Chapter Three
Bow, East London
Vinnie and Desmond Clark lay sprawled across the sofa as if someone had thrown them there. The brothers were making quick work of the tins of lager Vinnie had just bought down the off-licence on the high street—the off-licence with that sour-faced Paki at the till, Abdul or whatever the f**k his name was. Vinnie couldn’t stand the geezer and was convinced he had it in for him, always making a big song and dance out of checking and rechecking his twenty-pound note as if he’d printed it off himself and the ink was still wet. Pikey bastard. What was a Paki doing selling booze anyway? Shouldn’t he be peddling dodgy curries that gave you the shits for a week? Vinnie thought Pakis weren’t allowed to deal in booze. Or maybe that only applied to drinking the stuff,
