Chapter 3

It had been seven months since the fuck up and everything had quietened down. John and Marc had been sent down for four years. With nothing actually stolen they were done for attempted robbery, still, four years is a bit harsh for attempted. Dan knew they would be ok but was sure John would have a lot on his plate keeping the dirty depraved bastards off Marc. His model looks will no doubt make him a target for becoming someone's bitch. John had done a little stretch before so he knew how to handle it but Marc had never been collared so he would probably be sticking to John like a fly to shit.

They will do their time and keep their mouths shut, so for the rest of the crew on the outside it was time to start the ball rolling.

Peddling as fast as he could on his trusty undersized pushbike, Dan darted through the winding tree lined country lanes splashing through puddles like a naughty child who had never seen rain before. Through a set of twisted and tangled width restrictions, hit countless times by the joy riders in their stolen motors, he continued through the middle of a near forgotten council estate. Boarded up houses and flats were the norm for an estate like this. The sounds of young drug pushing parents shouting at each other echoed down the dirty pot-holed streets. Even the old bill did not bother coming here often. As soon as they left their car and started a walking patrol the yobs would strike and start nicking everything off the car. From the wheels to the lights on the roof, nothing was safe. They could not afford to lose anymore cop cars so they just left the estate alone, which made the club an ideal place to meet up again.

Hardly used now, the Curzon was a shabby old club. The main hall with its wooden stage and torn velvet curtains was closed off which left only one little bar remained open. With a few dodgy tables and chairs with folded beer mats under the legs, a futile attempt to keep them level, it stank like a public toilet. Dan had not been here for over a year but nothing had changed. The young mums with their alco pops were wailing on a little karaoke machine in the corner looking for someone, anyone, to buy them their next drink. The old boys, with their pint of bitter playing dominoes were in the usual spot near the window, concentrating as if it was the most serious challenge of their lives. There would have been more exciting atmosphere at a wake.

Heading straight for the fruit machines he knew if Ray had come out of hiding then that's where he would be. Gambling was in Ray's nature. Some people get into the habit of gambling after winning a few quid then losing a few. They end up chasing the money they lost and think that the big jackpot is in the next pound. Ray on the other hand seemed to be born with the habit. Even at school, he would be the one starting the odds book on which kid would win the fight, or betting with the other kids that he could make a teacher cry within ten minutes of the lesson starting. It didn't matter what was at stake, whether it be money, sweets or a dinner ticket, Ray was in. It wouldn't surprise Dan if he hadn't bet his brother which tit had more milk in it, left or right, when they were babes in arms breast-feeding.

He had certainly racked up a few quid in debts over the years with some arseholes you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley.

I swear he only does these jobs so he can come here and spend two hundred quid to win a tenner Dan chuckles under his breath as he spots the baldhead glued to the machines.

"Oi Ray, surprised you still have money to feed them, they take more cash than speed cameras"

The Elvis machine, full of beer stains, half-eaten spat out crisps and other things that were indescribable suddenly erupted into life. The lights began flashing all over the place as it started singing Hound Dog.