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Pakistani firm was running gear on the estate, heroin mostly. That shocked me at first because they’re Muslims. You know, supposed to be religious and that.’
    ‘All part of the jihad,’ Whelan observed, sucking on his cigarette. ‘It’s not just about bombs and bullets.’
    Sully nodded, his meticulously rehearsed story flowing easily off his lips. ‘Anyway, they got my mate’s sister hooked on gear, pimping her out to minicab drivers and that. So me and Calum – that’s my mate – we went round to the flat where she was staying with one of them. We knocked on the door, and I could see the geezer behind the glass, right?’ Sully leapt to his feet, a muscular arm pitching forward. ‘BANG! I heaved a lump of concrete through the door, caught him right in the face. Next minute we’re inside, giving the fat bastard a good pasting-’
    ‘Sweet.’
    ‘-then two others come running out into the hallway, so Calum does both of ’em with the pepper spray.’
    ‘Beautiful. Burn their fucking eyes out,’ purred Whelan.
    Sully’s devilish grin faded and he went quiet. He slumped back down into his seat, deflated. ‘That was it,’ he said quietly. ‘Police turned up, we got nicked. Didn’t want to hear our side of the story, didn’t give a monkey’s about Calum’s sister. Hate crime, pure and simple. Feet never touched the ground. Fourteen months, no early release.’
    Whelan pinched the end of his cigarette, balancing it carefully on the lip of the ashtray. He leaned forward on the table, his eyes focussed and alert, despite the booze and drugs. ‘A familiar tale, mate. Country’s had it.’ He waved a nicotine-stained finger between them. ‘See, the government don’t give a shit about people like me and you, don’t care about real English people. We don’t fit in to their bullshit utopian experiment. That’s why we’ve got to stick together, know what I mean?’
    Whelan turned, and Sully followed his gaze. No one was paying any attention to them. Whelan smiled and rolled up the sleeve of his faded grey sweatshirt. ‘Check that out,’ he declared proudly.
    The three lions passant were tattooed on the inside of Whelan’s left bicep. Unlike the blue smudge on his neck, this tattoo had been expertly drawn, the colours bold and vivid, the mediaeval lions a clear and exact representation of early English heraldry, the initials EFM in angular black type beneath.
    ‘Jesus, that’s beautiful,’ breathed Sully. He looked up. ‘English Freedom Movement, yeah? Hard core, that mob.’
    ‘Used to be, before the ban,’ Whelan sighed, rolling his sleeve back down. He lifted his glass and saluted a small shield sporting the same three lions fixed above the bar.
    Sully hadn’t noticed it earlier, barely visible amongst the faded Union Jack bunting that ran across the dark wood panelling near the ceiling. He took another sip of lager and snorted self-consciously. ‘There’s me going on about my troubles and here I am, sitting with a proper patriot.’
    Whelan smiled, clearly enjoying the respect Sully was showing. ‘Don’t worry about it. We all do our bit. You’ve spilt blood, done your bird. Me, I’ve had run-ins too.’
    Sully nodded sympathetically. He already knew about Whelan’s brushes with authority; a drink-driving offence whilst employed by the civil service, public disorder fines for the distribution of offensive literature. His CV wasn’t the most extensive he’d seen, but it contained three essential ingredients: military service, a police record and connections to racist organisations.
    ‘Don’t matter what we do or say, government just does what it wants,’ Sully moaned. ‘Take Bryce, for instance-’
    ‘Fucking traitor.’
    ‘-letting all them refugees come over here, giving them benefits and houses. Hardly any of them work. Take a walk around Brent Cross mall these days and you’d think you’re in Karachi or wherever. Even the Maccy D’s has gone Halal.’
    ‘You wait. When