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Ernest. He’d heard the rumours that Des was sniffing around Annie now that she’d managed to get rid of her husband. He had no idea that he was staying in the pub.
    Desmond nodded over to Ernest. “You alright?”
    Ernest nodded back, unintentionally copying the big man’s posture. Desmond’s hair was soaked, and his t-shirt clung to his large chest; he even had some soap in his ear. Ernest wondered if he dared tell him. The bloke did look unusually chilled out. It wasn’t that hard to figure out what those two had been doing in the bathroom.
    He breathed a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that the tosser wouldn’t dare try anything with big Des standing right behind the bar giving Steve the evil glare.
    “I hope you ain’t upsetting folk again, shortarse.”
    Steve visibly cringed and tried to smile. It was not a pretty sight. “Of course not,” he replied. “We’re just having a bit of a laugh, that’s all. Ernest offered to buy me a drink.”
    He made that announcement sound as if Ernest buying that nasty fucking dwarf a pint was somehow genuine proof of their everlasting friendship.
    Desmond laughed out loud; a fresh pint had magically appeared next to the big man’s left hand. “Don’t you try to bullshit me; you’ve been a right little twat to my mate, Ernest, ever since he was knee high to a grasshopper.”
    To be fair, Desmond did a fair amount of slapping when they were both kids as well, but that stopped when they’d both turned over a warehouse filled with knock-off trainers on the outskirts of Bradford fifteen years ago.
    “I think you’ll find that it’s you who’s buying Ernest a drink.”
    “Don’t forget me!” shouted a voice from their table.
    That was just like Jeff. Where the hell was his friend when Steve was having a go at him? Ernest retreated to the toilets, grinning from ear to ear when he heard Desmond calmly informing Steve that he was paying for his pint too.
    Ernest was grateful that the gents were deserted. He leaned back against the tiles and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence and the solitude. He waited for his heart to slow down before he padded over to the urinals.
    Steve Reynolds had been inside for GBH—grievous bodily harm—for the best part of five years. He’d only just been released. Those bliss-filled nights of being able to walk into his favourite watering hole without the risk of being hassled were well and truly over. He couldn’t expect Desmond to watch his back every night.
    The Horse and Jockey was the only pub in the middle of the estate. There were a couple of other pubs within walking distance—the Crown and the Black Bull—but there was no way that he’d dare show his face in either of those two. The locals from the Breakspear Rise estate had claimed them.
    Even after all these years, he knew most of the locals in those two pubs, and he knew them because Ernest had done most of their houses over. Somehow drinking in the same places with folk who’d probably knife him if they ever found out would not do his welfare any good.
    He jumped back when the door pushed open from the other side, and a young lad wearing a bright orange shirt wandered in. The lad nodded to Ernest, and he nodded back. He didn’t know the lad from Adam. Oh he’d seen him in the pub a few times, but that was about as far as it went, but they both drank in the same place, so therefore they nodded to each other. The regulars in the Horse and Jockey all considered themselves to be part of the same family. It was that fucking Steve Reynolds who didn’t belong. He was the one who ought to bugger off.
    Ernest grabbed the door handle and wished for the bastard to get sent down again. He re-entered the lounge and made his way up to the bar to collect his drinks. Ernest noted with great relief that Steve’s bar stool was now vacant. He hoped that the man had pissed off out of the pub, or even better, had a heart attack and died.
    He wasn’t so lucky. Ernest spotted the