But it was also because he had been abandoned by his mother, had had no formal schooling, dodged the draft with a cheery smile and his natural ambivalence, that made him a law unto himself very early on in life.

He had no intention of fighting for a country that he saw as holding men down and offering them nothing except back-breaking work. He had said as much to his commanding officer. He had also robbed the army stores blind; the black market was still thriving at the time, and he had used that for his own ends.

They'd thrown him in the glasshouse for a year, and in that time he had learned a lot about life, the human condition, but most importantly, he had learned that you had no one to depend on in this life, except yourself.

He had inherited his father's fighting spirit and his absent mother's disregard for others, along with her knack of rewriting history when it suited her, and this had proved to be a winning combination on more than one occasion.

The army had finally waved him off with a sigh of relief and a dishonourable discharge because he fought anyone who disagreed with him about anything. And invariably, he won. He had been as relieved as they were, when they finally parted company.

Now, the last stage of this education was for him to make the final killing and set himself up for life. Barry had tried to have him over, something he would never forgive or forget. Patrick was a force to be reckoned with, and this was made all the more amazing by the fact that he was basically a loner. He worked his scams himself, collected by himself alone, and had garnered a reputation as a man only a fool would cross.

But the main men were old now and, consequently, his job was getting harder and harder. They were like old women, dithering ponces, worried about getting nicked because the judges were suddenly handing out great big lumps and making examples of people. This was now a world waiting to be taken, he was aware of that, and he reassessed his position as and when the occasion merited it.

His father had tolerated hangers-on, had bought himself flaky friendships with pints, with his stories and with his Irish charm. His son, however, trusted no one, needed no one, and his instincts had been proved right time and time again. He had no time for family, none of them had ever been anything except hangers-on, and he had put paid to their leeching. He was a one-man band, he could only trust himself and he accepted that and understood it.

He had a few young men working for him, but he had suddenly realised that after this debacle, he would need to recruit properly. The operation was getting too big for him to work alone. He was lucky that Barry had no serious backup; if he had, then this would end differently.

It was time to share his good fortune, he knew that, but at the moment he was collecting a debt that was long overdue. A debt that Barry had tried to ignore, believing that he would not have the front to come after him.

Brodie's name was synonymous with skulduggery, and he knew that only the rumours surrounding his dishonourable discharge and his phenomenal temper, coupled with the element of surprise, had stood between him and a firearm this night.

But there were others Barry dealt with, and they had their creds. Barry would be all over him like a rash once the shock wore off and he realised that he and his associates were more than capable of taking on a lone man with a large amount of dosh.

He smiled and it occurred to him that whoever he decided to pal up with needed to be a new Face, an up-and-coming lad like himself with the heart and the nerve to take on the more established of their counterparts. The world was changing, and the younger men were needing money and the older men were needing a lesson in the real world. The country was still rebuilding, not only buildings, but the economy, and the pickings were juicy enough to make Brodie not just a man of means, but also a man to be listened to, and more importantly, a man to respect.

Everything had changed with the war, and Patrick had seen that it was a new era coming, and that the new world they would finally inhabit was open to all sorts of money-making schemes. This meant a new criminal fraternity, and Brodie was determined that he would be a big part of that change. It was what he had worked towards, it was what made him the man he was, and it was why Barry was now awaiting his downfall.

It was the sixties, and life was sweet for anyone with a bit of nous and a few quid to sweeten their journey through life.

Patrick was one of the first to challenge the likes of Barry Caldwell and his ilk. It was in with the young and out with the old.

They had all known this day was coming, they had just not had the foresight to make any kind of provision for when it all finally fell out of bed.

Well, fuck them. His rep would gather enough talk tonight to make him a household name in East London. The debt was large and had also been a long time coming, but when he actually went after Barry and his peers and took all their work off them they would understand that he was now not just their equal, but one of their betters. His rep would finally be strong enough for him to become the lynchpin of a new and exciting world that he would not only create, but also control.

The war had separated the men from the boys, and the old men who had ruled because the country's youth had been scattered to the ends of the earth, were now going to find out that it really was about the survival of the fittest.

Their days of being the dog's bollocks were over, finished with, gone. This lot might have been the instigators of this brave new world way back, but they had no control over it any more. They were like fucking antiques, decrepit, and frightened of the new generation who had access to guns and no real fear of the filth. It was time to make his move all right, and he was ready to take the consequences of his actions.

His mind made up, he picked up his beer and, emptying the straight-lined Courage glass of its contents, he proceeded to smash it with all the force he could muster, into Barry Caldwell's chubby, pasty and comically surprised face.

Patrick had the psychological advantage, he had drawn first blood. He was quick to note that none of the men around him tried to intervene, and he knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that his instincts, as usual, had been spot on.

They all looked defeated, they all looked shocked and they were all frightened that the next person on his agenda was going to be one of them. They were old, old before their time from piss-ups, chain-smoking and easy pickings. None of them had been seriously challenged since their call-up papers, they were rejects, they were from the past, from a life that was grey and empty, and their antiquated moral code stifled younger men like himself. They were carrion, old, wizened wankers. They were finished and they all knew it.

Well, he was still young enough to make his mark, yet old enough to command respect. Pat Brodie was on his way up, and at twenty-nine, he was ready to put his money where his notoriously close mouth was.

The courts were handing out long sentences, and instead of that being a deterrent, it only made him and his counterparts more reckless, more violent, because if they were going to go down then they would make sure it was for a fucking good reason.

He looked down at Barry. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

Lily Diamond was tired out. Her shift had been long and her legs were swelling from fourteen hours of standing in a freezing factory on a cold floor, and then waiting over an hour for the bus that dropped her off a ten-minute walk from her home.

As she went into her house, she was already yawning and her mother took her coat from her, hung it on the back of the door and poured her a cup of steaming black tea. Then, with her usual swiftness, she placed a plate of ham and eggs in front of her.