8

With housebreaking behind them, Charlie was looking for new avenues of interest and mugging was an easy deal for his mob of heavy-set lads. Him and Terry and three others started queer-bashing; they hung around the toilets and robbed the cottagers, knowing they wouldn’t ever report the incident to the police.

Then they tried football grounds and racecourses, confident of rolling over plenty of drunken punters with cash on the hip. Word of their activities was starting to spread, and soon Charlie and his mob were offered five hundred pounds to play minder to a rich bookie who’d had a few threats made against him.

This was great – easy money. They were still doing the club doors, Charlie being very careful to have some of his lesser-known lads start a hell of fight so that, when he turned up offering protection, the club owners nearly bit his arm off in their haste to take him up on his offer. Then, of course, Charlie would shove the owners out and take over.

So Charlie and Terry and the boys were doing all right. Dressing like film stars and dining out with lots of cash in their pockets. Beezer got morose sometimes and spoke about little Col, but Charlie reasoned that he had paid for the fucking headstone, what more could he be expected to do?

Life was sweet.

And soon, it was going to get even sweeter.

‘We got the clubs now, and the snooker halls, but what about the real meat?’ said Charlie.

‘Like what?’ asked Terry. Charlie was like a runaway train. His ambitions really did know no bounds.

‘All sorts,’ said Charlie. ‘Factories. Banks. Loan-sharking, even. Coin it on the interest. All right?’

‘All right,’ said Terry.