‘I don’t negotiate.’

Terry thought, fuck it, and said:

‘Okay.’

Then Terry fucked it up, emptied a whole clip at Brant and the word was, the bastard was still alive, in Intensive Care sure but… not dead. And now Terry had to meet with the posh geezer. Didn’t figure he’d be getting the rest of his money. He’d reloaded the Browning, jammed it in his jacket, and went to the Clapham Road to wait.

The BMW was right on time and he got in, his excuses ready and his pledge to finish the job and… and fuck.

To his amazement, the guy was breezy, asked:

‘And how are we today?’

He sounded downright cheerful, maybe he’d heard Brant croaked? You never knew in this biz, luck, rarely, evident but just possible. He let his tension ease a notch, said:

‘Bit of a cock-up, alas.’

The guy laughed, actually tapped Terry’s knee, said:

‘Hey, no problem, my man. Could happen to the best of us.’

Terry wondered if the guy was a fruit, a lot of these Public School guys, buggery was part of the curriculum. They were heading for Canary Wharf again. The guy eased the car into a space, looked round, said:

‘No prying eyes, one must practise due diligence.’

Terry told him of how the unexpected had happened and the customer had knocked his aim off. The guy listening, his face conveying understanding. Then he asked:

‘You have the weapon with you?’

Terry wasn’t sure where this was going, said:

‘Am, yeah.’

‘May I see it?’

Terry took the weapon out and the guy put out his hand, saying:

‘I trust it’s primed, reloaded?’

Reluctantly, Terry let go of the gun, said:

‘Of course.’

The guy examined it, said:

‘Seems to be fine, must be you.’

Took Terry a moment, then he said:

‘I’ll put it right, don’t you worry about that.’