The Wronged: No parent should ever have to bury their child.... Kimberley Chambers

and friends meant everything to Shell, which was why she’d invited her brother Karl and his wife Melissa to move in with her. They’d been living in a poxy old bedsit that was full of mould and damp, and stood far more chance of getting their own place via Tower Hamlets council than Newham.

      When somebody started ferociously hammering on her door, Shell’s first thought was that it was the Old Bill again. Then she reminded herself that Kurt and Brad were currently upstairs painting their bedroom, so couldn’t have got in any more trouble since yesterday.

      She opened the door to find her new neighbour on her doorstep, lips pursed and hands on hips, glaring daggers at her.

      ‘That ginger and white thing belong to you?’

      ‘If you’re talking about a cat, yeah, that’s my Chester.’

      ‘Best you stop your Chester coming into my garden and killing my birds then. Murdered one right in front of us this morning, didn’t he, Viv?’

      ‘Yeah. Poor little robin was terrified,’ Vivian added.

      Shell looked at the two women like they’d just arrived from another planet. ‘You are joking, right?’

      ‘Do I look like I’m bastard-well joking? I spend a fortune every week on seeds and nuts for them birds. Breaks my heart to see them getting ripped to pieces.’

      Shell burst out laughing. ‘Karl, Mel, you gotta come and listen to this,’ she shouted. Her brother and sister-in-law were in the lounge.

      ‘Not going to hear you over that racket, are they? And that’s another thing we wanted to talk to you about. If you think we’re putting up with that shit blaring through our walls, you’ve got another think coming. Do you know who we are?’ Vivian asked indignantly.

      Holding her crotch because she was chuckling so much she was afraid she might wet herself, Shell burst into the lounge and gestured for Karl and Mel to follow her into the hallway.

      Queenie and Vivian were appalled. They weren’t accustomed to being laughed at. People were usually too scared to say a bad word to them, let alone take the piss.

      ‘Meet our neighbours,’ Shell guffawed. ‘They’ve asked me to tell Chester not to go in their garden and kill the birds. Now do you want to tell him, or shall I, Karl? I think there’s more chance of Chester listening to you. He understands you better than me.’

      When the brother and sister-in-law also burst out laughing, a red-faced Queenie started to wag her forefinger. ‘You’ll be laughing on the other side of your faces once my family gets to hear about this, let me tell you.’

      Hearing the commotion, Kurt and Bradley appeared. ‘Shut up, you mad old bat,’ Kurt told Queenie.

      ‘My grandson will deal with you, you little shit. As for the rest of yous, watch your backs. I am Queenie Butler. Mother of the Vinny and Michael Butler who run this fucking area.’

      Still laughing, Shell replied, ‘And we’re the Bakers. Nice to meet you. Now piss off!’

      When the door was slammed in her face, Queenie felt faint. ‘Hold me arm, Viv. Get me back indoors. I need another brandy.’

      Feeling satisfied with his day’s work, the man dialled the all-important number.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Found him boss. I took plenty of photos that are already on their way to you. I have an address of a house where I believe his wife and sons live. Do you want photos of them too?’

      The boss slammed the paperweight against his mahogany desk. ‘Did you not understand my orders? I want photos of every fucking thing Michael Butler has contact with. Even his cunting pet dog.’

      The man apologized and ended the call. If he were a betting man, he’d put his house on Michael Butler being dead this time next week.

       CHAPTER NINE

      Nancy Butler prodded her husband. ‘Michael, wake up. That was my mum on the phone. Freda Smart is seriously ill, so I’m going to the hospital. Will you look after the boys today?’

      Squinting at the radio/alarm clock, Michael was annoyed he’d been woken up so early. ‘Freda Smart’s a mad old bat and her fucking grandson dumped my sister while she was pregnant, in case you’d forgotten.’

      ‘I know that, but Freda was really kind to me when I was ill in hospital, Michael. She hasn’t got anybody else to visit her,’ Nancy retorted.

      ‘I’ve got to go to work today, so the boys will have to come with me.’

      ‘I don’t want them going to the club. Can’t you have the day off and take them somewhere else?’

      ‘No. I can’t. Now stop rambling on and let me get some poxy kip.’

      Mary Walker was unusually quiet throughout the journey to the hospital.

      ‘You OK, Mum?’ Nancy asked.

      ‘I just hate going back to Whitechapel, love. Reminds me of our old café. Do you remember the interior, Nance? You probably don’t, as you were still quite young. Beautiful, that café was. I was heartbroken when we had to walk away from it.’

      ‘I remember the red tables and chairs and the jukebox,’ said Nancy, patting her mum’s arm. ‘I don’t like coming back here either. It reminds me of Molly.’

      ‘I wonder who’s living in Molly’s old house now?’

      Nancy shrugged. ‘I think Michael sold it to an Indian family. Let’s hope they have more luck there than poor Jo did.’ Vinny had instructed Michael to sell the house via a phone call from prison.

      ‘I hope poor Freda knows who we are. She must be in a pretty bad way for the hospital to ring me so early. Shame, isn’t it, love. Must be awful, not having any family to call upon at a time like this.’

      Watching her mother struggle to get out of the car, Nancy issued a warning. ‘It’ll be you in hospital next if you put on any more weight, Mum.’

      Mary sighed. She only weighted eleven stone something, but looked bigger because of her five-foot frame. Donald was a whole foot taller than her and when they’d met she’d been ever so petite with a tiny little waist. ‘Thanks for that, Nance. It’s not easy to lose weight at my age. You’re lucky ’cause you’re taller than me and still young.’

      ‘Mum, you’re fifty-two not seventy. Your sweet tooth is the bloody problem, not your height or age.’

      ‘Has Michael upset you this morning, dear?’ Mary asked knowingly.

      Nancy nodded. ‘I asked him to take the boys out somewhere for the day, but he’s taking them to work with him instead. It gives me the heebies, them going anywhere near that club after what happened to Molly. The place is jinxed.’

      Mary linked arms with her daughter. ‘Try not to worry too much. The boys are far more capable of looking after themselves than poor little Molly was. They’ll most likely all be working there when they leave school anyway, Nance. So you might as well get used to it.’

      Having prepared themselves for the worst, Mary and Nancy were surprised to see Freda propped up against a pillow reading the newspaper. She didn’t look well though. Her skin and the whites of her eyes were the colour of egg yolks.

      ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice. I really do appreciate it,’ Freda said, before explaining her cancer was back and was now terminal.

      Nancy squeezed the old lady’s hand. ‘Surely there must be something the doctors can do? Isn’t there any treatment they can try?’

      Freda shook her head. ‘Riddled with the bastard disease, I am. Even spread to my liver now. Once it hits your vital organs, that’s it – curtains.’