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Gilbert got kicked out of care and moved in with some bloke called Tracey. When Gilbert didn’t pay the rent, Tracey threatened – seriously – to saw off Gilbert’s head with one of his chainsaws, so he went and worked on some fishing boat.
    When he came back he blew all his savings on a bet down the pub. Then Tank put him in touch with some Bosnian bloke whose sister wanted British nationality and Gilbert married her. He got paid five hundred for the wedding and was due another five hundred for the divorce. But before the divorce could come through, Gilbert got busted by the Home Office. About five minutes after the man in the suit had knocked on the door, a journalist from the
Sun
turned up. No one knew how they’d all found out about Gilbert.
    No one except Bryn.
    Gilbert was inside for two years after some other stuff was taken into consideration, but Bryn didn’t feel bad.
    Bryn’s always been pretty shit at everything, but he’s good with a camera. When he was twenty, he did a BTEC National Diploma in photography at the South-East Essex College. After that he went to London to try to get a job in the music press, but he didn’t have any contacts and no one wanted to know him. He came back to Southend and now he deals drugs, trying to get the odd bit of freelance photography work on the side. Every so often he supplies his contact at the
Sun
with stories, like the one about Tank’s housing benefit scam, but it never goes any further. They usually pay him for the tip-off and send one of their own photographers, without even looking at Bryn’s shots. The job he’s doing now is for a man he met down the pub. Bryn doesn’t know why he wants pictures of Fiona.
    He sits and waits. Nothing.
    At about four he packs it in and goes round to Tank’s.
    ‘Bryn, my man,’ says Tank, holding out his fist as a welcome, pretending to be black. His fingers still have the letters ‘l o v e’ and ‘h a t e’ tattooed on them from when he was whatever he was before he decided he was black. Tank is about forty, has three kids he never sees (Ketamine, Jasmine and Marley), and long dreadlocks, which are naturally blond. He’s wearing beige combats, a black short-sleeved shirt with a Japanese pattern on it, and Adidas sandals. Bryn isn’t sure about the sandals.
    They walk into Tank’s sitting room, where an audience of seven people watches as Bryn explains to Tank why he hasn’t got the money today and negotiates another half-ounce bag of weed for the time being. Afterwards, Tank takes out his special bag and gives Bryn a spliff’s worth of some draw that’s supposed to taste a bit like chocolate. It’s solid, though, which Bryn doesn’t smoke that often, and can’t sell down the Reggae Club either. He thanks Tank and checks his weed. It looks unfamiliar. Tank explains that it’s Purple Sensi from Amsterdam, where they grow it under ultra-violet. He shows everyone the big purple buds, then goes on about female flowers and all that shit. Bryn’s heard it before. Everyone’s heard it before.
    There’s some porn film playing on the TV. Next to the TV is a stack of VCRs, all recording the porn film. If you ask Tank he’ll tell you how he’s not into porn and disrespecting women, which is a load of shit. But still, the pirating gear isn’t his. It belongs to Wilf, the bloke from upstairs. The others start talking about the latest drug-bust on the house. Some of them were here on the day it took place so they’re comparing stories, like war veterans. Tank goes back into the kitchen.
    On the TV screen a Japanese girl is taking her clothes off for a much older man. She looks about thirteen. All the girls in the room are deliberately not watching. ‘Mad’ Mike is looking, and Bryn, but that’s all. Bryn’s not embarrassed. This counts as work, for two reasons. Firstly, because it’s only a matter of time before he lets the
Sun
know about Wilf, and also, because Bryn is interested in pictures. It’s his job. And