by Keane Jessie
To Cliff, who threatens that one of these days
he’s going to write a book called Living with a Writer . . .
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To all the people – friends, fans, helpers, all of you – who get me up in the top ten bestseller charts, time after time.
Thanks. It’s appreciated.
‘Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.’
Abraham Lincoln
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1980S
PROLOGUE
1950S
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
1960S
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
1970S
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
1980S
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Epilogue
1980s
PROLOGUE
Belle Barton was learning the true meaning of terror. She was learning that it brought cold sour sweat to your body and hot burning bile to your throat, bile you had to choke back because you couldn’t, you didn’t dare, show how frightened you were. Because he’d love that. He would feed on that. He was watching her, that mocking half-smile on his face. She wanted to lunge at him, to damage him, to make him pay, but she couldn’t. Two big men were holding her still, one on either side of her. She knew them. Had even grown up with one of them. Now, they were her enemies. They were Harlan Stone’s boys, his puppets, his creatures, and they would do exactly what he said. She had no power here. None at all.
‘I bet you’re thinking, round about now, that you wish you’d been nicer to me,’ said Harlan.
Belle stared at him with hatred in her eyes. Sweat trickled into them, making them sting. Outside, thunder rolled. Rain battered the roof. Inside, it was a jungle, wet ferns brushing her legs, humidifiers roaring, the heat crushing and damp, the trickle of small waterfalls a constant noise. Charlie Stone’s reptile house was kitted out with no expense spared. There was a large pond, black, brackish. Things moved in there, but she wasn’t going to think about that.
Water torture.
Yes, that was what this was. Belle’s legs were trembling. Her brain was in a panic, like a rat caught in a trap. There had to be a way out of this.
But there was no way.
I’m going to die.
The thought popped into her brain like gas rising out of a bog, bringing a fresh surge of terror with it. She was perched on the edge of the pond, standing on big ornamental rocks, the men holding her there. Water from the domed roof dripped, ran down her face. So wet and hot in here. Hot as hell. Stifling. She thought of her parents then, and pain roared up through her stomach, up into her throat. She was going to be sick.
‘Pretty little Belle,’ said Harlan, shaking his head. ‘Bet you wish you’d played ball now, eh? Been nice? But you never were. Were you.’
Belle glared at him, standing there so elegant; so handsome and calm and in control, with his neatly brushed honey-coloured hair, his pale emotionless grey eyes. While she was barefoot, wearing a tattered rag of a dress, soaked in sweat, her blonde hair plastered to her head. She was scratched and bloody from where they’d dragged her in here. If the men hadn’t been holding her up, she would have collapsed to her knees.
‘So go on,’ he said.
Belle gulped and stared at him. What?
‘Go on,’ he said again. ‘Beg me.’
She said nothing.
‘Beg me for your life,’ he said.
Belle looked down at the water. There were things mo
ving in there. Something long slipping in from the opposite side. Eyes, she could see eyes. Reptilian and cold. The powerful swish of a tail. Her mother’s words came back to her then.
‘Keeping bloody snakes and lizards and caimans! Only weirdos do that.’
Caimans.
Belle knew that Charlie had fed them on whole dead chickens. A caiman was like a crocodile, it could take a pig. They were plenty big enough to do that. They could also take a human being. No bother at all. You needed a licence under the Dangerous Wild Animals Act to keep them, which Charlie had acquired without any difficulty.
Friends in high places.
Low places, too.
Oh Christ help me . . .
‘Waiting,’ said Harlan. ‘What do you say, Belle?’ He was smiling.
‘I know what you did,’ said Belle.
‘Did?’ He frowned. ‘About what?’
‘You know very bloody well,’ she said. ‘Beezer. Jake. And the business. The manor. I know what it is.’
The smile dropped from his face, leaving it blank.
‘Throw her in,’ he said.
1950s
1
‘You’re nicked, my son,’ said the copper, grabbing hold of nine-year-old Charlie Stone’s collar with one beefy hand.
Terry, Charlie’s best mate, kicked the policeman in the shin and hefted a dead rat at him. It was so ripe, the tail dropped off and its innards spattered the copper’s legs. The stench was horrible.
‘You dirty little bastard,’ said the copper, swiping at Terry while trying to keep a grip on Charlie, who was wriggling like an eel.
Terry darted in and kicked again. The rest of Charlie’s gang had scarpered already, headed back to the den. But Terry wouldn’t desert Charlie. They were a pair, these two. They skived off school together. Went scrumping together. And together – today – they’d shinned over the back gates of the grocer’s and started lobbing apples and pears over the top for their mates to catch.
Everything had been going good, then this filth had come out the back door of the shop. One of the neighbours must have raised the alarm.
Terry kicked again.
‘Little fucker,’ roared the copper, and let go of Charlie.
Charlie tore off and scrambled back over the gate and was gone, Terry hot on his heels. The copper snatched at Terry’s short trouser leg but Terry was up, he was over – he was away. Him and Charlie ran off down the street, gasping and laughing fit to bust.
Charlie Stone was leader of the gang. And their den – his den – was set deep in scrubby woods where the gang met under Charlie’s rule and divvied up their bounty. Bill ‘Beezer’ and little Col Crowley’s father owned a sweet shop where Charlie had spied out a big half-pound box of chocolates set high on a shelf. If Beezer and his little shadow Col wanted to be part of the gang, then that was the price.
Beezer paid it. The chocolates, the fruit from the grocery store, other things. He robbed stuff out of a few cars, teaching little Col how twocking – take without owner’s consent – worked. Then everything was taken back to the den and laid at Charlie’s feet.
‘More,’ said Charlie every time. ‘We need more.’
They were the Charlie Boys gang, and Charlie was their king. They charged across the old bomb sites on the manor, armed with dustbin lids for shields and wooden swords. Slowly they grew in strength, and purpose, and bulk.
2
At fourteen, Charlie found there were plenty of opportunities for theft and he exploited every one of them. The Charlie Boys were now teenage tearaways, villains in the making while the manor was ruled by real gangs, much older and more dangerous. Things were changing. Churchill had resigned and Eden had taken over. Charlie and Terry started boxing a bit, but they had no real talent for it, so Charlie decided crime paid better.
Charlie was leader, so Terry agreed. Why not? All Charlie’s mad schemes seemed to pay off. They started doing more cars – only nobs, flash gits and doctors had cars, so the pickings were good – and then a few houses. They nearly got caught when they were clearing out some candlesticks and jewellery from one house, but Terry tripped the furious owner up and took a punch in the back of his head that made it spin, just to let Charlie make a clean getaway.
Afterwards, in the den, when it was only the two of them, Charlie expressed his gratitude.
‘He would have caught me,’ he said.
‘Nah, you were off on your toes, mate,’ said Terry.
Charlie’s button-like dark brown eyes held Terry’s. Charlie was a short, solidly built boy, brown-haired and red-faced, while Terry was thinner, taller. With his red-blond hair and green eyes, he was shaping up to be a good-looking man one day.
‘That ain’t the truth,’ said Charlie. ‘The truth is, Tel, you saved my arse, and I’m grateful.’
‘It was nothing.’ Charlie was Terry’s mate, had been ever since the cradle. They were war babies, tough as old boots, the pair of them. He’d fall under a bus for Charlie, gladly. ‘My job, innit? I’m number two, so I protect number one, don’t I? Simple as that.’
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’
Terry eyed his mate. ‘Forever, Charlie. I’ll always look out for you. You know that.’
‘Forever,’ echoed Charlie, and held out his hand. ‘We’re going to run this whole fucking manor, Tel. You and me mate. Together. You see if we don’t.’
Terry shook Charlie’s hand. ‘Forever,’ he said.
And that was it.
The pact was sealed, the deal done.
1960s
3
At nineteen, Charlie Stone and his mob were Teddy boys, getting into all sorts, slouching around in the new coffee bars with their duck’s-arse hairdos and brothel-creeper shoes, lounging around in the cane furniture surrounded by rubber plants and big-skirted girls while listening to Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard on the juke. Charlie’s ideas were getting bigger and better all the time. They were pretty well off now, Charlie and his crew, and they were dangerous enough for Charlie to receive a warning off one of the big boys, Gordie Howard, a Scottish loan shark who’d beaten back fierce competition from the Maltese and who now ruled the manor.
Charlie and Terry came out of the Palais one night and instantly they were set upon. Charlie was taken down an alley by two men and given the thumping of his life while another two blokes held onto Terry.
Finally, humiliatingly, Gordie held a battered Charlie down on his knees and pointed an old WW1 bayonet at his throat.
‘You see this, ya cunt?’ he asked in his thick Glasgow accent.
Charlie could barely nod his head, he was that beaten. He spat out a tooth. ‘What’s that then? A fucking butter knife?’
‘Clever bastard, aintcha? Well next time I see your fat grinning ugly mug, I’ll slice you open with it, you got me, pal?’
Charlie stared up at him.
Gordie pressed the bayonet harder against Charlie’s neck.
‘I said, you got me?’ he snarled.
Charlie had to nod or die.
He nodded.
Afterwards, Terry helped Charlie home where his mother Joan threw a fit. Charlie was patched up and put to bed. Next day, Joan was ranting that they should call the police, but Charlie – through a swollen jaw and several broken teeth – insisted it was nothing, a bit of a ruckus, forget it.
When she left his bedside and only Terry was beside him, Charlie said: ‘I’m going to kill that cunt Howard.’
‘Just rest up, Charlie.’
‘I mean it. That arsehole thinks he’s the big noise around here? He’s joking. He ain’t even English. I’m a Cockney. Born to the sound of Bow Bells. These streets, this manor, they ought to be mine. I got enough foot soldiers to crush that cunt and I’m going to do it.’
Terry felt bad. He’d been right there, on the spot, but unable to help. Helping Charlie was his job in life, he’d given his word on that. And he’d failed.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said, feeling uneasy. Around Charlie, things moved fast. To
o fast, he thought. He wasn’t sure, as Charlie was, of their capabilities when it came to mixing it with the big gangs.
‘We’ll do it together,’ said Charlie.
‘Yeah. But rest up first, OK?’
‘Yeah. I’ll do that.’
4
When she was seventeen, Nula Perkins fell in love with nineteen-year-old Terry Barton, Charlie Stone’s handsome number two. How it happened was like this: she went ballroom dancing with her brother, who got off with the girls while she sat there alone at the edge of the dance floor listening to song after endless song and being thoroughly ignored. Finally Jim Reeves was crooning out the last number of the night – the smoochy one where couples always got together. Couples, but not her. She sat there, red-faced, a failure. Somehow she wrenched herself out of her seat midway through the song and went into the bogs and cried. When she came out, teary-eyed and blotchy, Terry Barton was standing there.
‘Want to dance?’ he asked.
She was so grateful. And she fell for him, right then and there, because with her mousy hair and her big nose she was no looker – and she knew it. Terry was being kind; he’d rescued her from an embarrassing situation.
Of course, he didn’t linger. Once the dance was over he was out the door like a shot, with not a single glance back in her direction. She watched him peel out of there with a group of young men, at the head of which was short, bulky, hard-eyed Charlie Stone. Charlie Stone was always in the lead and, wherever Charlie went, it seemed Terry Barton was never far behind.
Still, Terry had turned her disaster of an evening – and oh yes, she’d seen her big brother laughing at her with his mates and their girlfriends as she sat there, her face burning with shame – into a good one.
‘You want to watch him,’ said her brother Jimmy on the drive home in his cream Ford Anglia, which shuddered as it went round corners. Its heater was clattering and throwing out no real heat at all.
‘Who?’ Nula asked.
‘Come on!’ Jimmy shot her a laughing glance. ‘Terry fucking Barton. He’s in with a bad lot.’
‘What, you talking about Charlie Stone?’
‘Course I bloody am. You don’t want to fuck around with that crowd, believe me.’