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  He cleaned the needle on dirty sheets before sinking it into his arm. It was instant relief. His sickness lifted and he sank into the mattress. His shakes went to sleep and euphoria washed over him. Closing his eyes in bliss, Scott listened to the wails of his fellow addicts crying out in torment.

  But Clive had taken the lion's share. There wasn't enough left. Scott needed more.

  Pulling the dealer closer, he searched for another wrap. He took the lighter and found a ball of tin foil. Carefully, he peeled back the edges to reveal a glassy rock. Scott almost cried. He reached for the spoon, but stopped when he saw a green light shining through the thin material of Clive's shirt. Reaching into the pocket, his trembling fingers found a mobile phone. It was barely charged, but there was a signal.

  Scott counted the needle tracks in his arm, like a prisoner counting scratch marks on the walls of his cell. How long had he been there? Weeks? Months? Time didn't exist in The Devil's Playground. It was more like a state of being. He was dead, languishing in purgatory with brief glimpses of hell. Scott existed between heavenly satisfaction and cavernous black holes. Getting from one state to the other was all he cared about.

  The phone represented his first chance of escape.

  His hand spasmed and it slipped from his grasp. He had little time. His cravings were building. Scott picked up the phone and dialled a number he knew by heart.

  The call went to voicemail. He hadn't spoken a word in months, but there was a name repeating in his head like the never-ending beat of a drum. It kept him awake at night when the nightmares came. It lulled him to sleep when the chains bit into his wrists. It filled him with hate when Clive sought his company. The name had sustained and now it was going to set him free.

  It was the name of the man who had left him there to perish.

  The phone beeped before recording his message.

  "Bronson," Scott said.

  The line went dead. His face twisting, he hurled the phone against the wall and reached for his hit. The lighter hovered under the spoon, but his thumb didn't strike the flame. Clive rolled over in his stupor, an unconscious effort to prevent himself from choking. Scott considered killing him, but Clive was not only his captor. He was his guardian. Clive fed him and gave him water. The desperate inmates of The Playground would never enter Scott's room while he was protected by the king rat.

  It made him sick, but it was a deal he was prepared to make. For now, at least. A time of renegotiation would be coming soon.

  Scott gathered the drug paraphernalia and tossed it aside. Clive might force it on him later, but he wouldn't do it to himself. Not anymore. Help was on its way and he'd have his revenge.

  Scott Dayton had been dead for too long, existing outside of a world he used to own. As the tremors juddered through his body, he welcomed them, reminding himself that pain could only be felt by the living.

  Something Bronson would learn soon enough.

  Chapter Six

  The boat engine spluttered to a stop at a set of stone stairs. A rope was thrown to the pier, landing on the cobbles with a splat. Hope rushed to secure it.

  Another rope landed in front of Angel. She moved forward, but her eyes found the grey sea. It roared in her head, beckoning her into its embrace. Her mouth dried and she thought of the car on dry land.

  Hope picked up the second rope and said nothing as she tied it to an iron cleat.

  "We do the deal on board," shouted the Captain from the boat.

  Angel staggered to the van, steadying her hands on its wet bonnet. She closed her eyes and willed her legs to stop shaking. "We do it up here," she shouted back.

  "My boat is nice. You'll like."

  Hope leaned over the railing. "Get your arse up here, Nestor. You've had us waiting all day. Stop messing about."

  They heard clattering and what appeared to be Russian expletives. Footsteps scurried up the stairs.

  The Russian captain strode onto the pier. Nestor was a short man, but powerfully built, somewhere in his thirties, though it was hard to be sure. His face was puckered in burn scars, masking his age. He stuck out his lower lip. "Why you not like my boat? She's beautiful."

  "She's about as beautiful as you are," Hope said. "You know how owners are supposed to look like their dogs? That's you and your ugly boat."

  Drumming fingers against his leg, Nestor frowned at Hope through his scars. His lined face became an angry cross.

  Hope didn't flinch from his stare. She moved subtly to her left, flexing her legs. One hand moved to her pocket while the other formed a fist.

  "We have what you want," Angel said. "Are you ready to trade?"

  "I recognise that voice," Nestor said with a sudden smile. "We talk on phone, yes?"

  Angel nodded and Nestor pulled out a package from his coat. He tossed it at her. Before Angel had time to respond, Hope plucked it from the air. It was hand-sized, waterproofed in transparent film. Underneath was silver foil marked with a skull. Angel snatched it from her sister and unwrapped it, sheltering it from the damp air. She gasped as she lifted the last flap of foil.

  "What you asked for?" Nestor asked, lighting a hand rolled cigarette.

  The similarities to cocaine were remarkable. The powder was white and glossy, compressed into a two-hundred-gram brick. Men like her father would take it and cut it with talcum powder or flour to stretch out its worth. Street value directly corresponded to how much shit had been added, but this cocaine was different. It was called Blizzard and it represented every penny Angel owned.

  "Where's the rest of it?" she asked.

  Nestor drew on his cigarette and shot blue smoke into her face. "Five kilos in my hold. More when you request it."

  Hope walked to the stone steps, stopping when Nestor produced a gun.

  "Payment first," he said. "My bosses insist."

  "Put your pocket rocket away," Hope said.

  Nestor grabbed his crotch, his cigarette sagging from his mouth. "You want to see real pocket rocket?"

  "Can everyone relax please?" Angel asked. "The deal is still good."

  "All of deal?" Nestor's eyes glinted at Hope.

  Hope turned her back on the sea. Her hand went back to her coat pocket and it wasn't difficult for Angel to guess what was in there.

  Lunging at the transit van, Angel flung open the back doors, finding a metallic briefcase. Her fingers skipped over a digital keypad, entering a six-digit code. A jet of pressurised air hissed from the hinges and the locks snapped open.

  "Everything your bosses asked for," she said, stepping to one side.

  Nestor spat his cigarette to the ground where it sizzled in the wet. He used his gun to lift the lid of the suitcase and grimaced at the contents. "Is that it?"

  Hope's hand hovered by her pocket. "What were you expecting? Stacked bills?"

  The memory stick was an inch long, as shiny as a beetle's carapace. He lifted it into the air and examined it in the dull light. "I don't understand things anymore."

  Angel pushed the briefcase to one side, clasping her hands in front of her. "It's thirty-two gigabytes of information hacked from companies all over the world. Everything your bosses wanted."

  "You did this?" Nestor asked.

  "It's what she does instead of having a life," Hope said with a smirk.

  Seaspray dripped from Angel's hair. "This is better than money, Nestor. It's a licence to print it. Trust me."

  Rolling his eyes, he put the memory stick in his pocket, but raised his gun at Angel. "If that is what my bosses want, then fine, but if you're lying in any way, I have to tell you – I have a licence to kill."

  A seagull whirled in the sky. Nestor pretended to shoot it, making gun noises from the corner of his mouth. Laughing, he put the gun away and lit another pre-rolled cigarette, his eyes straying to Hope as he gulped his blue smoke.

  "This is good news," he said, "but it is not all deal."

  "What are you talking about, you Trotsky prick?" Hope asked. "Coke for info. That was it."

/>   "It's special merchandise," he said. "Who is in charge here?"

  Angel coughed into her hand. "I am."

  "Then we had another deal. For special merchandise. Nestor makes money, too."

  Hope pulled out the Smith and Wesson handgun from her pocket. It had been a thirteenth birthday present from Mam and Hope never left home without it. Angel had begged her not to bring it, but even as she made her pleas, she'd known they'd fall on stony ground.

  The gun was levelled at Nestor's face and Angel struggled for breath.

  Keep calm, the voice said.

  "Don't let this weather make your Russian brain go soggy," Hope said. "There was no other deal."

  Angel rushed between the sparring parties, sliding on the cobbles. She righted herself and placed a hand on her sister's shoulder.

  "Please stop fighting," she said with a whine. "We're almost done. Don't spoil this for me."

  The fog horn blared, deep and mournful, echoing in the chambers of Angel's heart.

  She looked into her sister's angry face. "This isn't just coke. It's mixed with amphetamines, opium, spice. It's five times more addictive and half as damaging. Our customers need more, live longer and spend the house. Supply and demand, get it?"

  "If it's so bloody good, how come it's your deal?" Hope asked. "The whole family should be involved."

  Seaspray landed on Angel's eyelashes giving the illusion she was about to cry. "Nestor approached me. Not Mam. Not you. This is my deal."

  Hope shook her head, her blue fringe whipping like a blade. "I understand what you're saying, but you're not ready yet. You can't trust the Russians, baby sister. They're always out for more. When are you going to grow up?"

  "I want all deal," Nestor said to Angel. "You promised."

  Angel pressed the palm of her hand against the muzzle of her sister's gun. "Don't shoot him. He's my only contact."

  "You can't trust him," Hope said.

  "But you can trust me. Give me your weapon. Let me talk our way out of this."

  Nestor sucked his cigarette to ash and flicked it into the waves. "This is taking too long. Time to go."

  Angel ran her fingers over her sister's gun toward the handle. "Please do as I say. For once. We'll be fine."

  The frown on Hope's face wavered. "Oh, for bugger's sake."

  She groaned and offered up the gun. It almost slipped from Angel's wet hands, but she held tight and pointed the gun at her sister.

  "Thank you," she said. "Now, get in the boat."

  The foghorn sounded again. To Angel, it looked like the sound had come from Hope's gawping mouth.

  Angel darted a look at Nestor. "Put the coke in the van."

  "I am getting the full deal?" Nestor asked.

  "Yes. Do as I ask."

  Nestor grinned and for the first time, Angel noticed his incisors were plated with gold. He jumped down the stone steps and into his boat.

  "Just what the hell is going on?" Hope's lips trembled, but her legs were tense. There was a flex to her arms. She was preparing to fight.

  Against her own gun and Angel's staggering betrayal, her sister didn't stand a chance. And Angel loved it.

  "You're going with Nestor," she said. "He wouldn't courier my drugs unless I sweetened the deal."

  Nestor scurried onto the pier, his arms laden with silver packages. He hurled them into the transit van and shut the doors. Pulling out his gun, he circled behind Hope.

  "What are you doing?" she asked Angel.

  The gun was alien in Angel's hand and surprisingly heavy, but she kept it raised, shaking water droplets from the barrel. "You'll keep him company on the trip back to wherever he is going and – "

  "Then I sell you to my customer," Nestor said, pressing his own gun into the back of Hope's head. "He is a very nice man. Very rich."

  He nudged Hope forward.

  "I don't care how rich he is," she shouted, "I'll rip off his balls. And yours, Nestor. If you have any."

  "Please don't do anything silly," Angel said.

  Hope sprang forward, eyes blazing, her hands reaching for Angel's throat, but her feet skated on the cobbles. She careened to the ground, her head bouncing off the surface with a crack. Nestor was on her in an instant, delivering a second blow with the handle of his gun. Her eyelids flickered shut and Hope lay still.

  "I told you I could do it," Angel said to no-one in particular.

  The last she saw of Hope was her being dragged by her fashionable clothing into the mist. She didn't stay to witness the details.

  Climbing into the van, she attempted an eighteen-point turn, cursing at the sticky gears and slippery cobbles.

  The boat coughed into life, its engine belching black smoke. It chugged away from the launch and set a course for the horizon, taking one of Angel's problems with it.

  She stopped by an amusement arcade called Funderland. Checking the van was locked, she ventured inside. The carpet was a busy soup of brown and orange hexagons. Lights flashed from various machines, emitting the occasional jingle or beeping noise. It was an assault on the senses and Angel held onto her stomach. She was more seasick in Funderland than she was out on the pier.

  The arcade was mostly empty. Rock sat on a stool in front of an old fashioned slot machine, feeding it pennies. His large buttocks spilled over the seat, threatening to engulf it. A mossy beard grew from his double chin while his pallid face was bathed in green from the arcade lights.

  Angel cleared her throat and Rock spun slowly in his seat. "Where's Hope?" he asked.

  "Somewhere else," she answered. "Now I want you to listen to me, please. The van is outside. You go straight to Heaton. Have the cocaine tested."

  "Straight there. No problem." Retrieving a packet of Space Raider crisps from his pocket, Rock slipped three into his mouth at once. "And this is the plan, is it?"

  The crunching made Angel wince and she slapped the crisps from his hands. "I said, now."

  Rock waddled to the exit and Angel waited until he was out of sight. Standing alone among the flashing lights, a smile spread over her face. She'd done it. After everything they'd said, Angel had completed her first drug deal. Not just any drug deal, but one that would put her on the map. After the Dayton empire had imploded, Newcastle was wide open and Angel was ready to make her move.

  Blizzard would hit the streets in time for winter.

  Chapter Seven

  On the pitted door of the Silver Lining's maintenance room was a hastily written sign. 'Out To Lunch.'

  The room on the inside was cramped, filled with bottles of cleaning products, their labels faded with time. A collection of rubber gloves dried on a clothesline. Nailed to the wall was a topless calendar from the eighties where the hairstyles were as big as the breasts. Daniel tore it down, dropping it into a tin bucket of scummy water. He didn't want his daughter to see anything like that.

  He seated Eisha behind a metal desk. "Sit still and keep quiet."

  "Are we going up to see Great-Granny soon?" she asked.

  Daniel glanced into the corner. "I doubt it."

  Eisha scrambled onto the desk. She made it halfway before Daniel grabbed her, placing her back in her seat.

  "I know this isn't ideal," he said, "but I need you to behave."

  Eisha struck the desk with her hand. "I want to see Great-Granny."

  "Do as I say." Daniel thrust his phone at her. "Here. Play on this."

  He turned to Fred in the corner of the room. He was standing in a broken toilet destined for the skip. Stripped to his briefs, his arms were tied behind his back. He wriggled, but he was bound fast. Next to him was a bottle of industrial bleach.

  "Daddy?"

  "What now?" Daniel asked.

  Eisha presented his phone, the screen lighting up Daniel's face.

  "Jesus," he said, snatching it from her. "How did you get on this website?"

  "You didn't put the child lock on." She puffed out her cheeks, allowing the air to pass through her lips. "Men show funny things on websites, d
on't they?"

  He went to settings and searched through the options, his head beginning to ache. "Where is the bloody child lock?"

  Eisha took the phone and pressed a button. "No problems, Daddy. I've done it."

  She lowered her eyes to the screen, her thumbs working madly. Soon the phone made bleeping noises he recognised as a game called Newcastle's Canny Crush.

  In reconnecting with his family, Daniel was drawing Eisha closer to what it meant to be a part of it. She was better than him. This wasn't the place for her and on some level, Eisha understood that. But where else could she be?

  He knew what he needed to do. He simply didn't know how to do it.

  Taking the bottle of bleach, Daniel shook it, assuring himself there was enough for the job in hand.

  He turned to Fred. "I wanted to leave, you know? I wanted to take my daughter home, but you piqued my interest."

  "I wasn't following you."

  "You should get security cameras for this place. It was too easy to get back in."

  "Sharon will hear me," Fred said. "I'll scream."

  "In maintenance rooms, no-one can hear you scream."

  A squeaking noise came from the toilet as Fred shuffled his feet.

  "The skull tattoo on your face," Daniel said. "You used to work for the Maguires?"

  "Used to. I told you, not anymore."

  "My Dad told me it was Old Man Maguire's idea. Using a skull mask as an insignia. You must have been pretty devoted to have one tattooed on your face."

  "For all the good it did me. I got sent down and they didn't want to know."

  Loyalty flowed up the criminal pyramid, not down, but it wasn't loyalty. It was sycophancy paid by the lower orders to the higher-ups. When it came to jail time, all ties were cut and a former employee survived or not. The upper echelons, the people like Daniel, didn't care either way. Those were the rules and everyone obeyed them.