The crowd screamed and whistled. This is what they had all come to see. Stanley was jumping up and down with excitement, cheering Brutus on. Though blood gushed from a gaping wound in his neck and one of his ears was hanging by a tiny flap of skin, the rest of it having been torn off, Shaft did not understand the concept of surrender.

The dog’s natural instincts had been trained and beaten out of him by his owner. All that remained was pure adrenalin, pure aggression. With each twist that Shaft made in his frantic efforts to dislodge Brutus, the wound in his neck grew deeper. Brutus’s jaws were removing his opponent’s face, exposing teeth, bone and tissue.

The audience hungered for the kill, and the cheers and shouts grew more frenzied. For Shaft it was all over. As the life left his exhausted body, the crowd scrambled to place bets on the next bout, and Stanley and Thompson made their way to the table to collect their winnings.

The next fight involved two ten-month-old pups who tore into each other like they’d been fighting for years. Without any hesitation they pulled and ripped at each other, squealing with pain. After fifteen minutes they were replaced with fresh dogs, which grew older and bigger as the night progressed.

The final fight involved two huge dogs, weighing in at more than fifty pounds each.

They clashed like two bowling balls – an instant shower of teeth shot into the air followed by the noise: the ripping, popping, slashing and grinding. They fought for more than an hour until one dog was so exhausted it could no longer move out of its corner. The loser was taken outside and given a bath.

The evening ended with the best possible result: Stanley’s dog had won while the Farmer’s Boys had been held to a draw.

‘Good night all round,’ said Thompson as the crowd began to drift away.

‘It’s not over yet,’ said Stanley as a group of the Farmer’s Boys headed over in his direction. Like the man who had been guarding the gate, they were all stocky, well-built lads, some of them even towering over Thompson and Stanley.

They shook hands and talked about which fights they had enjoyed most. Spirits were high and jokes and smiles filled the air. Then Brendan, leader of the Farmer’s Boys, nodded in Thompson’s direction.

‘So is this him,’ he said softly. ‘Is this the grass?’

‘That’s him,’ said Stanley.

The smiles quickly faded as all the Irishmen stared intently at Thompson.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ he said to them. Then he looked at Stanley. ‘You’re all off your fucking heads.’

‘Cut the crap,’ said Stanley flatly. ‘You were seen going up to your mates at SOCA. I’ve known for months, Danny, I’ve known what you were doing but I couldn’t do anything about it because I didn’t know exactly what you had planned.

‘Truth be told, I still don’t know exactly what it is that you’re up to. Are you planning to give me up to the cops or to the competition? Are you planning a new life on the Witness Protection Programme or have you met some new bird you want to shack up with? Or is it just that you want to be the top man for a change and you know the only way you’re ever going to get there is over my dead body?

‘I can’t work it out and to be honest I don’t really care. Right now you’ve become too dangerous, too much of a liability, and that means you have to be dealt with. And these boys here have very kindly offered to help me out.’

Thompson said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He had been caught out and now he was going to die. He stood up straight, determined to take it like a man. He fought the urge to close his eyes, keeping them open and fixed on Stanley as one of the Irishmen handed him a heavy automatic revolver.

Two of the Farmer’s Boys manhandled Thompson into the centre of the blood-stained fighting ring and Stanley moved directly in front of him. Thompson looked him right in the eye. If his friend was going to kill him, he wanted to make it as difficult as possible. Stanley stared right back. ‘You got anything to say for yourself, you fucking scumbag?’

Thompson said nothing.

‘You were like a fucking brother to me. I would have done anything for you. We were going places. We could have ruled the world together, but you had to get greedy. You had to get stupid. Fucking stupid. And now you bring it to this. You think this is what I want? But what choice do I have? All the times we spent together, all the things we’ve done together in the past, they don’t mean fuck all now because of you.

‘One more thing: all that shit you’ve been feeding your SOCA friends, it’s all been bollocks. I knew you were talking to them so I’ve been keeping you out of the loop. How does it feel to know you’ve been played for a fool?’

Thompson puffed out his chest, the rush of fear and adrenalin filling him with bravado. ‘You gonna fucking talk me to death, you wanker?’

He saw Jack’s face flash with even greater anger and his hand tense on the trigger.

There was a flash of light and a pop. Not a crack, not a bang, but a pop. Thompson shut his eyes briefly, bracing himself for the impact. But it never came. The sound was one they all knew well. One they all dreaded. The cartridge had been a dud. The gun had misfired.

Thompson could feel his heart beating at a million beats per second. He was still high on adrenalin. If he was going to have a chance, he would have to take it now. He spun round and forced a heavy fist into the man behind him. He began running towards the edge of the fighting circle, body checking men to the left and the right like some deranged American footballer.

The situation had taken everyone by surprise and he made the most of the confusion. He had almost reached the edge of the circle when a dozen hands grabbed at his arms and legs and pulled him back down to the ground. Fists and boots rained down on him, leaving his face a bloody pulp. He felt one of his ribs crack, his jaw come out of joint, the bone in his nose twist out of place. He felt warm trickles of blood all over the back of his head.

Then he heard Jack Stanley’s voice calmly calling for everyone to stop, for Thompson to be lifted back up to a standing position.

Blood leaked into his right eye and Thompson had to blink repeatedly to make sense of what he saw ahead of him. Jack Stanley was advancing slowly. The gun was gone and in its place was a large, shiny steak knife.

‘Hold him,’ said Stanley.

Two burly men grabbed Thompson’s arms and held him upright while another held his legs from behind. He was completely immobilized.

Stanley came closer, his face sneering as he pushed into Thompson’s personal space, so close he could smell the blood and the sweat on his face.

‘You brought this on yourself,’ he sneered.

Thompson sucked in some air and suddenly spat a wad of blood-streaked saliva into Stanley’s face. Stanley reeled back in disgust and Thompson smiled at his handiwork, pleased with what he had done. ‘You’re a dead man, Stanley. They know where you live, they know where you go. They know everything about you. You’re a fucking dead man.’

Stanley wiped the spit off his face, leaving a long glistening blood-stained streak across the corner of his forehead. ‘Who, the Albanians? You’ve set the fucking Albanians on me?’

Thompson only grinned in reply. ‘You’re bluffing, you’re fucking bluffing. You haven’t got the balls for it.’

Stanley stepped forward again and, as Thompson struggled against the men who were holding him, he placed the tip of the knife against Thompson’s chest, working it so that just the tip began to pierce the surface of his skin.

Thompson grunted with pain. Stanley carefully positioned the knife so that it fitted into the space between two of his ribs and directly in front of his heart. Then he placed the palm of one hand on the hilt of the knife and looked up into Thompson’s eyes.