Pat Junior was already inside; he was actually seated behind the old desk, the desk that she had bought one sunny afternoon from Camden Market with Patrick. Now it was scarred from years of hot cups of tea and unattended cigarettes. It was scratched and stained but it still held a certain charm for her. And she could see her husband behind it once more, in the guise of her eldest son. Never had he looked more like his namesake than he did now. He had the same cold look, the same easy manner and the same promise of violence if he didn't get what he wanted.

Lenny saw him sitting there and, keeping a lid on his anger, he said loudly, 'I hope you'll jump in my grave as quick, son.'

He went to the small bar and poured them drinks; he was amazed to find that his hands were shaking, visibly shaking, and he knew that the boy had the edge over him for the moment. He had received no answer to his jocular taunt and he understood, for the first time, just how precarious his position actually was. There were none of his aides in the room, no one seemed to have arrived as arranged. In fact, even Colin was absent and that in itself was a revelation because he was up for promotion. He had been earning his stripes for a while and now it seemed he was happy to retreat when the aggro arrived. Colin was not a fool, he had a decent enough shit-detector and Lenny was aware of that; he had a similar one himself. It had kept him out of trouble for many years. Until now that is. Lenny had a trump card though, cards even; he had kids with Lil and they were half Pat's blood as well. He was confident that Pat wouldn't do anything too outrageous to the man who had sired his younger siblings. Patrick was like his father, he saw himself as far too decent to do anything like that. It was a weakness and he would find that out before too long.

Lil had sat down on the chaise-longue kept in there in case anyone wanted forty winks or needed a breathing space if things got out of order in the club. Many a hostess had drunk a cup of tea and vented their spleen on that sofa; it was a way of diffusing a situation that could become very difficult if not handled properly. Hostesses were fighters and they loved to fight one another when the fancy took them; a slight seen where none was intended or drugs were consumed and then caused paranoia. Now though, it seemed it was to be the throne that Lil sat on as her son reclaimed his father's businesses.

Everyone was seated now and Lenny was left standing in his own office. He stared at them all with his usual aplomb; as if nothing bothered him, which, until tonight, it actually hadn't. He leant nonchalantly against the bar; his handmade suit was crumpled and his eyes were red-rimmed from the drink he had consumed that afternoon. Even the good whisky he had poured for himself tasted bitter somehow.

Lenny kept glancing at the door, expecting someone to enter, even though he knew deep inside him that that was not going to happen. Patrick seemed to know what he was thinking because he said quietly, 'No one's coming to your rescue, mate. I saw to that days ago.'

Lenny Brewster shrugged. 'Am I supposed to be scared or something?' His voice sounded much more confident than he actually felt.

'Come on, Lil, sort this boy out, will you?' His voice was deliberately scornful; he knew he had to make an impression and he also knew he was in big trouble. For the first time in years he was afraid, mortally afraid.

Lil didn't answer him. No one had expected her to. She got up though and, walking to her son, she kissed him on the cheek. Then she said heavily, 'You can't talk your way out of this one, Lenny. You have to stand there and take what's coming to you.'

Her voice was his undoing; that she was there to see all this, to see him brought so low, was more than he could bear. It had finally dawned on him that no one was going to come up, that no one was going to help him. He was surrounded by his enemies and that was through choice; he had only ever made enemies.

The girl he had been with earlier had slipped into the club itself and he knew then that even she had heard a whisper about what might happen. She had covered her bases all right, but that even a slag like her was in the know, devastated him.

Young Patrick was still sitting there quietly. His deep-blue eyes were expressionless and his body taut and young. Looking at him, Lenny knew that he couldn't compete. But he was far from finished and he wouldn't go down without a fight.

'I ain't fucking standing for this, boy. I ain't your father, letting meself be taken like a fucking rabid dog. Looking forward to your birthday this year, son?'

Lenny Brewster had never carried any kind of firearm; he knew that if you packed a weapon you were putting yourself up for a seven-year stretch on possession of firearms charges. He had thought he had been so clever, making sure everyone around him was packing, but now he wished he had one to hand so he could blow these bastards off the face of the earth without a second's thought.

Patrick was unmoved by his words, was not going to be goaded into anger. He was calm and collected. Lil could see her son's demeanour and, standing up quickly, she said, 'I'll be downstairs when you want me. The girls will need a firm hand and the sooner I start, the better.'

As Lil walked towards the doorway, Lenny, his anger as always a heartbeat away, pulled his arm back ready to take a swipe at her. As he did so, Patrick and Jimmy were up and ready for him. But it was Lil who retaliated first. She grabbed a whisky glass off the bar and, with all her strength, she smashed it into his face. As he felt the glass break, the slicing of his skin, he was so shocked he didn't even move. Putting up his hand, he held it to his cheek, feeling the skin flapping as it hung in chunks from his cheekbone. Bringing his hand away from his face, he stared down at the crimson blood and knew then that he was finished. It was over. Lil had finally got the last word and he appreciated the irony of it. He had spent his life using anyone and everyone around him and he had known his time would come; it was inevitable. He just hadn't thought it would be at the hands of the Brodies. He smiled sadly, feeling the pain now. As the cuts began to sting, he knew Lil had been entitled to that one blow at least. He had hurt her enough over the years.

Lil watched the blood seeping down his face; the bone was exposed and she was amazed that she didn't feel nauseous. He looked awful and it didn't bother her. She had no feelings either way about the wounds she had inflicted on him.

The shirt Lenny wore was drenched in his blood and she looked at it and felt a measure of relief. He had tortured her and worse than that, he had ignored her children; his own flesh and blood. For that alone she wanted him to hurt. The years of his abuse and his hate was spurting out of her now.

'Fuck you, Lenny. Fuck you, you rotten bastard. You took my Pat from me and you fucking knew you had when you came creeping round my house. You used me and you fucking enjoyed it.'

He watched her and then he laughed. 'Course I didn't. Who the fuck would want you lot? Tell me that? A fucking washed-up has-been and her gaggle of kids. Your cunt's bigger than Dartford Tunnel, darling. You're a fucking joke to me, you always were.'

Patrick walked over to Lenny then. Lenny saw the look in the boy's eyes as he goaded him once more. 'Your mother's son, you are, eh? A brass, she was a fucking brass, boy. She flogged her fanny in this very club. It's a wonder she never fucked your Lance. Let's face it, he'd be up for it, wouldn't he? Weird ponce that he is. And what about the twins, eh, the loon and the lesbian? I wouldn't want to be part of the Brodie family for all the coke in fucking Colombia.'

Lenny couldn't understand why no one was doing anything about what he was saying. They were just standing there as if he was invisible. Then he saw that Lil had put her hand up, that she was stopping them from retaliating. The fact they were willing to do as she asked, amazed him. Women had no place in his world; they were less than nothing. In fact, he had never once been bothered about one in his life.