This from a young guy who crossed his legs too tightly and had a PhD in Patronising Prisoners. He was the leader of a group

that encouraged enhanced thinking skills and anger manage- ment. We met twice a week in a cold room with green-and-white walls, sitting in a circle while this guy talked, his hands flapping like a couple of coked-up birds. He had his pet subjects, his pet theorists. He loved talking in a slow, soft and completely judgemental voice, telling us exactly why we were inside.

And we had to put up with it. Not that the group was compulsory. It was just that it looked better on your record if you attended. Which I did, because by that time, the last thing I wanted was to stay behind bars.

The group leader once told this brick-headed fucker called Hawkins that he needed to concentrate on his cognitive restructuring.

'You fuckin' what?'

'It means that when you're angry, your thinking can become exaggerated. Cognitive restructuring lets you under- stand how silly you're being.'

Silly? Hawkins looked like he wanted to batter the little prick. If he'd thrown a punch, I got the feeling the rest of us would join in.

'It's silly to lamp a cunt, is what you're saying,' said Hawkins.

'See, now — ' The group leader raised one finger. '- you're using humour. That can be healthy, but there are problems with that. Can anyone tell me what they are?'

'Nobody laughs?'

His voice sounded like a sigh. 'There are two cautions in using humour, gentlemen.' The leader got to his feet and went to the white board. 'First, don't try to "laugh off" your problems.'

He wrote 'laughoff' and drew a line through it. 'Rather, use humour to help you to face your problems more constructively.'

'We should be more constructive,' said Hawkins.

'Second, don't give in to harsh, sarcastic humour; that's just another form of unhealthy anger expression.'

He wrote 'sarcastic' and 'unhealthy'. Between the two words, he drew an equals sign.

Anger management. Manage my situation, you speccy fucker.

'All an angry person is saying, really, is: "Hey, things aren't going my way!"'

Fucking tell me about it.

I feel the weight of the bat and then lay it down again. Nah, it should be fine. I'm only going to use it the once. Before I got here, I was at the pub. Dutch courage, maybe Scotch and a pint or twelve of Belgian lager to make it a European dream. I called the casino, pretended I was George's brother, that his dad had had a stroke. When he got on the phone, I hung up. He's working tonight.

I did a slow recce of the casino carpark before I got settled in. George's car is a blue Fiat with a scuffed bonnet and dark spots on the boot. The bloke didn't have the foresight to scrub my blood off his car. Which means I'm not watching for him anymore, just anyone who goes near his motor. It's a good job, too. It's getting dark now, making it almost impossible for me to make out faces. I've already had my hand on the door a couple of times, ready to get out, heart thumping. But so far it's been nothing but false alarms.

I pop some Nurofen, notice I've got two left in the pack, and throw the box back into the glove compartment. Then one of each from the little brown bottles that Doctor Dick prescribed. I chase the pills down with a swig from the half bottle of vodka. Good job I bought that bastard, I think. The beer and whisky buzz is fading fast and I need something to keep me ticking over. Rage is a bitch to maintain.

Mo's coming. He'll be on his way right now. Sick bastard.

Gets his own sister pregnant. Alison, the wee whore. Stokes, the bullshit chip junkie.

And George. Borderline psycho. Workaholic. He'd rather do double shifts behind a bar than live his life. He's the only one with ties here. Stokes and Alison might have left the city, but George wasn't about to go anywhere.

He was stupid enough to think I wouldn't come after him. He's been sloppy and turned up for work, regular as. So my phone call might have spooked him a little, but he'd get over it the minute he gets a decent tip. The more I think about him, the less I care about Alison and Stokes. It isn't about them anymore. It's about that little prick who thrives on being an arsehole. Stokes had a reason to do me over but George got off on it. And that kind of violence, it's a drug. You know you're safe, you can play out your sadistic wee fantasies on whichever poor fucker you've got cornered.

Yeah, I've seen that happen enough times. Been on the receiving end more than I like to admit.

The power trip George was on, that rush of adrenaline, he should channel it elsewhere, because one day he'll throw it at the wrong bloke and it'll end up biting him in the arse.

I'm that wrong bloke. And better I bite him now than he ends up dead later on. At least I've got a conscience. Someone else, someone single-minded, someone greedy, fucked-up, twisted, some junkie, they might not be as nice to him.

What I'm doing here is teaching a bloke a lesson. And some lessons need a personal tutor. I'm doing him a favour.

It's all about anger management.

I notice I've started drumming my fingers on the blade of the bat. I stop, take another swig of vodka. All this waiting's killing me.

Donna loves me. Right. Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. Fuck her. She doesn't know me. Some drunk bitch wants a life mate, she should look somewhere other than bars. I mean, Christ, picking someone up in a pub. How desperate is that? It stinks of Brenda Lang. And look where that got me. On the fucking run. I hope Paulo's alright.

Shake that thought from my head. No point in dwelling on that. Donkey's all talk. He wouldn't do anything to Paulo. He couldn't.

More vodka.

I watch a minicab pull into the carpark. A drunk punter comes staggering out of the casino. He holds onto the roof of the taxi and struggles with the door.

Some people just can't take their beer.

After the punter slides into the back seat, the cab pulls away. I watch it head past the casino and out of the carpark. Then look back at the side of the building. Two girls, two lads. My fingers tighten around the rubber grip of the bat.

It's George. The bar must be closed for the night. Telling a joke, a stupid story, he's doing everything he can to impress these two girls. They're not having any of it, but his mate is laughing his arse off. Overdoing it to make George look better. They stop in the light from reception and George points in the direction of his car.

Don't do it, girls. He's not worth it, really.

And you, George's mate, fuck off. I don't need an audience for this.

The group breaks apart, the girls heading for the main road, the two lads backing off towards George's car. George has his hands up and is shouting something at the girls.

Blown out. My heart bleeds.

George's mate is still with him.

Shit. I don't need this. I don't need witnesses. But needs must. Needs fucking must. As they reach the Fiat, I push open the car door, GM Maxi Senior in one clammy hand. My right leg is numb; I have to shake the blood back as I try to stride across the carpark. I zero in on George. Difficult to do, because there's sweat in my eyes.

He's still talking, the mouthy bastard. Concentrating on getting his key in the car door. I wouldn't be surprised if he's a little drunk. Tonight, we're all tipsy. It helps us do what a man's gotta do.

The lad with George is a mealy little bugger, skinny as a wicker man and twice as fragile. He sees me coming, but he can't get his brain around it. So he stares. He starts gold- fishing. As I get closer, I can hear tiny noises in the back of his throat, wee grunts and clicks. The fucker sounds like Flipper.

'They'll come running back,' says George. 'That Debbie loves me, Trev. I can smell it on her — '