before you proposed?’ Freda asked. She had met Sandra a couple of times now, and even though Freda was a little disappointed she had given herself to her grandson so early in their relationship, she still liked the girl immensely.
‘It’s not Sandra that I’ve got pregnant. It’s Brenda Butler,’ Dean mumbled, staring at his shoes.
Freda burst out laughing and nudged her son. ‘He’s a wind-up, ain’t he, Tel?’
Terry Smart chuckled, but then clocking the shameful look in his son’s eyes, his laughter dried up. ‘You are kidding us, right?’
When Dean shook his head regretfully, Terry leapt up and went absolutely berserk. ‘You stupid little cunt,’ he screamed, while punching his son numerous times in the side of his head.
‘Leave him! You’ll do him damage,’ Freda hollered, leaping on her son’s back.
‘Do him damage! I’ll fucking kill him,’ Terry yelled. How could his son do this to him when he knew how badly Vinny had beaten him? He had lost most of his teeth for fuck’s sake, and now had to rely on false ones to chew his food.
Freda ran into the kitchen, grabbed her rolling pin and hit Terry over the head with it. ‘Go down the pub and calm yourself down. I will sort this mess out,’ she shouted.
Terry grabbed his jacket. ‘You’d better fucking sort it, Muvver, because over my dead body is he gonna marry into that cunting family.’
When the front door slammed, Freda sat down on the sofa next to her grandson. Unusually for Dean, he was crying, but Freda could not find it in her heart to comfort him. ‘You stupid, stupid boy. Whatever possessed you to poke your Hampton in Brenda Butler, eh? To say I’m disappointed in you is an understatement, Dean, but I’m gonna use the money I’ve got saved in me old biscuit tin to sort this mess out for you, OK? Now dry them bloody eyes. No point crying over spilt milk, is there?’
Furious with himself for acting like a big girl’s blouse, Dean Smart wiped his eyes furiously with the cuff of his shirt. ‘I have no option other than to marry Brenda, Nan. Her brothers will annihilate me if I don’t. And what you going on about money for? That ain’t gonna change nothing, is it?’
‘Oh, yes it will! Nearly fifty pounds I’ve saved over the years. I shall take it round to Queenie’s house right now, and insist that little tart of a daughter of hers gets an abortion.’
When his nan darted into the kitchen and ran back waving a tin, Dean leapt up and snatched it off her. ‘Don’t be so stupid. Don’t you think the Butlers could afford an abortion, if they wanted Brenda to have one? They don’t agree with all that, which is why I have to marry the girl.’
‘Marry her, my arse,’ Freda spat, grabbing back the tin. Seconds later, she stomped out of the front door.
Unaware that her future son-in-law was currently chasing his gran down the road begging her not to cause any trouble, Queenie was busy discussing the day’s events with Vivian. After Dean had left, the subject had turned to Albie.
‘I still can’t believe we have to suffer that old bastard for dinner. Can’t we put some arsenic in his?’ Vivian suggested.
Queenie chuckled. It had been her idea that Albie come round to hers for dinner tomorrow. There was no way that she would humiliate herself by being seen out in public with the womanizing old drunk. ‘I wonder what the boys will dress him up as? Be funny if they make him look like one of them orthodox Jews. That will give the neighbours something to talk about, won’t it?’
Vivian burst out laughing. It had been Queenie’s plan to bring her husband to the house in disguise. She hadn’t wanted any of the neighbours to clock him.
‘I’m only doing this for the boys, you know. My Michael is especially upset that his dad is dying, but I couldn’t give a shit to be honest. Would have divorced him years ago and changed my name back to Wade, but I didn’t want the kids to feel like bastards,’ Queenie explained.
‘But they are bastards. The whole of the East End knows that,’ Vivian joked.
Holding her crotch to prevent herself from piddling her knickers, Queenie was about to top up Vivian’s glass when the doorbell rang. ‘Who the bleedin’ hell’s this? Look out the window, Viv. I need a wee.’
‘Oh, my giddy aunt! It’s only Mad Freda,’ Vivian exclaimed.
Forgetting about her desire to use the toilet, Queenie ran to the door like a thoroughbred racehorse. ‘Come to offer your congratulations, have you?’
‘Yep, I bet she has, Queenie. Must be thrilled our families are about to be joined in matrimony,’ Vivian added, putting a supportive arm around her sister’s shoulder.
Freda opened her tin, took the notes out and handed them to Queenie. ‘There’s enough there for the abortion. Take it, it’s all yours.’
Queenie chuckled. ‘But, we don’t believe in killing babies, do we, Vivvy?’
‘Nope,’ Vivian replied. The look on Mad Freda’s screwed up face was absolutely priceless.
‘Well, best you start believing, because there is no way my grandson is getting involved with your shitbag family. May God be my judge, I would kill for that boy, if I was forced to.’
Queenie grinned at Vivian, then ripped the notes that Freda had given her into little pieces and threw them into the air. ‘Well, best you go get your gun, you mad old bat. Your Dean is a Butler now, whether you like it or not.’
Laughing when Freda crawled along the garden path trying to retrieve the money while showing her bloomers, Queenie then slammed the front door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Johnny Preston grinned when he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He hardly recognized himself with short, dark hair, so he doubted anybody else would.
‘Right, stick this on now,’ Graeme Bradley urged, handing his pal the false moustache.
‘I don’t like this thing. I’d much rather have grown a bit of a beard,’ Johnny complained.
Graeme chuckled. He and Johnny went back years, and people used to refer to them and Dave Phillips as the three musketeers. An eight-year prison sentence for attempted murder had then narrowed it down to the two musketeers, and Graeme had been gutted when he had learned of Dave’s death while serving time in Pentonville.
‘You do look a bit like Hitler, but you’re just gonna have to like it or lump it, I’m afraid. I’ve already told you, you can’t have dark hair and a blond beard. You’ll look a freak, and bring unwanted attention to yourself.’
Graeme had dyed Johnny’s eyebrows as well, and thinking how he looked like one of the Marx brothers, Johnny ordered his pal to trim them for him. The plan they had hatched was for Johnny to park up on a motorbike near Vinny’s club, shoot Vinny at point-blank range, then meet Graeme who would be waiting nearby with a van. The bike would then be loaded in the back of the van, and disposed of as quickly as possible.
Johnny did not need his disguise for the actual hit because he would be wearing a crash-helmet. His new appearance was just so he wasn’t
