Tried to swallow, but that just reminded him of the pain in his mouth. What he deserved, he thought. For betraying the party. Even for Jason, the lost boy. It wasn’t what a Knight of St George did. A foot soldier of the revolution. Then maybe he wasn’t one. The thought hit him like a well-aimed brick in the face. For years the party had been everything. His life. It had saved him from his dull, tower-block existence. Given him a job, a sense of comradeship, of belonging. Kept the doubts down. But now they were back. Growing up in the Benwell badlands of the West End of Newcastle, where fists spoke louder than words. And that suited Kev fine. He was king of the streets, anyone else the subject of his anger. He ruled. Anything to put off going home. Back to the ninth floor of the tombstone tower block. His dad’s alcohol-powered swinging fists. His mother’s screams. Then his mother was gone, off to Peterlee with some Paki postman. Well, Greek, but the same thing. Then his dad lost his job in a warehouse in Tyne Dock and with it his heart.
