Dougie Brimson - Top Dog: Sometimes its not the law you have to worry about

Sometimes it's not the law you have to worry about

Hooligan gang leader Billy Evans is above the law. He knows it, and they know it. And when you regard the law as an irrelevance, all kinds of opportunities can open up for you. Especially when you begin to exert your increasingly powerful influence over the back street pubs and clubs of East London.

So when Billy gets the chance to make some serious money very quickly by helping a football club with an insurance scam, he grabs it with both hands.

But he's about to discover that this time, he's finally pushed his luck too far. And this time it isn't the law he'll have to contend with. It's something far more dangerous.

To Tina. My best mate.

With huge thanks to Ian Marshall, Pete Fincham, Miles, Steve Banks, Pat and the wonderful Jacque Evans.

Billy Evans drew heavily on his freshly lit Benson & Hedges, closed his eyes and sank into the leather luxury of his Range Rover as the sound of Al Green singing How Can You Mend a Broken Heart drifted from the stereo.

To Billy, brought up on a diet of seventies and eighties soul, Al Green was god. He'd even named the first of his two boys after the great man as a mark of respect, although Samantha hadn't thought Al Evans had gone together, forcing him to settle on Alfie as a compromise.

But this song was more important to him than most. It was the track he'd played to Samantha as he drove her home the night they met at The Goldmine on Canvey Island, and the song they'd had their first dance to at their wedding reception. It was their song. And he never, ever tired of it.

Six minutes and twenty-four seconds later, with the hairs on the back of his neck still tingling, he leant forward, and with a barely audible fuck it pressed repeat, cranked the volume up two notches and sank back into his seat with a grin.

He was just settling into the second verse when a tap on the window broke into his meditation. Instinctively, and without even opening his eyes, he raised his fist and extended two fingers. He had a good idea who it was. And they could wait.

Outside, Graham Hawkins tried to peer through the blacked out windows and then, with a curse, gave up and walked back across the car park to four smartly dressed men leaning against a silver Mercedes. Years of travelling to games with Billy meant that he knew each and every note of each and every Al Green song by heart. As a result, he hated Al Green with a passion.

D'you know, that cunt spent nearly 800 on that stereo and all he does is listen to fuckin spade music. He should have been a bastard darkie. He took a brief drag on his cigarette, more for comic effect than anything, and then, with a nod at the tall slim black man standing in front of him added, No offence, Stretch. They both burst out laughing.

None taken, Hawk. I prefer a bit of Abba myself. That's good old-fashioned white music.

Hawkins smiled and flicked his dog-end in the direction of the black Range Rover. You'd never make a decent honkey Stretch. Your knob's too small.

That's not what your mum says.

Funny that, said Hawkins, lighting another cigarette. Yours does!

One of the other men moved forward, unconsciously smoothing down the front of his new Burberry jacket as he did so. Hawk, for fuck's sake hurry him up. The fuckin Boleyn'll be rammed by the time we get there.

Hawkins stared at him for a moment and slowly shook his head. Fuck me, PJ. Didn't you just see me go over there and bang on the window? What the fuck else am I supposed to do? You know what he's like. Besides, by my reckoning, he said, pausing and listening attentively to the music throbbing from the car across the road, he'll be out in about forty-odd seconds. Unconsciously, a few of the group looked at their watches and then at the Range Rover.

Exactly forty-seven seconds later, Billy pushed open the door and stepped out into the road as a loud Yes! erupted, followed by uncontrolled laughter. What the fuck's up with you lot? he asked as he crossed the road.

You, you daft twat.

What? he asked, holding his arms out in front of him, a gesture of mock surrender.

You had to be here, said Hawkins. Which of course you weren't, because we've been stood here waiting for you as fucking usual. Now, are we going for a beer or not? We're gagging here.

Billy looked at the familiar faces and shook his head like a disapproving father. What, d'you need me to hold your bloody hands? Or are all you Cockney Suicide Squad boys afraid of those nasty Southampton fans?

Yeah right-oh. A tall blond-haired man stepped forward, his cockney accent reeking with sarcasm. I'm shitting it at the thought of all those fucking in-breds. Billy looked at him and frowned.

Fuck me, Darren, who rattled your cage? And where'd you get that shit jacket? Oxfam?

Oi, it's fucking Stone Island this. A proper fucking lads label, not like some of that poncey stuff you faggots are wearing. PJ looked at him and shook his head.

He always was about three years behind the times. He was making plans for France 98 the other day.

Yeah, I was gonna buy your bird a new pair of pyjamas. The entire group burst out laughing. It was a half-day spent shopping for a birthday present in France during one of West Ham's all-too-infrequent European excursions that had earned PJ his nickname.

Look, girls. Are we going for a pint or what? asked Hawkins, the tone in his voice becoming increasingly irritated. In case no one's noticed, it is nearly five o'clock already.

Well, I'm waiting for you cunts, said Billy without a trace of irony. But you won't stop gassing. Speaking of which He turned to face a short, round-faced man still leaning against the Mercedes, his voice suddenly serious rather than jovial. We sorted for Chelsea, Geoff?

No problem, he said, pushing himself off the car. I just got some canisters over from Belgium. It's top stuff. The Rent Boys won't know what hit em. Billy nodded. Geoff was sound as a pound. That's why everything was kept at his place. Including all their mobiles.

Good. We've got a few days yet. So, PJ, give em a bell tomorrow and find out if they're actually gonna show for once.

And tell them to try and keep it from the Old Bill this time, interrupted Darren. Fuckin club must have more leaks than a Tory cabinet.

Billy looked at him and smiled. He was glad to be back among the day-to-day banter of the firm. It had been a while. I'm a bit snowed under this week, so any chance we can have a plot-up meet next Thursday? He looked around, and when no one indicated otherwise, added, Top. But not at the Boleyn. Best use somewhere a bit less obvious for this one.

How about the St George? said Stretch. I know it's a bit of a scarfers pub, but we ain't been there for a while.

Billy nodded. Seems sound to me. About 8.30 then. Now are we going for a beer or what? Hawk's buying.

Within a few minutes, the small group were strolling down Green Street in the direction of the Boleyn, their favoured match-day pub. To the uninformed, they were simply six lads having a laugh on their way to football but to those in the know, they were much more; they were faces. Their expensive clothes and inherent arrogance as much a uniform as the one worn by the policemen who kept a wary eye on them as they walked.

Suddenly, Billy stopped and let out a stream of expletives. I've only left me bloody phone in the car. You go on, I'll catch you up.

Have you noticed how he always pulls a stunt like this? laughed Stretch. Anything to get out of buying the first round.

Billy looked at him and feigned offence. You cheeky bastard. Here He reached into his pocket for his wallet but found it empty. The realisation that he'd left that in the car as well hitting home with tragic irony. Lend us a score, Hawk?