Page 106 of Claim

“You don’t answer me,” I pressed the shank into his side, “I’ll open you up right here.”

“Was told to take you there eventually, anyway.” Tyler nudged his chin forward. “Car’s close. Round the back.”

I shoved him forward.

The car was parked half a street away. Engine still warm. He scrambled in. I followed.

“You know,” Tyler started the engine with shaking hands, “I’m driving you straight to your funeral.”

“As always, bruv,” I sat back, “you’re coming with me.”

The car lurched forwards and Tyler took the turns too fast, tyres screaming as London smeared past the windows. Lights, junctions, pedestrians stepping off kerbs without knowing how close they were to dying by being in the wrong lane. I kept my eyes ahead, the plastic shank pressed into his side. Steady as a promise.

“What do you know?” I asked.

Tyler looked away from the road for a moment. “Enough to know you ain’t walking away from this.”

“Yeah?” I widened my eyes in challenge.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll see.”

He didn’t answer that.

After a while, he slowed. Turned. Pulled up outside a warehouse I recognised instantly. Battersea. Same place I’d been dragged to before. Same concrete. Same rot in the air. Ironically, Tyler had been here too. On the floor, bleeding, when I’d been told to make a point of him. I recognised the van parked outside and breathed out slow.

If I’d had a phone, I might’ve called this in.

But that was the thing about growing up the way I had. You moved first. Thought later. And sooner or later, that habit caught up with you.

Like now.

I’d always known this was how it ended. One way or another. Prison or a box. And as it looked like prison weren’t getting to me, this was the insurance policy finally being cashed. And guess what? They had leverage, at last. The thing I’d spent years making sure they never had.

And it was waiting for me inside.

“This a joke?” I turned to Tyler.

Tyler shook his head. “Ain’t laughing, bruv.”

“Me either.”

“You could run, y’know? Get the fuck out of here.”

I snorted, looked at him properly. “No. I can’t.”

He gave a thin smile. “Yeah. That bleeding heart finally did you in, eh?”

“Like you said it would.” I got out of the car.

I don’t know why I kept hold of the plastic bit of shit in my hand, it wouldn’t be worth anything in there if what I expected was waiting for me, but it was something. A reminder. That there were always options. That pain could still be dealt if it came to it. A safety net. Better than walking in empty-handed.

So I tucked the plastic shank in my pocket and shut the door.

I’d played this scenario out a dozen different ways in my head on the drive over. I knew how Cormac worked. Worse—I knew how Doyle worked. They didn’t innovate. They repeated. Same methods, same rhythms. That was how their empire stayed standing. Familiarity. Efficiency. And I’d been part of it often enough. Planted outside whatever derelict building they’d picked that day so they could issue the threat and warnings. My job had been simple. Watch the door. Learn the lesson. Doyle handled the rest. I could’ve been him if I’d wanted to. I’d watched closely enough. Learnt enough.

I’d never wanted to be that.