We Still Kill the Old Way by Nick Oldham (English) Paperback Book

Description: We Still Kill the Old Way by Nick Oldham "Great British Fiction -- Great British Authors" on title page. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description Sometimes the old way is the only way...When a retired East End villain is murdered by a feral street gang, his brother Ritchie Archer returns to London from Spain to investigate. With the police thwarted at every turn, Ritchie decides to take the law into his own hands and bring old school justice back to the streets of East London. Rounding up his old firm, he leads a vigilante crusade against the vicious young criminals, using every grisly method at his disposal to find and punish his brothers killers. A vicious street war follows, with no prisoners taken on either side, leading to a dramatic conclusion as the feral youths lay siege to a hospital Ritchies firm is holed up in. Theyre outgunned and outnumbered, but this firm has never been outclassed yet. Back Cover Sometimes the old way is the only way...When a retired East End villain is murdered by a feral street gang, his brother Ritchie Archer returns to London from Spain to investigate. With the police thwarted at every turn, Ritchie decides to take the law into his own hands and bring old school justice back to the streets of East London. Rounding up his old firm, he leads a vigilante crusade against the vicious young criminals, using every grisly method at his disposal to find and punish his brothers killers. A vicious street war follows, with no prisoners taken on either side, leading to a dramatic conclusion as the feral youths lay siege to a hospital Ritchies firm is holed up in. Theyre outgunned and outnumbered, but this firm has never been outclassed yet. Author Biography Nick Oldham is the author of the Henry Christie series, which includes Backlash and Psycho Alley. Excerpt from Book They were on the prowl, even though it was still daylight. Their hunting ground was a tower block, a seventies throwback, the last one left standing from a cluster of four, the other three having been demolished, their remains yet to be bulldozed away. It stood alone amongst huge mounds of hardcore, a target. Tall, ugly and unforgiving, designed by over-paid planners and architects who believed that high-rise was the answer to societys woes; that the inhabitants would enjoy living right next to and on top of each other. That communities would prosper and come together and be strong. Not, as happened, fracture. And the people would become isolated and afraid, and once well-lit stairwells and concrete walkways and working lifts, all designed to aid community spirit and put people in touch with people, would become places of fear where criminality and drug abuse became rife, gang culture thrived. And the concrete itself, the bedrock which bonded these communities would, in an ironic metaphor, begin to rot away, cracks would show into which cockroaches could scuttle to hide away and the fabric of the tower blocks would disintegrate, just like their inhabitants. And the E2 were on the hunt. Hoodies tugged over their heads, the features of their faces dark and blurred except for the occasional time when the light caught their eyes and they looked like zombies from hell. This place, the last of the tower blocks in this area was easy pickings for them because it was as if the remaining occupants of the flats had been abandoned to their fate by uncaring authorities until the explosives had done their work, the bulldozers had moved in and the people re-housed. Today there were nine members of the gang. On another day it could have been sixteen, on another, five. The numbers varied, but there were never less than four. Numbers gave them strength, courage and the audacity to take on anyone. That was how the E2 worked - as a team with a leader. They had started on the ground floor, then worked their way up the stairwells, silently moving around each walkway, hoping to stumble across an easy victim on the way to their target. But the residents were all locked in behind secure doors and the only takings were from a stoned-out druggie on the third floor who they rolled for a tenner in his pocket and a tiny sachet of coke. Their instinct was then to hurl him down the steps, but the gang leader stepped in and stopped them. Not because he would not have enjoyed the spectacle, but because they were here for something else. Eventually they reached the tenth floor. It was on this level they would find their target, a flat they knew would be unoccupied for a couple of hours at least. The leader knew this because he had been fed the information by their sub-gang of watchers. These were the kids considered too young to run with the main gang (although the ages of that gang ran anywhere from ten to twenty-five); the sub-gang were the kids who wanted to earn their creds. They did this by feeding information to the gang leader by text messages and photographs by phone. This was how he knew about flat number 1020. Tenth floor, flat twenty. At the top of the stairs the gang leader held up his hand. The eight others stopped behind him, a line of them snaking down the concrete stairs, silently looking up at him. He glanced around at them, a self-satisfied sneer on his face. His gang. His minions. His orders. His violence. His name was Aaron. He checked his smartphone, looked at the photo hed been sent twenty minutes earlier of the front door of the flat. The gang were on the right level and by turning left on the walkway, 1020 was fourth along according to directions, which were rarely wrong. Aaron knew that the sub-gang were dotted across the estate, ready to warn him if the old guy who lived at the flat came home unexpectedly. Because that was the thing - it was easy and safer to break into empty flats because if the occupiers were at home, most of the front doors were now barred with heavy locks and bolts which, of course, could not be set if the owner was out. Aaron glanced down the line. He looked at Maz, one of the youths behind him. You got it? Yuh. Maz held up the steel bodied, iron-headed door-ram, the type used by cops to smash open doors when raiding houses. In fact, it was exactly the same as a police ram because Maz had lifted it out of the back of an unoccupied police personnel carrier about a month earlier. Stupid bastards had left the vehicle unlocked whilst they were all tied up with a mini-riot on an adjoining estate. Maz had stolen it and at the same time done a very sloppy shit and then urinated on the drivers seat before escaping. It had been one of those pure joy moments which he had also captured on camera. Today was the first time of its use. Aaron jerked his head and Maz ran up the stairs to the head of the gang, drawing one or two envious glares from some of the others, all of which Maz noticed and acknowledged superciliously. He was one of Aarons right hand men, a lieutenant, an enviable position to hold. You practised with that fucker? Aaron asked about the door-ram. Smashed in me Granddads shed door. Silly cunt, Aaron laughed. He put his phone away, his head twisted to the others. You lot ready? Then lets get fuckin moving. Even though he was pumped up and feeling ferocious, Aaron - with Maz just ahead of him - led the gang quietly along the walkway to the flat door, standing with his back to the wall. Leroy, another of Aarons lieutenants, took up a position on the opposite side of the door. Maz lined up the door-ram, swung it back and forth a few times to create some momentum - because the tool was a lot heavier than it looked - and also to get his eye in, his balance right, and hit the door at the place where it would be most effective. A murmur went through the gang: excitement. Maz swung it again and this time smashed the door by the main lock. The door rattled, but did not open. Shit. Maz glanced sheepishly at Aaron who voiced what the rest of the gang were thinking. Wanker.Mazs face hardened with determination. He repositioned himself, swung back the ram and pounded it accurately against the door which split with a crack. Maz followed this up by flat-footing it, sending it splintering, crashing back on its hinges, revealing the hallway of flat 1020 beyond. They were in.***This was one of Richie Archers most favourite times of day. It wasnt cool, but the fierce heat had gone out of the Spanish sun and it was possible to wander around without having to worry too much about the effects of the suns rays. It was now that he liked to spend some time pottering around his garden, trimming the trees and bushes, keeping on top of their growth. He had been fighting with a particularly nasty palm bush, the sharp jagged teeth of its tough leaves that protected the dates having cut into his hands and forearms as he hacked them back, then threw the scimitar-like leaves into the compost pile in the far corner of the garden. Richie rose up, stretching his aching back, literally licking his wounds whilst taking in the magnificent vista from his villa. The slowly sinking, huge orange ball of the sun dropping below the horizon, the shadows lengthening across the silver and azure blue of the Mediterranean, silhouettes of boats large dotted along the horizon. He paused to consider the nature of it all, astounded by it every day. He sucked blood from his thumb, then spat it out, grinned wryly and said to himself, Me, pottering about in a fucking garden ... the ladsd kill emselves chuntering at that ... if only they knew. That thought made his face harden. And he had a handsome face, craggy and deeply suntanned now. That and his well-toned body belied the fact he was approaching seventy years of age. He looked much younger and still had the air of a grey wolf in its prime about him. He turned away from the view, suddenly feeling the urge to do something a little outrageous, maybe dangerous, definitely fun. He walked past the infinity swimming pool to the small brick building in the far corner of the garden that housed the pool pump and water pump that supplied the villa. He unlocked it and ducked under the door, then immediately turned on his heels in the confined space and reached above the door. In a specially constructed space chipped into the stone roof supporting joist, he lifted the hinged lid of this hiding place, feeling with his fingers until they closed over what he sought. He smiled grimly as he lifted out a sawn-off shotgun. Details ISBN1907565841 Author Nick Oldham Publisher Caffeine Nights Publishing ISBN-10 1907565841 ISBN-13 9781907565847 Format Paperback Media Book Pages 208 Short Title WE STILL KILL THE OLD WAY Language English DEWEY 823.92 Birth 1956 Illustrations Yes Year 2014 Publication Date 2014-12-21 UK Release Date 2014-12-21 Imprint Caffeine Nights Publishing Place of Publication Chatham Country of Publication United Kingdom AU Release Date 2014-12-21 NZ Release Date 2014-12-21 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:143268993;

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