Free The Life by Martina Cole Page B

happy for Daniel to run this side of the business. Personally, he didn’t like it, but he was sensible enough to know it was a necessary evil. Peter prided himself on providing the best that could be procured, from the DJs to the live music. And so, despite his dislike of them, he alsoinsisted on the best quality of narcotic. Peter believed that if you offered the best, you would have the edge over the rest.
    As he walked into The House, he saw the bouncers on the door searching two young men, and he nodded at them, pleased. No one dealt in here, unless they had the permission of the head doorman. It was not just so that they were the only game in town – it was to make sure that no one was sold anything that could kill. So much of the speed that was sold around and about was cut with everything from Ajax, a kitchen cleaner, to strychnine, a bona fide poison. Peter accepted they had to
sell
the stuff – along with the LSD, the marijuana: the home grown, sinsemilla, Afghan Black. That was without the Valium, the Mogadon, the uppers and the downers that went hand-in-hand with the stimulants that were in such high demand.
    Oh, they were like a fucking pharmacy, but Peter had made peace with that. As Daniel said, if they didn’t provide the drugs, somebody else would. The money to be made was too quick and too easy to overlook, and he knew the truth of that statement.
    As he walked through the downstairs bar, Peter wondered at the money that would change hands in here this night. He pushed his way through the crush of bodies, looking around him, as always, still watching for the errant knife, the lone gunman. He knew that to survive you could never get complacent. Especially with Daniel pissing more people off by the day. Well, Daniel was a fucking idiot as far as he was concerned. He admired his brother’s confidence, in a way. But Peter was a man who believed that the worst
could
happen, and frequently did. Therefore he was always on the lookout for the nearest escape route, the hidden assassin or the fucking drunk trying to prove themselves.
    The last of these was the worst worry of all; nothing was worse than an old has-been just released from stir, who stillpledged allegiance to the old Faces, trying to settle a score that was not only pointless, but was also completely without provocation. That was the trouble with a long sentence, if the person wasn’t careful they got caught in a time warp. They stormed out of the nick, all pumped up with adrenalin and hatred, determined to right old wrongs, twenty years too fucking late. The world had changed too much for them, they had no idea how to fit in any more; they were fucking dinosaurs who still thought you could buy a pint, go to the pictures, have a meal and still get change from a fucking groat. He was sorry for them, understood their dilemma, but he also knew how dangerous they were, not only to themselves, but to the people around them. Because of that, Peter had made a point of contacting all the old Faces who had found themselves proud possessors of long sentences. He made sure they had a few quid, and that they were well looked after. He felt they deserved respect. These men were often forgotten, and that was wrong.
    Peter Bailey was a man who always looked at every angle, even when he was at home in his bed, cuddling his wife. He still made sure that no one could penetrate his home. He was overly careful, but believed he had to be. The bigger you got, the more you had to lose.
    As he slipped into the office he sighed with relief. ‘What a fucking racket! Call that music?’
    Daniel laughed. ‘Well,
I
don’t, but the youth of today, who spend a good wedge in here, think it’s the dog’s bollocks. This place is a fucking money machine, I tell you.’
    Peter nodded. He was pleased. This was actually Delroy’s brainchild. The boy had come up trumps. He had said this was a good investment, made a convincing argument and he had been right. He had also made sure