him, but he still could find no forgiveness in his heart. He had dumped him without a by-your-leave and that alone had hardened him up, and it had also made him determined to always take care of his own, no matter what. Walking away was easy, it was staying around and sorting out your own shit that took guts, that made you a man.
    Pat closed his eyes and forced all thoughts of his parents from his mind. They were over with, finished, gone. They were both the shit on his shoes, he had no care for either of them, and he certainly had no intentions of letting them encroach on his life any more than they already had. He had a coldness inside him, it had been there all his life, the fear of depending on another person, the fear of being soft, of being seen as a mark. Now though, with Lil, he felt in control because she needed him, it wasn't the other way around.
    It hurt him to remember how he had been dragged up, how, like any child brought into the world of poverty, his life had been a lottery. He knew his parents wanted him now, shocked that their child had managed something neither of them had even dreamt of; they actually thought he would be cunt enough to take them on board. Like he was mug enough to even entertain any of them. The only time in their life they had ever agreed on anything and it was too late. He would not piss on them if they burst into flames in front of his eyes. He was happy enough as he was. He had not needed anyone until his wife and she was all he needed, he respected her. Simple as that. Unlike his mother, she had not been round the turf more times than a fucking prize-winning greyhound. All his life he had been overlooked, mugged-off, and now he was making his mark, making people understand that he was a force to be reckoned with and he was enjoying every second of it. Not that he would ever admit that of course. Even to himself.
    He stared up at the new moon and smiled to himself, enjoying his lonely vigil, enjoying his power over his past.
    Under the cover of darkness, Custom House, like all the dock areas, was as alive at night as it was during the day. The difference being that the night-time deals were made by dark-clothed men with subdued voices and menacing reputations. The whores that walked the quays in the small hours were the older women, their best years behind them, the dim glow of the lampposts their only friend. They were used-up, weather-beaten, defeated-looking women. The dock dollies who frequented the wharfs with a determined stealth waited patiently for the punters they were now reduced to; the Chinamen, the Arabs and the Africans. Their bleached-blonde hair and heavily made-up blue eyes were like beacons to these men, drawing them into their world with a slow smile, then finishing them off quickly and expertly with either a hand or their thighs.
    The sex was quick, furtive, and unsatisfactory, not only for the men but also for their conquests. These hard women who only knew how to use, whose lives were lived in black and white, had