4
Manchester, 1998
Fucking horrible, this job sometimes.
Not cause of this t**t’s blood all over my coat. ‘Cause it’s bouncing down with pissing cold rain.
Doesn’t matter whether it’s cracking the flags or freezing a brass monkey's bollocks off. If the boss says he wants something doing, he wants it doing. Whatever the f*****g weather.
The best you can hope for is the sack of s**t you’ve been sent to sort out settles his debts. That way you don’t need to spend long in the alley explaining the gravity of the situation to his front teeth.
I drag Antonio across the yard by his sopping wet mop. His dirty-white trainers kick against the slick, brown cobbles.
I throw him against the back wall of the Italian restaurant, the door to the kitchen shut and the staff keeping out of it. They kno
