The Scorpion was ultra intelligent, ultra confident, 100 per cent focused and had a great personality to boot. He kinda reminded me of Michael Manley, the one-time prime minister of Jamaica. He could slip into yard talk better than I could. He knew everything there was to know about weed. The Scorpion was international – he’d done jail in France, Holland and Belgium. He wasn’t a fraidy cat.

It was supposed to be a straightforward job: in and out – plain sailing. The plan was to tax the dealers then lock them in the house to prevent them from following us. On the day of the graft, Mick – armed with a bag of confetti money – went to buy five kilograms of cocaine off them as planned. I waited outside, dressed head to foot in my traditional black clothes. I then put my bally on and got into character. Four minutes later, I went in after Mick. Following his footsteps. I carefully opened the door and crept down the hallway. I knew by their voices that they were all in one room, weighing the gear.

I booted the door in and jumped into the room, larger than life. ‘Nobody fucking move,’ I shouted. I immediately glared at the two dealers. Their eyes went wide with fear. All they could see was my .45. ‘I’m here to relieve you of your drugs. Give me the parcel and nobody’ll get hurt.’

I scooped the gear up then pointed at Mick. ‘He’s with me,’ I said. ‘He’s in on the tax. He’s the one you find if you want to do anything about this.’ Mick wasn’t bothered by this, and it served as a psychological distraction – I had enough heat on me already. Then I threw Mick the door keys that he’d given me to get in and said, ‘Lock them in.’ This covered our escape.

Our getaway car was a 1.3 litre Corsa. It was all we needed, because no one, in theory, could follow us. In practice, it didn’t go quite like that. I had only driven a mile when I looked behind and saw the people that we’d just robbed in hot pursuit. I turned to Mick and said, ‘You didn’t lock the fucking door, did you?’ He sheepishly told me that he’d forgotten.

‘Well, there’s no time for recriminations now. We’ve got a serious fucking problem on our hands.’ I’m a very serious individual and can keep cool under pressure. I would never forget details as Mick had just done. I’ve often made the mistake of thinking that others are of the same ilk as me. Mick had certainly talked a really good fight before the graft, and I’d really believed he’d known about taxing and the importance of remaining calm under pressure. However, his flaws were becoming clear to me.

Nonetheless, being a professional, I always made sure I had a back-up plan. I would often trawl the streets of Liverpool, planning a contingency to every eventuality. One of the lessons that I’d learned was to use the urban topography to my advantage. I’d once come across a place called Ash Grove, a cul-de-sac. I’d studied it carefully and realised that there was just enough room to slam on in a car. At the bottom, there was a seven-foot wall, and if you could get over it, you were away. Being a world-class athlete, I could vault over this wall in one go. No one would believe it, but one night I’d actually tested myself on this wall and made it. Obviously, most people couldn’t do that, so my reckoning was that if I was ever being chased, I could use this advantage to get away. Whoever was following would have to retreat. By the time they’d sorted themselves out, I’d be halfway to Spain. If necessary, I would lay down some light suppressing fire from the Colt to keep them at bay.

I wasn’t interested in the Corsa. That could stay in the cul-de-sac. I stopped the car, got out and threw the bag containing the gear over the wall. I then gazelled it and landed nimbly on the other side. I was home free. Not only had I four or five yards on them, there was also a seven-foot wall between us. Nobody was going to catch me. I could run faster than Kip Keino – a great Kenyan runner who used to run in his bare feet.

I looked back when I was about ten or fifteen yards from the wall and spotted Mick with only his elbows and red face visible. He looked like that famous piece of graffito ‘Kilroy was here!’. He couldn’t for the life of him get over. By that point, I’d lashed off my balaclava and was on show. However, I quickly realised that Mick would be dragged down by these geezers and beaten to within an inch of his life. They wouldn’t even have the intelligence to interrogate him and find out where the stuff had gone, who his accomplice had been, etc. They would just set about him like animals. However, I had a ting on me. We had started this mission together, so we had to finish it together. I was duty and honour bound to go back over the wall.

My instincts were screaming at me to keep on running. ‘You’ve got everything you need,’ I told myself. ‘Fuck Mick. Get back to Cleckheaton. You’ve got a hundred grand’s worth of gear to keep you going.’ Nonetheless, the ancient Japanese code of Samurai and my sense of honour wouldn’t let me do it.

Unmasked, I jumped back over the wall and punched one of the dealers. ‘Get the fuck off him,’ I said.

‘Frenchie, Frenchie, it’s you. All right, Frenchie. We’ll back off.’ They put their hands up in a gesture of ‘We don’t want no trouble’ and started to back off. Even during the small beating, they’d managed to fracture Mick’s leg. I picked him up. He’d suddenly become Mick the Prick in my eyes. ‘Get over the fucking wall,’ I said.

Later, we retrieved the car and drove back to Cleckheaton. The danger now was that the dealers knew who had robbed them – I was expecting a call at any moment. Mick was giving it the big ‘I am’, saying, ‘No matter who they are, we’re not giving any of the gear back.’

Cleckheaton is a little village near Leeds and Bradford. It’s like the place in the ‘I’m the only gay in the village’ sketch, except in my case I was the only nigger in the village.

As predicted, the phone went. It was Peter Lair. He said, ‘All right, Stephen. The five kilograms you took is ours. Those two fellers were selling it for us, and you’re going to have to give it back.’

Every fibre in my body wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. I didn’t owe him anything. However, at the same time, he had been passing messages to Curtis on my behalf, so I did feel beholden in that respect. I had to weigh up the pros and cons. If I didn’t cooperate and Lair couldn’t find me, he would go after my family, my friends and my son. Make no mistake, Lair, whether he liked me or I liked him, was not a guy to be messed with. He was a fellow dreadnought, a street fighter the same as me. In fact, Lair and I had been circling each other for a while, and I knew this incident could be the trigger for an almighty showdown between the pair of us.

While I was deciding what to do, Mick was still saying, ‘We’re not giving it back.’

I said, ‘If you’d have got over that fucking wall, we wouldn’t have to give it back. But because you’re a fat cunt, I had to come back and save your fucking arse.’

Mick hadn’t realised I regretted going back for him. I could have sent the coke down south, got a 20 grand deposit straight away and waited for the rest of my money. I could have stayed in hotels again and the £500-a-night suites. My name could have been Michael Winner – a film director – and I could have stayed where I wanted.

Instead, I was stuck in a shit hole of a house in Cleckheaton, with no money, a guy with a broken leg and Peter Lair on my case. I knew I had to give the goods back – not out of fear, but out of respect.

That was the one and only time that the Devil ever refunded a tax – and I did it to maintain the status quo. To this day, Lair and I still haven’t had that street fight.