Hi guys! So this chapter is insanely long but so overdue that I figured I should be generous with the word count so consider this both a gift and an apology :) A huge thank you to anyone reading this and a huge kiss to anyone kind enough to take the time and leave a review, they really do mean so so so much.

As a writer and a human, I'm sure you'll agree with me that what happened in France 24 hours ago is shocking and devastating. I would never be so patronising or self indulgent as to dedicate a chapter to the people of France but I do want to say this:

Nous pleurons mais nous ne craignons pas. Nous sommes l'un et nous sommes puissants. Les bâtiments peuvent être renversés et des balles peuvent être licenciés, mais la passion est un feu qui aucun homme ne peut éteindre.

Vive le France.

We weep but we do not fear. We are one and we are powerful. Buildings can be toppled and bullets can be fired but passion is a fire which no man can extinguish.

"You're in trouble,"

Allie Harding froze as she entered the foyer of her home, the warmth that had momentarily seeped into her body from the fireplace to her right being replaced with annoyance and a touch of fear as she watched her brother saunter towards her with an apple in his hand. This must have been how Snow White felt that that wart nosed bitch knocked on her door.

"Why?" she blew a wisp of blonde hair out of her eyes as she shut the door and placed her shopping bags down, though careful to keep them upright. She had bought underwear that she was certain would put her brother into therapy for the rest of his life should he accidentally see it. "What've you done and managed to pin on me now?"

"Oh no, ass-face," Harry laughed. "This is all you,"

"I'm in trouble?" Allie cocked her head, trying to think what she could have possibly done. "What could I possibly…"

"Alyssa Scarlett Harding, if that's you, get in this kitchen this instant!"

Allie felt her jaw drop whilst her brother only smirked wider; Poppy and Richard Harding were not disciplinarians. Between being shit at it in the first place and having kids whose idea of raging against the machine was to sneak a bottle of wine from the cellar every now and then, there was little need for scolding in this household. And in her seventeen years on this planet, she had certainly never heard her mother shout like that.

"Scratch that," Harry pointed at her, taking a bite of the apple he was holding and grinning at her with his mouthful. "You're not in trouble, you're officially fucked, Amigo."

"I swear to God, if you've dropped me in it," the blonde took a step towards him, eyes blazing.

"And I swear on every copy of Playboy I've ever owned, I have no idea what this is about," he shook his head. "Now go in there and take it like a man,"

"Oh piss off," Allie muttered, slapping the apple from his hands and ignoring his laugh.

"If she kills you, I get your vinyl collection," he called after her as she started down the hall.

"If she kills me, all I plan on doing with the afterlife is haunting the shit out of you," Allie called back in a sing song voice, tuning out his laughter as she approached the kitchen door and took a deep breath.

She could hear voices coming from within and frowned; who the hell was in there? Was this a school thing? Or god forbid had her mother found the condoms Lara had forced her to stash in her bedside drawer? Other than that there was nothing…

Suddenly the door swung open with such force that she half expected it to rip off of its hinges. Her mother's bright green eyes zoned in on her and Allie swore she felt something pass through her. Like a wave of pure, hot rage.

"How kind of you to grace us with your presence," Poppy smiled manically.

"Hi Mummy," Allie whimpered, going for innocence as best she could. It was hard to defend yourself when you weren't certain what you had done wrong.

"Mummy is it?" Poppy's eyes grew wide. "Well, at least you know you're buggered,"

"Jesus, Pops let her breathe will you?" her father gestured to her from where he was stood at the kitchen counter, stirring a cup of tea. "Plus I really don't want you wasting your energy on shouting,"

Richard turned and grinned at his daughter, raising the steaming mug to his lips and taking a sip.

"If we need to kill her, I'll need all the help I can get to dispose of her body. It's hard work, so I hear,"

"O-kay…" Allie shook her head. "I have no idea what either of you are on about right now? I've established there's a bounty on my head but if someone could tell me why then-…"

She was cut off when something hit her face, momentarily blocking her mother's furious glare and her fathers amused smirk from view. Reaching up, she pulled the item away and instantly shrieked, throwing it to the ground.

"What the hell is wrong with you!?" she shouted at her mother. "What kind of God damn messed up punishment is this? Those have been on Harry's…ugh!"

Allie kicked the offending pair of boxer shorts away from her and stared at her mother as though she were mad.

"Care to explain?" Poppy hissed at her.

"Me explain?" Allie laughed. "I come home from shopping and have you going all bloody Bates Motel on me for no reason and then throwing my brother's skanky underwear in my face! My god woman, is this a menopausal thing or have you just lost it completely?"

Richard laughed and quickly covered it up with a cough upon catching the look on his wife's face. Something he had learned twice in his life: no Harding woman was worth pissing off.

"They're not Harry's, they're not your fathers, they aren't Richards," Poppy spoke calmly. Too calmly. "And I found them under your bed when I was collecting your washing earlier…so perhaps you could lose the smartarse attitude and explain to your mother, the woman who let you use her body as a husk for nine months and still sees you as the little girl she pushed on the swings as to why it is a pair of men's 'skanky underwear' was under the bed of her 17 year old daughter?"

The words left her mouth before she could stop them and as soon as they did, Allie Harding honestly prayed for death. An act of God. A heart attack. Spontaneous combustion. Anything.

"Oh God, they're Pete's."

"What?!" Four voices shrieked in unison and Allie blinked, turning along with her mother and father to frown at the two heads poking around the side of the glass door at the far side of the kitchen which led to the garden.

"You two, get out!" Poppy roared, ignoring the giggles of Lara and Harry as their heads disappeared, Lara's whisper of "I bloody knew it!" not going unnoticed before silence descended once again. Turning back to her daughter, Poppy attempted to gather her thoughts. Granted, she and Moira had talked on numerous occasions about how obvious it was that their son and daughter were hopelessly in love with one another but this…this wasn't how she envisioned that love story going.

"Repeat that for me, darling," she half whispered, her eyes closed in a silent prayer.

"Look," Allie fumbled over her words, her eyes drifting from her father to her mother. Whilst the latter looked ready to keel over, her father had a predatory anger in his eyes she hadn't seen before.

"I know I should have told you," she licked her lips. Why was her bloody throat so dry all of a sudden? "But Pete stayed last weekend. The night," she gulped. "In my bed,"

Poppy let out a laugh and sank down onto one of the stools around the breakfast bar whilst Richard merely, dusted the crumbs from his toast off of his jumper and shrugged.

"Right, well, mystery solved," he smiled at his wife. "Just let me get my gun and we'll be off,"

"It wasn't like that!" Allie cried, shoving her hands into her hair and yanking on it slightly.

"Oh details really aren't wanted or needed," her father grimaced as he held up a hand. "I'd like to live out the rest of my days with what little innocence and belief in magic I have left,"

"He stayed because he had nowhere else to go," Allie shot back, her tone taking on a tinge of pleading. "He was…hurt. He couldn't go home,"

At that, she watched her parent's body language change completely; having known Pete seven years, she knew that both her mother and father adored him. And as with their own sons, they would do anything for him.

"What do you mean hurt?" Poppy pushed herself back onto her feet, catching the tears in her daughter's eyes and feeling her stomach twist. "Allie?"

Allie glanced back and forth between them, the demons inside her battling it out. She had promised Pete no one who didn't already know out of necessity would find out about what happened, but as she stood here looking at her parents, her friends with tears in her eyes, she was unable to do anything but tell them the truth.

"His dad…he beats him," she whispered and with that a spectral tsunami seemed to wash through the kitchen and knocked both Poppy and Richard back into their chairs. "He hits Moira, too," she continued. "Last Friday when we got our exam results, Pete went home and Moira was…a mess. So he confronted his dad and…Michael went nuts. He hit Pete with a wrench, kicked him, his ribs were so bruised I thought they were…" she looked up at her mother and saw tears cascading down her cheeks. "I bandaged him up and gave him some of Harry's clothes to wear but I couldn't let him go back there," she sobbed, her eyes wide as she silently pleaded with her mother to understand. "Mum, I couldn't…I couldn't let him get hurt again,"

Before she could blink, she was in her mother's arms; Poppy held her tightly as she sobbed and met her husband's gaze over the halo of Allie's hair. He too was fighting to hold it together, his jaw set hard and his fists clenched.

"Oh darling, I'm so sorry," Poppy whispered. "It's alright, shhhh."

"Allie," her father shook his head, brushing the hair from her face. "Sweetheart, why didn't you tell us this before?"

"Its Pete," she sniffed, shrugging.

Catching their grins, she knew they both understood. The Dunham pride was as notorious as the Harding temper in this house.

"That explains why I haven't been able to get hold of Moira," Poppy murmured, her heart breaking for her dear friend. "I've been calling all week and trying to get her round for tea but…"

"Bloody hell," Richard breathed. "I think I preferred it when we assumed you'd been running an escort service upstairs,"

"She didn't say she wasn't in all fairness," her mother pursed her lips, causing Allie to giggle.

"Very true," Richard nodded. "All we ask for is a cut on your earnings,"

"Like upper class pimps," Poppy chimed in, smiling when her beautiful daughter laughed and used the sleeve of her sweater to wipe the make up from under her eyes.

"I'm sorry we…"

"Its fine," Allie told them, meaning it. "Although if that's the reaction I get from one pair of boxers, I'm reserving front row seats for when you search Harry's room,"

"Oh darling," Poppy sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears and smiling sadly. "All hope for your brother's moral compass and soul was lost long ago,"

It took a moment for their laughter to die down and then a heavy silence enveloped the three of them, consuming them and pushing them into a deep, dark place they didn't want to be.

"We need to deal with this," Richard spoke first, his voice breaking sharply through the ice Allie found herself swimming under. "I mean did they even call the police?"

"Dad, you can't!" Allie jumped up, her eyes wild. "Please! I promised Pete no one would know about what happened and if he thinks I-…"

"Ok, ok," Poppy soothed her, looking over her shoulder at her husband and giving him a what-do-we-do-now look. "Well we have to do something; if Pete and Moira aren't safe there…"

She frowned when she saw her husband simply nod to himself and walk over to where his Barbour jacket was still hanging on the wall, still soaked from the earlier rain.

"Leave this with me," he told them, holding up a hand when he saw Allie open her mouth to protest. "Allie-cat, give your old man some credit." He smirked, reaching for his umbrella and shaking it dry before yanking open the glass door and wincing as the wind struck his face. "I'll be back when I'm back,"

Allie and Poppy stared at the door after it closed, neither of them particularly knowing what to think.

"Should we be worried?" Allie asked her mother eventually.

"About your father?" Poppy laughed, pulling her into the crook of her arm as she did when she was a baby and stroking her hair. "No, darling. We shouldn't be worried." She sighed. "We should be petrified."

"The problem with Bowyer is that he ain't the strongest striker we've ever 'ad," Dave muttered through a mouthful of peanuts. "It's like he gets one decent shot in and then goes 'fuck it, that's me done for the day,'"

"The problem with Bowyer is that he's an arrogant cunt," Pete chimed in, winking his thanks to the barmaid as she placed a fresh pint in front of him and smiled flirtatiously. She was blonde, but a different blonde to Allie. Allie's hair had so many different colours in it, mainly gold and honey whereas this bird…

Christ. He shook his head as the all too familiar voice made itself known again. Comparing her to other birds…that's a good sign.

"Did you want anything else?" she asked him, biting her lip.

Pete fought the urge to groan; she was one of those birds. Anything with its own teeth and a shadow would do.

"Nah, I'm alright, cheers," he smiled back at her, a heat creeping up his neck when he realised the boys were watching with grins on their faces.

"Well if you do need anything," she licked some of the offensively pink shiny looking sticky shit off of her lips a bit too slowly. "My name's Kylie," she stood up and lifted her shirt enough for Pete to see the name tattooed just under her bellybutton. "See?"

He could feel Bovver shaking next to him, desperately trying to contain his laughter as Pete fought to keep himself together.

"Very nice," Pete told her, relief flooding through him when another girl who was working behind the bar, shouted over to her for help serving.

"Duty calls," she gave him an over exaggerated pout and waved her overly long manicured fingers at him. "See you later, Pete,"

Waiting until she was out of earshot, Pete leaned forward and shook his head as the boys simply burst out laughing.

"Who was that and how the fuck does she know my name?" he frowned.

"I dunno mate, but I'd say you're in," Terry grinned.

"In for a chance of getting the fuckin' clap, maybe," Pete shuddered. He'd always heard Steve saying that the Abbey was the type of place where anyone who had anything to do with him or his boys could just blink at a girl and she'd be on her back. Watching as Kylie reached up to get a bottle, her neon orange thong poking out from her jeans as she did so, Pete grimaced. Why the hell would he want that when he had A…-

Don't you dare fucking finish that sentence! His brain screamed at him. Are you fucking kidding me, son? It's disturbing enough thinking about her when you're having happy Pete time in the shower but now you're claiming OWNERSHIP? Step. The fuck. Down.

"I might go and get some air," he blurted out, needing to clear his mind of impure thoughts. Smirking when he realised his Allie themed thoughts would take the Pope, 6 tonnes of holy water and potentially Jesus himself to purify, he figured anything was better than sitting her getting ogled by some bird with an Oompa Loompa coloured thong.

"I'll come with you, mate," Steve told him as he came back to the table with Pat in tow. "I could use a smoke,"

"Oi," Pat frowned. "I thought you jacked that shit in,"

"Bad habits and all that," Steve winked. "You should understand that better than anyone,"

Pat slapped him playfully about the head before Pete could ask what it meant and jerked his chin towards a table of older looking men in the corner.

"When you come back in, I want you to meet some mates of mine," he grinned. "Army boys, right laugh,"

"Count me in," Pete nodded, smiling proudly when his uncle clapped him on the shoulder and winked at him. Why the hell couldn't he ever have felt that proud to be stood here with his own father? His body turned cold at the thought of Michael Dunham but he steeled himself, determined not to let it show.

"You comin' or what?" Steve shouted to him from where he was stood by the door, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, 'ang on!" Pete shouted back, prying his way through the crowds and whistling when the cold autumn air hit him square in the face. "Fuck me, its brass monkey's out 'ere,"

"That's a sign you ain't drunk enough," Steve laughed, sliding his beer across the table to him. "'ere, get that down ya and you'll feel like you're in the Bahamas soon enough,"

Taking a long sip, Pete rubbed his hands on his thighs to warm them up and then leaned on the table, gauging his brother's mood. Since last weekend, they hadn't talked about their father but he knew Steve was still living there and without their mother there, Michael had to be going apeshit.

"Does it hurt?" Steve asked him, taking a long, soothing drag on his cigarette.

"Does what hurt?" Pete frowned.

"Thinking that hard?" he smirked as his younger brother chuckled. "Mate, I'm serious. All them fuckin' cogs turning, it's like sitting across from Big Ben,"

"Who told you about my nickname?" Pete winked.

"Oh fuck off, you little shit, you wish," Steve laughed, snagging his pint glass and taking a sip, the two of them laughing and teasing one another until a moment later, Steve's jaw dropped as he stared at something behind him.

"It fuckin' can't be," Steve shook his head. "He wouldn't be that fuckin' stupid, surely,"

Pete froze, refusing to turn around, knowing when he did he would see his father storming towards him. He wondered briefly if he was sadistic enough to bring the wrench with him this time. Glancing at the various bits of broken glass around them, not to mention the pile of bricks from when the Abbey had the good intentions of building a proper beer garden, Pete realised his father had a lot of resources here. Why bother with a wrench when a brick will do?

"Don't suppose they serve a nice Macallan here?" an all too familiar voice came from right behind Pete. "Preferably the 1946? The 26 is basically piss water,"

Pete spun around and stared up at Richard Harding; the older man looked completely out of place with his Barbour hunting jacket pulled around him, his Breitling watch glistening in the autumn sunlight. Were it not for the warmth that emanated from him or his genuine smile, everything about the guy would have screamed 'Rob-Me-I'm-A-Prick'. Remembering the damage to his face which was still very much noticeable, he turned back to the table and yanked his hood up.

"The fuck are you doing 'ere?" Steve laughed, clambering out from his side of the bench and coming around to give the man a hug. Whilst Steve didn't spend nearly as much time at the Harding household as Pete had when they were kids, he was still close enough to them and protective enough of Allie that he thought of them as extended family. Lord knows, they had unwittingly done enough for the Dunham's in the last seven years.

"Rent boys my side of the river are getting heinously expensive," Richard feigned distress. "I gather this is the place to come if I'm on a budget," he smirked. "So to speak,"

"Behave," Steve slapped him lightly. "You still couldn't afford me anyway, you tart,"

Richard laughed and then fell silent, staring at the back of the youngest Dunham man who had yet to turn and face him. Steve shook his head, answering his silent question and leaned in ever so slightly.

"I'll give you a minute, yeah," he winked and clapped the older man on the back. "Make sure you come in and see Pat before you leave, don't reckon he's seen you since what…97?"

"Make sure he knows I get better with age," Richard pointed at him as the door swung shut on his laughter.

Taking a deep breath, he took a step towards the bench, stopping only when Pete lurched to his feet and without looking at him properly, pulled his hood as far forward as possible and walked quickly towards the door.

"Can't really talk now, old man," Richard could hear the forced mirth in his voice and it made his stomach ache. "I'll pop round next week and…-"

"Pete, look at me," Richard pleaded as Pete came face to face with the door.

No. He wasn't doing this. He wasn't going to turn around and see sympathy in Richard Harding's eyes.

"I'm fine, mate," Pete snapped. "I'm just busy and I don't really have time to-…"

"It's Allie."

That was all it took; Richard felt a rage he had never known before bubble up inside of him as Pete spun around and met his eyes. The young man's face was woven from bruises and small cuts; a particularly nasty wound circled his temple on the right side and his left eye sat in a halo of purple.

"Is she alright?" Pete pressed, his heart pounding. What if Michael had gotten to her? What if he had hurt her? If he had then Pete would murder him. It was that simple.

"She's fine." Richard relented, tearing his eyes away from the injuries on the younger man's handsome face. From what he had ascertained from Allie, the ones he couldn't see were the worst anyway. "Sorry, dirty tactic on my part,"

Pete clenched his fists; he wanted to yell at him, to tell him to piss off, this wasn't his mess to clean up. More than anything he wanted to yell at Allie. She had promised him no one would know. He watched like a gazelle having spotted a lion as Richard circled him and took Steve's empty spot on the bench, seemingly not leaving any time soon.

"You look like shit," Richard told him and Pete was astounded when he realised the laughter filling the air was his own. Trust this poncy old bastard to snap him out of his misery that fast.

Pete ambled over and flopped back onto the seat across from him, resting his elbows on the table top and massaging his temples.

"Tell your daughter she's officially on my shit list," he mumbled, earning a laugh in return.

"Before you go Corleone on the poor girl, know that she didn't tell us because she wanted to," Richard chuckled, recalling the scene that had played out in his kitchen this morning when a distraught looking Poppy had stumbled into the kitchen clutching a pair of boxer shorts.

"Her mother had her balls to the wall after finding your boxers under her bed,"

Pete froze; he had felt intense fear a number of times in his life, when Steve had been playing around with Terry's brother's BB gun and shot a hole into the shed around 2cm above his head or just last week when his father had stood above him brandishing a wrench and telling him the world wouldn't miss him if he died.

But right now, looking at Richard Harding, Pete knew deep down he would take the wrench and the BB gun a thousand times over this.

"Fuck," he whispered, placing his palms flat on the table as he met the other man's gaze and tried to look earnest as possible. He was telling the truth; nothing like that had happened between him and Allie that night. Ok, there had been the moment when he woke up and she was laying across his chest and her leg between his and her breasts pressed against him had pushed his sore body to the very back of his mind but there was no way…

"I didn't…" Pete stuttered, his mouth suddenly dry as a bone. "I would never…I didn't touch 'er, Richard I swear."

"Christ man, here, have this," Richard laughed, pushing the nearly empty beer back over to him and shaking his head as the younger man tipped it down his throat. "I know nothing happened, I know you would never do that. Not unless you truly did want to die, anyway,"

Pete laughed, a short laugh which faded as soon as Richard met his eyes and he could see there was no longer any humour there.

"What are you going to do about this, Pete?" he asked.

"About what?" Pete raised his eyebrows. "My dad? Not much I can do, you know…it's just," he shrugged and sniffed as the cold wind picked up around him again. "It's one of them things, ain't it?"

Richard went quiet for a long moment and let his chin drop down to his chest, trying to collect himself. Michael had really done a number on this kid; convinced him not only did he deserve the beatings but that this was normal.

"You know my old man fought in the war,"

Pete looked up from his empty pint glass at Richard as he blinked into the sun a few times; his eyes were completely different to Allie's, all whiskey and gold. They were warm though, and open, letting Pete know he had nothing to fear.

"Tough bastard, but in the best way," Richard smiled wistfully. "My brothers and I we used to love listening to all his stories; when you're a child, all that blood and gore, it's not real is it? It's not people getting blown to smithereens, it's just a story. My old brother Thomas, he loved the fighting side of it. He always used to beg dad to teach him something, some hand to hand combat he could show off to his friends with in the playground. And my dad said no. Of course it pissed us off and it sure as hell didn't stop us asking but one day, he crouched down and he said to us, 'a real man only raises his hand when he has to.'"

Pete swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that was building rapidly in his throat as Richard pinned him to the spot with his gaze.

"Because real men don't do what your pathetic excuse of a father did to you and your mum," he spoke in short bursts, his voice full of emotion. "They don't. And the fact that he did doesn't make him or you an exception to the rule, it just makes him a shit who doesn't deserve the title of father."

"Rich, you don't know…" Pete shook his head.

"I have two sons," the older man slammed his hand down onto the table. "Both of them drive me up the fucking wall, one more than the other," he rolled his eyes. "But the idea of anyone laying a hand on them…the idea of me losing my patience and touching a hair on their heads." He shook his head emphatically. "That's not what real men do and it's sure as shit not what a father does,"

"You're a good man, Pete," he continued. "And how I felt when Allie told me what happened was no different to how I would have felt if it had been either one of my sons. I love you the way I love them," he pointed a finger in Pete's face. "Don't you ever doubt that and don't you ever forget it,"

Pete tipped his head back to the sky for a moment, hating himself vehemently when he felt his eyes stinging and blurring with tears. Whilst he knew that Poppy and Richard cared for him, no one had ever spoken to him this way, no one.

"You know last year I had an existential crisis," Richard pursed his lips as Pete glanced back at him and laughed. Of all the things he had been expecting him to say….

"You fuckin' what?" he snorted.

"I hit the wall," Richard shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I realised I'd done nothing with my life but practice law and I wanted to try something else. So one of the boys down the cricket club…" he glanced around and lowered his voice. "Am I safe to say that word here?"

"Everybody gets one," Pete held up a finger for effect. "But drop the C bomb again and I'll fuckin' key your car myself,"

"That's fair," Richard continued. "So this posh wanker gets me into property and being the smart man I am, I buy a flat for Richard. I thought when he came back from University he wouldn't want to move back home but I hadn't factored in the lovely Jules,"

"He's living with her?" Pete spat out. He had only had the…pleasure of meeting her twice but both times she didn't even try to hide her disgust about the fact he was clearly not part of the upper crust. He had felt borderline ashamed of himself and ready to run out of the door until Allie had deadpan flat out asked Jules if walking with a hot poker up her arse made walking difficult and all hell had broken loose. Smirking at the memory, he made a mental note to take Allie somewhere nice tomorrow. After the morning she had at the hands of her parents, he wouldn't be surprised if she was gunning for his blood, too.

"Living with her/under her thumb," Richard countered. "Whichever way you want to look at it. Anyway, I buy this pissing flat, furnish the damn thing, even put a snooker table in it and he swans off with the ice princess. Worst thing is, Poppy doesn't know I bought it. If she ever finds out she'll probably assume it's where I keep my Thai brides,"

"Christ alive," Pete chuckled, shaking his head. "And I'm meant to be the one who's a fuckin' wreck…you Harding lot are a right bunch of liabilities,"

"It's all part of our charm," he winked. "So I've got this flat fully furnished, near Roehampton uni all ready to go…" he reached into his pocket and dropped a solitary key onto the worn wooden bench. "All I need is a tenant,"

Pete's eyes widened as it dawned on him what was happening; snorting out a laugh, he pushed himself slightly backward and shook his head. No, no way in hell.

"You're 'avin a fuckin' bubble?" Pete cried. "Harding, it's a nice gesture but I can't take a fuckin' flat from you,"

"And why not?" Richard frowned. "It's mine, I can do what the hell I want with it. I want you to have it, I want you to be safe, to have somewhere to call your own. Jesus, every man alive needs a batcave. And its two bed so you can bring your mum…"

Pete felt his eye stinging again and shook his head, unable to get words out for a long moment.

"You've done too much for my family as it is," he choked out. "And you can't give me a flat. You said yourself you bought it for one of your sons,"

"I can…I did," Richard gently knocked Pete's chin up until their eyes met. "And I am giving it to one of my sons,"

"I can't…" Pete felt a tear run down his face and hated himself for it.

"Then pay me rent," Richard shrugged. "Whatever works; I don't care. I just want you to have a home. It's you or a Thai bride, Dunham so either way you're saving my arse,"

Pete laughed and nodded ever so slightly; he could pay rent. He could do that. Jesus, it was the least he could do.

"Is that a yes?" Richard grinned, he opened his mouth to say something when suddenly Pete stood and launched his upper body across the bench and pulled him into a tight hug. Instantly Richards hand came up and clapped down on the back of his neck.

"Good man," he whispered into the youth's shoulder, his heart breaking when he felt Pete's body trembling with silent sobs. Pulling back, Pete looked at the ground for a long moment trying to pull himself together.

"Right," Richard nodded to himself, throwing the flat key to Pete as though it were nothing and getting to his feet. "I'm off inside to see Pat and drink some piss warm beer," he grinned. "I gather your friend Swill is buying?"

"Who the fuck told you that?" Pete laughed.

"No one," the older man shook his head. "But if he ever wants forgiveness for what he did to that poor girl in my garden last weekend, he better buy me a damn drink."

"You heard about that too?" Pete laughed loudly, it came all the way up from his soul and for the first time in days, he felt weightless.

"It takes a lot to stun Harry Harding into silence," Richard shuddered. "The things he told me…"

"Best not to think about old man," Pete winked and shoved him towards the doors of the Abbey.

"Ah, speaking of which," Richard turned and smirked evilly. "Granted this had a happy ending but the father code obligates me to let you know that if for whatever reason I ever find your delicates in my daughter's room again…." He grimaced. "I'll cut it off, clear?"

"That won't happen," Pete told him firmly, disgusted with himself when he found himself praying that wasn't the case.

"Oh lord," Richard sighed sadly, slapping his cheek. "I know they say love is blind…but fucking stupid, too?"

With a roll of his eyes, he moved into the pub, laughing as Pete shoved him again, pulling him into a headlock and ruffling his hair. Their mood was shattered quickly when Steve appeared in front of them, his arctic blue eyes flaring.

"Get out," he snapped quietly. "Now,"

"The fuck are you talking about?" Pete frowned. "Mate, Rich is coming in for a-…"

"Well ain't that a nice little picture,"

Pete instantly felt his jaw set, his teeth grinding together as a hatred he was slowly coming to embrace coursed through him. Turning his head, he caught sight of his father, propped up against the bar, his West Ham shirt amess with beer stains and god knows what else.

"Didn't think this was your scene, Kensington," Michael tipped an invisible hat towards Richard who muttered something so vile under his breath that even Pete blinked at him in shock. "Come on then, Petey, how's about buying your old man a pint?"

Pete snapped back to reality and stepped further into the bar, noting the way the crowd had parted and stepped back from Michael Dunham entirely, clearly wanting no association. His father's gaze was leering, just as it had been that night in his room; this was a challenge. Another chance to take his son down a few notches.

"You fuckin' deaf, boy?" Michael spat at him. "I said get over 'ere,"

"Go home, Michael," Pete shot back, seeing the shock in his fathers eyes and revelling in it. "You're embarrassing yourself,"

"You reckon, do ya?" he slurred. "Big, brave lad in 'ere, aren't you, Petey? Weren't so brave when I was putting you in your place the other night, were ya? Had a good old cry when I took that wrench to ya, didn't you boy?"

Instead of walking out like he knew he should, Pete found himself stepping around his brother and into his father's path, his fists no longer shaking but clenched by his sides. He was in complete control and honestly, that scared him more than anything.

"Say that again, you sad old fuck," he snapped. "Come 'ere, toe to toe and say it. I'll put you in the fuckin' ground,"

"And if he don't, I will." Pat shouted, rounding the bar and staring at his brother venomously. "Go home, Mikey. You're out your tree and you're out your depth. I don't need you, the boys don't need you and the GSE don't need you. So get out before I do something you're gonna end up regretting,"

"Kick me out of my own firm?" Michael hissed, stumbling forward and into his brother, wishing he'd stopped about seven whiskeys back so he could have the wherewithal to at least land one punch.

"It ain't your firm," Pat told him. "It's mine…and its Steve's. And soon, it'll be Pete's as well. Your boys don't need you, Mikey. I don't need you. Your wife don't need you. You're nothing to no one." He leaned forward and caught the despair briefly flashing across Michael's face but found himself unable to care. "So get out of this pub before I forget my manners and start teaching you yours."

Michael glared at Pat then to his two sons behind him, stood not scared but ready for battle. Even the old guard around him looked at him disinterestedly, as though he were nothing.

"You remember this moment, Patrick," he whispered to his brother. "You just signed your own fuckin' death warrant,"

"Spare me the dramatics, you stupid fuck," Pat snorted. "Just get out,"

Michael downed the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, glaring at the audience who had congregated around them.

"What the fuck are you cunts looking at?" he almost screamed, his eyes manic. "Get the fuck out of my way,"

He shoved Pete and Steve hard to the side, not looking back to see where they landed. If they wanted him gone, they fine, he would go. But that didn't mean that would get to carry on as though everything was sunshine and roses. Coming to a stop a few streets later, he collapsed onto the pavement and with shaking hands, drew a cigarette and his phone from his pocket, dialling the number he had begun to know by heart whilst lighting the crumpled fag and taking a long pull.

It took four rings before they answered and he waited for silence on the other end before he spoke.

"What you said about wanting to know what happened with Pat back in 82," he blew out a powerful gust of smoke and watched it dissipate into the cool air. "I'll tell you everything."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?" the voice answered. "How the fuck did you get this number anyway?"

"That don't matter," Michael spoke calmly. "All that matters is I'll tell you everything you've always wanted to know…and all I want you to do for me is to kill him. And make sure it's slow."