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, Jimmyboy?’ 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?’
James had already prepared himself for this particular question. ‘I saved all my pennies that Nanny gave me for ages and ages,’ he said confidently.
Maureen picked him up and smothered him in kisses. ‘You are a very special boy, James, and your mummy loves you very much.’
James wriggled out of her arms. ‘I’m going to play on my space hopper now.’
Susan stood at the kitchen door with a sullen expression firmly intact. ‘I’m starvin’. Can I ’ave some breakfast?’
James turned to his sister. ‘It’s Mummy’s birthday today.’
Susan scowled at him. ‘So what?’
James squeezed past his nasty sister and ran into the garden. He’d had just enough money left to buy himself a gobstopper and he wanted to suck it in peace and savour every moment.
Tommy sprinted to his pal’s house in record time. Tibbsy shot straight out the door and the two of them ran round to Benno’s. Dave Taylor was already there, but no one said a word about the previous evening until they had reached the serenity of the park. Searching through the bushes, Tibbsy pulled out a bottle of sherry. His nan, bless her soul, was senile and he’d chored it from her house and stashed it a couple of days ago.
‘Don’t think bad of me,’ he said, as he unscrewed the lid. ‘Me nan don’t even drink, someone must ’ave bought it for her.’
All four lads took it in turns to swig from the bottle. None of them had slept well, and their nerves were shot to pieces.
Tibbsy stood up. ‘Right, what we gonna do? Has anyone heard anything yet?’
The other three shook their heads. ‘Me muvver had the telly on – there was nothing on the local news,’ Benno said.
Tommo took another large gulp from the sherry bottle. ‘What we should do
