The Trap

by Chambers, Kimberley

  KIMBERLEY CHAMBERS

  The Trap

  In memory of all our brave soldiers who have lost their lives in action including my own grandfather “Gunner Thomas Henry Caunter”

  If you trap the moment before it’s ripe,

  The tears of repentance you certainly wipe.

  But if once you let the ripe moment go,

  You can never wipe off the tears of woe.

  William Blake

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Star in the Trap Series!

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Join Kimberley’s Social Networks

  About the Author

  Also by Kimberley Chambers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Autumn 1965

  Unable to make himself heard above Sandie Shaw belting out ‘Long Live Love’, Donald Walker made his way over to the Wurlitzer jukebox and turned down the volume.

  ‘Don’t do that! You know I like Sandie,’ Mary Walker said, as though she knew the singer personally.

  ‘There’s somebody knocking at the door,’ Donald informed his wife.

  Mary walked over to the door and unbolted it. She was greeted by a sturdy-looking woman standing there in a dark-grey overcoat. At a guess, Mary thought she was probably in her mid fifties, but it was hard to be sure because of the curlers and hairnet on her head. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’ Mary asked, politely.

  ‘No, but I can help you,’ the woman replied, barging her way past Mary and into the premises.

  Donald and Mary knew very little about the East End or its natives. They were North Londoners, having lived in Stoke Newington for many years, but this café in Whitechapel had been far too cheap to turn down, which is why they had decided to up sticks and move.

  ‘Hello, I’m Donald and this is my wife, Mary. As you have probably already realized, we are the new owners of the café. We officially open for business tomorrow but would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ Donald asked.

  Shaking her head, the woman held out her right hand. ‘I’m Freda. Freda Smart. I live just around the corner.’

  ‘And how can you help us?’ Mary enquired. She had a feeling that Freda was about to ask for a job, but there was no chance of that as she and Donald had spent every penny they had refurbishing the rundown café and were in no position to employ staff just yet.

  ‘I can help you by telling you why this café has been empty for eighteen long months before you bought it and why you probably got it for peanuts,’ Freda spat.

  Mary gave her husband a worried glance. This café had been half the cost of any others they had looked at and the only one in their meagre price-range. But this woman seemed unhinged somehow and Mary wondered if she perhaps held a grudge against the previous owner.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Donald asked. He had noticed that the woman’s forehead had beads of sweat forming which had now started to drip onto one of his brand-new melamine tables.

  ‘No, don’t want nuffink. Just come to let you know the score. No-one else round ’ere will tell you. They’re all too bleedin’ well frightened of ’em, but I ain’t.’

  ‘Frightened of who?’ Mary asked, perplexed.

  ‘Frightened of the Butlers. They own that snooker club just around the corner. Old Jack who used to own this café, they killed his son, Peter. Broke his wife Ethel’s heart it did and if you don’t abide by their rules, they’ll rip the heart out of your family too. I saw you move in. You got two little kids, ain’t ya? Well, if you just do as I say, you’ll be OK. Albie’s the dad. He’s a piss-head, a proper waster. The mother is the brains of the family. Hard-looking old cow called Queenie. Her sister is Vivvy, she has a mongol son, and Queenie’s kids are Vinny, who is the worst out the bunch, Roy, Michael, and young Brenda. When they come in here, look after ’em. Serve ’em before any other customers and don’t charge ’em for food or drinks, you get me?’

  Seeing the distressed look on his wife’s face, Donald was extremely annoyed. Opening their café tomorrow was meant to be one of the best moments of their lives and yet this madwoman was here, upsetting his Mary and threatening to spoil the joyous occasion. ‘I can assure you, Freda, that Mary and I will not be giving free drinks or food to anybody and our customers will also be served in the order they arrive in. Now, if you don’t mind, could I please ask you to leave? Mary and I still have lots of work to do before we open tomorrow and we have very little time left to accomplish that task.’

  Absolutely furious that her sound advice hadn’t been listened to, Freda stood up, stomped towards Donald and poked him in the chest. ‘Dig your own grave, what do I care? But, don’t say I didn’t warn you. The Butlers, remember the name. They catch people in their trap, just like spiders do,’ she yelled, as Donald escorted her out of the café.

  ‘Oh my God! What have we done, Donald? And who the hell are the Butlers?’ Mary asked, when her husband had locked the door.

  Donald took his wife in his arms. At six foot, he towered over Mary’s five-foot frame. He was the man of the family and protect her he would. ‘Do not worry yourself, my darling. Freda is obviously the mad local scaremonger. And even if that Butler family do come in here, we won’t have any problems with them, I can absolutely assure you of that.’

  Nestling herself against Donald’s broad chest, Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Her husband’s instincts were never wrong.

  Five minutes later the jukebox was back on and Mary and Donald worked happily side by side. They sang in unison to the Beatles’ ‘Help’, but what they didn’t realize was that in the not-too-distant future, they would be needing help themselves. Every word that Freda Smart had spoken happened to be the truth. She wasn’t mad, nor was she a scaremonger. She was just a realist who had done her utmost to warn a decent family of the perils of moving to Whitechapel.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘There’s two people waiting outside, Daddy. Can we open the door now?’ asked young Nancy Walker.

  Urging his eleven-year-old daughter to come away from the window, Donald smiled as Nancy skipped towards him. Nancy was like a miniature version of her mother: petite, blonde, with blue eyes and a cute button nose.

  ‘How’re we doing for time, Donald?’ Mary shouted out.

  Holding his daug
hter’s hand, Donald led her into the kitchen. ‘We have twenty minutes until our business officially opens, my dear,’ he said, proudly. He had worked two jobs for many years to secure his and Mary’s aim of a better life for themselves and their family. He had even worked at weekends while Mary brought the children up nigh-on singlehandedly, but it had been worth it now they had achieved their dream.

  ‘Look, Dad. I buttered all that,’ Christopher said, pointing towards a stack of bread.

  Donald ruffled the hair of his eight-year-old son. Christopher looked nothing like his mother and sister. He took after his dad with his brown hair and his chocolate-coloured eyes.

  ‘Can you put that cake in the display cabinet for me, Donald? Oh, and turn the jukebox on as well,’ Mary ordered.

  Donald raised his eyebrows to the ceiling at the mention of the jukebox. He had been totally against purchasing such an object. He had finally relented when Mary explained her exact reasons for wanting one. ‘I don’t want ours to be like some grotty old transport café, Donald. I want it to be vibrant and modern. If we buy the jukebox outright, just think of the extra income we will earn with people putting all their pennies in. We don’t want a café full of old-age pensioners, do we? We want to attract a younger crowd that have money to spend, and music is the best attraction of all. That new band, the Rolling Stones, would liven up a graveyard,’ Mary insisted.

  Donald sat down on one of the posh plastic shiny red chairs that his wife had fallen in love with. She had an eye for décor, did his Mary, and Donald had to admit she had done a bloody good job. Red and white had been her colour theme and apart from the picture of James Dean that sat proudly on the wall opposite the jukebox, everything was a mixture of those two colours. Thinking how trendy and also how very American it all looked, Donald smiled, stood up, and walked into the kitchen. ‘I can’t wait any longer. Let’s open the door now, shall we?’

  ‘Can I open it?’ Christopher shouted, grabbing his father’s arm.

  ‘No, I want to do it,’ Nancy said obstinately, pushing her brother out of the way.

  ‘Behave yourselves, please. Seeing as your mother designed this and buying a café was all her idea in the first place, it will be her that opens the door to the public.’

  Eyes shining with excitement, Mary picked up the scissors. Donald had put a piece of red ribbon across the outside of the door this morning and once that was cut, their wonderful café was open for the whole wide world to see. ‘To happiness and success,’ Mary said.

  Queenie Butler stared at her mother’s grave and crouched down next to her sister. ‘We’ve tidied you up, Mum, and we’re off now. Love you. God bless,’ Queenie said, kissing her fingers and placing her right hand against her mother’s headstone.

  ‘Yep. God bless, sweetheart,’ Vivian added, solemnly.

  ‘Don’t our flowers look beautiful?’ Queenie commented, linking arms with her sister.

  Vivian nodded. ‘Best-looking grave over here by miles. At least we have respect for the dead, unlike some people,’ she said loudly, as Old Mother Taylor walked past.

  ‘Stop it, Viv,’ Queenie laughed.

  ‘Well, her old man’s grave is an eyesore. How the hell can she visit him regular and stare at those weeds? It ain’t bleedin’ normal. Lazy old cow,’ Vivian said, loudly.

  ‘Whatever is your Lenny doing?’ Queenie enquired.

  Marching over to her nine-year-old son, Vivian clipped him around the ear. ‘What have I told you about pissing over ’ere, eh? If you wanna do a wee-wee, you ask me and I’ll take you to a toilet. You don’t get your dingle-dangle out in public, understand? It’s naughty.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ Lenny said, grinning.

  As her nephew skipped on ahead of them, Queenie chuckled. ‘I’m sure he only does it to wind you up, Viv. He laughs every time you have a go at him. Sod all wrong with his brain. Smart as a button, he is.’

  Vivian batted her eyelids. Lenny was her only son, she adored him, but it wasn’t easy bringing up a child with disabilities. Lenny had nearly died when she’d given birth to him. She had gone into labour at home and when the doctor finally arrived, he hadn’t been able to get her son out at first. Lenny had been in the breech position and it seemed like an eternity before he finally entered the world. Queenie had been with her throughout, holding her hand while she screamed blue murder and both of them had thought little Lenny was a goner. He lay motionless on the bed for a good few minutes before the doctor managed to find signs of life. The relief she felt when she heard that first cry come from his lips, Vivian would remember till her dying day.

  Lenny’s dad was an East End Jack-the-lad called Bill Harris. Bill was working his way up the criminal ladder and had felt humiliated being associated with a son who wasn’t born perfect. It was common knowledge locally that Bill was knocking off the tarty barmaid in the Blind Beggar and when Vivian finally learned of his betrayal, she had packed his clothes in a couple of sacks, marched inside the pub with Queenie alongside her, chucked them at the barmaid, and told her she was welcome to her no-good husband. That was over three years ago now, and Vivian had never clapped eyes on Bill Harris since. Rumour had it that he’d moved to Barking and set up home with his new tart. Viv hoped this wasn’t true, as she would much prefer the bastard to be six feet under and covered by earth.

  ‘Your Lenny looks more and more like my Michael every day. Wouldn’t Mum have loved him now?’ Queenie said, wistfully.

  Vivian nodded. Their poor old mum had died last year and had adored young Lenny. She’d had a stroke and was found dead in her armchair with her knitting on her lap. She was only fifty-seven, no age at all.

  ‘Shall we pop in and see the boys in the club on the way back?’ Queenie asked. She was dead proud of her two eldest sons for recently setting up their own business. It was officially a snooker club, but it was common knowledge locally that it was really an illegal drinking and gambling den.

  Queenie wasn’t daft. She knew Vinny and Roy had pulled off a robbery or two to afford such an establishment, but it didn’t bother her. She wanted her sons to live the good life and if that meant swindling the odd person or company along the way, then so be it.

  ‘Yeah, why not. They might find Lenny some jobs to do this afternoon which will give me a break. Old Jack’s café re-opens today, you know. Fat Beryl saw one of them jukeboxes being delivered there, so it sounds posh. Let’s be nosy and have a cuppa there first, then we’ll pop in to see the boys.’

  ‘Oh, I dunno, Viv. Say all Old Jack’s customers are back in there? He was ever so popular, was Jack. My Vinny swears blind he had nothing to do with young Peter’s murder, but I don’t fancy walking into a furnace. Perhaps we should pop in there when it’s been open a couple of weeks? Bound to be packed today.’

  ‘People are always gonna spread bloody rumours. Your Vinny’s got good morals, you know that. Peter was a pervert, that’s a fact, and if it was Vinny that topped him for touching up that poor child, then he deserves a bleedin’ medal. Let’s walk in there with our heads held high. You are Queenie Butler, no bastard would have the guts to say anything bad to you, would they? Or me, for that matter, and if somebody did get a bit lippy, we’ll just walk round the corner and tell the boys.’

  Knowing how feared her two eldest sons were, Queenie couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Sod it then. Let’s go and be nosy.’

  Donald and Mary had been rushed off their feet all morning. Donald was in charge of the cooking in the kitchen and Mary was out at the front taking customers’ orders and making teas, coffees, sandwiches and rolls. Even young Nancy and Christopher had worked flat-out. They were in charge of the washing and drying up, with the promise of some extra pocket money.

  At the first lull in the day’s activities, Donald left the kitchen to join his wife at the counter.

  ‘The interest that jukebox has caused, you would not believe. Everybody who has come in has had a look at it. Told you it would be good for business, didn’t I?’ Mary said, treating Donald
to a smug expression. Her husband could be a domineering man at times, but Mary had learned to stick up for herself over the years. Nancy always sided with her, and Christopher with his father, but overall they were a happy, well-balanced family.

  ‘You most certainly did, my dear. I can’t believe how busy we have been, can you? Perhaps it’s a bit of a novelty as it’s our first day, but if things continue in the same vein, we will have to look at taking on a member of staff, Mary. The kids start their new school next week, remember? And there is no way I would have had time to wash and dry up this morning as well as cook all the food.’

  ‘Let’s see how things pan out. Perhaps we can take someone on part-time to help us out in our busiest period?’ Mary replied. She and Donald had planned to open from seven in the morning to seven in the evening to begin with.

  Donald didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the reaction of his seated customers to the two bleached-blonde women and dark-haired child who had just walked in. They were being treated like royalty. Because there were no spare tables, at least three different people had leapt up to give them theirs and one man had even offered to buy them their food and drink.

  ‘This has to be members of that Butler family that Mad Freda warned us about,’ Donald hissed in his wife’s ear.