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‘Mad fucker.’
    ‘Mad bastard,’ Jay responded. ‘Last one down is Johnny in disguise.’
    They took off down the landing, pushing each other as they turned into the top of the stairwell. Standing on the top step was Gringo. He had his arms out.
    ‘Stop there lads.’
    They came to a grinding halt.
    ‘Empty your pockets.’
    Bobby felt like he was going to poo in his pants. It was an involuntary muscle movement he had never felt before. One second he was fine, the next he needed to poo worse than ever before. Bobby took out some change. Jay had a five-pound note and some coins.
    ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Gringo roared in Bobby’s face.
    ‘Yeah.’
    Gringo took it and ran off down the stairwell.
    ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Bobby.
    ‘We have to tell Anto.’
    They walked to the bottom of the stairwell without racing or talking. Bobby’s hands were shaking. He put them in his pockets so Jay wouldn’t see.
    ‘What a wanker. My hands are shaking,’ said Jay.
    ‘So are mine. Look.’
    Bobby held out his hands to show Jay.
    ‘Let’s go tell Anto,’ said Jay. ‘That fucker is not going to get away with it.’
    ‘He might never get us to do any jobs for him any more.’
    ‘We’re telling him.’
    They strolled back down to Foster Terrace. Anto could tell something had happened.
    ‘Is everything all right?’
    ‘A fella called Gringo robbed our money at the top of the stairwell,’ said Jay.
    ‘Gringo. Is that his real name?’
    ‘No, it’s Steven Hart,’ said Jay.
    Bobby looked at him, puzzlingly.
    ‘He was in Johnny’s flat before we got there.’
    ‘The little prick.’
    Bobby had never heard Anto use bad language. Anto picked up the phone and dialled Johnny’s number.
    ‘Johnny, Anto here. Do you know a fella called Gringo? Or Steven Hart or something. Find him and have him in your flat in fifteen minutes.’
    Anto nearly knocked the door off the hinges when they got to Johnny’s flat. He banged repeatedly on the plywood window until the door opened.
    ‘Is he here?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    There was a couch against one wall and a TV against another. The curtains were pulled across, blocking any light coming in from the balcony. Gringo was sitting on a chair. Anto walked up to him, grabbed him by the throat, lifted him up and pushed him against the wall. Bobby thought Anto’s arms looked like melted plastic.
    ‘If you ever lay a hand on the two of these boys again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?’
    Gringo couldn’t answer, because Anto was choking him.
    ‘How much did he take, lads?’
    ‘About six quid.’
    ‘How much have you got, fuck face?’
    Anto released his grip and let Gringo look in his pockets for money. He took out a lighter, a box of John Player Blue, a packet of Rizla and some change.
    ‘I would strongly advise you to take out some notes.’
    Anto picked him up while still choking him, and brought him out onto the balcony. He leaned his head over the side.
    ‘Do you want to find yourself flying off this balcony?’
    Gringo reached into his back pocket and took out the five-pound note. He handed it to Anto, who turned to Johnny.
    ‘Very bad company you’re keeping, Johnny.
    These lads are like brothers to me. And for their trouble I think they deserve more than their six quid. More like twenty quid.’
    ‘OK, no problem.’
    Johnny reached down the back of his stinky couch and pulled out a cigarette box. He opened it and pulled out a roll of notes. There was much more than twenty quid.
    ‘Here.’
    ‘It’s not for me, give it to them.’
    ‘Here you go, sorry about that; it will never happen again.’
    ‘Make it a score each, Johnny.’
    ‘Twenty quid each?’
    ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘There’s no problem,’ said Johnny, frantically trying to unravel the notes.
    Jay took the money and put it in his pocket. Bobby took his twenty-pound note and scrunched it up in his hand.
    ‘Let’s go,’ said Anto, who was staring menacingly at Gringo as if to