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quits.’
    â€˜Fuck off.’
    â€˜Wrong answer.’
    Turner slid what could have been a friendly arm around Goldman’s shoulders and gave him a hug. He beamed at Newman. ‘Photo opportunity.’
    Newman caught the tender moment on the digital camera.
    Turner punched Goldie hard on the side of his head, twice, so hard he hurt his knuckles.
    Goldman’s brain felt like it had been dislodged. He dragged himself slowly up from the floor, clinging to the furniture.
    â€˜You know who I am, don’t you?’ Turner said.
    Goldman gasped a yes.
    â€˜Then you know I have a reputation to maintain, don’t you?’ It was not a question, it was an explanation. ‘So you have a choice about this, don’t you?’ Once again, it was not a question. This time it was a statement of facts. ‘Accept you made a mistake, hold your hands up, say sorry, pay up – and live! Then I might even think about letting you deal for me.’
    â€˜Fuck off.’ Goldman spat out a mouthful of blood at Turner which splattered obscenely across his T-shirt.
    Turner looked down at the mess and said, ‘Oh,’ with disappointment.
    They took five steady minutes over the beating which followed, taking Goldy to within a whisper of his life.
    â€˜That’s enough,’ Turner said, holding Newman back. Both men stepped away. Goldman was curled up in a foetal ball in a corner of the room, his face mashed to an unrecognizable pulp, his jaw twisted and broken; his hands had been hammered by Turner’s baseball bat, the bones smashed and broken. Both assailants had jumped on his chest, stomping down on his ribs, breaking many of them and almost killing him in the process.
    Turner knew when to back off. He had beaten many people senseless in his time and prided himself on his judgement. He did not want Goldman dead because he actually might be of some use once he had recovered. It looked like he had a pretty good set-up here and Turner thought he might be able to take advantage of it.
    â€˜Let’s find the dosh now,’ Turner said. He was breathing heavily with exertion, sweating profusely, as was Newman.
    They turned Goldman’s drum upside down. Carpets were ripped up, cupboards emptied, as they searched hard for the money which they knew must be somewhere in the flat. They went to all the well-known hiding places and the ones which were not so well known. Eventually they found it by taking off the plastic cover protecting the electrical shower in the bathroom. The money was in a waterproof plastic wallet. Four thousand pounds, all in twenties.
    Turner counted it and peeled off two hundred for Newman. ‘On account,’ he said.
    In the living room, Goldman had somehow managed to get himself into a sitting position, jammed into the corner of the room to prevent himself from falling over. He could only open one eye – and that one only just. The other, his right, had already swollen to the size of a cricket ball and was much the same colour. His wheezed as he breathed, his chest sounding like metal scraping over sandstone. As he inhaled and exhaled, he moaned painfully.
    â€˜Found it,’ Turner said gleefully, wafting the money in front of Goldman’s face. Just for spite, he placed his foot on Goldman’s shoulder and pushed him back down on to the floor. Goldman could not stop himself from sliding, his useless broken hands unable to hold him. Turner stood on Goldman’s outstretched left palm and pirouetted on the heel of his trainer, making Goldman scream in agony. He left the drug dealer still shrieking as he and Newman left, slamming the reinforced outer door behind him, ensuring the screams became muffled and inconsequential.
    At 9 p.m., Newman dropped Turner off at the Star of India restaurant in Rusholme. Turner had changed, having disposed of his blood-splattered gear from the assault on Goldman. The clothing had been left with Newman to dispose of by