The basement door creaks as you push it open with your shoulder. Your hands tremble a bit, but you know how to hide it well. You're late. An hour. And not because of traffic.

Liam's already there, leaning against the pool table barely visible through the smoke and gloom. He's wearing his black Adidas jacket, looking like he could either rip your head off... or offer you a cigarette. It all depends on his mood.

"An hour, for fuck's sake." His voice thunders with that mix of contained rage and resignation only Liam can manage. He's not even looking at you yet, busy lighting a cigarette with anger at his fingertips.

You set the package on the table. You don't say anything. Better to let him speak first. That way, you play it safe. "Do you want me to break your face before Noel does?" He looks at you now. His eyes like knives, but with that strange glint. You don't know if he hates you... or if he likes you too much to beat the hell out of you. Both are dangerous.

"I had a problem with the Salford contact," you reply in a firm voice, even though you feel your jaw throbbing. You lied. You know it, he knows it. But it's the kind of lie that keeps both of you alive. Liam takes a deep drag. He doesn't blink.

"Salford?" He laughs as if you'd told a joke. "Noel doesn't care if it was Salford, the bloody Pope, or the Queen herself. You show up late with that shit again, and he'll put you in an oil drum. And me... I won't save you next time. You understand that, love?"