Lil sat in the church watching her husband's funeral and anyone could see she was not up to it. As she held her new baby in her arms she was causing not only the women's tears but also the men's discomfort.

She had been had over, no doubt about that, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it. She was in bits but she also knew she had to box clever to salvage anything for her boys. Patrick would be cursing them to hell if he was watching but there wasn't anything he could do about it from where he was; it was up to her now.

Any monies in the bank were of course hers; not that they kept much money in the bank. Not real money anyway; if you banked it you would eventually have to explain its existence to the taxman. Lil was also the beneficiary of any insurance policies Patrick might have taken out and she should get a one-off payment from the powers that be. She would then be expected to keep her head down. Lil was now an embarrassment because everyone knew she had been royally had over. She knew the ins and outs of the clubs, she had helped run them, but that knowledge would not do her any good now; she was old news and she knew it. With five kids and a dead husband Lil was without any kind of protection. Even in her grief she knew she had to stay strong for the kids; she had to get herself together and collect what was owing her. She also knew where Patrick had hidden some of the proceeds from the various bank robberies he had given permission for over the years. She was going to make a visit to his main yard, under cover of darkness, and see what was left. It galled Lil that her life as she knew it was over, that everything Pat had worked for had been in vain. She had seen the fur coat on Lenny's old woman, it had cost a bundle, and she had walked in the church like she owned the fucking place, waving at people and nodding. She was the new First Lady and she was loving it. Well, she hoped she had better luck in that capacity than she had had.

As Lil sat in the church she felt a strange calmness come over her; she was aware of how close her family had come to complete annihilation at the hands of Ricky Williams. She knew that Tommy would have killed Pat Junior without a second's thought and she thanked God for sparing him. She accepted the fact that all her husband's hard work, the clubs, the bookies, everything he had ever undertaken, was now under new management. She knew she couldn't dispute anything, she had no power any more. As she had looked at her children that morning, she knew that she had to accept her fate with good grace and try to pick up the remnants of her life. For their sakes.

Ricky Williams had come through for his family and they were riding high on it. People were once more civil to them, overeager in their quest to be allowed a few minutes of their precious time. Ricky had known he had to do something spectacular to get them back in the groove and he had achieved his objective with outstanding results. Palmer and Brewster had both given him a public welcome worthy of a World Cup winner. Ricky was now the undisputed head of the family, he had dragged them back to where they belonged. As he stood in the toilet of the Speiler in Bermondsey that Patrick Brodie had once called his own, he looked in the mirror and admired his good looks and his dapper new outfit. Ricky loved the new fashions, he loved the materials, and in his fitted-velvet jacket and his boot-cut jeans he felt like a real tasty geezer. He loved that expression, especially when he believed it pertained to him. His euphoria was at its peak and as he sauntered back into the bar he saw his brothers, what was left of them anyway, waiting for him with smiles and drinks. Ricky downed a double brandy and, feeling the burn, he held the glass out for a refill knowing that the barmaid would not optic it, not for him; he would be given the bottle on the counter as a measure of his prestige.

He fucking loved it, loved being on top, loved having the pick of the birds and loved knowing he was being talked about in hushed tones; his escapades being related over pints of lager by people who were impressed with him, were in awe of him.

Ricky was almost strutting, so pleased was he that his plans had made it to fruition. The little sort he had acquired earlier in the day, an eighteen-year-old from Mile End with big tits and an even bigger mouth, was drunk as a skunk. He watched her trying to articulate the bollocks that passed as conversation in her world and knew that these short sharp shags were going to be a thing of the past now. He would still have a dabble, of course, but he decided that a decent-looking bird with a bit of nous about her would look much better on his arm now that he was a man of substance.

Tommy and Dave were swearing their heads off as they spoke with her and he knew that was what was bothering him. Dave, Tommy and Bernie were louts. With Patrick on board they had managed an earn of sorts but none of them really had the concentration required for long-term skulduggery; they preferred to be ornamental as opposed to instrumental and that, again, suited him. Ricky liked being the alpha male, the doer, the instigator of events. He knew his guests had arrived by the cries of greeting he could hear coming from the front bar. He saw his brothers' brows darken; they were still nervous that they might be brought to task over Patrick Brodie. It seemed that the frenzy of their combined attack, which he now knew had been brought on by the drink and drugs consumed by them earlier on in the day, worried them. They felt that people were maybe not as pleased as they were making out. He was pissed-off with them. They were like old women with their fucking stupidity; their absolute cuntishness seemed to cling to them like shit to a blanket. He watched as Alan Palmer walked over to him with his usual swagger and he held his arms out in a gesture of friendliness. Alan stopped in his tracks and held his hands up in front of him, saying loudly, 'Fuck me, we ain't on a date,' then, turning to the henchmen, who were as always half a step behind him, he called out, 'He's trying to fucking shag me. I told you, didn't I? He'd fuck anything.'

Ricky was laughing with everyone else but the avoidance of the friendly gesture was noted and filed away for future reference. He was annoyed to see his brothers laughing like drains as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard in their lives. That's how fucking stupid they were, they couldn't see an insult even when it was in front of their fucking faces.

He had his work cut out with this lot all right and with Palmer and all, by the looks of things. He saw his little bird staggering to the toilet and, winking at one of the regulars, he gave him a score and told him to cab her. She was not going to add anything to this meet and he was sick of her.

They all ordered drinks and settled down to talk, but Ricky was not a happy potato. In fact he was about a hair's breadth away from stabbing Alan through the heart just for the fucking fun of it. He had been blanked and he knew it. But he controlled the urge to retaliate and, smiling easily, he chatted as if he had no worries in the world.

Lil was still tired from the birth and the trauma of that day. Shamus had weighed in at nearly ten pounds and, as she had remarked to her mother, it brought tears to your eyes did childbirth. He was a good baby but she was still not sleeping, even when her mother took over for her. She still had times when she believed Patrick was alive, that she had dreamt his horrific murder. Seeing him buried though had put it into perspective for her, he was gone all right and she had to try to keep herself going for the sake of the kids if nothing else. The luxury of grieving was not an option for her, she had to keep her wits about her and try to salvage something to secure their futures. There had been twenty grand in the bank accounts but she knew that was not a lot with five kids and a mother to support.