'You are who you beat.' That was said by the man he had shot here so many years ago and Brodie knew that had been a lesson well learned by the both of them.

He looked out the window again, enjoying the sights and the sounds as he always had. This was his second home and when he wasn't with Lil, this was the only other place he felt comfortable, felt as if he belonged.

Nothing in Soho was ever really kosher, and no one ever admitted to anything ever. Even people's names were just pretend, like the whole place was pretend. More so even than the theatres that abounded; the stories they acted out for their audiences night after night were not a patch on the real-life stories happening on the streets outside their doors

Brodie sighed and wondered at a man like himself, someone who could see this place as anything other than a cesspool. It destroyed people on a regular basis, especially the women; their turnover was phenomenal in comparison with other places that dealt in flesh and pornography, like Shepherds Market. That was where the Soho girls were likely to end their days, or Notting Hill and, worst-case scenario, for the diseased or for the beaten and scarred, the dock areas, what was left of them anyway. But as a man this didn't really affect him so he could turn a blind eye, choose to ignore the price women paid so he could smoke his expensive cigars and pat himself on the back over his success. That was the secret of Soho and its patrons: as long as you kept your minions at arm's length and didn't dwell too much on the price that would be exacted by the punters, you could relax, relax and enjoy the spoils of a war that had never really been declared on the unsuspecting girls who saw Soho as some kind of refuge. At first, girls could lose themselves there; no one would find them if they were clever enough to keep their real identities a secret. But it was a vicious circle and, like any circle, it had no beginning and no end. The great job they had acquired, the independence they thought was so important, eventually turned out to be the worst things that could ever happen to them. It was a seductive life for young runaways. It seemed glamorous and exciting, money for old rope, money that was easily earned and easily spent because it was always going to be there the next day and the day after that and the day after that, until years had passed and they were caught in the never-ending cycle that was prostitution. Every year their punters became less well-heeled and every year their expectations were lowered. In the end they would be on the street hustling for enough money to keep them stoned and out of it enough to forget what their lives had become.

This was a dangerous game and it was an earner, but not for the women of course.

The only real winners were the men like him, the men who used the women they found on a daily basis and discarded them when they were not needed any more. Over the years the girls, at least most of them, had become like animals to him; he had no real feelings for them. How could he when they had no feelings for themselves?

It didn't do to dwell on anything for too long in his job, especially as he was long past caring these days and he made sure of that much at least. He only cared about his family; anyone else was just collateral damage, no more and no less.

He stared out of the window. Late afternoon was a favourite time for him in Soho, the streets were just getting busy with people who were expecting a good night out and who were either ignorant or uncaring about how that would eventually come about. The night drawing in also brought out all the locals. The staple of Soho evenings, the reason people congregated here night after night. It was a mixture of the young, the stupid, the used and the users. Then, of course, there were the people like him, without whom none of the former could ply their wares. Whatever anyone thought of him and his peers, they were the staple diet of Soho, they kept the place ticking over and kept the mystique that attracted the punters and the revellers.

Everyone loved a face, a villain, and everyone liked to be associated with the glamour that villainy provided for them. The rich and famous were drawn to people like him, like moths to a flame. It was how it worked and he milked it for all it was worth. What else could he do?

This was one of the reasons he needed a Jimmy Brick. The clubs were frequented by Names these days; they were the meeting ground for the great and the good, and in reality they paid enough protection, and owned enough filth to ensure that their more exotic customers got a free pass and peace of mind. Now he had to sort out the final piece of the puzzle and, once that had been obtained, he could relax with the best of them.

He watched the strippers passing each other on the street as they made their way from club to club, calling out to each other, glad to see their counterparts as it made them feel less lonely and less afraid of what the night might bring. The scouts were already at work, trying to talk the punters into the strip bars or the hostess clubs, promising the earth and delivering nothing but the empty promise of good times to be had. The air was cold enough to make all their breath visible and the scantily dressed women upped their usual pace, hurrying into the warmth of their next club.

Patrick Brodie loved the West End, and he felt at home there.

He had no worries about losing his crown because he had earned it, fair and square, and he was respected and, more importantly, he was feared. He had made sure of that, and he was proud of it as well. Soho was a shithole to the majority of people. To him it was just a means to an end.

Lil, the love of his life, was cooking another baby and once she was delivered of it, she would be back to her usual self. His kids were smart, handsome and well-looked after. He had money all over the show, a beautiful home and he had what he had never believed was possible for a man brought up as he had been. He had happiness inside himself, real happiness, even if he didn't look like he did. Only Lil, his Lil, knew how happy he was and how much he cherished his life with her. Everything else was as nothing when measured against his family.

God had been good to him, he knew, and he thanked him every Sunday by paying his respects and enjoying the peace and tranquillity that church seemed to bring him.

Life, he felt, was good.

'My party is going to be the best party ever and you can invite any of your friends, Lance.'

Pat Junior was feeling magnanimous, even though his brother had been irritating him all day. He knew that he was being overly nice about Lance and his wicked tongue and though he had decided that he was just a really annoying little brother like any other, he understood his brother's unhappiness better than Lance did.

'Why would my friends want to go to your crappy party?'

Pat Junior shrugged at his brother's words. 'Well, the offer is there if you want to ask anyone.'

He stopped himself from saying, 'if you have anyone to ask that is', but he knew it was pointless because he didn't get any kind of thrill from hurting his brother's feelings. He knew Lance had the burden of knowing that their mum didn't really have a lot of time for him, though she pretended to, and that his Nanny Annie had too much time for him, which he guessed was why his mum got so annoyed with his brother.

His nan seemed to take Lance over as soon as she stepped on to the premises and that suited him because Pat hated her, really hated her, though he had never admitted that to anyone out loud, of course. He knew his mum put up with her and the girls liked her because she was enamoured with them like everyone else was. Twins did that, they made people take notice of them somehow. He adored his little sisters, and he understood why they made such an impression. But Lance was hard work and he felt for his brother even as he got angry with him.