[ In his mind, he's running lists. Names, phone numbers, addresses, trying to pinpoint who in his gang has ratted them out to his Pa. It's gotta be someone in the fucking gang, they're the only ones who ever get close enough to have caught a glimpse of them - what, snogging, fucking? No dirty back alley's safe from their prying rodent eyes, huh. He's gonna wring someone's neck when he finds out, yeah. They're gonna be fucking sorry.

Then, JL turns up in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and looking him over once, slowly, before his face blanks out completely. Marcel kicks the second bag inside with a hard, painful attack of his right leg, his foot still only half-fucking numb from making contact with the side of Pa's face. The bag's full of paperwork, shit he fucking hates, yeah, his personal papers and stuff along with some tools from the garage, a heavy mix of metal and binders. The necessities.

Meeting the other man's eyes, he shrugs, his entire arm throbbing at the movement, not that he cares, you can fucking shove it... His gaze is pretty much dead, while he still runs lists, pros and cons. It could be Yves, potentially. Carl. ]

Someone's been a dirty little rat. [ Marcel slams the door behind him. ] Fucking tattled about us.