Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
The Betrayer
Prologue
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
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
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Copyright © Kimberley Chambers, 2009, 2010
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In memory of
Mathew Hoxby
1973–2008
Goodnight you moonlight ladies,
Rock-a-bye sweet baby James.
Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose.
Won’t you let me go down in my dreams
And rock-a-bye Sweet Baby James.
James Taylor
1970
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, I would like to thank Rosie de Courcy. Rosie is an absolute star, not only as an editor, but also as a person and a friend.
I would also like to thank my agent Tim Bates, my typist Sue Cox and everybody at Preface and Random House for the belief and backing that I have been given.
A special mention to Toby Clarke for the wonderful covers, Kevin Redmond for his fantastic support, Garry Perry who has worked tirelessly to promote me, and Julie for ferrying me around to signings.
Last but not least, I would like to thank you, the reader. Without your support I would be working back on the markets or driving a cab . . . !
God bless each and every one of you.
PROLOGUE
July 2006
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Hutton, but we are talking weeks here, rather than months.’
Walking away from the hospital, I feel calmness within. My cancer has returned and being told I’m riddled with it was exactly what I’d expected. Unless you’ve had the dreaded disease, you wouldn’t know where I was coming from. Tiredness, lack of appetite, an inability to do the simple things that you once found so easy. The signs are plentiful. To put it bluntly, you just know when you’re dying.
As I sit on the bus, I gaze out of the window. Deep in thought, I watch the world go by. As strange as it may seem, I notice silly things. Mothers doing school runs in their luxury four-wheel drives, children as young as ten chatting away happily on mobile phones. Smiley, happy people, who wouldn’t know hardship if it smacked them in the face.
Not wanting to become bitter, I turn away from the window and think about my own life. I take my pad and pen out of my bag and begin to make notes. Unlike most sufferers of cancer, I’m not that bothered about dying. Part of me would even go as far as saying that in some ways leaving this life will be a relief.
Happy people don’t want to die. They are the lucky ones who are blessed with good times. I was happy once, but not now. For people like me, death spells an end to all of the suffering. I don’t mean to sound like a manic depressive, but I’ve had years full of stress and turmoil and I can’t take any more. I’ve had enough with a capital E.
I had a terrible upbringing. I’m an only child, and my father left home when I was three years old. I don’t remember him and have never set eyes on him since. My mother was a dear soul, but died when I was ten, a victim of the same bastard disease that has now got hold of me.
My aunt kindly offered me a home and then gave me a dog’s life. Living with a violent alcoholic, I was regularly beaten senseless. She treated me as her slave and I had to beg for my dinner, like a dog on all fours. At sixteen, desperate to escape her, I married the first bloke I laid eyes on. Tommy Hutton was his name. He was twenty-one, and in my eyes cool, brash and handsome. I thought he was my saviour; how bloody wrong was I?
Approaching my stop, I gingerly get off the bus and start the short walk home. I unlock my front door and put the kettle on. I’m tired, but determined not to sleep. There are questions I need answering, things I need to plan, stuff I need to tell. So many secrets and so many lies. To rest in peace, I need to tell and know the truth. Picking up my pen and paper, I talk out loud as I try to remember the past.
I don’t know how to start. Will I read this to anyone? Or even show them? I choose my first line with care.
My name is Maureen Hutton and this is my story . . .
ONE
/> 1975
‘Fuckin’ hell, Tommo, he ain’t moving.’
White as a sheet, Tommy Hutton bent down to try and wake his victim. ‘Wake up Smiffy, please wake up,’ he said, as he frantically prodded and shook him.
Tibbsy, Benno and Dave Taylor stood rooted to the spot. Along with Tommy they were members of a notorious local gang known as the Stepney Crew.
Tonight they had organised a big off with a rival firm from Bethnal Green. Top four versus top four. Both gangs were determined to be crowned Kings of the East End; both thought they were the business. Tommy Hutton, AKA Tommo, had formed the gang: therefore he was their undisputed leader. Terry Smith, AKA Smiffy, had started the other firm and he was their top boy.
Tonight, however, things had gone very wrong. Determined not to be outdone by Smiffy, who had recently threatened him with an air gun, Tommy had decided to steal his old man’s fishing knife. He’d been keen to frighten Smiffy, cut him, scar him, show him who was boss. He certainly hadn’t meant to stick the knife straight through him.
Taking charge of matters, Tibbsy picked up the weapon. ‘We’d better get out of ’ere lads. The cunt’s dead, I’m telling yer. You take the knife, Tommo, get rid of it.’
Tommy shook from head to toe. He couldn’t move, his legs weren’t doing as they were told. ‘What am I gonna do? I didn’t mean to kill him,’ he sobbed.
Tibbsy grabbed his arm. ‘We’ve gotta go, Tommo, before anybody sees us. Don’t fuck about or we’ll all be going down.’
Tommy tucked his flared trousers into his socks and urged the others to do the same, fashion was a no-go at times like these. Ashen faced and panic stricken, the four lads ran for their lives.
Less than a mile away, Maureen was totally unaware of her son’s dilemma.
‘See yer on Saturday then, if I don’t see yer before, Sarn. It starts at seven, so don’t be bloody late.’
Maureen Hutton smiled as she shut the front door. It was her thirty-second birthday on Saturday and she was having a party to celebrate.
House parties were a regular occurrence on the Ocean Estate in Stepney. All skint as arseholes, she and her neighbours got together every Saturday night for some cheap booze and a knees-up. Maureen had numerous good mates who lived near by. Some were single mums who had it hard like herself, but her best friends Sandra and Brenda, they both had husbands. Neither she nor her friends dwelled on their poverty. Like most cockneys, they made the best out of what little they had. Every now and then they’d take it in turns to watch one another’s kids so they could have a night at the bingo. Apart from their Saturday night parties, bingo was their only other source of entertainment.
Maureen put the kettle on and made herself a brew. Her life had always been hard, but lately she’d been content. Her husband Tommy had left her years ago. A gambler and a piss-head, she was far better off without him. Sometimes he’d turn up like a bad penny, but he never hung about for long. A quick pop in to say hello to the kids or the occasional visit to his mother was about all he was good for. Alcohol was far more important to him than his family.
His mother, Ethel, was a legend in her own manor. At fifty-six she was a coarse, boisterous woman and as famous in the East End as Ronnie and Reggie. She swore like a navvy, drank like a fish, regularly went out on the thieve, and could tell a story to match the best of them. Hard as nails, she was. In the war she would wash down the dead bodies and help patch up the casualties. When the war ended, she set herself up in business with her friend, Gladys, and together they would perform illegal abortions. A tin bucket, a syringe and a bar of washing soap was the method they used. They were no experts, but were always careful to keep the end of the syringe in the bucket. One slip of the hand and the air bubbles could be fatal. Ethel had come up with the idea herself. She’d used the same method on the kids to wash out their worms. Many a time she’d shove a syringe of lukewarm water up their harrises and smile as their screams echoed from Stepney to Soho.
Maureen glanced at the clock. Her son, Tommy, was well late tonight and she’d skin the little bastard when he got home. Thankfully, her other two were safely tucked up in bed. Tommy was her eldest child – she was seventeen when she had him and he’d been a little bastard from the moment he’d let out his first cry. He was fourteen now, a cocky, streetwise little bleeder who was forever getting himself into trouble. Tall, dark and cheeky, he was popular with the girls, but even they found him a handful. He rarely went to school, was always fighting and she knew full well that he went out thieving with his pals and his gran.
Susan, her twelve-year-old daughter, was another worry. Sullen and obnoxious, she had a plain face, a plump body and a spiteful streak in her. She was unpopular at school, with very few friends, and even the kids on the street steered well clear of her.
Thankfully, her youngest son, James, was no trouble at all. Sweet, kind and funny, he was everything that Maureen had ever wanted in a child. She hadn’t known what to call him when she was carrying him. She had plenty of girls’ names, but no boys’. Her friend, Brenda, had chosen his name. A massive fan of the singer James Taylor, Bren had played his album till the grooves wore white. Maureen herself had fallen in love with the track ‘Sweet Baby James’ and, at Brenda’s insistence, agreed that if her unborn was a boy, she’d name him James.
The title of the song suited her son perfectly and Maureen was over the moon when her mother-in-law thieved her a record player along with the album. For hours she’d play that record to James when he was a baby. She’d sing the words as she rocked him to sleep, her special boy with his own special song. Trouble was, as the years went by, he became known as Jimmy Boy. Tommy had started the trend by insisting that James made him sound like a poof. Maureen had been pissed off at first by his change of identity, but as time went by she’d accepted it. A name’s just a name and he’d always be James to her.
All her neighbours had been shocked by her last pregnancy – she had been split up from her Tommy for years when she’d fallen. A drunken night of passion for old time’s sake had been her excuse. Little did they know what had really happened!
Maureen’s reminiscing was ended by the sound of the front door opening and the arrival of her eldest son. ‘Tommy, I’m gonna marmalise you, get your arse in ’ere, yer little bastard,’ she shouted at the top of her voice.
Ignoring her, Tommy Hutton ran up the stairs as fast as his legs would take him. His clothes were covered in blood and he had to get changed before his mother spotted him.
Just about to chase the cowson up the stairs and drag him back down by his hair, Maureen had a change of heart. He shared his bedroom with James and if she ran upstairs like a raging bull, she’d be bound to wake him up. Maureen lit the gas and put the kettle on to boil. She needed to calm down and a cup of Rosy was usually the answer. Tomorrow she’d have the little bastard’s guts for garters. Yawning, she made her brew and took it into the living room. Just lately she’d taken to sleeping downstairs on the old sofa. The house only had two bedrooms. The boys shared one and her and Susan the other. Ethel lived slap-bang opposite in a nice little one-bedroom flat.
Over the last few months, her daughter had become a nightmare to share a bed with. She’d nick the blanket then wriggle like an eel all night, and Maureen had a feeling that the little cow was doing it on purpose. Worn out by her lack of shut-eye, she had no alternative other than to move out of her own bedroom.
Tommy lay in bed wide awake. Now he’d pulled himself together, he felt a right prick for crying in front of his pals. He was meant to be the leader of the gang, not some fucking mug. After they’d legged it, him and the lads had headed to the park to sort out an alibi, and a plan, and as luck would have it, they’d bumped into Lenny Simpson. Seeing the blood on Tommy’s clothes, and the state of the four of them, Lenny guessed that some major shit had hit the fan and had fired awkward questions at them. Stuck for answers, they’d had no choice other than to spill their guts to him. He was sound, Lenny, and if he couldn’t help
them, no one could.
‘I’ll be your alibi. I’ll say you were round at mine all night. We had a few beers and were playing David Bowie records. I’ve got all his stuff, every album, so if anyone asks, we were boozing while listening to Bowie, right? If you stick to the same story as me, you’ll be all right, boys.’
Tommy hugged Lenny and repeatedly thanked him. Lenny had his own reasons to want to help out. Smiffy, the piece of shit in question, had terrorised his younger brother for the past three years. Lenny had been planning on disposing of the scumbag himself, but didn’t quite have the bottle to go through with it. Tommo had done him and his family a massive favour.
The other thing they’d discussed were the other lads in Smiffy’s gang. They’d all scarpered in separate directions when it had got a bit naughty. Tommy had chased Smiffy for at least five minutes before he’d caught him and, apart from his own crew, there’d been no one else about.
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