THE MAURA RYAN BOOKS

Copyright © 1992, 2002 Martina Cole

The right of Martina Cole to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Dangerous Lady

First published in 1992 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Maura’s Game

First published in 2002 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

First published in this Ebook omnibus edition in 2020 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

Cover design © Shoma Design

Dangerous Lady: Cover images © Scene Photography/Millennium Images, UK (car-park) and Stephen Carroll/Trevillion Images (woman)

Maura’s Game: Cover photographs © Hannah Honnef/EyeEm/Getty Images (street), Stephen Carroll/Trevillion Images (woman) and Photosampler/Shutterstock (car)

eISBN: 978 1 4722 7825 8

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

An Hachette UK Company

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

About Martina Cole

Praise

Also by Martina Cole

Dangerous Lady

About the Book

Dedication

Foreword

Book One – LONDON, NOTTING HILL

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Book Two

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Book Three – THE DOWNFALL

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Maura’s Game

About the Book

Dedication

Book One

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Book Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Interview with Martina Cole

About the Author

© Bill Waters

Martina Cole’s first novel Dangerous Lady caused a sensation when it was published, and launched one of the bestselling fiction writers of her generation.

Martina has since gone on to have more No. 1 original fiction bestsellers than any other author. She won the British Book Award for Crime Thriller of the Year with The Take, which then went on to be a hit TV series for Sky 1.

Four of her novels have made it to the screen with more in production, and three have been adapted as stage plays.

Her unique, powerful storytelling is acclaimed for its hard-hitting, true-to-life style – there is no one else who writes like Martina Cole.

Praise for Martina Cole:

‘The stuff of legend . . . utterly compelling’ Mirror

‘Her gripping plots pack a mean emotional punch’ Mail on Sunday

‘One of Britain’s best crime writers’ Woman’s Own

‘A blinding good read’ Ray Winstone

‘Intensely readable’ Guardian

‘I was hooked from page one . . . an enthralling, brilliant read’ Best

‘Dark and dangerous’ Sunday Mirror

‘She has enjoyed unqualified approval for her distinctive and powerfully written fiction’ The Times

‘Another nail-biting thriller’ Woman & Home

‘One of the most popular novelists of our time’ Literary Review

‘An extraordinarily powerful piece of family drama’ Daily Mirror

‘The acknowledged mistress of the insanely readable gangster thriller, Cole has delivered another addictive tale . . . brutally compelling’ Sunday Mirror ‘We always get excited when a Martina Cole novel drops on our desk, and she continues to maintain her reputation as one of the best fiction authors around with this gritty and unforgettable story of a family immersed in a world of violence and revenge. Spectacular’ 5 ★★★★★ Closer

‘Martina tells it like it really is and her unique, honest and compassionate style shines through’ Sun

‘The queen of crime’ Woman & Home

‘Thrilling, shocking and exceptionally written, you’ll get lost in this gritty novel, which proves there really is only one Martina Cole’ Closer

‘The undisputed queen of British crime thrillers’ Heat

‘Cole has the amazing talent of making characters appear larger than life.’ Sun

‘A masterpiece of plotting, characterisation and drama . . . Terrific stuff from a terrific lady’ Mirror

‘Cole is brilliant at portraying the good among the bad, and vice versa, so until the very end we never quite know who to trust’ Daily Mirror

‘Her gripping plots pack a mean emotional punch, and this latest is no exception’ Mail on Sunday

‘The author is taking the reader into Irvine Welsh territory and beyond’ Daily Telegraph

‘Martina Cole deals with a gritty contemporary subject in an intelligent and compassionate way that’s bound to make you think’ Daily Express

‘Martina Cole pulls no punches, writes as she sees it, refuses to patronise or condescend to either her characters or fans’ Independent on Sunday

‘A violently realistic thriller of East End life, with Essex-born Cole once again proving adept at getting authentic language down on the page’ Closer

‘Another gritty novel from an author who knows intimately the world she writes about’ Express

‘The story will grip you from the first pages – but it’s not for the faint-hearted!’ Best

‘Cole has a remarkable story-telling capacity’ Sunday Express

Martina Cole’s bestsellers in order of publication.
All available from Headline.

Dangerous Lady (1992)

The Ladykiller: DI Kate Burrows 1 (1993)

Goodnight Lady (1994)

The Jump (1995)

The Runaway (1997)

Two Women (1999)

Broken: DI Kate Burrows 2 (2000)

Faceless (2001)*

Maura’s Game: Dangerous Lady 2 (2002)*

The Know (2003)*

The Graft (2004)*

The Take (2005)*

Close (2006)*

Faces (2007)*

The Business (2008)*

Hard Girls: DI Kate Burrows 3 (2009)*

The Family (2010)*

The Faithless (2011)*

The Life (2012)*

Revenge (2013)*

The Good Life (2014)*

Get Even (2015)

Betrayal (2016)*

Damaged: DI Kate Burrows 4 (2017)*

No Mercy (2019)*

On Screen:

Dangerous Lady (ITV 1995)

The Jump (ITV 1998)

Martina Cole’s Lady Killers (ITV3 documentary 2008)

The Take (Sky 1 2009)

Martina Cole’s Girl Gangs (Sky Factual documentary 2009)

The Runaway (Sky 1 2011)

* Martina Cole’s No. 1 bestsellers – Martina has held the record for spending more weeks at No. 1 than any other author

About the Book

In gangland London, Maura Ryan is queen . . .

No one thinks a seventeen-year-old girl can take on the hard men of London’s gangland, but it’s a mistake to underestimate Maura Ryan: she’s tough, clever and beautiful – which makes her one very dangerous lady.

Together, she and her brother Michael are unbeatable but notoriety has its price. The police are determined to put Maura away once and for all – and not everyone in the family thinks that’s such a bad idea. When it comes to the crunch, Maura has to face the pain of lost love in her past – and the dangerous lady discovers her heart is not made entirely of stone.

To my parents

Foreword

About ten years ago, back in my partying days, I struck up a late-night conversation with a bubbly blonde in Gerry’s Club in Soho. She recognised me from the telly and asked me lots of questions about my career, my personal life and my family. I was very flattered by her attention and enjoyed our quite-drunken ramblings. Eventually, after I had regaled her with many a showbiz tale, I asked her what she did for a living. ‘I’m a writer,’ she replied. ‘I’ve written a few novels.’

‘Oh, how exciting!’ I politely enthused. ‘Have any been published?’

She smiled at me and in her wonderful, husky Cockney voice said, ‘Have you ever heard of Martina Cole?’

‘Yes,  of course,’ I said, ‘I’m reading Dangerous Lady now!’

‘Well, that’s me!!’

I was speechless for once – and as embarrassed as alcohol allowed me to be! And that was the start of our friendship as I remember it.

Martina is a wonderful storyteller. She transports her readers to the dark underbelly of a world most of us know very little about, and yet she knows intimately. It’s the world of the London criminal – frightening, brutal, violent and often glamorous, for which she makes no apology.

Dangerous Lady, her first novel, is one of my favourites. It’s a belter of a book, a real page-turner – and it’s incredible to think that she wrote it, aged twenty, in a carpetless council flat, during snatched moments while her baby was sleeping.

The characters are so utterly convincing. Beautiful, ruthless Maura Ryan and her terrifying older brother, Michael – the underworld kingpin who rules Soho along with his seven gangster brothers – remain as fresh in my mind as when I was first introduced to them, a decade ago. Now, as then, part of me wanted these bad guys to get their comeuppance, but Martina cleverly evokes sympathy for each and every one of them, no matter how evil the crimes. She asks you to question how much choice people have over their destiny when they have endured the direst of upbringings. She highlights police corruption and asks whether bent coppers are any better than the criminals from whom they are taking hush money.

Martina’s great skill is in showing how relationships are built and broken when siblings, friends, enemies and lovers come into conflict. As her plots twist and turn, her characters encompass the deepest and strongest of human emotions, from love, passion and loyalty to bitter rivalry and regret. Every sentence she writes is vivid, every paragraph compelling. It’s no wonder that several of her novels have been adapted into acclaimed television dramas and stage plays – including, of course, Dangerous Lady.

I am honoured to have been asked to write the foreword for this anniversary edition of Martina’s first novel, the book that set its author on the road to being the much-loved, bestselling novelist she is today.

I was, and remain, Martina Cole’s greatest fan, both as an amazing crime writer and an exceptional human being.

Denise Welch, 2016

Book One

LONDON, NOTTING HILL

If possible honestly, if not,
somehow,
make money – Horace, 65-8 BC

Am I my brother’s keeper? – Genesis, iv, 9

Chapter One

1950

‘You took your bloody time!’

Dr Martin O’Reilly stared down into the child’s face and sighed.

‘I had to see another patient. Now where’s your ma?’

‘In bed, of course.’

The little boy went back to sit on the stairs with his seven brothers. They ranged in age from three to fourteen. The doctor lit a cigar. He stood in the hallway puffing on it for a few seconds to make sure it was fully alight. The smell of the Ryans en masse was enough to turn the strongest of stomachs, though the slum stench was in his blood now, he reckoned. It permeated his clothes and skin. He started to pick his way up the stairs, careful not to tread on any little fingers. The children shuffled left and right on their bottoms to let him pass. He was also careful not to touch the wall. The smell he could combat with his cigar, but the roaches – he would never get used to them. How the buggers ran up the walls he would never know. They defied gravity.

On the landing he pushed open the first bedroom door, and there in front of him was Sarah Ryan. She was lying on a large double bed, her belly huge and swollen. He smiled at her, his heart breaking. Sarah Ryan was thirty-four years old. Her faded blonde hair was scraped back from her face into a bun, her skin was pale and dry. If her eyes had not been so bright and alert, she could have been mistaken for a corpse. He could remember coming to this house fifteen years earlier to deliver her first child. A fine-looking woman she had been then. Now her body was fat and scarred from constant childbearing, and her face wrinkled prematurely from habitual frowning.

‘It’s well on then?’ His voice was gentle.

Sarah tried to hitch herself up in the bed. The old newspapers that had been placed underneath her crackled at the movement. ‘Yeah. It’s good of you to come, Martin. I told the little sods to get their dad, but as usual he ain’t nowhere to be seen.’

She gripped her belly as another pain shot through her. ‘Oh, it’s dying to be born this one.’ She smiled faintly. Then her eyes stretched wide as she saw the doctor take a syringe out of his bag.

‘You ain’t sticking that thing in me! We had all this out the last time. I ain’t having any bloody injections. This is me thirteenth child and I never had one with any of them. Not even the stillborns. I ain’t starting now.’

‘Come on, Sarah. This will ease you.’

She put up her hand to stem his protests. ‘I’m sorry but them things hurt like hell, whereas giving birth . . . it’s nothing. Nothing . . .’

Martin put the needle on the small bedside table and, sighing heavily, pulled back the blankets covering her legs. His expert hands felt around her sides and then he slipped two fingers inside her vagina. When he had finished he pulled the blankets back over her.

‘I think this one’s breech.’

Sarah shrugged.

‘First one if it is. I ain’t done so bad. Ben was saying the other day that soon they would drop out as I walked down to the shops!’

She laughed and the doctor laughed with her.

‘That would do me out of a job. Now you relax for a minute, I won’t be long. I want one of the boys to run an errand for me.’ He left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

‘She had it then?’ This from eight-year-old Leslie who had let him in earlier.

‘No, she hasn’t had it yet. Be patient, you young bugger.’

The doctor turned to the eldest boy, Michael. At nearly fifteen he was already over six feet tall and towered over the little Irish doctor in front of him.

‘Michael, go and get old Mother Jenkins. I’m going to need help with this one.’

The boy stared down at the doctor for a few seconds. ‘Me muvver’s gonna be all right, ain’t she?’ His voice was deep and concerned.

The doctor nodded. ‘Of course.’

The boy still did not move.

‘She’s never had old Mother Jenkins before.’

The doctor stared up at the boy impatiently. ‘Look, Michael, I can’t stand around here all day talking to you. Your ma’s bad, but if we can get this baby born she’ll be all right. The sooner you get Mrs Jenkins the better. Time’s short.’

Michael turned slowly away from the doctor and placing one hand on the banister and the other on the wall he slid down, jumping over the younger boys’ heads. As he landed heavily on the linoleum, the doctor called to him: ‘Tell her I’ll be paying the ten shillings or she won’t come.’

Michael waved to let the doctor know he had heard, then, opening the front door, he rushed out.

The doctor looked down on to the younger children’s heads and his teeth clamped down even harder on his cigar. Michael’s foray down the stairs had caused the cockroaches to fall from the walls. The youngest child, Benny, not only had them crawling in his clothes, but one adventurous roach was slowly making its way across his face. Martin watched the child flick it gently away and made a mental note to see the landlord about getting the house stoved. It would never get rid of the damned things permanently but at least it would give the Ryans a breathing space.

‘Now then, I want a couple of you to go and find your father.’ Geoffrey, Anthony and Leslie all stood up. The doctor pointed at them in turn. ‘You, Geoffrey, try the Latimer Arms. You, Anthony, go up the Roundhouse. And you . . .’

Leslie nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor.

‘. . . go to the Kensington Park Hotel. If you can’t find him in any of those places then try the Bramley Arms. If by any chance you do find your da, tell him that he is needed at home. Can you all remember that?’

The three heads nodded and they went on their way. Martin went back into the bedroom with Sarah.

‘Sure they’re good boys you’ve got there.’

Her voice sounded sceptical. ‘I don’t know about that, Doctor. They’re a bit wild at times. It’s the old man. He takes the belt to them for nicking one minute, and then the next he’s sending them out to do it. The poor little sods can’t win.’

She doubled up as another pain hit her.

‘Relax now, Sarah.’ He pushed a few stray hairs from her face. It was getting dark so he pulled the curtains and put on the overhead light. He lit himself another cigar from the butt of the previous one. Then, with it firmly clamped between his teeth, he examined her again. When he had finished he had a worried look on his face. He visibly relaxed as he heard a voice in the hallway. A few seconds later Matilda Jenkins had pushed open the bedroom door. She stood at the end of Sarah’s bed, all eighteen stone of her.

‘All right, Doctor?’ This was a form of address, not a question.

‘All right, Sarah? The bloody stairs knacker me these days. But them boys!’ She flapped her hand at Sarah. ‘Talk about scatter them. One look at me coming up ’em and they run like mad!’ Her deep booming laugh reverberated around the bedroom. The doctor was paying her the ten shillings, she could afford to be friendly.

‘It’s a big woman you are, Matilda, to be sure. Now get yourself back down the stairs and heat me up lots of water. I want to sterilise me things. This little fellow’s breech.’

Matilda nodded her head vigorously.

‘Righto, Doc. I’ll send around the neighbours, get them to put their kettles on. We might even get a cuppa out of them!’

As she stamped from the room, Sarah glared at the doctor.

‘What’s she doing here? I ain’t got ten shillings, and if I did have I’d give it to the kids. They ain’t eaten since yesterday, and until that man of mine comes home, they won’t eat at all! Knowing him, he’s shacked up with some old sort somewhere and won’t be home till the morning!’

She was near to tears.

‘Calm down now, Sarah. I’m paying her.’ He grasped one of her hands. ‘Now be quiet, woman. I can’t cope with this on me own. So you whisht now, and save your strength.’

Sarah lay back against the pillows, her face drenched with sweat. Her lips were cracked and dry. Turning awkwardly towards the bedside table, she picked up a glass of water and sipped the warm liquid gratefully. A little later Matilda brought up a bucket of steaming water. The doctor set about sterilising his things, including a large pair of scissors.

By nine in the evening Sarah was in great distress, as was the child within her. Twice the doctor had tried to push his arm inside her to turn the child and each time he had failed. He wiped his hands on a towel he had brought with him.

This child had to be born, and soon, or he would lose the pair of them. Blast Benjamin Ryan! It was always the same. He gave her a child every year, but was never there when it came into the world.

The little boys kept their vigil on the stairs. All were tired and hungry. Michael, waiting at the top, was silently cursing his father as he looked at his younger brothers’ little faces. Benny was sucking the arm of his jumper.

Suddenly there was a loud banging on the front door. Six-year-old Garry answered it, only to be knocked flying as two policemen came crashing in. Michael took one look at them and, swearing under his breath, ran into his mother’s bedroom. Cries could be heard from the stairs as the policemen tried to make their way up to the landing, the remaining boys making it as difficult as possible for them in the hope that their brother would get away.

Michael had opened the bedroom window and was half in and half out as the policemen burst into the room.

Then the lights went out.

‘Who turned off the lights, you little bastards?’

‘No one turned off the bleeding lights. The electric’s gone.’ Sarah’s voice was faint. The policemen turned on their torches.

‘Bring those over here. This woman is in danger of her life.’ The urgency in the doctor’s voice brought both men to the bed. The boy was long gone, they both knew that. Sarah was writhing in agony, tears on her cheeks.

‘You lot want slaughtering. My boy ain’t done nothing.’

Matilda Jenkins broke in, ‘Look, has anyone got a shilling for the meter?’

‘I have.’ The smaller of the two policemen fished some change out of his pocket. Leaving his colleague to help the doctor, he walked from the room and carefully made his way down the stairs. Stepping through the children as gently as he could, he went to the cupboard under the stairs and, locating the meter, put a shilling in. He put in another, and turned off his torch as he stepped out of the cupboard. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at him with open hostility, even the youngest’s who was not yet four. The man looked at the boys as if seeing them for the first time. At the heads close-cropped to combat the lice and the holey jumpers with elbows poking through. He stood for a while staring at them. He felt for the first time in his life what it must be like to be one of them and was overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness and futility. Taking out his wallet, he pulled out a ten-shilling note and offered it to Geoffrey, the second eldest.

‘Get yourself over the Messer’s and get some fish and chips.’

‘We don’t want old Bill’s money!’

‘Hark at the hard man! Well, clever clogs, your little brothers are starving, so go and do what I tell you.’

He pushed the money into Geoffrey’s hands. All the boy’s instincts told him to throw the money back at the policeman, their natural enemy, but his little brothers’ faces changed his mind. They had not eaten for nearly two days. Sullenly, he pushed past the man, who held on to his arm.

‘Tell that brother of yours that we’ll catch him in the end so he might as well give himself up.’

Geoffrey pulled his arm roughly away. Then, looking at the man as if he was so much dirt, he let himself out of the front door. The constable walked back up the stairs, shaking his head.

In the bedroom, Sarah was fighting to get the child born. The other policeman was holding her down, while the doctor was cutting her down below. As he cut she gave an almighty push and ripped open to her behind. The child slipped into the world, still in its birth sac. The doctor punched this open and looked at the little blue face inside. He cleaned its nose and gently blew into its mouth while he pressed tenderly on its tiny ribcage. The baby coughed and gave a little cry. Then, taking a deep breath, began to bawl its head off. Quick as a flash the doctor had cut the cord, passed the child to Matilda Jenkins, and was stitching away at Sarah as if his own life depended on it.

She lay against the pillows, her whole body numb. She swore to herself that this was going to be the last child.

‘Your first girl, Sarah.’ Matilda’s voice was kind.

She sat up in the bed, dumbstruck, her face aglow as if lit from the inside. She grinned, showing all her large yellowing teeth.

‘You’re joking! I thought it was another boy! A girl! It is really a girl?’

Even the policemen smiled at her. She was genuinely amazed.

‘Oh, let me have her. Let me hold her! A daughter at last, thank Gawd!’

Matilda placed the child in her arms. The baby was now cleaned up and Sarah looked down into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

‘She’s a beauty, Sarah.’

She stared down at her daughter in wonderment. This was her thirteenth child, but her first girl. All tiredness was forgotten as she gazed at her daughter. Then she looked around her at the other smiling faces, and remembered why the policemen were there. The elder of the two had been coming to the house for nigh on fifteen years. Ben had even been at it all through the war.

‘What’s my Mickey supposed to have done now?’ Her voice was flat.

‘He’s been running for a bookie again, Sarah. I’ve warned him twice now. This time I’m going to nick him. So you tell him to come and see me.’

She looked back at her daughter. The doctor had finished, and, after removing the old newspapers from under Sarah, covered her up. She looked back at the policeman.

‘I’ll tell him, Frank, but he’s like the old man. He goes his own way.’ Her voice was low.

Matilda Jenkins opened the bedroom door and called the rest of the boys in. They all trooped in, eating their fish and chips, and clustered around the bed. Benny could not see anything so pulled on the doctor’s coat.

‘What do you want, child?’

Benny looked up with his little monkey face. His mouth was full of food.

‘Is it Hovis, then?’

‘Hovis? The doctor’s voice was puzzled. ‘What are you on about, boy?’

‘Hovis . . . you know, brown bread. Well, is it?’

The doctor looked around him for enlightenment.

‘Brown bread? Are you delirious, child?’

‘He means is it dead? Brown bread . . . dead. Get it?’

This was spoken by Anthony, and his tone indicated that if anyone was stupid it was not his little brother.

‘Brown bread, bejasus! No, it’s not. It’s very much alive. Now eat your chips, you little heathen. Brown bread indeed!’

The policemen laughed.

‘How long you been in London, Doc?’ the elder asked. ‘Twenty years? And you still don’t know the lingo.’ They thought this highly amusing. ‘We’d better be off, Sar. Don’t forget to tell Michael when he gets in.’

‘I won’t forget, Frank. I’ll tell him, but he won’t come. You know that.’

‘Well, try and persuade him. Good luck with the new arrival. See you all.’ The two men left.

Sarah looked at her sons’ faces and smiled.

‘It’s a girl!’

All the boys grinned at her.

‘A daughter for me old age.’ She hugged the child to her. ‘I’m going to call her Maura. Maura Ryan. I like that.’

‘Shall I go and get Mickey, Mum? I saved him some chips.’

‘Yeah, Geoff. Tell him the coast is clear.’

The doctor stopped packing away his instruments and looked at Sarah sternly.

‘You knew where he was all along?’

She grinned at him. ‘Course I did. He’s in the Anderson shelter at number 119. He always hides there.’

Seeking the funny side of what Sarah said, Martin O’Reilly threw back his head and laughed out loud. Seven mouths stopped chewing as the boys stared at him.

‘What a night! Your little girl certainly picked her time to arrive. She saved young Michael’s bacon tonight, that’s a fact.’

Sarah chuckled with him. ‘She did that all right!’

Pat Johnstone, Sarah’s best friend and next-door neighbour, came into the bedroom with a tray of tea. She ushered all the boys out and poured Sarah a strong cup.

‘Here you are, girl. Get your laughing gear around that. What about you, Doc? Fancy a cuppa?’

‘That would be grand. I’m parched.’

Pat poured the doctor out a cup of tea and placed it on the bedside table. Then she sat on the bed next to Sarah. She looked at the baby and gasped with surprise.

‘Oh, my Gawd! She’s a cracker, ain’t she?’ Her naturally loud voice seemed to bounce off the walls. ‘Gis’ a little hold, Sar.’

Sarah passed the child to her and took a deep drink of her tea. ‘This is just what I needed, Pat.’

‘Is that right the filth came in looking for your Mickey and the electric went? I nearly wet meself laughing when Mrs Jenkins told me, I thought it was so funny.’

Sarah rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, please, Pat. Don’t remind me!’

The doctor finished putting his things away and drank his tea. ‘That was lovely. It just hit the right spot. Now I’ll be off, Sarah. Don’t get out of bed until I tell you that it’s safe. I’ve had to put in a lot of stitches. If you start to bleed, send one of the lads around for me, OK?’

‘I will, Martin. And thanks for everything.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll see you in the morning. ’Bye now.’

He went out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the hallway where Matilda Jenkins was waiting for him with her hand out. He slipped a ten-shilling note into her palm.

‘Thanks, Matilda, ’Bye.’

‘’Bye, Doctor O’Reilly.’

She closed the front door behind him. He walked down the flight of stairs that led to the road and looked at his car, a Rover 90. It was his pride and joy. There was not a windscreen wiper to be seen. He should have known this would happen in Lancaster Road.

‘Little buggers!’

He got into his car and drove off. On 2 May 1950 he had brought Maura Ryan into the world.

Chapter Two

1953

Sarah Ryan glanced around her kitchen. A feeling of satisfaction swept over her. It looked beautiful. Taking a deep breath she sighed with contentment. She had not felt this happy for years. The table was laden with food. Turkey, ham, a large joint of beef, all carefully prepared and waiting to go into the oven. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of mince pies and sausage rolls cooking to a golden crispness in the oven.

She was startled out of her reverie by a loud crash from above. Her mouth set in a grim line, she went to the kitchen door. Opening it wide, she shouted as loud as she could: ‘I’m warning you lot, one more noise and I’ll come up there and scalp the arses off yer!’

She stood listening for a few minutes, trying not to smile. Then, assured that the children were all in their beds, she went back to her preparations, humming a little tune. Her last task was to lay thick strips of bacon across the turkey. Finally she stepped back from the table to admire her handiwork. Then, picking up the poker from the hearth, she banged it three times against the back of the fireplace. A few seconds later the banging was answered by two sharp thuds. Going to the sink she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the gas. As the kettle came to the boil she heard the back door open and popped her head into the scullery to see her friend Pat Johnstone kicking snow off her shoes.

‘Get yourself in, Pat, I’ve got the kettle on.’

‘Oh, Sar, it’s brass monkey weather out there tonight!’

Coming into the kitchen, Pat dropped into an easy chair by the fire. She looked around the kitchen, impressed.

‘By Christ, you’re well set up this year.’

Her voice held a hint of jealousy. Sarah poured the steaming water into the tea pot and smiled at her friend.

‘Michael brought the lot in this morning. I couldn’t believe it meself when I saw it! There’s sweets and biscuits as well as nuts and fruit. He’s a good boy.’

Pat nodded her head, reckoning up the cost of everything in her mind. She realised that what was being said about Michael must be true. You couldn’t buy all this working at Lyons bakery or the Black Cat factory. Crime certainly did pay by the looks of it.

‘And there’s presents for all the kids,’ Sarah chatted on happily, unaware of the animosity she was creating. Pouring the tea into two thick white mugs, she gave one to her friend. With a tea cloth around her hand she opened up the oven and took out the mince pies and sausage rolls, placing them on the top of the stove to cool as she put the turkey in to cook. Her movements were quick and confident. She straightened up, wiping her forehead with the bottom of her apron, and then went to the dresser to open the drawer. Taking out a package, she passed it to Pat.

‘I nearly forgot! Happy Christmas.’

Pat Johnstone took the package and placed it on her lap. She looked at Sarah’s face with troubled eyes.

‘I didn’t get you nothing, Sar . . . I ain’t got the money.’

Sarah dismissed this. ‘Oh, shut your face and open it.’

Slowly Pat tore the brown paper apart. Then her hand went to her mouth. Her voice shook as she tried to speak.

‘Oh Sar! Oh, it’s lovely . . .’

Sarah patted her friend’s shoulder gently.

‘I knew you’d like it!’

Pat pulled the white blouse out of the wrapper and held it to her cheek, rubbing the soft material against her skin.

‘It feels like silk!’

‘It is silk. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was for you.’

All the terrible things she had thought earlier rose up in Pat’s mind. Jealousy of her friend had been steadily mounting in the last few months. It had started the day three months previously when Michael paid to have the house stoved. Sulphur candles had been burning for days, leaving the house free of vermin, then the whole place had been painted from top to bottom. Like most of the women in the street, Pat Johnstone had been angered by it all. By Lancaster Road standards, the Ryans had gone too far up in the world, making them aliens. If it wasn’t for the fact that Michael Ryan was now a force to be reckoned with, the other families would have tried to force them out.

All this flickered through her mind in a split second and she felt ashamed. She had gone to school with Sarah, and they had helped one another over the years. Now Sarah was remembering her friend and Pat felt she didn’t deserve it.

‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, Sar.’

Satisfied that her friend was happy, Sarah sat opposite her and took a quarter bottle of Black and White whisky from the mantelpiece. She poured two generous measures into their cups of tea.

‘This’ll keep the cold out, Pat. God himself knows we need it in this weather.’

Picking up her mug, Pat toasted her friend. ‘Merry Christmas to you, Sarah . . . and many more.’

Settling themselves into their chairs, warmed by the whisky, the two women began the serious business of the day: gossiping.

Michael Ryan walked down the Bayswater Road. He walked, as always, as if he owned it – head held high, even in the driving snow. At eighteen, Michael was magnificent. Over six foot two, he was built like an athlete, his dark brown overcoat emphasising the spread of his shoulders. He still had thick black unruly hair, which he now wore cut in a DA. His eyes, deep-set and a striking blue, seemed to drink in everything around him. The only softness about his rugged face was in his lips. They were full and sensuous like a woman’s, though at times they gave him a hint of cruelty. Women and men were drawn to Michael Ryan, and he knew it. He used it to his advantage as he used everything.

Now he watched the women lounging against the railings of Hyde Park. Even in the snow on Christmas Eve the streetwalkers were out.

A few of the younger girls, new to their beat, looked at him with interest. One opened her coat to reveal a scantily clad body. Michael looked her up and down, his lips curling with contempt. He wouldn’t touch a tom with a barge pole. An older woman, seeing the exchange, laughed out loud.

‘Cover yourself up, girl. Before you get frostbite of the fanny!’

The other women laughed, glad of some light relief. Michael carried on walking. He didn’t really mind the prostitutes. In fact, he admired them. To his mind theirs was a business, like any other. Supply and demand. What he didn’t like was the way some of them looked at him as a potential John. He liked to think that people put him above that kind of thing. He crossed the road, dodging the traffic skilfully. The snow was easing up and last-minute shoppers were everywhere. The Portobello Road had been packed.

He walked into the warmth of the Bramley Arms. Pushing his way among the men he went to the bar, nodding a greeting here and there. Over the last year he had worked hard to create an image for himself and it was paying off. People were deferential towards him. He snapped his fingers at the barmaid and ordered a brandy. He didn’t particularly like brandy, but it was part of his image. It set him above other people. The men at the bar moved to give him room.

He sipped his drink. Ranging around the crowded bar, his eyes settled on a group by the window. He picked up his drink and made his way over to them. One of the men glanced at him, giving a double take as he realised who it was.

Tommy Blue felt a knot of fear somewhere in his bowels. The four other men at the table with him sensed his panic and stopped talking to look at the newcomer. Seeing Michael Ryan smiling at them, they seemed to crowd together, hunching in their seats. Enjoying the terror he was creating, Michael drank his brandy in one gulp. Then, wiping his hand across his mouth, he placed his glass gently on the table.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Tommy.’

His voice was quiet.

Tommy Blue felt his heart sinking. He tried to smile, his lips trembling.

‘I think me and you had better have a little walk.’

Looking around the table at the other men, Michael pointed at Tommy.

‘I’ll be waiting outside for you.’

Turning, he pushed his way to the door. Outside he leant against the wall of the pub. He bit on his lip, the feeling of excitement in his breast causing his heart beat to pound in his ears.

A group of Salvation Army singers were making their way along the road. Pulling a pack of Strands from his pocket, Michael lit one. The strains of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ gradually grew closer. He pulled hard on the cigarette. He would give Tommy Blue five minutes before going in after him.

Inside the Bramley Arms, Tommy was rooted to his seat.

‘How much do you owe, Tom?’ This from Dustbin Daley, a totter from Shepherd’s Bush.

‘Forty-five quid.’ Tommy’s voice was low.

One of his companions whistled.

‘I’d better get out there . . . otherwise he’ll come in after me.’ Getting up unsteadily, Tommy made his way to the door.

Dustbin Daley shook his head. ‘He must be bloody mad.’

The others agreed with him. Their earlier high spirits were gone now, out of the door with Tommy Blue.

Tommy shivered as the cold hit him. He was wearing a thin jacket, torn in places, and a thick multi-coloured scarf.

Michael threw his cigarette on the slush-filled pavement and ground it out with his boot. Pushing himself from the wall he grabbed Tommy’s jacket and pulled him along the road. The Salvationists were alongside them. A young girl pushed a tin in their direction. She smiled at Michael as she rattled it.

‘Merry Christmas, sir.’ Her eyes held open admiration.

Pulling his coat open, he pushed his hand into his trouser pocket, and taking out two half crowns dropped them into the tin. The girl flushed with pleasure.

‘Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas.’

Nodding at her, Michael resumed piloting Tommy Blue along the pavement. The tambourines and the singing faded into the distance. The two men walked in silence for five minutes. Tommy Blue could not feel the cold now. He couldn’t feel anything. Fear had completely taken over. Tommy Blue was on automatic pilot. All he could do was wait. The beer he had been drinking steadily all day was now weighing heavily on his stomach.

Michael slowed down in Treadgold Street. The laundry here was known affectionately as the bagwash. Michael himself had brought his mother’s laundry here on many occasions. Now it was deserted, shut up for the Christmas holidays. Taking a key from inside his coat Michael opened the double doors of the building and pushed Tommy inside. Pulling the doors shut behind him, he turned on the lights. Tommy stood immobile.

Taking out his pack of Strands, Michael lit one slowly. He pulled deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke into Tommy’s face.

‘You’ve made me very cross.’ As usual Michael’s voice was quiet.

Tommy’s face seemed to come to life. He blinked his eyes rapidly.

‘Look, Mickey, I . . . I tried to get the money. I swear it!’

‘Shut up, Tommy. You’re beginning to annoy me.’

Dropping the cigarette he grabbed Tommy’s scarf, forcing him backwards until he was against one of the huge machines. Bringing his right fist back over his shoulder he punched Tommy in the face with considerable force. Tommy’s nose seemed to collapse underneath the blow. Michael let him drop on the filthy floor. Groaning, Tommy curled himself up into a ball, his hands covering his head. Michael kicked him in the back, the force of the blow sending Tommy across the dirt-strewn floor. Picking up one of the large wooden podgers the women used to push down the bagwashes, Michael prodded Tommy on the shoulder.

‘Hold out your arm.’ Michael’s voice held no emotion whatsoever. Tommy was blubbering.

‘Please . . . please, Mickey, I’m begging you.’ He looked up at Michael, his face bloody and awash with tears. ‘Don’t do this. . . I swear I’ll ge-get the money somehow.’

Kicking him in the legs, Michael brought the podger down on Tommy’s shoulders.

‘If you don’t put your arm out, I’ll break your bastard back for you. Now put your arm out!’

Michael’s voice echoed around the laundry. Slowly Tommy placed his arm on the floor, his whole body jerking with fear. Twice the ‘podger’ smashed down on his elbow, shattering the bone. Tommy screamed with pain. He was struggling to keep conscious as red-hot waves of nausea washed over him. He threw up on the floor, beer mixed with bile steaming in the cold.

‘Get up, Tommy.’ Michael’s voice was quiet again.

Slowly he dragged himself to his feet, his arm hanging awkwardly against his side, the sleeve of his jacket gradually staining crimson. Droplets of blood ran over his fingers and dripped on to the floor. He leant against the machine, crying quietly.

‘You’ve got seven days, Tommy, that’s all, to find the money. Now piss off.’

Michael watched Tommy stagger from the laundry. He checked himself over to make sure there was no blood on his clothes. Then, whistling to himself, he washed the podger clean and put it back where he’d found it, against the far wall. Then, still whistling, he turned off the lights and locked up.

Joe the Fish listened avidly to everything Michael said to him, nodding his head now and again and every so often muttering, ‘Good . . . good.’ When Michael had finished, Joe smiled at him. ‘The arm was good and broken?’

‘Yeah. Smashed to smithereens!’

Joe the Fish sighed. He had a distaste for violence, but in his business it was a necessity. He looked at Michael Ryan sitting opposite him. He liked the boy, could see himself in Michael. The boy had the same urge to better himself. That had been Joe’s ambition as a young man. Like Michael he had started out as a ‘breaker’ – a heavy – until he had built up his own business. Now he was a respected member of the community. He owned shops, clubs and market stalls, from Petticoat Lane to the Portobello Road. His most lucrative business, though, was the bets. Joe had been a bookie for over twenty years, gradually moving into loan sharking. He had realised as soon as he had employed Michael that he had found himself a kindred spirit. Michael was innately honest. If he said the punter had paid him fifty quid, Joe knew that was what had been paid. Most of the breakers kept a portion for themselves, knowing that the unlucky punter would eventually pay that portion once again. Michael Ryan, though, had his own set of principles. He might beat a man up so badly he needed hospital treatment, yet Joe knew that in Michael’s mind, keeping any money back would be tantamount to stealing. Joe liked him. He liked the way Michael looked at his home. He liked the respect that Michael afforded him.

He coughed and spat some phlegm into the fire, hearing it sizzle as it hit the coals.

‘From January I want you to take over the “breaking” side of the business. I’ll inform all the men that they’re to take their orders from you.’

Michael stared at Joe. Then a wide grin broke out across his face and he shook his head in amazement.

‘Thanks, Joe! Bloody hell!’

Joe, like most people, felt happy to see Michael grin. It was as if a blinding sun had emerged from behind a black cloud. Michael had the gift of making people want to please him, as if by giving him pleasure they were somehow indebted to him. Joe felt a rush of warmth go through him. He would enjoy working with this boy, teaching him the ropes. He let his eyes travel over Michael’s body. He certainly was a fine-looking boy.

Michael watched Joe’s eyes and a thrill of anticipation went through him. Joe the Fish was fifty years old. He had never married or had an association with any woman as far as Michael knew. What he did know was that Joe liked to be surrounded by young men. In the last few months he had consciously ingratiated himself with Joe, flattered him, let Joe think that he was grateful to him for giving him the breaker’s job. He stared into Joe’s face and smiled at him, his deep blue eyes seemingly full of gratitude and admiration. He watched Joe heave his bulk out of the chair. A flicker of repugnance crossed Michael’s features, to be quickly replaced by the dazzling smile he knew caused Joe so much happiness.

Opening one of the drawers in his desk, Joe took out a small box. He walked around the desk and gave it to Michael.

‘Just a little token of my appreciation.’ Joe’s voice was low and husky. Leaning against the desk he watched Michael’s face as he opened the box. When he heard the deep intake of breath, Joe relaxed. He would not rush the boy, he had to let him come to him.

Michael stared at the tie pin glinting up from the red velvet lining. It was gold, in the shape of a large M, encrusted with diamonds. Looking up into Joe’s face, Michael felt a moment of terror at what he had to do. Then, seeing the softness in Joe’s eyes, he swallowed heavily. It was now or never.

Placing his hand on the top of Joe’s thigh, he gently brushed his knuckles against the man’s groin. Joe stared down at the large, rough hand gently rubbing against him. Closing his eyes momentarily, he felt a rush of ecstasy pulsing through his body. He opened his eyes and stared down into Michael’s face. In the firelight, he looked like a dark angel. His blue eyes held an amber glow that caused Joe’s heart to somersault inside his breast.

Dropping heavily on to his knees, he placed his hands on Michael’s thighs, rubbing and kneading them, his breath coming heavily. Watching him, Michael smiled to himself. He thought Joe looked ridiculous, and noticed that he had a film of sweat above his lips which he licked at nervously.

As he felt Joe begin fumbling with his trousers Michael stifled an urge to slam his fist into Joe’s head. He couldn’t go back now, not after all the planning and scheming of the last few months. Joe was his ticket out of Notting Hill, his passport into the world of real villainy. Gritting his teeth, he lay back in the chair and forced himself to relax. Outside, in the muffled stillness of the snow, Michael heard a lone voice singing ‘Silent Night’. Looking down at the top of Joe’s balding pate, Michael listened to the haunting childish voice and could have cried.

Sarah was basting the turkey when she heard Benjamin come in. The front door was slammed as loudly as possible, causing Sarah to wince. Putting the turkey back into the oven, she sat back in her chair. Benjamin stumbled into the kitchen, his hair and clothes still laden with snow. He grinned his wide toothless grin at her and made his way unsteadily across the room to her side.

‘Hello, Sarah, my darling!’

As usual when drunk, he spoke to her as if she was at the other end of the street.

‘Will you keep your voice down! You’ll have all the bloody kids up!’

Benjamin stared down at his wife, blinking his eyes as he swayed unsteadily before her. The more he tried to concentrate, the more blurred she seemed to become. Finally seeing two Sarahs, he staggered into the seat vacated by Pat Johnstone not an hour ago. Lifting up one of his legs he broke wind loudly, causing Sarah to purse her lips. He sat in the chair smiling amiably at her, his clothes beginning to steam with the heat of the fire.

Wordlessly she pulled herself from her chair and swiftly began making him some ham sandwiches. She looked at the clock and noticed it was twenty-past one – everyone was in now except Michael. Placing the sandwiches on a plate, she gave them to her husband. She was bone tired. She had been working since seven in the morning.

Going through the scullery she pulled on an old coat and went out into the tiny back garden. Squatting down, she took a plate from the top of a large glass bowl. The snow had drifted up the sides and on to the plate. Carefully she wiped it clean. Then, touching the green mass inside the bowl softly, she smiled. The younger children loved jelly. That was one good thing about the snow, it kept everything nice and fresh. Replacing the plate, she stood up and went back inside the house, banging her slippers on the step to get rid of the snow.

Back inside the kitchen she heard her husband snoring loudly. He was sprawled in his chair, his long legs outstretched, his hand holding the plate of sandwiches away from his body. Taking the plate gently from him she placed it in the sink, then checked the turkey one last time, turned the gas down as low as it would go and made her way up to bed.

As she undressed in the bedroom she saw her daughter had climbed into their big double bed. This was Maura’s first real Christmas. Slipping into the bed Sarah looked down on the white-blonde head and felt the familiar tightening in her guts. The child stirred and burrowed deeper into the bed. Placing her thumb in her mouth, she sucked on it furiously for a few seconds before settling down once more into a deep sleep. If Benjamin had given her nothing else in their life together he had given her this child, and for that Sarah would forgive him anything.

Michael woke up and glanced at his watch. It was three-fifteen. Shaking his head to clear the fustiness he noticed a fat arm around his waist. In the dying firelight he looked down on the sleeping face of Joe the Fish. Somewhere inside himself he felt disgust at the events of the previous few hours. He was acutely aware of everything that had gone on in front of the then roaring fire. Mixed with his revulsion was also a tiny feeling of excitement. He now had Joe the Fish in his grasp, as he had sworn to himself that he would. A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth. He would play Joe like a musical instrument. He would slowly become the focal point of his life. Then, when Joe had served his purpose, he would dispose of him. Michael knew what he had to do. He had been planning it long enough.

Gently, he brought his face down on to Joe’s and kissed him on his lips. Joe’s watery eyes opened and he smiled, displaying discoloured teeth.

‘I’ve got to get going, Joe.’

Yawning lazily, the older man stretched his plump arms above his head.

‘All right, Michael love. Try and get around tomorrow. I’m always alone on Christmas Day.’ His voice sounded sad.

‘I will. Don’t worry.’

Joe watched Michael dressing in the firelight, his heart bursting in his breast. In his mind’s eye he relived their love-making of a few hours before and the picture of Michael lying underneath him as he penetrated him rose in his mind. He couldn’t quite believe he had found himself such a beautiful animal. As Michael slipped on his overcoat Joe felt a wave of loneliness wash over him.

‘See you tomorrow then.’ Michael’s voice was gentle and caressing. He favoured Joe with one of his blinding grins. Pulling himself up from the floor he stood before the dying fire, his short fat legs and large stomach making Michael feel sick inside.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Joe’s voice sounded like a young girl’s – high and breathless with anticipation. Michael frowned at him, bewildered. Then seeing Joe’s lips pucker, he walked over to the fireplace and embraced him. Joe pushed his tongue into Michael’s mouth, kissing him with an energy that startled him. Breaking away gently, Michael smiled at him and quietly left the room.

The picture of Joe’s doughy white body seemed to be imprinted on his mind. As he walked out into the silent white world Michael was glad of the freezing cold that seemed to cut down into his lungs. A light snow was falling and he raised his face to allow the soft flakes to fall on his skin, willing it to wash away the disgust he felt inside.

The street lights gave the pavements a glittering glow as if thousands of diamonds were lining his path. Picking up speed, Michael began to smile. He shook his head and shrugged in the stillness of the night. The worst was over now. He knew what he had let himself in for and he was glad. Let the fat old queen use his body. It had put food on his mother’s table. It had brought the kids clothes. It would eventually bring him untold riches. Never would he allow himself to feel bad about it again.

He looked up into the black sky and waved his fist at the stars. This was a new beginning for the Ryans. He was going to pick them up out of the gutter and establish them in the monied world where he knew they belonged. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his overcoat he felt the little box that contained the tie pin. He grinned. As soon as the shops opened after the holidays he was going to go out and buy himself a tie!

When Michael saw the happy faces on Christmas Day, the food that seemed inexhaustible and the merriment his gifts had brought, he finally came to terms with himself. Anything, however bad, was worth all this. After a large, noisy Christmas dinner, Michael sat with his sister Maura asleep on his lap. As he looked down at her sleeping face, sucking contentedly on her thumb, he swore that he would commit murder if it kept his family as happy as they were now.

It was a promise he was to keep many times.

Chapter Three

1955

Garry and Benny Ryan were playing on the bombsite that was once Testerton Street. The day before they had noticed while coming home from school that an enormous mound of sand had been left there. That meant one of two things – the remaining houses were either being patched up or demolished to make way for pre-fabs. Either way they knew that their playground was going to disappear. Both boys had been up and out by six-thirty. If they timed it just right they could scavenge for a few hours before going to the Royalty in Ladbroke Grove for the Saturday morning minors.

They had played in the mound of sand for over an hour. Benny, at nine, was already a true Ryan. Big for his age, he towered over Garry who was eleven. Garry had a long thin body, giving him a waif-like appearance. He was the only Ryan to wear glasses, which he was forever pushing higher on his nose, the thick lenses giving him an owlish appearance. Where Benny was dark-haired with the characteristic Ryan dark blue eyes and full-lipped mouth, Garry was the opposite. He had light brown hair and a feral quality about him that made people do what he wanted. Garry was the acknowledged genius of the family, forever reading. His room was strewn with books and papers. He also fancied himself as an inventor – a pastime that had his mother caught between maternal pride and an almost uncontrollable urge to murder him.

The June sunshine gave their play an added vigour. All around them the world had come to life. The hum of the traffic was getting louder and every so often the rattling of a train set the dirt trembling. To the right of the mound of sand stood what remained of the houses in Testerton Street. The bomb had been a direct hit and only the last few dwellings had still been standing afterwards. These had no fronts left. Their rooms were great gaping caverns that miraculously still had wallpaper and broken furniture inside.

The two boys knew every inch of these houses. From the roof rafter of the most stable hung their ‘bundle’ swing. Now summer was here the swing would become a focal point for the children around and about. Boys would come from as far away as Shepherd’s Bush and Bayswater to play on it between fighting rival gangs. Providing the work didn’t start too soon, it would be a good summer.

Scrambling down from the mound of sand, Garry began walking towards the houses, his hands and knees stained orange. Seeing his brother walking away Benny followed hastily, rubbing off the damp sand from his hands on his shorts. He caught up with Garry, puffing for breath.

‘What we gonna do then?’ As always he waited for Garry to decide what games were to be played.

Garry looked up at his brother, his thin face already grimy. ‘We’s gonna look for bombs and things. Lee’s hid some gunpowder he swiped from under the Arches and I’m gonna pinch it off him.’

Benny looked worried for a second. Lee at thirteen was already as big as Roy, who was seventeen, nearly six feet tall, and was also bad-tempered.

‘Lee’ll smash us up!’

Garry smiled and pushed his glasses higher up his nose. ‘He’s got to catch us first!’

Benny laughed nervously. Lee would catch them, he always did, but he kept his own counsel because when Garry got mad he sent him home. Then he’d have to play with his sister! He followed Garry into the end house. The stairs were still sound and both boys made their way up to the top floor. Standing dangerously close to the crumbling edge, the two looked out across London. Over the last few years the landscape had changed. From their vantage point they could see the whole of their world. In the distance Garry saw that the fairground had arrived at Wormwood Scrubs Park. He poked Benny in the ribs and pointed to it, a thrill of expectation going through them both.

‘I’m gonna get Mickey to give us some money! We’ll go there later and see what rides they’ve got!’

In his excitement Benny jumped backwards and tripped over a lump of wood. As he landed on the floor boards he gasped, ‘Here, Gal, look at this lot!’

Garry was already staring at what lay beneath his brother’s large feet.

‘Where’d you reckon they come from?’

Garry shook his head. Kneeling down on the floor, he picked up an empty cartridge case. There were over a dozen in all.

‘I reckon someone nicked them and then left them here!’

Pushing his glasses up on to the bridge of his nose, Garry snapped: ‘Trust you to state the bloody obvious. These have been hidden here by a little firm, and I think I know whose it was!’

Benny pulled himself up from the floor with difficulty. Both his hands were stinging where he’d skinned them.

‘Who d’you reckon hid them then?’

‘I bet it was that gang from Elgin Avenue.’ Garry’s voice was triumphant.

‘Come on, let’s nick them quick. Before anyone comes.’

Both boys began stuffing the empty cases down their shirts. Then they ran down the stairs as fast as they could. As they ran out of the house into the sunshine they both skidded to a halt. Lee, Leslie and Roy were walking towards them. Garry looked at Benny, his face troubled.

‘Whatever you do, don’t tell them about this lot.’ He patted his shirt. Benny’s hands were smarting and he rubbed them gently on his shirt. Tears were already forming in his eyes.

Roy noticed the boys and called to them. ‘What you two standing there for? What you done?’

Garry as usual did the talking. ‘We ain’t done nothing. We thought you was looking for us, that’s all.’

‘What would we want with you two?’ Roy’s voice sounded incredulous. ‘We get enough of you at home. Now sod off, the pair of you.’

Neither boy needed to be told twice. They ran off as fast as their legs would carry them. When they reached the safety of the pile of sand they sat on top of it and watched their brothers. The three older boys stood by the opening of the houses. They were all smoking.

‘Did you smell them? I reckons they’ve been to the baths in Silchester Road. They’ve all got that smelly stuff on their hair.’ Benny’s voice was disgusted. In his mind anyone who could have a bath without being told to needed treatment. He himself had a bath every fortnight, a sixpenny one with soap and towels supplied. He hated it. If his mother didn’t stand outside waiting for him he’d spend the money on something important, like caps for his gun and comics.

A little while later three girls arrived on the scene, two blondes and a redhead. Garry laughed.

‘Dirty bleeders! That’s why they’ve been to the baths. They’re going snogging!’

They watched the three girls pair off with their brothers and go off in different directions. Even more disgusted, Benny stood up.

‘Come on, let’s go home. I’m hungry.’

Silently the two boys made their way home.

It was three in the afternoon when Roy brought Janine into his house. It was the first time he had brought a girl home and both he and Janine were nervous. Grasping her hand in the hallway, he smiled at her.

‘Everything’s gonna be all right.’

He looked down into her green eyes and as always had the urge to kiss her. She had milk-white skin and long thick red hair. To Roy’s mind Janine was class. She was also very tall – five feet eight inches. In a way he was glad that she was ‘in trouble’. It would give them the push they needed to come out into the open.

He led her by the hand into his mother’s kitchen. As usual Sarah was cooking. Even on days like this with the sun cracking the pavements Sarah still cooked. With nine children to feed, preparing a meal was a major event. She looked at Roy and Janine, her surprise showing on her face. Roy stood awkwardly in the kitchen and, still grasping Janine’s hand, smiled at his mother.

‘Mum, I’d like you to meet Janine . . . Janine Grierson.’

The girl stretched out her free hand and nodded her head. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

Her voice was very low and refined. Wiping her hand on her apron, Sarah took the girl’s hand and shook it gently.

‘And you, love. Well, sit yourselves down. I’ve made some ginger beer. Would you like a glass?’

Without waiting for an answer, she went to the scullery and took the large jug from the table out there. She needed time to think. Grierson? Grierson? Where did she know that name from? She carried the jug back into the kitchen. Roy had sat Janine at the kitchen table and was standing beside her. Then, like a bolt out of the blue, it came to Sarah. This was Janine Grierson. Her heart sank in her chest. Her father owned the butcher’s in the Portobello Road. He had also owned the house next door to Christie’s round in Rillington Place. What on earth was Janine doing with her Roy? Not that she didn’t think her son was good enough for her, oh no! But Eliza Grierson had great plans for her only daughter, Sarah knew that much.

Forcing a smile on to her face she poured out two glasses of ginger beer. As she placed them on the table, Roy spoke up. ‘Janine’s pregnant, Mum. And I’m the father.’

Outside in the garden, Maura was watching Garry and Benny working. Benny was holding the cartridges steady while Garry filled them with the gunpowder. After watching a particularly thrilling Lone Ranger at the Saturday morning minors, Garry had experienced a renewed interest in the making of bombs. He pushed the wadding carefully into the cartridge before taking it from Benny and placing it on the garden wall. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. That was the last one.

Maura sat on the wooden crate. Her long blonde hair seemed to come alive in the sunlight which gave it golden highlights. Her aquamarine eyes carefully watched every movement her brothers made. At five, Maura knew that if she wanted to be a part of their games she had to sit and watch quietly, otherwise they would sneak out of the garden leaving her alone.

She saw Garry give Benny a large hammer. Then Garry carefully took one of the filled cartridges and placed it on the grass. He had to press it down a couple of times to stop it falling over. Then he nodded at Benny who took the hammer and brought it back over his head, ready to smash it down on to the cartridge at a sign from his brother. Garry pushed his glasses higher on his nose and raising his hand as if he was starting a race, brought it down heavily to his side . . .

Inside the house Janine was crying quietly as Sarah spoke. ‘It’s nothing against you, lass, but think of your father. He’ll go stark staring mad when he hears. Baby or no baby, there’s no way he’ll allow you to marry Roy. I know it.’ Her voice had a finality about it that made Roy’s blood run cold in his veins. He opened his mouth to answer. Both women were looking at him expectantly. They saw his eyes open wide until they seemed about to start from his head.

‘Benny! Benny . . . don’t you bloody dare!’ His voice was so loud both women jumped in their seats. A split second later an almighty bang erupted from the garden, followed by Maura’s frenzied screaming. The three adults seemed to be catapulted from their seats as they ran out into the back yard.

Maura had seen the hammer descend on to the cartridge just as she heard Roy’s voice from the house. The impact of the hammer hitting the brass casing of the cartridge had caused a flash of blue light followed by an enormous bang. As if in slow motion she had seen Benny travel backwards through the air, landing heavily on his back among the rubbish that littered the end of the garden. That’s when she started to scream. Through her tears she saw Garry scaling the wall as he made a run for it.

Roy ran to where Benny was lying, his heart pounding in his ears. This time Garry had really done it. He had finally killed somebody. Picking Benny up gently he cradled his head in his lap, conscious of his mother standing in the garden, her hand over her mouth as if terrified of what she might find. Benny was soot-blackened all over. The smell of burnt powder seemed to hang around him in a cloud. Looking down into his brother’s face, Roy felt the tears come into his eyes.

‘Benny . . . Benny!’ Roy’s anguished voice carried up into the pale blue sky. Janine, stunned, had gone to the little girl sitting on the crate. Instinctively she pulled the child to her breast, stroking the long blonde hair.

Roy clutched Benny to him, cuddling the dirty head to his breast. Opening his eyes Benny looked up into his brother’s tearstained face.

‘What happened?’ His childish voice broke into everyone’s shocked thoughts. ‘One minute I was hammerin’. The next I was blown up!’

Benny looked around him, a bewildered expression on his face. ‘Where’s Garry gone?’

Picking him up, Roy felt the terror slowly leave his own body. ‘When that little bastard gets home, I’m gonna murder him. If it’s the last thing I do in this life . . .’

Maura clung to Janine, enjoying the flowery smell of her. Her cries had subsided to little hiccups. Sarah let Roy carry Benny into the house, and as she looked at Janine comforting her only daughter, the ice in her heart melted. Going to the girl, she put her arm around her shoulders.

‘That Garry will be the death of me. Well, if you think you could stand the strain of being part of this family, you’re welcome.’

Janine’s white face made Sarah’s natural good nature come to the fore. Pushing the girl’s heavy red hair back from her face, she said, ‘I’m warning you, though . . . excitement like this is an everyday occurrence!’

‘Oh, Mrs Ryan, my father is going to go mad.’

Sarah waved her hand at the girl, her voice sounding more confident than she actually felt.

‘He’ll get over it, love. He’ll get over it.’

James Grierson was stalking around his house in a fit of temper so acute he could almost taste it. Unlike his wife, who had taken herself off to bed like one of the heroines in the penny dramas, he, James Grierson, was going to do something. What exactly he wasn’t sure, but he would think of something. Stamping up the stairs he went into the bedroom he shared with Eliza.

‘How could a daughter of mine take up with that bloody scum? A filthy, stinking Ryan!’ He clenched his fists and raised them to the ceiling. ‘I could throttle the bitch. My God, my mother used to say: “Show me the company you keep and I’ll tell you what you are.” Never was a truer word said!’

Eliza closed her eyes and groaned. Since Janine had told them that morning that she was pregnant, her whole world had fallen apart. Only a week ago, she had stood in their butcher’s shop and completely demolished the reputation of young Carrie Davidson for the same thing: having to get married. She could hear herself talking to anyone who would listen about the shameless hussy. Now it had happened to her daughter and she didn’t like it, she didn’t like it one bit. Eliza Grierson was known as a gossip of Olympian standards. She prided herself on her ability to sift through the most innocent conversations and turn them into major scandals. She knew that this trouble with her daughter would be all the more enjoyed because it was a reflection on herself. She groaned again and pushed a pillow over her head. If it had been anyone but a Ryan . . . She felt tears of frustration stinging her eyes. She could cheerfully throttle Janine herself!

A loud banging at the front door stopped both of them in their tracks. Pulling back the curtain, James Grierson looked down into his garden and groaned. It was not a very good day today, and he had a terrible feeling that it was going to get worse.

Michael and Geoffrey stood in the Griersons’ front garden. Like everything of Eliza Grierson’s, the garden was what she described as ‘classy’. It was also immaculate, as were the curtains at the windows and the shiny brass knocker on the door. This was opened by a rather subdued James who said gruffly: ‘You’d better come in.’

Michael and Geoffrey walked into the spacious hallway as if they owned the house. Opening the parlour door, James ushered them inside.

Michael sat himself down in an armchair and looked around the room slowly. Geoffrey sat on the rather hard horsehair settee.

Taking a packet of Strands from his pocket Michael gave one to Geoffrey and after offering the pack to James, who refused, laboriously set about lighting the cigarettes. He knew that his slowness was annoying James Grierson. It was a calculated move. Drawing the smoke into his lungs he put his head back against the chair and blew two large smoke rings. Then, looking at James, he smiled.

‘I understand, Mr Grierson, that my brother Roy has been shunting your daughter.’

Geoffrey watched the red flush creep up James Grierson’s neck and continue until it reached his receding hairline. Stamping across the room, the man made as if to grab Michael’s shirt. Grabbing Grierson’s hand in a vice-like grip, Michael laughed.

‘Naughty, naughty.’

Then pushing the older man from him, he sat forward in the chair. James was sent sprawling across his own parlour carpet, a blinding anger building inside him.

Michael pointed at him, the cigarette smoke curling around his finger.

‘In three weeks’ time, Mr Grierson, my brother is gonna marry your daughter, with or without your permission. Personally I would advise you to give them your blessing, what with the baby and all. A new little Ryan . . . a Ryan that your daughter is carrying inside her.’

Slowly James Grierson pulled himself up from the floor. Geoffrey put out his hand to help but was ignored. Waving his hand away, the older man slumped down on the chair opposite Michael.

Staring at him, Michael underwent one of his lightning changes of mood. From anger and animosity he turned in a split second to a benevolent caring brother only here to see justice done. His rugged face softened. All irritation seemingly forgotten, he leant forward in his chair and smiled at James Grierson – one of his most stunning smiles that seemed to wipe the cruelty from his face at a stroke. He began to speak in a man to man voice.

‘Listen, James . . . may I call you James?’ The man nodded, not at all happy with this bewildering change in his antagonist.

‘The way I see it is this. Your daughter has been made pregnant by my brother.’ He opened his arms out wide in a gesture of helplessness. ‘They love one another, they want to marry. It’s not as if Roy’s had it on his toes, is it? He’s quite willing to do the right thing by the girl. I know you’ve had a shock. No man likes to think of his daughter . . . well, you know what I mean. But, the only thing left to do is to get them married. I hope you will change your attitude, soften towards them?’ His voice was now redolent with an underlying threat that was not wasted on James Grierson. Michael Ryan was offering him a face-saver and he knew it. He was being told in no uncertain terms that he could come out of all this as the loving, caring father who would do anything to keep his daughter’s reputation; who welcomed her choice of husband with open arms; who would not bow down in the face of adversity, but would rise up and conquer it.

For the first time in his life James Grierson felt a grudging respect for a Ryan. He knew he was being manipulated but, he asked himself, what was the alternative? He had heard stories about Michael Ryan. That he was as queer as a nine-bob note. That he had taken over Joe the Fish’s businesses and made a name for himself among the villains. At nineteen Michael Ryan was already becoming a neighbourhood legend. ‘Cruel but fair’ was the local opinion. Could he really let his only child become a part of this family? Even as the question formed in his mind he knew it was useless. If he went against this young man sitting opposite him, he would in effect dig his own grave. The course was already set. Janine was marrying Roy Ryan whether he liked it or not. What he had to do now was stretch out and take the hand of friendship being offered to him. He sighed heavily and his voice came out in a nervous croak.

‘You’re right, of course. If they really care for one another . . .’

He swallowed deeply as Michael Ryan took his hand and shook it, the animal strength of the handshake reminding him acutely of exactly what he had done. His lovely Janine had brought him this low, had brought Michael Ryan into his home. He could have wept.

Three weeks later, on the first Saturday of July, James Grierson gave away his only daughter to Roy Ryan. It wasn’t until after the reception, once home in his bed, that he finally gave way to the tears that had been building up inside him since Michael’s visit. He felt he had taken his only child like a lamb to the slaughter.

It would be twenty years before he discovered how right he had been.