Crucifixion, harsh but effective. Oh yes, very effective.

Two young men were standing sentry duty. Trying to look casual. Failing dismally. I knew both of them by sight, neither was of any concern to me. Not dangerous, although they probably imagined they’d attained hard-man status.

The taller man, took a step forward. Seeking dominance, warning me not to mess with him. Borderline dosser was the kindest description that came to my mind. He’d not shaved for a while, a few weeks at least, and his hair looked like it had been neglected for several months. However, the creased and baggy jeans, a carefully ripped tee-shirt in a hideous shade of burnt orange and brown loafers worn without socks were top quality. He’d either spent two minutes or three hours getting ready to go out and I reckoned the odds were strongly in favour of the three-hour marathon. The vagrant look may be the height of fashion in some quarters, but this lad had missed it by a mile. The sad bastard had spent a fortune trying to look like a refugee and all that money and effort had been wasted. It told everyone that he was a complete wanker, but that was about all.

The other man, a year or so younger, was someone I’d met before. Never spoken to him, but had seen him around. On the outside, right on the periphery of any action going down. I only knew him by his street name – twat-face. I assumed he’d not picked out the name himself. If he’d ever possessed another name, chances were he’d forgotten it by now. I wouldn’t have been surprised if his own mother didn’t call him twat-face. He was small, runty even, with sloping shoulders and weak features, a roll-up invariably tucked behind one ear although I’d ever seen him smoking. He was wearing full street uniform: ripped jeans, capped tee-shirt, unlaced trainers on his feet, no socks. The clothes were right, but street cred still eluded him.

He self-promoted a reputation of sorts as a small-time dealer. Nothing heavy. He probably robbed the odd car stereo or nicked stuff from shops, but that would have been his limit. Twat-face was too timid to mug a pensioner pushing a walking frame and even when the Five-Oh squad came round looking for likely bodies to inflate the crime control figures, they’d give him a miss.

The day was gloomy enough already, but the heart of the estate was like the dark side of the moon. In the shadow of the encircling tower blocks any natural light was bleached to sepia shades reminiscent of how television portrays melodrama. This may be the I-Pod Generation, but traditional grime and poverty are still alive and kicking round here. The gap between urban squalor and urban renewal is a yawning chasm running through the centre of this housing estate. Not a penthouse loft conversion in sight. Plywood replaced glass in a majority of the window frames and while a plethora of chrome bathroom fittings and seductive lighting schemes could be found less than a mile away as the crow flies down by the restored docks area, reality was light years distant.

The characteristic shape of the Roman Catholic cathedral, Paddy’s Wigwam to local residents, jutted out against the distant skyline. A city boasting two notable cathedrals and European City of Culture in 2008 still retained enough of its former notoriety to allow a flourishing criminal underclass to flourish. This estate was now home to one of the new breed of criminal. A former resident who’d escaped his dismal surroundings to seek fortune elsewhere, had recently returned and the area had seen more changes in the past year than even the oldest resident could remember. Petty crime within the estate had gradually dwindled and eventually ceased completely.

The local police hadn’t suddenly found a magic formula; a new power base within the boundaries of the estate was making all the decisions and one result had been the abolition of minor inconveniences like vandalism, joy-riding and petty theft.

The change hadn’t been achieved overnight. It had taken several weeks for the message to be received that antisocial behaviour would no longer be tolerated on the estate. Reminders had been necessary, draconian in their very nature. A notorious family had seen their flat repeatedly firebombed and had been urgently re-housed to a distant area of the city. Two teenage youths who’d ignored a final warning concerning their persistent vandalism had been taken from their homes in the night and had every bone below the waist broken with judicious use of iron bars. Three known sex offenders had been tied to concrete bollards on waste land, the clothing around their genitals doused in petrol and set alight. Their screams had carried throughout the estate, but not a single witness had come forward.

‘Help you, mate?’ The older lad took a step to the side, blocking me. I looked at him, said nothing. Waiting. I’d nothing to say to low rankers. He’d realize that in time. Twat-face stayed put. Confrontation wasn’t his scene. I ignored him.

The taller lad shuffled his feet, but stayed put. I reached forward, placed my palm on his chest, pushed gently. He resisted for a moment then moved back, looking uncertain. This wasn’t in the script.

I stayed mute. Looking over his shoulder. A few seconds, then he broke. Stepped aside. I didn’t look at him. There’d be other eyes watching. Unseen. Reporting back. Getting drawn into a dialogue with losers like these two would do nothing for my rep. I walked on, deeper into the estate. I passed a burnt-out house, smoke-blackened. I knew the man who’d lived there. Tommy Dingle. Not his real name but where he hailed from. I’d never heard anyone use his real name. I could relate to that.

He’d been a dealer, middle management not street level. I’d sat in dingy pubs, walked canal towpaths with him a year or so back. He’d been on the up and up in those days. The case against him had gone tits up, too many witnesses had developed amnesia, but he’d taken a wrong turn since then. Crossed the wrong man. Failed to heed warnings. The body had been there for a week or more when the police broke the door down. Crucifixion is extreme, but very effective as a means of getting a point across. Bringing people to heel. The house had been torched the following night, still swathed in evidence tape. End of story.

The man who’d arranged for Tommy Dingle’s ‘lesson’ lived on this estate. I needed to get close to him. Find out what made him tick. Probe for weaknesses. I wasn’t expecting this to be easy.