Lenny started to laugh then, a sarcastic laugh, a laugh full of derision and triumph. Ricky knew that they were finished and he also knew that this was not going to be a good hiding, no, a serious lesson was going to be taught here. The lesson was actually for the people who would hear about it, who would know that they had been lured to their deaths on a fucking muppets' bus pass. He was sorry then. Sorry for their mother; she had buried enough children. Sorry for himself and for his brothers.

The barmaid had disappeared and Ricky hadn't even noticed. The bar itself was well-decorated for the kind of establishment it was. The wall lights were throwing an eerie glow on Palmer's body and it was a second or two before they realised he was still alive. His breathing was ragged and loud, wet-sounding from the blood that was filling his lungs.

'Fucking hell, he has a strong constitution for a cunt.'

Everyone laughed and Ricky saw that the men from the outer bar were now walking through to join them, taking off their heavy coats and making themselves comfortable. As they rolled up their shirtsleeves he knew this was going to be a long night.

'Here, Johnjo, come and sort these out will you?'

The name was all that was needed to tell Ricky that they were going to be despatched with the maximum of pain and torture. Johnjo Milligan was a name that denoted terror; he was one of a family of Irish pikeys who had a legendary reputation. Few people had met them; they kept a low profile and spent most of their time on the fairgrounds. They were used for a number of jobs, but mainly for torture. Johnjo was a handsome individual with a lilting Dublin accent. He had a way with the ladies and a way with the police. They could never place him anywhere because he had a network of relatives all willing to swear blind that he was with them when it was necessary.

'What are you doing this for, Lenny? We fucking opened the door for you, we made this happen. You can't fucking do this…'

Lenny was smiling again. Ricky saw his brothers' faces; they were looking at him to rectify this situation, to make everything all right.

'I can do what I want, young Ricky. Thanks to you and your brothers I am the only sweet left in the shop. Now I have to make a show of my disgust. Show people that I can't let scum like you run riot and take the law into your own hands. I have to show my contempt for your actions and for Patrick's death, which, by the way, was a fucking liberty. I can't let people think they can do that to a fucking ganger and get away with it, can I?'

'I think the expression you are looking for is, to make an example.' Johnjo spoke with a quiet dignity that always put people off their guard on first encountering him. He was a huge man with thick black hair and a white-toothed smile that always caught ladies' eyes. But he had a quirk in his nature, he had no feelings for anyone outside his close-knit family circle. He would wound anyone for cash and it had made him a force in his own right. He never worried about any comebacks, there were too many Milligans about for that and they were all like him: loyal and easily insulted.

The Milligans were fighters, bare-knuckle and extreme. Johnjo had been an extreme champion since he was fifteen years old. He had fought all over the world and earned a fortune. Extreme fights meant the opponents could use anything they wanted to win the bout. From biting and scratching to using the stools they were supposed to sit on between rounds. Johnjo was a one-off and his talents had been useful over the years; he was called in when a point needed to be made. It wasn't only his violence, it was his penchant for torturing his victims that was required, and the exorbitant price he charged for these services was what made people widen their eyes with respect. If you used Johnjo Milligan you meant fucking business, and no one in their right mind wanted him towering over them with a pair of pliers or a soldering iron.

'Now, Mr Brewster, Mr Palmer is still on the oxygen; would you like to do the honours or shall I?'

Lenny nodded, as always impressed with Johnjo's understatement of the facts and his quiet way of talking that was totally out of place considering the circumstances around him.

Alan was moaning in pain but his open eyes told the men around him that he was more than aware of what was happening. Lenny walked over to the snooker table and picked up a cue. It took five good blows to Alan's head before everyone was satisfied he was dead.

Alan's body was dragged to the doorway by a couple of Lenny's blokes. Unlike the Williams brothers, he was just being outed. In fairness he was a name in his own right and so he just needed to stop existing. The story was already being relayed everywhere that he had financed the Williams brothers to do the dirty on Brodie for his own ends. Lenny would come out of all this as the person who had avenged Pat's death and honoured the man by taking out his murderers. He would be the hero of the hour and he would also get the fucking lot for himself. A win-win situation for him.

'Tie their hands and feet, but strip them first, please.' Johnjo spoke to no one in particular, but his henchmen rushed to do as he asked. It didn't take long; the brothers put up a good fight but there were too many opponents. On the floor, with the dirty carpet scratching their bare skin and the stench of cigarettes and lager in their nostrils, the fight finally left them. Ricky looked up at Lenny and his cronies; he had already got Alan Palmer's firm safely on board and with the Williams brothers' departure he would be hailed as the fucking Messiah.

'You cunt, you fucking treacherous slag. Do your fucking worst; you can't even do the honours yourself, you fucking coward.'

Ricky was screaming out at Brewster; he was determined to go out with at least some kind of dignity and he wouldn't beg for his life off this scum. He had taken a chance and it had not worked out, simple as that. He wasn't about to fucking cry over it. They were already dead men, all four brothers; it was just a matter of seeing how long it took for them to die.

Lenny Brewster kicked him in the face and shouted down to him, 'Shut the fuck up, you ponce. You slaughtered Brodie in front of his family. How the fuck could you believe that such a fucking outrageous act, such a fucking shameful display, would be tolerated by anyone, would be seen by anybody as fucking acceptable behaviour? You stepped over the line, mate, and you are going to pay the price for your obscene act. Anyone with a family wants you lot dead; anyone with a scrap of decency wouldn't fucking countenance you in their company, you fucking scum.'

Johnjo had taken his shirt off and his muscular body was a reminder to the brothers of his strength, and his calmness was a reminder of his reputation as a cold and ruthless torturer.

Johnjo signalled for Lenny to move away from the men on the floor.

'Get back now. You don't want to be too close to these fecking eejits when I start me shenanigans.'

Everyone in the room laughed but there was an undercurrent of excitement as well. None of the men present had seen the Milligans at work before, but they had heard the stories about them. They had wondered at the truth of them sometimes as they were so extreme; even making allowances for natural exaggerations and the need to make a story interesting, the rumours had been outrageous.

Johnjo looked at Ricky with disgust and he swallowed down a large brandy before saying softly and sadly, 'You never touch children, boy, never do anything in front of them; it's the eleventh commandment. The slaughter of Pat Brodie, a good friend of mine, by the way, in front of his kids will ensure I take a greater pleasure than usual in my work tonight.'

Then he doused them in brandy, soaking their hair and skin. The others all sat down to watch the performance and Ricky and his brothers cursed them all to hell.