His mother, Ethel, was a legend in her own manor. At fifty-six she was a coarse, boisterous woman and as famous in the East End as Ronnie and Reggie. She swore like a navvy, drank like a fish, regularly went out on the thieve, and could tell a story to match the best of them. Hard as nails, she was. In the war she would wash down the dead bodies and help patch up the casualties. When the war ended, she set herself up in business with her friend, Gladys, and together they would perform illegal abortions. A tin bucket, a syringe and a bar of washing soap was the method they used. They were no experts, but were always careful to keep the end of the syringe in the bucket. One slip of the hand and the air bubbles could be fatal. Ethel had come up with the idea herself. She’d used the same method on the kids to wash out their worms. Many a time she’d shove a syringe of lukewarm water up their harrises and smile as their screams echoed from Stepney to Soho.
Maureen glanced at the clock. Her son, Tommy, was well late tonight and she’d skin the little bastard when he got home. Thankfully, her other two were safely tucked up in bed. Tommy was her eldest child – she was seventeen when she had him and he’d been a little bastard from the moment he’d let out his first cry. He was fourteen now, a cocky, streetwise little bleeder who was forever getting himself into trouble. Tall, dark and cheeky, he was popular with the girls, but even they found him a handful. He rarely went to school, was always fighting and she knew full well that he went out thieving with his pals and his gran.
Susan, her twelve-year-old daughter, was another worry. Sullen and obnoxious, she had a plain face, a plump body and a spiteful streak in her. She was unpopular at school, with very few friends, and even the kids on the street steered well clear of her.
Thankfully, her youngest son, James, was no trouble at all. Sweet, kind and funny, he was everything that Maureen had ever wanted in a child. She hadn’t known what to call him when she was carrying him. She had plenty of girls’ names, but no boys’. Her friend, Brenda, had chosen his name. A massive fan of the singer James Taylor, Bren had played his album till the grooves wore white. Maureen herself had fallen in love with the track ‘Sweet Baby James’ and, at Brenda’s insistence, agreed that if her unborn was a boy, she’d name him James.
The title of the song suited her son perfectly and Maureen was over the moon when her mother-in-law thieved her a record player along with the album. For hours she’d play that record to James when he was a baby. She’d sing the words as she rocked him to sleep, her special boy with his own special song. Trouble was, as the years went by, he became known as Jimmy Boy. Tommy had started the trend by insisting that James made him sound like a poof. Maureen had been pissed off at first by his change of identity, but as time went by she’d accepted it. A name’s just a name and he’d always be James to her.
All her neighbours had been shocked by her last pregnancy – she had been split up from her Tommy for years when she’d fallen. A drunken night of passion for old time’s sake had been her excuse. Little did they know what had really happened!
Maureen’s reminiscing was ended by the sound of the front door opening and the arrival of her eldest son. ‘Tommy, I’m gonna marmalise you, get your arse in ’ere, yer little bastard,’ she shouted at the top of her voice.
Ignoring her, Tommy Hutton ran up the stairs as fast as his legs would take him. His clothes were covered in blood and he had to get changed before his mother spotted him.
Just about to chase the cowson up the stairs and drag him back down by his hair, Maureen had a change of heart. He shared his bedroom with James and if she ran upstairs like a raging bull, she’d be bound to wake him up. Maureen lit the gas and put the kettle on to boil. She needed to calm down and a cup of Rosy was usually the answer. Tomorrow she’d have the little bastard’s guts for garters. Yawning, she made her brew and took it into the living room. Just lately she’d taken to sleeping downstairs on the old sofa. The house only had two bedrooms. The boys shared one and her and Susan the other. Ethel lived slap-bang opposite in a nice little one-bedroom flat.
Over the last few months, her daughter had become a nightmare to share a bed with. She’d nick the blanket then wriggle like an eel all night, and Maureen had a feeling that the little cow was doing it on purpose. Worn out by her lack of shut-eye, she had no alternative other than to move out of her own bedroom.
Tommy lay in bed wide awake. Now he’d pulled himself together, he felt a right prick for crying in front of his pals. He was meant to be the leader of the gang, not some fucking mug. After they’d legged it, him and the lads had headed to the park to sort out an alibi, and a plan, and as luck would have it, they’d bumped into Lenny Simpson. Seeing the blood on Tommy’s clothes, and the state of the four of them, Lenny guessed that some major shit had hit the fan and had fired awkward questions at them. Stuck for answers, they’d had no choice other than to spill their guts to him. He was sound, Lenny, and if he couldn’t help them, no one could.
‘I’ll be your alibi. I’ll say you were round at mine all night. We had a few beers and were playing David Bowie records. I’ve got all his stuff, every album, so if anyone asks, we were boozing while listening to Bowie, right? If you stick to the same story as me, you’ll be all right, boys.’
Tommy hugged Lenny and repeatedly thanked him. Lenny had his own reasons to want to help out. Smiffy, the piece of shit in question, had terrorised his younger brother for the past three years. Lenny had been planning on disposing of the scumbag himself, but didn’t quite have the bottle to go through with it. Tommo had done him and his family a massive favour.
The other thing they’d discussed were the other lads in Smiffy’s gang. They’d all scarpered in separate directions when it had got a bit naughty. Tommy had chased Smiffy for at least five minutes before he’d caught him and, apart from his own crew, there’d been no one else about.
‘There’s no way the Bethnal Green boys’ll grass,’ Tibbsy said confidently.
‘All they’ll do, if anything, is come after us for revenge. They definitely won’t involve the pigs,’ Benno insisted.
Tommy looked at Dave Taylor. ‘What do you think?’
Taylor shrugged. ‘Dunno. Our top four boys have done their top four, case closed. You can never say never, but I’ll doubt they’ll grass.’
Tibbsy called an end to the meeting. ‘Look we can’t stay out ’ere all night, it’s too suspicious. Let’s all go our separate ways and when we get home, we must act normal.’
Tommy stood up. ‘I can hardly act normal, can I? I’m covered in Smiffy’s blood. What am I meant to say to me mum?’
Tibbsy put an arm around his pal. ‘Just leg it up the stairs before your mother sees yer. You need to wash the knife so none of our fingerprints are on it. Bag up all your stuff, wait till your mother’s asleep, creep out and dump it.’
As he lay awake in bed, Tommy thought over his pal’s advice. He’d bagged the gear up, washed the knife, but was far too scared to leave the house. Say someone saw him? Say his mother caught him or the pigs were lurking near by?
Seeing his brother stir gave Tommy his solution. He’d lifted James out of the window a couple of months back to run a couple of errands for him. The boy had shit himself and he didn’t really want to get him involved again, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t go himself, it was far too dodgy.
Tommy was an expert at climbing out of his bedroom window. There was an old coal bunker below and as long as you positioned yourself right, the drop was a piece of cake. What he’d have to do was climb down first with the gear, then climb back up and lift James down. Umming and aahing with his conscience, he made his choice.
‘Jimmy boy, wake up.’
James sat up and rubbed his little eyes. ‘Whatta matter Tommy?’
Tommy put his finger to his lips. ‘Get dressed, Jimmy, I need yer to do summink for me.’
James obediently did as he was told. He loved his big brother very much. Tommy was his hero and he’d do anything he could to make him happy.
TWO
James was petrified as he stood in the back garden and lifted up the bag. Gladys, his gran’s friend, lived in nearby Whitehorse Lane and his brother had given him strict instructions to creep around her back alley and hide it in the bushes at the rear of her garden. He hated going out alone in the dark – he was frightened of the bogeyman that his mum had always told him about. Even at the tender age of five, he knew not to ask Tommy too many questions. He wasn’t silly, he knew the bag must have something very important inside, but he knew better than to be nosy. Taking a peek was totally out of the question. As he reached his destination, he began to cry. He wanted his mum and his nice warm bed. Realising that the bag was far too heavy to shove into the big bushes, he hid it at the bottom of them and quickly ran away.
Tommy must have smoked ten fags as he nervously waited for his little brother to return. Smiffy wouldn’t be the only cunt dead if James was caught outside, his mother would make sure that Tommy was buried in the grave next to him.
Hearing a noise from behind, Tommy felt relief flood through his veins as he spotted James. ‘You OK, Jimmy boy?’ he whispered. ‘Did you do exactly what I told yer to?’
James nodded. ‘I did what yer said, Tommy.’
Tommy smiled as he helped the frozen child onto the coal bunker. Trying to get him back in the window was a damn sight harder than trying to get him out. After a bit of a struggle, he shut the bedroom window and hugged James tightly. Kneeling down, he took a couple of five-pence coins out from under the mattress and handed them to him.
‘You, Jimmy boy, are the best bruvver in the world. Take this money and buy yourself loads of sweeties. But remember, this is our little secret and you must never tell anyone about tonight, not ever.’
James nodded. He perfectly understood what his brother was saying. Living in Stepney, you learned the dos and don’ts from a very early age. James hid the two shiny coins in his sock drawer, crawled into bed and fell straight to sleep. His nightmare began almost immediately. The bogeyman had kidnapped him and had hidden him in the alleyway behind Gladys’s house.
Still hyped up, Tommy lay awake for hours. He wondered if Smiffy had been found yet, or maybe he wasn’t even dead and had woken up and gone home. The incident had happened around the back of the old garages, just off the Mile End Road. It was a pretty remote area of a night, and chances were, if he was brown bread, he wouldn’t be found till morning.
Tommy sighed. He’d have to move the bag that James had hidden at some point, although it should be OK for now. It was well away from the scene of the crime, and there was no reason on earth why the pigs should search old Gladys’s street. Even if Smiffy was dead, with no suspects, the case would die down within weeks and then he and the lads could retrieve the bag of evidence and burn the bastard to cinders. Satisfied he’d be in the clear, especially with Lenny’s alibi, Tommy finally got some much-needed shut-eye.
Maureen was up at six the next morning. By eight o’clock she’d done all the washing and ironing and everything was put away neatly in the airing cupboard. Just about to start vaccing, she heard the door open.
‘You got that fuckin’ kettle on yet, birthday girl?’
Maureen smiled as Ethel let herself in and sat down. Her mother-in-law had her own key and came and went as she pleased. Rooting through her shopping bag, Ethel pulled out two tins of Spam, a tin of corned beef, a box of chocolates and a leg of lamb.
Maureen smiled. Ethel’s little gifts came in more than handy. In fact, without her help, she sometimes wondered how she’d manage to feed the kids.
Ethel stood up. ‘I’m off down the waste now to meet up with Glad. Do yer need anything off the market?’
‘You can get us some pickles, Mum,’ Maureen said. She always called Ethel ‘Mum’. It was the done thing in the East End to refer to the in-laws as you would your own parents.
Tommy opened his eyes and leaped out of bed. Yesterday seemed like a bad dream and he wished that it was. He usually loved Saturdays – he and the rest of the gang normally hung about down Roman Road market. The Roman was a buzzy old place on a Saturday and there were always a few bob to be earned. On a good day, they would treat themselves to pie and mash from Kelly’s. On a bad one, they’d share a bag of chips or two. Today he couldn’t face going to the market; neither did he feel hungry. Nervously, he slung on his clothes and ran down the stairs.
‘Oi, yer liberty-takin’ little fucker,’ Maureen shouted. Chasing him up the path, she grabbed his arm. ‘Where were you last night? Yer didn’t get home till half past one. How many times have I told yer, midnight at the latest.’
Tommy looked at her sheepishly. ‘Sorry, Mum. I was round at Lenny Simpson’s. We were listening to David Bowie records and having a few beers.’
Maureen looked at him in amazement. She could always tell when he was lying. ‘Since when have you been into David fucking Bowie? Listen, I don’t care if David turns up round Lenny Simpson’s to sing to yer in person, you get your arse back ’ere by midnight in future, do you hear me?’
Tommy nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
Maureen tutted as she watched him sprint down the road. He’d be the death of her, that boy. He drank like a fish and the way he was going he’d have no liver left by the time he was twenty-one. The selfish little bastard hadn’t even wished her happy birthday.
James woke up, got dressed and fished in his drawer for his new-found wealth. It was his mum’s birthday today and he wanted to creep out and buy her the best present ever.
Maureen was busy preparing for her party that evening. She had dozens of eggs, plenty of cheese and, with Ethel’s leg of lamb, Spam and corned beef, she could really push the boat out for once.
James quietly let himself back in. ‘Happy birthday, Mummy.’
Maureen had tears in her eyes as her youngest handed her a card, a small cake and a beautiful potted plant. ‘Oh James, you little darling, you’ve made mummy cry now. Where did you get these from? Where did yer get the money, love?’