'Listen, Lance, you are starting to get on my fucking wick. Do you think I won't hear what you're doing?'

Pat was so annoyed it was all he could do not to lamp his brother there and then.

'What, what is it now, Pat? Did I breathe wrong, what?'

The sarcasm was heavy and Pat sat back in the padded leather chair, forcing himself to relax.

'You beat up a fucking working man. He's got three fucking kids and you've nearly crippled him. How's he going to fucking earn a crust now? How are we gonna get our poke? The poke that is so important that you nearly crippled him for nine hundred quid. Nine hundred fucking quid and you beat him with a tyre iron…'

Lance shrugged, as always, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

'He was two weeks late, what was I supposed to do?'

'You cunt. You knew he was on holiday, he's always had an account with us and his credit is fucking exemplary. He always pays on the nose, you fucking stupid, arrogant little shite.'

Pat was out of the chair now and Lance flinched. Despite himself he was worried.

'Three fucking kids and a fucking life and you destroy it all without a fucking thought, you…'

Pat was hovering over him now and the urge to hammer him was so strong he could almost taste it.

'I ain't having it any more, Lance. This is your last chance and I mean it.'

'It was an accident…'

Pat walked away from his brother and stared out of the window at the pavement below.

'Accident, my arse. You are on a fucking final warning, you vicious, vindictive cunt. How can I trust you now, eh? Even Spider and Mackie think you have gone too far this time. You're making enemies and your enemies eventually become mine.'

Lance knew that this was serious. Normally Patrick went off on one and that was that. After all, their reputation for collecting money so quickly had been built on the fact he didn't take any prisoners. If the money didn't come to them at the designated time then the person was made to see the error of their ways. This was normally achieved with brute force and his unerring instinct for knowing what frightened the person involved the most, and using that knowledge without pity.

'This is too far, Lance. You have finally gone too far.'

Pat was still on the verge of taking a tyre iron to Lance himself. See how he liked being beaten over the head and back with a heavy object. The thought of hammering him was so fucking tempting, just to vent this colossal anger. And all this over less than a grand in cash, it was laughable.

He knew Lance's strong points and he used them to his advantage, he admitted that. But this attack was a reminder of what he was dealing with on a daily basis. Lance was slowly becoming a liability and he didn't know how to rein him in without them falling out big time.

If he was honest, he was beginning to loathe the sight of Lance, and yet once they were outside of work, his brother was a different person. It was as if he was proving something all the time. But what that was, exactly, he had no idea.

Pat looked back at Lance. He was a strange cove, there was no doubt about that. From his ill-fitting suit to his scuffed brogues, he looked like Worzel Gummidge's little brother. Even his hair wasn't cut in any kind of style, he often needed a shave and he looked like he was a bit simple. But he wasn't. That was another one of his strengths, people believed he was a fucking retard and he wasn't. Lance was sharper than a samurai sword when he needed to be. He acted like a mong and kept away from the pubs and the clubs, rarely venturing out unless it was to harm someone. He was a fucking weirdo and he knew that something had to be done about it. Other than Kathleen and little Shawn, Lance had no care for anyone or anything and it bothered him.

'Just go, Lance. Fuck off out of my sight…'

Lance still sat there, his heavy body slumped in the chair and his sarcastic half-smile in evidence, as usual.

But Lance knew he had gone too far this time. Pat was distancing himself from him and he wasn't sure that he even realised what he was doing himself. They were spending less and less time together and it hurt him. Lance wanted to be his brother's best friend but it was impossible. Pat was happy to be friends with anyone and Lance couldn't be like that, no matter how hard he tried, and he had tried. He knew he made people uneasy. He knew that for some reason he didn't gel with anyone. He knew he looked odd and that made people uneasy and it wasn't deliberate, at least not at first.

Now he admitted that sometimes he used his personality to his own advantage. When he turned up on a doorstep at five in the morning with his smile and a blunt instrument, people tended to pay him what he asked without question. He was also asked by outsiders to collect particularly difficult debts on occasion and he was very well-paid for it. In fact, he had a reputation as the best collector in the Smoke. He was admired for the simple reason he collected them alone; Pat had not been out collecting with him for a long time and he very rarely used anyone else. He had a few people he might ask to collect a small debt but not the big ones. Not the important ones. He preferred to collect those personally.

Why he had gone over the top this time he wasn't sure. In fact, he had known at the time that it was too much. But he had not cared, he had never liked the man. He was a clean-cut type with well-ironed shirts and a penchant for a flutter now and again. He was a fucking drone, a fucking suit. He was nothing to him and why Pat was so upset about it all he couldn't really understand. But he was, and he had to show some remorse to make Pat think he was sorry about it.

'Look, Pat, he fucked me off…'

Pat turned on him again, shouting angrily, 'Don't fucking lie to me. That bloke couldn't get the hump if he was Quasimodo. You were out of order again. This ain't the first time, is it? A few months ago you broke Jackie Tenant's fucking legs and he still can't work. You are the reason people have stopped betting with us, did you know that, eh? Punters are frightened you are going to turn up all guns blazing for a fucking drink, the equivalent of a fucking giro.'

Pat poked a finger in his brother's face.

'You are costing me money, mate, and that is something I will not fucking allow. Once you start being a liability, you're out the door.'

'Oh, have a day off, Pat… I was out of order, I admit. But at the end of the day we are fucking brothers and you're talking to me like I'm nothing.'

Patrick could see the confusion in Lance's eyes and knew that he didn't really comprehend what he had done that was so wrong. He had always been like that, he pretended he was remorseful, but Pat knew he wasn't. It was like the girl on the bus all those years ago. He preyed on anyone weaker than himself; it was in his nature to do so.

'We are brothers and nothing can change that, but I will cut you off like a diseased limb if you cause anything like this again. People are talking about it. You might not have liked him but plenty of other people did, and you are bringing too much fucking interest on to us from the punters. It stops and it stops today, right?'

'Of course, Pat. I said I was sorry…'

'No, you're not, but all that shit aside, I am warning you to keep your temper in check.'

Pat walked back to the window. His heart was beating so loud he could hear it and he knew that it was from anger and his disapproval of his brother's way of life.

'All right, Pat, I'm going and, once more, I'm sorry. I get carried away.'

'Like when you were on the bus all those years ago? I ain't a mug, Lance, and don't treat me like one. You can go now and keep out of my face for a while until I calm down.'

He had his back to his brother, knowing that he was still angry enough to actually strike him if he didn't leave him alone.