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there was a change in his Irish accent. Over the years it’d become watered down from the years he’d lived in Soho. The anger, however, turned it back into a thick guttural growl, making all his words sound more violent and attacking than usual.
    Catching his father’s eye in the driver’s mirror, Tommy continued to listen to the barrage of abuse, hoping desperately to get to their destination as quickly as possible.
    ‘Is it only me who’s able to tell the bleeding difference between four and half past four? When did you start to think it’s alright to be late? I didn’t bring up me kids to make a mug of me. Virgin Mary help me, because I’ll beat the shit so hard out of you son, you’ll be needing a colostomy bag. Between you and Frankie Taylor you’ll have me digging me own grave. What is it with people that think they can get away with disrespect? Well tell me lad, do I have cunt
branded into me arse?’
    Tommy glanced out of the window, biting his lip; he didn’t know if the question was supposed to be rhetorical or not. If he didn’t answer when he should’ve done, he knew when the car stopped he’d get a hard slap. If he answered when he shouldn’t; the same rules applied.
    Before Tommy had decided what to do, Max swerved the car with blackout windows into the carwash off the t raffic-fi lled Camden Road. The brake was put on too quickly, sending Tommy and one of his father’s heavies face first into the back of the leather front seats.
    ‘Well, well, well. Look what we have over there lads. They’re right when they say talk of the devil and he’ll appear. I’ll tell you something, the rats are coming out today in their droves.’
    Max Donaldson spoke, staring with hatred at a white Range Rover on the other side of the empty forecourt. As Tommy followed his father’s gaze, Max opened the door and got out, giving Tommy a clearer view of the recipient of his father’s anger. There, standing larger than life, enjoying a joke together in the late afternoon’s sunshine were Frankie and Johnny Taylor.
    Watching his father stride over towards them with his face curled up in a vicious snarl, Tommy sighed, preparing himself for trouble.
    ‘You’ve got a nerve, Taylor, showing your face round here.’ Frankie looked up, slightly taken aback but not unduly concerned to see Max Donaldson marching towards him, red-faced. He waited for Max to come closer then spoke, his tone laced with amusement.
    ‘Round here? Now all of a sudden this is
your
turf is it? My, my, how the Donaldsons have an inflated sense of self. You should lay off the coke Max, or is it just your son who sticks the whole of London up his nose? Glad to see you’ve changed your shirt since last night.’
    Max lunged forward but was held back by Tommy. Apoplectic with rage, he turned his anger on his son.
    ‘Get off me boy. I don’t need a fecking babysitter. Grab me again and I’ll not think twice about slicing you.’
    Max shook off Tommy’s arm, pushing him out of the way, and stepped a foot closer to Frankie. Squaring up and breathing hard as Frankie stood his ground, thinking about the way Max behaved towards his own son. The man was twisted with anger towards everyone.
    Frankie didn’t have a problem with fighting usually. However the last thing he needed now was Max Donaldson with a bruised ego, squaring up to him because of a thrown drink and a wet shirt. He was already late to get round all the clubs so he wasn’t in the mood for any of Max’s crap.
    ‘Listen Max; pick a time and a place. You know I’m happy to have it out with you, but not here, not now.’
    ‘Why not Frankie? Scared you’ll not be able to put up when you haven’t got your men around you?’
    Frankie shook his head. It was clear Max wasn’t about to back down and wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t get at least one swing in. He’d known him for years. Too long to remember. He’d always been a sadistic little bastard. It was common knowledge he’d