"Fuck me. This fucking place is as fucking miserable as ever."

Max Linley smiled. Same old George. They didn't call him The Fucker for nothing. The two men were sitting in the discreet, low-lit bar of a moderately priced hotel in central London. An ideal hiding place for a man who did not wish to encounter old friends of enemies. George McMinn had arrived at Heathrow a few hours ago, but his arrival had been kept on a need-to-know basis. The others would be arriving at various times throughout the next twenty-four hours. All the partners. The entire consortium, converging on London.

"It's good to see you, George," said Max.

"Good to see you too, pal. Though I've got to tell you, you look like fucking shit, mate."

"Yeah. Well. I think I've got an excuse, don't you?"

"'Course you have," said George, sipping his whisky from the cut glass tumbler. "And I want you to know how sorry I am about what happened. If it was up to me, I'd find the cunts that done it and I'd fucking-"

"I don’t want to talk about it," Max said, cutting him off. "I just want my due. I want what I'm owed."

George exhaled thoughtfully. "David seems to have lost the plot."

"There's the understatement of the century."

"Well, yeah. I mean, I told myself it would take a real shitstorm to bring me back to this fucking godforsaken little country. But I think it's fair to say the shitstorm is upon us, eh?"

"I tried to talk him out of Silvertown."

"I know you did," said George. "But there's no talking David Carter out of anything. He's got an iron will and a fucking porridge brain. It's not done him any harm so far, but it was never going to last forever."

Max took a sip of his whisky. It was genuinely good to see George McMinn again. With David Carter, there was a tendency to get swept up by his charisma and find yourself saying and doing things you did not necessarily agree with. But George McMinn was gloriously, gleefully uncharismatic. He didn't give a fucking shit if you agreed with him or not. That was refreshing. It was like the old days, when Max was a younger man. When there was still so much out there to achieve. So many prizes to be won.

"David's got this kind of cult of personality around him," Max said. "He has his yes-men and yes-women, and they're the only ones he listens to. You can't disagree with him. You can't tell him not to do something."

"You've hit the nail on the head there," said George, jabbing the air with a stubby, nicotine-stained forefinger. "It's done him a lot of favours in the past, but it was always going to be his downfall."

Retirement had been kind to George McMinn. Sure, he had put on a bit of weight from all that glorious food he was getting over there, but his hair was rich and silvery, and his skin bore a deep, even tan. Why would anyone in his position come back to this shitty little island?

"I want to ask you something," said Max, "and I didn't want to do it over the phone or fucking Skype or whatever."

"Go on then. Ask."

"I want your backing."

"For what?"

"For a takeover. The rest of the partners will be getting into London tomorrow. And if I've got your blessing, I know the rest of them will fall into line."

George stroked his chin. "I'm not against the idea in principle. But all this cloak-and-dagger stuff isn't really your style, is it?"

"He's forced me into it. I've tried confronting him face to face, but he's deluded. Like you said, he's lost the plot."

"That's a real shame. A real shame. But even if I give you my 'blessing,' what makes you think that's going to hold any sway with the rest of the partners? I'm just an old cunt now. I haven't had an active interest in the business for a long time."

"People respect you, George. That's what counts. And just look at all the shit that David's done in the last year. First there's the Silvertown debacle. How much of your money did he spunk up the wall?"

"Too much," George answered between sips.

"But you gave him another chance. That's fair enough; these things happen. But then there's this Enrico Brigante thing. And my... my family. That was a tragedy, and it's even worse because it could have been avoided. Now it's all so public. These are the kinds of things that should have been done behind closed doors, in a quiet place like this. Not with fucking mass murders and burned-up shipments and everything else. It can't go on like this. It just can't." Max spoke softly, but with undeniable passion. The deaths of his family had given him a kind of primal, adrenal fury that coursed through him and directed his every action. He may have looked like the same old Max – albeit in a suit these days – but there was nothing ordinary about him now. He was a shadow of the man he had once been, now fuelled only by the lust for revenge.

"I agree," said George. "But that's only part of the question. What I'm really asking is why you and not somebody else? Why not Wayne Carter, for instance? I mean, there's no love lost between him and his dad, is there? Not since he got nobbled by that actor berk. I heard it was the Russians, but of course it was obvious that his dad could have put a stop to it and didn't. He was too busy worrying about the Silvertown development when he should have been looking out for his son. And if Wayne takes over, don't you think he'll be a bit more... pliable… than somebody like you?"

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Max spoke through gritted teeth: "Wayne Carter takes over the club over my dead body."

George laughed. "You want to be careful when you say stuff like that," he observed. "Somebody might take it literally."

"I mean it, George. We need to purge the organisation of the Carter influence. Do you really think if Wayne took over from his dad that David Carter would lose any of the control he has at the moment? It would be a different name on the door, but the set-up would be just the same."

"You want a clean sweep."

"That's just what I want," said Max. "A clean sweep."

"Then it sounds like you and me want the same thing. Come on – let's drink to it." George McMinn raised his glass.

"A clean sweep," said Max, raising his own.

"A clean sweep."

*

David Carter got back to his apartment to find Felicia passed out naked on the sofa. A vodka bottle lay on its side, spilling its guts across the carpet. David ignored this embarrassing spectacle and went into his office. It was getting on for three in the morning, but there was still work to be done.

But no sooner had he sat down at his desk than the doorbell rang. Whoever it was must have been hot on his heels as he made his way up. Surprising that he hadn't spotted them. Almost as if they did not want to be seen.

David got to his feet again, the back of his neck prickling with alarm. He reached into his pocket for a key and unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. It squealed as he eased it open – this drawer was very seldom used. Staring up at him from the bottom of the drawer was a 9mm pistol. David grasped it and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Then he tiptoed back out towards the door, past the slumbering Felicia. He leaned forward and pressed his eye to the peephole in the door.

"Fucking hell," he said aloud.

He threw open the door.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

"And here I thought you'd be pleased to see me," said George McMinn.

The two men sat in luxury leather armchairs, face-to-face for the first time in years. Felicia was still sleeping – still naked – face down on the sofa, but neither man so much as cast an eye in her direction.

"You're looking good," said George. "Better than I thought you'd look. Those fucking webcams only tell half the story, don't they?"

"True enough. But you haven't told me what you're doing here."

"Do you really need to ask? I've come for my money."

David sighed. "That's a bit of a tricky one, George."

"I thought you might say something like that. So I'd better tell you that I'm just the first. The rest of the partners will be coming to London tomorrow. It'll be a reunion. Won't that be fun?"

"The partners? Coming here?"

"Hard of hearing, are you? Never thought you'd turn into one of them deaf cunts in your old age. The fact is, David, things can't go on the way they've been going on. We've given you our money, and you lost it. We're waiting for you to repay the debts you owe. But in the meantime, you're still fucking things up with the club. And all because of this petty pissing contest with the Russians. It's embarrassing. It makes everyone look bad."

David surveyed George McMinn coldly. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying it's time for a clean sweep."

There was a heavy silence. "Clean sweep," David repeated. "That's one of Max's sayings. Have you been talking to Max?"

"Maybe I have. But I'm a fair man. I wanted to talk to you as well. I wanted to hear both sides of the story."

"You know Max is so fucking desperate for my job that he killed his entire family and still hasn't managed to get it?"

"You think he was behind what happened? Interesting. He thinks you’re behind it. Quite a fucking mystery."

"Well..." said David, getting slowly to his feet, "I suppose it becomes a question of who exactly you believe."

"Tell you the truth, I couldn't give a shit. What I care about is my money."

"And you think Max Linley would get your money back? He's got no fucking backbone. He's a nobody and he'll always be a nobody."

"Much as I hate to admit it," George said, "I agree with you. Max Linley will never be man enough to take over Mile End. He hasn't got the balls for it."

David stopped in his tracks. "Then what's the plan?"

"Truth be told, I'm starting to regret ever leaving dear old Blighty. And all these cock-ups make me wonder if it might be best for me to come back. To take over again. To go back to the circus. The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd."

David was ambling slowly toward Felicia, taking in George's suggestion in silence. He knelt beside Felicia to give her a kiss on the top of her head and a pat on the arse. She didn’t stir. When he stood upright, he was holding the discarded vodka bottle.

"I thought you might say something like that," he said softly. Now he was approaching George.

This was the problem with George McMinn. For all his bluster and bravado, he could not help but buy into his own hype. For years he had been untouchable, tucked away in South America. And so he believed he was untouchable. That was a dangerous way to be. After all, David reflected as he swung the bottle, no one is untouchable.

The vodka bottle shattered on impact with George's forehead. The Fucker had a look of almost childlike confusion as blood coursed down into his eyes. Gripping the neck of the shattered bottle, David plunged its jagged edge deep into George's throat. And George just sat there and took it. He had grown fat and lazy in his old age. The look of bewilderment did not leave his face as David plunged the broken bottle into him again and again, until both men were coated in blood.

Eventually, David took a step back to survey his work. George McMinn lay slumped in the armchair with his head cocked back and his throat gashed open. His face was wide-eyed and ugly. His silver hair was now dark brown and matted. His designer clothes were now... decidedly un-designer.

He was just a dead lump of fat old gangster. David gave a bark of cynical laughter and dropped the bottle. The gun was still down the back of his waistband, but like with everything else, he preferred the personal touch. A bullet was no match for the feel of a man's life spilling out of him. It was moments like these that made him feel well and truly alive.

Felicia stirred at last, looking around in hazy confusion. "Careful, sweetheart," said David, "there's broken glass."

He escorted her into the bedroom and put her to bed, all while still dripping with George McMinn's blood. Then he went back into his office and made a phone call.