The room was now steeped in animosity and righteous indignation; Patrick's natural-born hatred of any kind of authority was in evidence and he was offended, really offended. Then, from underneath his coat, he produced a machete. He brandished it with relish, watching the men around him as the realisation of their situation dawned on them. Spider and his Jamaican cousin were standing in the doorway, their own weapons, a scythe and a Japanese samurai sword, clearly visible.
The three men at the table finally understood that they were in grave danger and the fact that they were part of the establishment guaranteed them nothing from the bunch of psychopaths looking at them with excitement in their eyes and malice in their hearts.
Standing up, Patrick brought the machete down with all the force he could muster, on to Freddie Dwyer's head. Spider and Pat laughed out loud as they systematically hacked him to pieces, the blood splattering on to the scandalised faces of the Old Bill as they awaited their turn, making it all the more hilarious.
A lesson was administered swiftly and with the maximum of brutality. It was a lesson well learned by everyone who had to deal with Patrick Brodie from that day on.
He had gone from hard nut to headcase overnight, and it was a well-planned, well-executed and deliberate ploy to ensure that anyone who had dreams of grassing him up would remember that Dwyer, and the Old Bill he had been fool enough to associate with, had been sentenced to death without any repercussions whatsoever.
Lil was lying on the sofa trying to get comfortable. Her belly was tight once more, and the devastation of her home was still in evidence. She had put everything back as neatly as she could, but the police had done a thorough job inasmuch as most of the soft furnishings would have to be replaced.
She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm the beating of her heart, which was pounding inside her breast with such force it was almost painful. She still had not heard anything from Pat and the time was crawling by. Every time she looked at the clock on her mantelpiece it seemed that an hour had passed, but in fact it had been only minutes. Her mother was still in with the boys and she blocked out the thoughts that were crowding her mind. Her belly was tightening once more and she knew on some level that she was in labour.
However, the pain was nothing she couldn't handle and her mind was still racing and reliving the last few hours. She lit a cigarette and pulled on it deeply, the nicotine hitting her brain and making her feel dizzy. The second draw was better and the third eased her nerves. She looked down at herself and saw the movement of her belly that she knew heralded the arrival of a new person into the world. It was early and she was too tired to make a fuss.
If Patrick had experienced a capture it might be eight or even ten years before he came home to her and his kids; it was a sobering and frightening thought. She felt so alone and so vulnerable, and all she kept focusing on was the fact she had only eight quid to her name.
Eight poxy quid and a new child fighting for its place in the world. What the fuck was she going to do?
Spider and Pat were in a house just off the Railton Road. They were soaked with blood and still on the high that often followed a bout of extreme violence.
Dicky and the Williams brothers were over the moon at the retribution Pat had doled out in their names. Dicky had been disappointed that he had missed out on the shenanigans but he was also secretly pleased that no one could put him or his brothers anywhere near the crime scene. Dead filth tended to cause serious aggravation, even bent dead filth. His brother's untimely demise had hit them all hard and he knew that Pat's logic for keeping this away from them was the act of a good mate. Their boat races would be the first in the frame and they had genuinely been somewhere else, so they had the perfect alibi.
They were now pouring drinks and assuring each other that if the filth had any intention of feeling their collars it would have happened already. Pat knew, as Spider knew, that the filth were taking time to lick their wounds, especially the ones they had something on. They would regroup at some point, that was human nature, but at this particular moment in time the Old Bill felt it was better to retreat, smile and nod, wait till the time was right then, when they were at their weakest, they would come for them mob-handed. Until then, fuck them! The murder of young Terry Williams had not been a smart move and the up-and-coming young Face they had bought with promises of aggrandisement was now the most wanted Face in the Smoke, for all the wrong reasons, running scared and, suddenly, without any protection whatsoever. Jamie the Book's death had barely registered on the Richter scale of criminal London, so even that had not given the Flying Squad anything that they could use against the Williamses or Brodie. It was a catastrophic fuck up but lessons had been learned.
In reality, anything that had been gained from the whole sorry business was in Brodie's favour; he was the new king of the swingers and the bent police he had gathered made him a no-go because he had been astute enough to buy only the best. As his mum had always told him, you get what you pay for and how true those words had turned out to be.
Spider had been a good mate to Pat over the years but he had made a life-changing choice this night: he had chosen Pat over the guaranteed protection of filth. If he had gone along with Dwyer, he would have been given a free rein to serve up his puff with no hassle whatsoever. But, like Patrick Brodie, he would rather take his chances in their world than live under the protective umbrella and sickening stench of Old Bill.
Patrick was filled with enthusiasm now: as he had showered the blood from his body he had relived the feelings of excitement that the night had created inside him. That he had enjoyed the violence so much made him question everything about himself; he had watched Dwyer die slowly and painfully and he had been fascinated by it. As the others had waited for their turn, he had observed their absolute terror, could smell the fear emanating from their pores. As he had remarked to Spider, it was absolute power; the knowledge that you chose whether someone lived or died was the greatest buzz of all. It was their horror and the realisation that they were in over their heads that had made him feel so good, that had made him prolong the agony of Dwyer so he could enjoy their fear, feed off it and make it work for him, for his benefit.
Now he was calming down he waited for the feelings to disappear, but they didn't, and he knew that he had awakened something inside himself that had been waiting to escape for years. He was his father's son, his mother's child and he knew now that he had a hard streak running through him that made him immune to other people's suffering; at least the people who thwarted him.
He was determined to use that to his advantage. After this little debacle he was going to make sure he was never again in a position of weakness; if extreme fear kept him safe then that was fine by him.
He had put the word out for information on the whereabouts of the shooter. Once he had a reliable lead and wiped him out, the whole episode would be closed once and for all. He was sending out more messages than the GPO, and anyone with half a brain would take heed. Patrick Brodie was not a man to cross, even filth had learned that lesson the hard way.
Lil opened her eyes and quickly closed them again. It was early in the evening and the sun was bright in the hospital room. She was still unable to relax, still worried about Patrick. Not a word, and no one seemed able to track him down. All through the delivery she had been on red alert for a message to say he was outside, a word from someone, anyone, to tell her that he was OK and still on the out. But no one seemed to have heard from him and no one seemed bothered about his disappearance.
A thin mewling brought her bolt upright and she smiled into the cot placed beside her bed; two perfectly formed little girls lay side by side, identical in every way. Despite being early, they were healthy, robust children with well-rounded limbs and thick curly hair.