Serious People by James A. Shea

these,” Billy said, while the brothers looked at Payne’s house.
    The brothers were parked a few houses down from Payne’s mansion in Billy’s transit van. John had bought the van for Billy after he was released from his last spell inside. The idea, John had said, was to help him turn over a new leaf—as a painter and decorator—but the career was short-lived. The van was now the only evidence that the four-week career had ever existed.
    John was simple minded like that; he had no spirit, he was weak. Billy wondered if he hated him; it was something he was very uneasy about. Family was meant to mean everything. You’re meant to do anything for your brothers. But Billy had never been sure about John. He always questioned him. One day he’d put a knife to John’s throat and slice it—not the whole way—just enough to let the blood gush. He’d even thought about what he would say. “There you go brother; now you can really leave us.”
    It brought a smile to his face just thinking about this and the relief it would bring. No more dead weight to carry.
    “Yeah, I could see myself sipping a nice cool beer on the veranda next to the pool,” John said. “It’d be lovely, wouldn’t it. Barbeques every night; that would be the way to live.”
    “Yes mate,” Billy nodded.
    He hated it when John did that; when he said things like that it made Billy start to think that maybe he wasn’t that bad. It fucked with his head. It pissed him off, ’cause he had to keep his head straight, know what needed to be done. That’s all that mattered in the next few moments.
    Billy took in the full view of the mock Tudor mansion. It was something only a successful merchant banker or lottery winner could possess. Probably had a pool out back. It was such a large gaff, after all. It was a given. It had protection, of course, enclosed by a high wall and a large electric gate.
    “This is what life’s all about,” Billy said surprised by his brother’s comments. “This is what being a proper name gets ya.”
    This was all that mattered to Billy, being a name. All the other shit would be nice. Sure, he’d like to be driving a motor like a Porsche or something, but being a name. That’s what counted. Walk into a boozer and watch people acknowledge him, and fear him, careful not to say anything to him, just in case he took offence. He had a name already, of course. He knew what people already said about him and his brothers; well apart from that weak one John. They’re all a bunch of psychos that would fucking slit your throat if you fucked with them. He nodded to his reflection in the van’s wing mirror; you’re fucking right, he thought to himself.
    “There’s more to life than this Billy,” John said. “Being happy is the most important thing.”
    “Fucking queer!” Billy laughed, and Nick started giggling in a childish manner.
    Part of Billy was pleased he didn’t have his knife with him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold himself back; but another part of him wished that he did.
    “What’s the plan again?” John asked.
    “We go persuade Payne to make a meet with us and the Mexicans,” Billy said.
    “You make it sound easy,” John replied, trying to smile.
    “You’ve got to remember. Payne is probably desperate for someone to step up and help drive the business forward, O’Neil has been like deadweight around in his neck recently,” Billy said, focused on the gates to Payne’s mansion. “And anyways, we can be very persuasive and Nick’s knife can be equally fucking sharp.” Billy smiled at his brother Nick.
    “I reckon we can talk him round,” John replied.
    Weak cunt. He counted to ten—this is what the nonce doctor from the slammer had told him to do. He’d learned a surprising amount from that little cunt. If it weren’t for him, he’d probably still be banged up.
    “I think you’re ill Billy,” the faggot doctor had said.
    “I feel fine thank you,” Billy had replied with a