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When the call came, I’d been on my way to my old flat. I wanted to speak to the dealers that loitered around. To see if they’d seen him and to ask about London dealers so I could find Bram. The junkie scene was a small one, I’d discovered, and there was nothing money couldn’t buy, including information.

As I drove frantically through the thick London traffic, a call came from Tiffany, who I’d planned to meet at Bridesmere later that same day.

I clicked on the console and took her call. “Hey. I can’t get there until tomorrow.”

“The B&B hasn’t gotten my booking,” she said.

A car cut me off, and I beeped my horn. Thinking on the run, I said, “Stay at my apartment. I’ll text you the address and caretaker’s number. He’ll give you a spare key. Give me half an hour. I’m driving. Oh, and pardon the mess.”

“When will you be here?” she asked.

“I’ll text you. I should be there tomorrow at the latest.”

I parked my car in the underground parking bays at the hospital, and five minutes later, after proving I was family, they directed me to a ward room guarded by police—a stark reminder of the prison sentence that awaited my brother should he survive.

“Can you give us some privacy?” I asked the young cop, who looked half-asleep, as guards often did.

He regarded his older partner, who, after checking me up and down, gave me a curt nod.

Angus had tubes coming out of everywhere. His skinny arm filled with track marks hung pathetically by the bed as a tragic testimony of a wasted life.

He looked like a stranger. I had to remind myself that was my baby brother. The same boy I’d played, fought, and clowned around with. We slept in the same room until my mother’s death.

A lump in my throat blocked my speech.

His eyes opened and, upon seeing me, he reached out, and I took his bony hand.

“Who did this?” I asked.

“Some fucking Turk selling on our patch. The cops won’t get him. They never do.”

Drug wars were as nasty as wars on the battlefield, it seemed.

“Are you in pain? Are they giving you enough relief?”

He nodded. His heavy eyelids barely lifted. At least this time he didn’t have to rob, or goodness knows what else, for that desperate hit of pain relief.

A small fucking mercy.

“I’m so sorry, Angus…” Emotionally unprepared for this, I had to curl my lips inwards to stop them from trembling.

“No, man. You bailed me out, and I lost your money. I’m the one that should fucking apologise.” His eyes were glassy and aged. I read regret.

I took a deep breath to stem the emotion choking my vocal cords.

“I’ve got something to tell you.” He crooked his finger. “I don’t want the pigs hearing.”

I moved my chair and leaned forward, given his staggering breath hampered articulation.

“Dad made me promise to never tell you. He was part of the street gang I joined when I was fourteen. I only went there to get away from the pedos.”

I frowned. “You were sexually abused?”

“Not as such. They fucked my mate, though. He was prettier.” His mouth curved slightly. “I was next, though, so I ran away. Found Dad. He was selling drugs, and I begged him to let me stay. He didn’t want me there at first, but I became useful… you know… doing errands.”

“By errands, you mean selling?”

“I had to survive.” He paused for a raspy breath. “Anything was better than that hellhole.”

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