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    ‘Hi yourself,’ she said, and without another word she popped both enormous white tits out of the top of her dress, and launched herself at him.
    Harry got back late to the flat. He let himself in, worn out, shagged out, quite literally, wanting only a shower and then bed, to find George sitting in the lounge with a good-looking blond teenager.
    ‘Oh!’ he said in surprise.
    George looked up and said: ‘Hiya Harry. We’ve had a spot of bother.’
    Harry would remember that later. George, master of the huge understatement. A spot of bother.
    ‘Who’s this?’ asked Harry.
    ‘This is Alfie,’ said George.
    ‘Right. Hi, Alfie.’ Harry was bewildered. The boy was too young to be one of George’s stable of loud, fun-filled mates. And . . . ‘Holy shit, what happened to that?’ he demanded, alarmed.
    Alfie was still wrapped up in George’s jacket, and Harry could see that the arm had been slashed right through.
    ‘It’s nothing, we’re both fine,’ said George.
    ‘That’s not nothing. That’s your best jacket, you paid a lot for that jacket,’ said Harry. ‘What is that – a tear, or did someone swipe you with a razor?’
    ‘A knife,’ sighed George. ‘It was a knife.’
    ‘Fuck me , George, what happened?’
    While Alfie sat silent, staring at the floor, George outlined the events of the evening.
    ‘You hit him with a scaffolding pole? Was he all right?’ asked Harry, flopping down on the sofa beside Alfie, who flinched.
    George gave Harry a look that said are you kidding me? ‘I told you. The bastard was waving a knife around, threatening this poor kid. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t just walk away and leave them to it, could I? So I, yes, I admit it, I did hit the guy with the pole, and what I didn’t do, Harry, was hang around and wait for him to come round. He was okay when I left him, that’s all I can say. I didn’t stick around to enquire after his health and give him the chance to have another go, all right?’
    ‘So why’d you bring him back here?’ asked Harry, getting irritable. He was tired. He’d had a stressful evening. The last thing he wanted was to hear about George’s troubles.
    ‘What else could I do?’ asked George, glancing at the boy. Poor little sod. ‘He’s told me his name, but that’s all. He was shit-scared, Harry, I’m telling you. He’s in shock maybe. I couldn’t just let it go. You wouldn’t have. Would you?’
    ‘I think I would.’ Someone waving a knife around? Oh yes, he’d have let it go all right. He didn’t fancy being a dead hero.
    ‘No you wouldn’t. Look, Alfie can stay the night on the sofa bed, I’ll sort him out with a pillow and we’ve got a spare quilt, it’s no biggie.’
    Harry looked at Alfie. He was almost effeminate in his beauty. He certainly didn’t look like any sort of threat. They weren’t going to get shot or shagged in their beds by this little squirt, that was for sure.
    ‘Okay,’ he sighed, and stood up. ‘I’m turning in.’
    ‘Good evening?’ asked George, belatedly remembering that Harry had been out with a client tonight too. He felt like an age had passed since he had last seen Harry, but it was just a few hours ago.
    ‘Oh, mega. Lucky I wasn’t gang-raped by a pack of rampant females. Then our girl attacked me in the Gents.’
    ‘Classy.’
    ‘I thought the same. I’ll square you up with the cash tomorrow, okay? Night, Alfie. Night, George,’ said Harry, and went yawning off to his bed.

Chapter 8
    Deano Drax was furious. All his boys knew it, and that made them nervous. You never wanted Deano to be that way, because then he was likely to kick your bollocks out from under you, just for the fun of it.
    Lefty Umbabwe wished he had some of the other boys here with him, but he didn’t. It was Tuesday – three days after the night-time fight in the alley – and he was alone with Deano in Deano’s country house, in the big sitting room with the inglenook fireplace and the blackened oak beams