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fleshly bonds. There was awkward silence a while, then the two gangsters approached theYardies. The man in the camel coat held out his hand to the Count, they shook, and he introduced himself and his companion. He spoke as if a damp rag had been stuffed down his throat. His name was Peterkin, 2 the brute’s, Haines.
    ‘Let’s have a look at the gear then,’ he went on.
    ‘Where de cash?’ asked the Count.
    ‘In the boot of the car, mate. I wanner see the product first.’
    ‘Nah,’ the Count said, shaking his head.
    ‘Look, I tell you what,’ Peterkin went on, aping a smile. ‘To demonstrate me good faith, right, I’ll put me gun away…’
    He dropped it into his jacket pocket. The Count kissed his teeth.
    ‘Let me finish. I’ll get my pal to show you the money, which is in the car, right, then ask him to stay over there, where he can’t cause no trouble. Which he’ll be happy to do, ’cause I’ll ask him nicely. Awright?’
    The Count muttered, ‘Aks ’im nicely,’ sighed, but then nodded.
    Turning to Haines, Peterkin sent him off. He crossed to the car, unlocked and lifted the boot, took out, opened, and held up a suitcase full of banknotes. The Count relaxed. Haines closed the case, put it away, shut the boot, then leant against it, took a paperback from his jacket pocket, a Jane Austen, and, after finding his place, by a dog-eared page, began reading.
    The Count went round to the rear of the van, opened up the doors. Peterkin and Clifton followed him.
    ‘An’ you can tell your bloke to clear off an’ all,’ Peterkin said. ‘I don’t want no funny business.’
    The Count nodded at Clifton.
    ‘Gwan over there, dread.’
    Clifton walked to the edge of the graveyard, to where the hillside sloped away, took the end of a joint from his pocket, lit it, stood toking, looking out over prospect: fields of scorched wheat stubble, hedgerows, a small, tree-girt lake. Havingfinished his smoke, flicked the butt to the ground, Clifton looked over to see how the deal was going down. It seemed Peterkin had asked for a trial of the wares, for the Count had filled a small glass pipe with a little of the freebased coke, was offering it to the Cockney. He put the stem to his lips, took out a lighter.
    From somewhere near at hand, there was a horrid shriek. Glancing over his shoulder, Clifton saw it was only an owl stooping on a fieldmouse. But then he heard a half-strangled cry from the Count.
    ‘Pussy clot!’
    Turning back, Clifton saw Haines had crept up on the Count, had him by the throat. Clifton broke into a run. The Count got free, elbowed Haines in the gut, thumped Peterkin, who was struggling with his gun, which had snagged on the lining of his pocket. The older man staggered backwards. Then hurled the crack pipe at the Count’s head. He missed. Then came loudening reports, awkwards echoes, followed by a roar. A fireball engulfed the van. The blast threw Clifton to the ground.
    Later he’d realize some ethanol, which is used in freebasing, must have spilled; perhaps, when the van ran over the badger, a flask had been juddered, fallen, cracked, leaked. The alcohol, touched off by the fallen pipe, then ignited the petrol tank. But at the time, lying prone, stunned, he thought maybe it was a bolt from Jah. Then a lump of twisted metal hit his head, and all went black.
    Here Clifton broke off to peer through the dirty windscreen at the road ahead. Looking out the window, I was stunned to see Pentonville Prison leering down at me in the moonlight; enthralled by the story’s unfolding, I’d not been aware of the passing of time (though, setting down Clifton’s tale here, I’m confounded so much was told in what can only have been a short drive). I gazed into the fug pouring from the jail’s chimneys, seeing weird forms.
    ‘Rahtid! Gwan!’
    I looked up. An elderly couple stood in the road, looked vacant. Clifton crossed the centre line to avoid them. As we passed by, they glared and pointed, suddenly