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

Butler grinned at Pete as he supplied the answer: ‘You need a little operation, me old mucker. Did you know that poor young Janey was a pal of mine’s granddaughter?’

      ‘Operation! But I’m not ill. And who the hell is Janey?’ Pat mumbled through the sack.

      Pulling the sharp carving knife out of the bag of goodies he’d brought with him, Michael ordered Pete to tie their prey’s arms up.

      ‘What you gonna do to him?’ Pete asked, alarmed. He and Paul had been under the impression they were just going to teach the nonce a valuable lesson.

      Michael Butler had never been as cold-blooded or sadistic as Vinny. Even Roy had got off on violence more than he had. However, now that he had been left in sole charge of the Butler empire, Michael knew he had no choice other than to do what he was about to.

      The man’s screams were horrendous when Michael unzipped his trousers and began hacking wildly at his penis.

      ‘Jesus wept! He’s gonna die and we’re all gonna be up for murder now,’ Pete hissed.

      Chucking the severed penis out of the window as though it were no more than an unwanted pork sausage, Michael ordered Pete to shut the fuck up and told Paul to take the next turn off and stop the van as soon as the coast was clear.

      Ten minutes later, the cockless, unconscious pervert who’d wronged Auntie Viv was lying on a grass verge in Aveley, while Michael and his henchmen were on their way back up the A13 towards London.

      Little Vinny was in a complete panic. It wasn’t just his old house keys on the keyring, the bunch his uncle had entrusted him with for the club were on there too.

      He’d had them when he went into Alison Bloggs’ place, so they must have fallen out of his tracksuit bottoms while he was sitting on her shabby sofa. In his stoned, drunken stupor he’d been so elated at killing her that he’d forgotten the most important thing of all: covering his tracks.

      Not knowing how to dig himself out of the hole he’d got himself into, he tried to get hold of his uncle and then Ahmed. When that failed he was at a loss. Having made his way back to the club he decided his best option would be to hide in a doorway opposite the club and wait for Michael to show up.

      ‘Got any drink or money, Sonny Jim?’

      Little Vinny startled at the sight of the dishevelled old tramp peering in at him. It occurred to him that this doorway was probably the vagrant’s spot, and the last thing he needed was the guy kicking off and drawing attention to him. He held out his bottle of cider. ‘Here, have this.’ Then he reached into his pocket for his last fiver and handed him that too.

      ‘Bless you, my boy. May God take good care of you,’ the tramp said, before walking away with his gifts.

      Slumped in the doorway with his head in his hands, Little Vinny decided he had nothing to lose by putting his own faith in the big man above. ‘Please, God, I swear, if you help me out of this situation, I will never drink, take drugs or do anything else bad ever again,’ he mumbled.

      When his Uncle Michael suddenly appeared, as if materializing out of nowhere, for the first time ever Little Vinny truly believed that it paid to be nice to people.

       PART TWO

      Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind or the mystery of a tiny baby growing in its mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things.

      Ecclesiastes 11:5

       CHAPTER SIX

      Summer 1984

      Queenie and Vivian had always been creatures of habit, and for the past few years they had fallen into a regular Saturday routine. First they would travel down to Plaistow Cemetery to tend to the graves of Roy, Lenny and Molly. Then they would visit their dear old mum’s plot in Bow before popping home, getting dolled up and heading off to the Roman.

      Roman Road market was most certainly the place to be these days, especially on a Saturday. The trendy stalls and shops attracted women done up to the nines, not just from London but Essex and the surrounding counties as well.

      At fifty-seven, Queenie was three years older than her sister. Both women wore their hair straight, shoulder-length and bleached blonde, and they had often been mistaken for twins. Neither lacked confidence. The heavy foundation they applied helped cover up their wrinkles, the bright red lipstick thickened their naturally thin lips, and the high heels they wore made them look much taller. Queenie was only five foot two, Vivian five three, but in their eyes they looked far more glamorous than all the younger dolly birds the Roman seemed to attract.

      Vivian nudged her sister. ‘Look at the bleedin’ state of that! Talk about mutton done up as lamb.’

      Queenie craned her neck to see who her sister was referring to. ‘Gordon Bennett! She’s got to be in her fifties. That ain’t a skirt, it’s more like a wide belt. If you look close enough, you can see what the old trollop had for breakfast this morning. Fancy walking about showing your muff at her age! Got no class these women, have they?’

      About to reply, Vivian unfortunately caught her heel in a hole in the pavement and fell flat on her face.

      Queenie crouched down. ‘You all right, Vivvy?’

      Within seconds, Vivian was surrounded by concerned shoppers and stallholders. Steve, who sold fruit and veg, gathered up Viv’s shopping bags. ‘You OK? Let me help you up, darling.’

      Being the aunt of such notorious nephews often had its advantages, but right now Viv wished she was anybody but herself. The story of her stacking it would be all round Whitechapel by this evening and her nosy neighbours would probably dine out on it for months. ‘Poxy bastard shoes. Me heel snapped off. Show’s over, people,’ Vivian spat, as she scrambled to her feet.

      ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Queenie asked, her face full of concern.

      Hobbling towards her sister with one shoe on and one off, Vivian grabbed Queenie’s arm and hissed, ‘I’m fine. Let’s go to the pub.’

      Michael Butler grinned as he finished counting the previous evening’s takings. His brilliant business brain had proved all the doubters wrong. He was literally raking it in.

      When Vinny had first got banged up, Michael had gone along with his wishes and kept their club as it was by sticking with the singers, comedians, live bands, etc. But when the takings had dipped even more, he’d had no choice but to move with the times. His mother and Vinny had been appalled. But Michael had stuck by his guns, and his disco idea had taken off almost immediately.

      The club now opened four nights a week. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights were aimed at the youngsters, and on Monday evenings Michael had come up with an over-thirties’ night. He and his staff privately referred to it as ‘grab-a-granny night’, but it had proved a massive success. The only thing from the past that Michael hadn’t got rid of was the strippers on Sunday lunchtimes. They attracted perverts from all over and perverts spent good money.

      His two old stalwarts Pete and Paul remained as invaluable as ever, but it had been Little Vinny who had proved to be the biggest asset to Michael at the club. His nephew was now eighteen and unrecognizable as the scruffy skinhead delinquent he’d once been. The lad worked like a Trojan, had a great business brain, and as a result Michael had added a commission-based bonus on top of his wage.

      To say Michael had been surprised by the change in Little Vinny was an understatement. He’d been convinced his nephew was a liability, especially after the night when he’d returned to the club after chopping Patrick Campbell’s cock off to find out the stupid kid had killed Alison Bloggs and left his keys in her house.

      Doing what any decent uncle would have, Michael had broken into