Madness drove Davy towards his goal. With simplicity, he saw the whole picture. The Red Mafia leader controlled an army of thugs who managed protection rackets along with drugs and prostitution. Aware this was a suicide mission, he prepared for war.

His hate grew into an obsession, and Tracey's information helped. Each waking hour he watched and noted their every move. His matted black hair and straggly beard; dirty, smelly clothes enabled him to become another homeless person. People crossed the road as he staggered from street to street, clutching a wine bottle. Cold, wet nights spent in the local shop doorways paved the way. Weeks passed as he began to understand when and where the Red Mafia operated, who they spoke to and who paid protection. He knew them better than anyone did. For fun, he gave the collectors nicknames: Baldy, Lofty, Paleface, the Weed, and Freaky. Often, they had seen Davy lurching along the street. His ruse worked better than he could ever have imagined. He memorised who, what, where and when. Their operating routines and their strict timing made them vulnerable. The boss and the workers were easy to name. Porky the Pig appeared to control the protection racket in London. Smoothy was the accountant and seemed to have authority. The collectors followed orders, "thinking" was above their pay grade.

***

Police Commander Ronald Harman-Smith, head of an elite squad, spoke to his sergeants. "At great expense to the taxpayer, I've arranged a short-term lease on two flats on the opposite side of the street from where the Red Mafia operates. It's satisfactory, and your role is surveillance. I know it's unexciting, but I need to know what goes on in both those houses. Remember, we are a secret organisation, and I want to keep it that way. No fuck ups."

***

The gasman visiting Davy's flat to service the boiler gave him an idea. Time, when you have plenty, is a beautiful tool. Somehow, he had to check out both Red Mafia houses. For most of the week, they were empty, but someone might see him. The answer was simple: who notices the gasman?

He chatted over his idea with Tracey. That evening, she arrived home with a pair of British Gas overalls complete with an identity card.

"Where did those come from?" he asked.

"A friend borrowed them," she winked. "From her favourite gas man."

The next day, he tied his hair in a ponytail, trimmed his beard, and acted like a gas engineer, checking out both houses. No one bothered him or asked what he was doing as he wandered around holding a clipboard in his hand, apparently looking for something.

Hate warped his thinking as he planned the Red Mafia's destruction. Over time, he purchased everything he needed from shops across London. Then the day arrived, he was ready. Aware that something could go wrong, he handed Tracey a list. "Go to the boat and wait. Tomorrow, we'll be leaving the country."

In tears, she asked, "What happens to me if you get killed? They didn't give a flying fuck when they torched the club. If they catch you, the bottom of the Thames is where you will die."

He shouted at her with such venom in his voice she recoiled in fear. "I don't give a fucking toss. They killed a part of me, and I need this. Do you have a problem with that?" He lowered his voice. "Sorry, Tracey, I didn't mean to shout. I'm mad, and I need to stay that way. The documentation for the boat is in the safe. Everything I have is yours if this goes pear-shaped."

For the next thirty minutes, he dressed in his foul-smelling vagrant's outfit and looked the part with the aid of stage make-up.

She looked him squarely in the eyes. You're determined to go through with this, aren't you?" 

He hesitated, nodded, kissed her on the forehead and left.

Davy glanced up at the window and they exchanged glances as she mouthed "Take care. I love you."

Davy drove to a street near the house the Red Mafia used. He removed two holdalls from the boot and walked the remaining distance. On arriving at the house, he darted to the rear; a small crowbar opened a window and entered. A quick scout upstairs confirmed no one at home. With the lighting breaker tripped, he sat on the stairs and waited.

***

Across the road, opposite the Red Mafia house, two of Harman Smiths men sat in a first floor flat, listening with a directional microphone and watching.

Eric Gittins focussed his high-powered night vision binoculars on the windows. Tonight, he studied another player in the game. 'The boss isn't going to like this,' he muttered.

***

Davy focussed his mind. Smoothy, the accountant, was always the first to arrive.

He listened, his pulse racing, as a key turned in the lock. Smoothy came in, flicked the light switch. "Why is it nothing fucking works."

Concealed in the shadow, Davy swung the baseball bat. Its impact knocked Smoothy backwards and out of the door. Davy dragged the unconscious man into the front room, secured him with cable ties to a chair, and taped his mouth shut. For two hours, eight collectors suffered the same fate.

He drew the curtains, replaced the lighting fuse and turned on the downstairs lights.

The next to arrive should be the boss, Porky and his minder.

An XJ6 Jaguar swerved into the kerb and stopped. Porky's minder, a tough-looking giant of a man in a smart black suit, jumped out and moved to the rear door, opening it wide. Middle-aged Porky turned his obese frame and placed his feet on the pavement. His fat face glistened with sweat. Long grey hair formed a ponytail over his coat. "I need a holiday."

"You have a house in the Bahamas, boss?"

"Arrange the flights in the morning." Followed by his minder, he swayed along the garden path.

In the shadows, Davy waited until Porky opened the front door. His minder saw him. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Tonight, I'm the grim reaper, and you're dead meat."

The man laughed. "You and whose army."

There was a trace of evil when Davy smiled. He stood, feet apart as the dam restraining his rage burst. His first strike missed. In an instant, he altered his grip.

The minder laughed.

Porky ran inside the house shouting help.

Davy swung the bat. It connected, knocking the minder off his feet. The minder groaned. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he attempted to raise himself from the ground. Again, wood struck bone, broken teeth, and a shower of blood spewed from a shattered mouth. The next strike dropped him to the ground.

***

Across the road, a camera clicked, photographing everything. The men remained at their posts. One wrong move could ruin months of work, and the Red Mafia would vanish.

***

Davy dragged the dead weight of the minder into the hallway and closed the door. With industrial cable ties, he secured his arms and legs. A thorough examination of his clothes found a Browning 9mm pistol.

In the front room, Porky, surrounded by his disabled associates, trembled with fear. Davy pointed the pistol and, with one hand, checked for weapons.

Pork's face possessed the look of someone who knew his attacker would be happy to rip him apart, one piece at a time. "Can I sit?"

"No, you fucking can't."

"Who the hell are you? You've proved what you can do. Stop playing games. Name your price. Anything you want is yours."

Davy cackled as he raised the bat. "You piss me off." Horror filled Porky's eyes. Filled with malice, the bat struck his spine. Screaming, he collapsed to the floor.

"Now you know I am serious, "said Davy. "By the way, your money is going to a worthy cause:"

"Take it. Take every penny."

"I have it. I bet you can't guess why I've gone to so much trouble?" He pointed the gun at the unconscious men. "Let's start with a simple question; do I look stupid?"

Porky face changed to a deep shade of grey. "No, no, of course, you're not. Look, there is no need for this violence. I'll comply with whatever you want. I must sit." He attempted to rise but fell to his knees. A full minute elapsed before he managed to drag himself into the one empty chair.

Davy flicked the safety catch off and rammed the pistol into Porky's mouth. Anger blinded reason. He wanted to make this man suffer.

Porky's nerve broke, and urine-soaked his trousers.

As he withdrew the barrel, Davy shouted, "Beg, you bastard. Beg." With violence, he strapped Porky to the chair.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Retribution."

"What have I done to you?"

"You murdered my friends."

"That's a lie. I've never hurt anyone in my life."

"You pay others to do your dirty work."

"Who the hell am I supposed to have killed?"

"Do you recall the Star Health and Fitness Club your people blitzed?"

He groaned. "Oh, that. I told them to rough that woman up and recover my money. I didn't order the fire."

"It's time I said goodbye." He gathered all the money together and filled his two bags.

"Wherever you go, my men will find you."

"What men? They're here, and you'll be in hell. Don't you understand your life is over?"

"What do you want?" Porky pleaded. "Name it. Money? A yacht? A nice car?"

With his right hand, he grabbed Porky's ponytail, drawing his head back to an obscene angle. For a moment, he let Porky stare into wild and hate-filled eyes. "You don't have a choice. No one is coming for you. You're mine."

Tired of his ramblings, he taped Porky's mouth. The nervousness and loathing began to subside as he busied himself with the grand finale. With purpose, he sealed every window. Next, he removed a length of hose from one of his holdalls, an old open electric heater, a timer, and a two-gallon petrol can. The cooker he opened every burner to full. The petrol he poured over Porky. Once his clothes became saturated, the excess drained onto and over the floor. The minder he dragged into the room; tested his bonds and left him. Davy checked the time; over four hours had elapsed since he left Tracey. He wedged an old newspaper tight against the heater's elements and set a timer to operate in ten minutes. With a heavy bag in each hand, he checked everything one last time. Porky struggled against his bonds, but the plastic ties cut deep into his wrists. Blood flowed and mingled with the petrol. His fear-filled eyes stared at the time as the seconds ticked.

***

The surveillance team across the road noted the time Davy left and the direction in which he walked.

Eric Gittins turned to his partner. "Fancy fish and chips?"

The ever-hungry Erwin Morgan nodded. "Yeh, get me my usual and don't forget, plenty of salt and vinegar."

Eric grabbed his jacket, descended the stairs and by chance followed the vagrant. He stopped and moved into the shadow of a doorway, watching as he stood by a new Mercedes. Was he stealing it? Eric asked himself as the tramp opened the driver's door. A tramp with a Merc? Eric smiled. He must be from another firm working deep cover, and I bet the boss hasn't a clue they are here. Professional in every way, Eric noted the car's registration. After he had eaten his fish and chips, he would enjoy telephoning Harman-Smith.

***

The windows of Davy's car vibrated as the house exploded. In a trance, he started the engine and drove to the end of the street. Where the house once stood, a fiery crater existed. "Emma, I won. Wherever you are, rest in peace. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. His life appeared to be an equal mixture of good, bad and disastrous. Pressing his foot on the accelerator, he drove away.

***

After picking himself up from the floor, Erwin Morgan telephoned the duty officer at the Centre. Giles Freeman contacted Harman-Smith at his home, and the clean-up system moved into operation. Harman-Smith checked his watch; ten past twelve. He swore, slammed the phone into its cradle, and dressed. His wife, used to such disturbances, rolled over in silence.

***

The BBC interrupted programmes to report an explosion in London, destroying one house and damaging several others. The newscaster confirmed that residents in the vicinity had been evacuated to a local community centre by police officers until British Gas have investigated. A spokesperson for the gas company stated that due to the prolonged drought conditions, the south of England has been experiencing ground movement and, in difficult situations, subsidence. After preliminary investigations, the Senior fire officer in attendance stated the house was occupied at the time of the explosion but was unaware of the number of casualties.

***

The roads were empty as Davy drove in the rain. At three in the morning, he drew alongside the pontoon where his yacht nestled at her berth. On exiting the vehicle, he cast a final glance at his Mercedes. Once across the gangway, he opened and entered the main cabin.

In the dim light, he saw Tracey was asleep on the settee. She seemed so peaceful, her amusing sleep-smile and the way her red hair spread out across the pillow. The coolness of the night air caused her to stir.

When the main hatch clicked shut, she opened her eyes and flung herself at him. In between sobs, she managed to ask, "Are you okay?"

Rain falling on the cabin roof lulled two people to sleep.

Entwined, they woke to the screeching of gulls. It troubled him that he slept well. Tracey held him close. The rain had stopped, and the sun was high, its light reflected off the clear waters. He stretched, yawned, and went for a shower. The red-hot needles of water refreshed his body. After dressing, he made his way to the cockpit and checked they were ready to sail.

The day was perfect. A fair breeze from the east whipped the tops off the waves.

Tracey emerged, dressed in jeans and a sloppy blue jumper.

"Rather nautical," he remarked

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He turned towards her. "Spain."

"Why Spain?"

"To start a new life."