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toss over the finer points of his predicament. Not only was he unable to recall actually losing the money in the first place, he also knew that they would have witnesses to all that or, worse, that they would not even give him any kind of real timescale in which to pay them. They had already told him that he had one week to bring them their money before they would come looking for him. On their first call he would lose a finger or experience a broken bone or two, after that it would be open season.
    But knowing that didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse because he knew that whoever he had played with had taken a major advantage. The bottom line though was that a gambling debt was still a gambling debt, so it had to be paid - even if that meant that his family went without. You could owe fortunes to a tallyman, even a debt collector, but a bet was a different ball game. It was a matter of honour to see that it was paid in full. The threat of violence aside, he would rather chop his own fingers off than be seen as a welsher. What he needed was a plan, something that would get him enough money to honour the debt and save his reputation.
    Ange, as he called his wife, was going to cut off his balls and serve them up in a casserole when she heard about this, and he knew that he would be honour-bound to let her do just that to keep the peace. As hard as he could be with her, as handy as he was with his fists when the fancy took him and her fucking big trap was open, which, they both knew, was more often than not her downfall, he also knew that this time he had gone too far. His usual blarney and aggressiveness would not be enough to shut her up this time, she was in the right, and a woman with right on her side and three hungry kids was a woman capable of murder. Ange had a temper and, unlike him, she didn’t need alcohol to fuel it.
    He owed a fortune and he had no way of paying it off. For the first time in his life he was genuinely frightened. For the first time in his life he knew he was going to have to run.
     
    Danny Cadogan was nearly fourteen, but he looked much older. He was already touching six foot and his body was filling out nicely; his mother was already despairing of ever keeping him in a pair of shoes that actually fit his enormous feet. Today he was in agony because even his father’s old boots were tighter than a vicar on a pub crawl. He was a big lad and that was a plus most of the time, especially when it came to getting a bit of work. His main bugbear was that he seemed to be growing bigger by the day. This would have been a welcome development if he had been born into a family with a regular wage, especially if that wage had gone into the household instead of over a bar or across a card table. But that was not something he could do anything about; his father was a law unto himself. Danny Junior had always put himself about, earned a few bob in whatever way he could so that when his mother was at panic stations over his father’s absence, as she was now, he could allay her fears a bit by putting some food on the table.
    As Danny shifted the scrap metal for a local merchant, he saw that the man was watching him again. Louie Stein was always on the look out for good earners, and this kid was a grafter if ever he had seen one. He worked without a break, his young arms straining against the weight of the lead as he piled it neatly against the far wall. It was out of sight if Filth came around, and yet it was near enough to the front gates for a quick removal if that was required.
    Louie walked over to Danny Cadogan and smiled, his gold teeth glinting in the weak sunshine, reminding Danny of a shark he had once seen in a picture book.
    ‘Why aren’t you at school?’
    Danny shrugged and carried on working.
    ‘Answer me, boy. If someone asks you a question you should at least attempt an answer, even if it’s just a fabrication. A lie.’
    Louie’s words were clipped and Danny knew