At four in the morning the door of the Turkish restaurant in Greek Street was kicked open. Careering into the wall, it caused the glass to smash into tiny fragments on the tiled floor. Three men waving baseball bats charged in, smashing everything in their way.
The sound of the chairs being kicked over and the tables being thrown woke the sleeping proprietor, Sarp, who’d seen and caused enough trouble throughout his own life to not hesitate to rush downstairs, cosh in hand, to face whatever danger awaited him.
Although Sarp had just had his fifty-sixth birthday, with adrenaline racing round his body he stood tall, sounding like a man