Jonatton Yeah? didn't really give a toss who Dan Ashcroft was screwing, he just wanted the idiot to finally understand that he, Jonatton, was the winner, and Dan was the loser. That's all it was ever supposed to be. But he had friends who did mind. London was progressive, sure, but there were still plenty of people who still thought that Gay Bashing was a damn fine sport. People who'd quietly supported David Copeland. People who were now busy protesting the proposed 'Civil Partnership Act', as if it would ever actually get passed. He scrolled through his phone to 'Pete the Ham' and ran his tongue along his teeth as he grinned. It didn't take long to text his old school mate the address of 'The House of Jones' as he made his way there himself.

The plan was simple enough: spray paint the front of the guy's house, throw a few rocks through the windows. Pete'd brought some friends and he'd told them to push the whole pedophilia line with the graffiti. They had been happy enough to oblige because, "all poofs are pedos", or so they told him as they got to work.

And Jonatton just had to stand on the other side of the lane, with a drink and a smoke in hand, and watch as they got on with it. He'd provided beer of course, but other than that he had no intention of getting his own hands dirty. He was an editor after all, not a lackey.

He laughed as another rock pelted through a window, hoping it had the good fortune to smash the idiot DJ's decks. The street was empty except for an old tramp, hiding behind some bins and pretending he didn't exist so that he wouldn't get a kicking, so Jonatton relaxed and sipped his beer, trying to imagine the look on Dan's face when he saw what'd been done to his precious, little, hovel. Would it be the kicked puppy face? the blank stare of complete brain failure? the whole face grimace that reminded Jonatton of a man being hit in the gnads by a fast moving football? Dan didn't actually have that many different facial expressions, and even though they were subtle, they were easy enough to read, if you were as smart as Jonatton Yeah? obviously.

His phone rang, or rather, cawed, to signal to him that his dealer was calling. He loved introducing people to his dealer by gesturing to the crow. Even when it was obvious that the dealer was actually Nadja, standing behind the crow, rather than the bird itself. People were idiots and thought he was cool for having a crow as his drug dealer - they didn't get the irony or the symbolism - most of the mentally crippled people he had to associate with didn't even know how to spell irony, let alone accurately define it. Even Dan hadn't got it. It was a triumph, except that Dan hadn't understood that he'd been bested. Again.

He took the call, and was glad for it. Nadja had his stuff, and about time too, but she'd bumped his order up to 40mg. She was a doll. She understood what he was about, not like the usual plebs, and he rubbed his hand across the inside of his elbow as he programmed his meeting with her into his phone for that evening.

He took another drag on his cigarette and closed his eyes. Things were not going as well as he'd hoped - he'd need to be looking for a new job soon - but there was something delicious about orchestrating an act as juvenile as vandalising someone's home. It gave him a rush. It was a shame they hadn't brought eggs and loo roll, really to make a proper job of it. Rocks and spray paint would just have to do.

He heard another window smash, followed by a cheer, and chuckled. But the cheering was cut short by a yell and he opened his eyes in annoyance.

"Oi!"

The sneer fell from Jonatton's face. He hadn't expected Jones to be home so soon. He worked at that hairdressers, didn't he? But the skinny twerp was running down the street with a face like fury, running toward the four large men who were full of cheap lager and hate. And they were grinning to each other and snickering in a way that suddenly made Jonatton feel distinctly uncomfortable. Jones looked too small, too breakable, coming face to face with blokes who prided themselves on their ability to properly fill out their rugby jerseys.

He started to edge further down the street, away from the action, but he didn't get far, his eyes were glued to the scene, incapable of looking away as the DJ strode toward the vandalised house, demanding an explanation and received a fist in the face instead. It was like a film - not one of Barley's shaking camera, prank verging on assault type films - but like something choreographed. He could almost hear the background music, and the sound of Pete's knuckles colliding with the DJ's nose was far too loud. The world seemed to slow down and Jonatton felt, suddenly, like the blood was being syphoned from his body. He watched Jones get in a punch of his own before being overwhelmed by the four men Jonatton had encouraged in their hate. This was not what he'd planned.

Jonatton tried to run but stumbled instead. He couldn't remember how many beers he'd had. Surely it hadn't been that many, yet he was stumbling all over the footpath like a bum. He heard the thud of a boot hitting flesh and felt like he might vomit. He'd only wanted to win.

It was all Dan's fault. No matter what happened to him, things always turned out well for Dan. He never had to deal with any proper repercussions for his shitty actions or the way he treated people. His humiliation never lasted and people loved him regardless of how drunk he got, how much of a twat he was, how much he insulted the people who looked out for him and adored him. And now, because he was a fucking fag, Jonatton's magazine was down the plug hole. All because of Dan.

He heard a moan among the thuds but didn't turn around. He took out his phone, his fingers shaking and his vision suddenly blurred and uneven, and beat his thumb against the nine key three times before hitting the call button as hard as he could.

"999, what is the nature of your emergency?"

Jonatton hesitated, lowering the phone and staring at it, as if somehow it would be able to give him the answer to his moral dilemma. As if fucking technology could ever be that fucking useful. The shit was really going to hit the fan now. If he called this in, there was no going back. He hadn't actually done anything. But he'd still probably be charged with something. He wouldn't be able to find a new job, not in journalism anyway.

"Hello? Please state the nature of your emergency?"

"I-" Jonatton brought the phone back up to his ear. "Ambulance. Possibly police," he told the voice at the other end.

"Ok. Are you able to tell me more about what's going on?"

She sounded so condescending Jonatton almost hung up on her but he could still see Jones, lying on the concrete, and his face was a bloody mess.

"A bloke's getting beaten up," he said tersely. "Wellington Row. Shoreditch. There's four blokes on him and he's... not doing so well. Etcetera. I have to go now."

He didn't wait to hear what the silly cow would try to tell him. He'd given them enough information and he couldn't stick around any longer. Pete and his mates were already getting bored now that their victim wasn't moving. Two were already back to throwing bottles at the front door, which now read "House of Hoes" instead of "Jones". The ambulance would arrive and scare them off. They might not even be able to trace the call back to him, he really didn't know how the technology worked anyway. But it was definitely time to go.

He typed a hurried text to Nadja, rescheduling their 'catch-up' from the evening to right now and then ran, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Pete calling after him, asking where he was going. Hoping like hell they wouldn't follow him once they were done with what was left of Tom 'Jones' Pearce. He needed to shoot up, he needed a drink, he needed to stop the shaking that was taking over his body and that seemed to be coming from within his bones. He needed to black out for a while... because he felt like an idiot.