It was a real family club, not really the kind of setting the Williams boys wanted and not the kind of place where the regulars wanted to see the numerous Williams brothers. Now, though, Dave Williams and his brothers used the Mill House as their base, mainly because they were not sure if they were really welcome in any of the pubs they had frequented for years.

The Williams boys were used to the Mill House now and they were pleased to discover that they were the only real Faces who used the place. They were at first an anomaly and, for the most part, their foray into a local club house had been treated with a certain degree of excitement, until, that is, the novelty had worn off. Seeing the Williams brothers now and again was one thing. Having them there all the time, using the place as their office, was now starting to irritate a lot of the regulars. They were all right, but dangerous. The committee members, older men with families and jobs, were unable to stop the Williams lot from wheeling and dealing as and when they wanted to, yet they were desperate to put an end to the trade that seemed to bring in a lot of unsavoury characters. The big fear, of course, was that the place would be raided and closed down by the police. No one had the nerve to discuss the worries of the family men and the fear for their kids with the Williams family because they were not, what was commonly known as approachable, if the subject touched on them or their businesses in a derogatory way. In fact, they were distinctly cold and menacing. Dennis in particular, who, with his scarred face and head and his broken-toothed grin, could frighten a banshee, let alone anyone else. Dennis was a hard man and he didn't try to hide it. He revelled in his notoriety and it was this that was such a worry to most people. He was vicious when viciousness wasn't warranted or indeed needed.

Being a Face was all Dave wanted from life, all he had ever wanted. A Face was a Face was a Face, as old man Williams would say to them as kids. He had loved Faces, he basked in their reflected glory and lived for the glamour he tried to share in. Now they were Faces in their own right and they were well-known enough to be able to deal their drugs here and share their glamour with a few of the local bully-boys who, like their father before them, would talk about them with hushed tones and respect.

It was a long way from when he was Brodie's main boy and Dave had eventually come to terms with that; at least he let his brothers think so. He knew that Dennis was living on borrowed time. He had hoped that he could keep him away from Patrick and Spider long enough for them to calm down a bit. Maybe even give Dennis another chance. Dave sighed. He was on the powder again and he knew that it was only the speed making him believe that Dennis could walk away from all the shit he had created. He was going to have to answer for his stupidity at some point and the burning question was, when? They couldn't hide away here for ever. He was in such a high state that he was actually getting the rushes again and everything was suddenly so real and bright he felt the urge to start dancing.

Dave went into the toilet and cut himself another line. If only they sold this stuff to the punters they would be rocking with him. They didn't though. It was cut to fuck by the time they sold it off. But it was a good buzz whatever and, as he snorted the amphetamine, he felt the burn inside his nose that told him it had been cut with strychnine at some point. Dave grinned and said to his reflection, 'Bring back glucose, all is forgiven.'

Dave was laughing like a hyena at his own joke and he folded his wrap up carefully before going back out to the club. As he shuffled out of the toilet and went back into the club, the noise hit him like a wall and he winced in pain. He saw a couple of his dealers at the bar and sighed.

They were now responsible for any dope that shot out of the Anglers, the old man's pub opposite the Mill House, and a few other little pubs around and about that Patrick and Spider wouldn't be interested in. The Volunteer pub on the Barking and Dagenham roundabout was where they should be dealing, it was always kicking. The club there was called Flanagan's Speakeasy and it was packed to capacity almost every night. But Spicier had that one sewn up so they let it go.

Dave started chatting up a young girl with badly permed black hair, glitter on her cheekbones and a bright yellow satin jacket that didn't cover her huge breasts. He knew, without asking her, that she was into Marc Bolan. Well, she could be into the fucking Beam River if she wanted to. All he cared about was a fuck. Although whether he was capable of any kind of hard-on, he wasn't sure. It was worth a try though.

Dave was rocking, speeding out of his nut. He knew she was a little schoolgirl dressed up for her night out and that her father was probably watching them with fear in his heart and no way to protect his child. Dave was past caring these days. He was a nervous wreck; he just seemed to be waiting for the balloon to go up. He was burdened with the guilt of nearly killing his brother; the realisation that he was capable of nearly murdering his own flesh and blood had been a revelation. The fact that he had enjoyed it, was sorry he had not finished the job, was what was making him so uneasy. Dennis was his brother and he loved him. Unfortunately, he was also a vain, temperamental and violent lunatic who would always bring trouble to their door. Dennis couldn't even help it, he just attracted trouble. In all honesty, a lot of the time he caused it, mainly because he loved the adrenaline rush it brought him. And the attention, he loved to be the centre of attention, always for the wrong reasons. Dave loved his brother but hated him with a vengeance for all the trouble he had brought to his doorstep. Because it was always left to him to clear up the mess, he was always the fall guy. And now they had no real income any more, no security, because Patrick Brodie had aimed them out of it and so he should. Patrick had given him the opportunity to come back, but how could he? Dennis wouldn't last five minutes on his own, and as for his other brothers, he had seen more brains on a butcher's floor. Dennis was a fucking liability and that was something that would never change.

As Patrick and his boys crashed through the doors and into the club, Dave almost felt relieved that this was finally happening and would soon be over.

Dennis was so surprised that he just stood there open-mouthed and looking, as more than one person noted, gormless.

Patrick looked at Dennis with a frown and then he said with deep disgust and an underlying menace that was evident to everyone around them, 'You had to be expecting me, Dennis, so what's with the fucking shocked face? Surely you didn't think I had forgotten about you?'

Patrick Brodie was talking to him and worse, was treating him, like he was a nothing, a no-neck, the shit on his shoes and Dennis knew that only a madman would be fool enough to try to salvage what was left of their reputation by answering him back. He was expected to swallow his knob and he knew that anyone with half a brain would shut the fuck up, but was not sure how much brain he actually had left.

The people around the bar were thrilled to see Patrick Brodie in their little club; they were also secretly hoping that he might knock Dennis Williams on to his arse. The general consensus was that he was a big-mouthed toss-pot, though no one would say that to his face of course. Dennis was under the mistaken impression that he was popular. Faces were, for the most part, Diamond Geezers; nice blokes who were approachable and friendly and who didn't feel the need to be a hard man twenty-four-seven. Whereas the Dennis Williamses of the world, although they might be afforded the same courtesy as other Faces, were not liked enough to command either loyalty or respect from anyone around them. At least not when there was a real, bona fide Face making them look like they were a fool. A plastic gangster was a term that had recently come into common usage and it now seemed a fitting description for Dennis Williams.