Like all bent filth, he was not to be trusted. If he was capable of tucking up his workmates, his so-called colleagues, he was not to be trusted any more than you would a rabid dog or a pregnant whore. That was why the people they dealt with had to make sure they had some insurance. Something that could be dangled over their heads when a point needed to be made or someone needed to be reminded of exactly who they were and, more to the point, who they were dealing with. His name was Roland and few people were aware of that. Those who knew were not brave enough to use it. He was always called Smith.
As he sat with the Brodie boys he was happy to take his bunce and assure them that he was happy enough with the change of management that had recently occurred. Smith was a shrewdie; he had a bastard of a boss who, he made sure, was never, ever, in any kind of compromising situation.
Smith had been Pat's go-between since day one and he was quite content with that. They were paid well and were rarely asked to do anything of merit. That the day would eventually come, they were both sure but, until then, they were content to go with the flow.
'Tell Scanlon I want a meet with him and I want it soon.'
Smith was suddenly unsure how to answer the young man before him; he had the look of the convict about him and that wasn't unusual seeing as how he was one. But he also had a hard edge to his voice that told the listener he was not about to take any nonsense.
'Scanlon never meets anyone.' This was said with a hint of amazement; Smith looked as if he had never heard anything so ridiculous in his life.
Pat stood up and took the money off the desk and he saw Smith's eyes widen slightly at his actions. 'You tell fucking Scanlon that if he don't meet with me, I am going to fucking go over his head, all right? You ain't the only bent filth in the game.'
He opened a drawer and dropped the package inside it. 'No meet, no dosh. Sorry, mate.'
Smith sat there for a few seconds, unsure how to react. Then Lance dragged him up bodily from his seat and bellowed, 'Well, fuck off then! Tell the skank to get his arse in gear.'
He pushed him towards the door then and Smith left as quickly as was possible without looking like he was running away.
Lance and Pat laughed at his exit.
'What a cunt, Pat.'
'He will come in handy, don't worry.'
Pat stretched with tiredness, rubbing his rough hands across his face and eyes.
He had achieved most of what he had set out to do. In fact, he had found it much easier than he would have believed. He had taken back what had been theirs in the first place and now he had to convince certain people that they were working directly for him. Lenny had made the mistake of never giving anyone their due, not respecting their part in any skulduggery that came his way or bothering to acknowledge their existence. Not a mistake Pat intended to make. He knew it was going to be hard, but he had a good back-up.
Pat also wanted to find out where his father's money had gone; even Lenny had not known the whole of it, where that was concerned.
But Pat knew a lot more than anyone realised; he had listened and watched his father as a kid and he had also known a lot more about who had been involved in the main businesses than anyone realised, his mother included.
Pat had promised himself that he would make amends, not just for him, but for his whole family. Every time he had been humiliated by Brewster or his mother had slipped out and brassed herself for a few quid, the urge for retribution had been overwhelming. His father had been murdered and he was going to pay back everyone involved for that.
Pat was going to track down his father's assets if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth. He had to make it all right, he had to make sure that his family were secure at last.
Pat knew he was capable of keeping the businesses going and he also knew that his rep was already in place through his sojourn in prison. He had to act normal now, had to make sure that he was trusted and respected by all the people he would be dealing with. Then he would bide his time and when he had all the information to hand, all fucking hell would be let loose.
Pat saw his father's last moments every day of his life and he was not going to let that go, no way. He missed his father and he had ferreted out so much information with friendly chats and well-thought-out questions that he knew more about his father's last few deals than anyone else, especially the people his father had been dealing with. He was a good lad and he knew that was what his reputation was based on. But he was his father's son and, one day, people would realise that.
'You all right, Pat?'
Lance had seen him staring into space. Ever since they were kids, Patrick had gone off into his own world; he just sat and stared at nothing.
Lance hated it, hated the fact that Pat was not on his wavelength. He watched Patrick close his eyes and then, taking a few deep breaths, he came back to the real world once more.
'You were fucking miles away.'
Pat laughed. 'If only you fucking knew the half of it.'
They laughed together then. Lance was much happier, knowing that Lenny was gone and that his association with him was over was making him feel better and more secure by the hour.
Pat wouldn't understand his actions, he knew, but he had done what he could to keep all their heads above water. Pat had always made him feel inadequate; he had fucked up big time when they were kids, and he regretted that, had regretted it ever since. He had been a kid and he had not understood what he had done to that girl. If he saw her now he felt bad inside.
Pat was remembering the day his father died. His father's murder had made him understand at an early age what being dead really meant, had shown him how much blood the human body actually held. His father's blood had been everywhere, it was sprayed all over the walls and covered the floor. It had been everywhere and he could remember seeing pieces of his father's brain tissue on the floor beside his body that night. That sight had never left him, had never left any of them. It had changed all their lives; in seconds, all they knew and all they had believed in had disappeared. Pat remembered going to the hall the next day. The balloons and the bunting were still up and the food, laid out ready to eat and enjoy, was now dried-up and stale. The presents still piled up on a table. Patrick had never again celebrated a birthday.
Pat thought about how much he missed his times with his father; the evenings when he would talk him through life and his role in the family. His father had asked him to do errands for him; a bit of ducking and diving, and so he knew much more about what had been going on than anyone realised. He would bide his time and get the money back. Get the lot back and, when he did, he would slaughter the person involved and enjoy every second of it.
Everyone knew that he had taken out Brewster and he was pleased about that. He'd wanted Lenny's death to be a statement, not just for the people around abouts, but for the people he had met in prison too. He still had a few of them to prove his worth to and he knew this act would be enough. Lenny was already old news and Patrick wanted his name coupled with his for ever. When people talked about Lenny dying they would talk about the young man who had been responsible for it happening.
It had started his legendary status off perfectly and it was almost a public service. It wasn't a murder, it was more a culling and Lenny was to be the first of many.
Jimmy Brick was in the Prospect of Whitby pub; he was having a drink with a few old mates and his reception had pleased him no end. As he saw the drinks being bought, and heard the jokes being told, he settled down and felt the relief once more at being part of the winning team. It seemed that his contribution to the recent events had put him in good stead once more with the people that were important.