The Feud

by Kimberley Chambers

  THE

  FEUD

  KIMBERLEY

  CHAMBERS

  preface

  publishing

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409050308

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Preface 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Kimberley Chambers 2010

  Kimberley Chambers has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Preface Publishing 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA

  An imprint of The Random House Group Limited

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  www.prefacepublishing.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 84809 140 5

  The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace-approved FSC-certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

  Typeset in Times by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC

  In memory of Lee Mouser

  1962–2002

  My daddy told me I never should

  Play with the gypsies in the wood

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, I would like to express my gratitude to everybody at Preface and Random House for believing in me and my books. A special mention to all the reps, who have done a wonderful job in getting my name out there.

  A big thanks to Tim Bates, who is a great agent and friend and Rosie de Courcy for giving me an opportunity to make something of my life.

  As always, I would be lost without my amazing typist, Sue Cox, and a special mention to Trish Scott for her help with technology.

  Seeing as the majority of this book is set in the rave year of 1988, I must mention Jenny Munro, Tina Mouser, Sherri Fuller and Tracy Mackness. With the lives we lead back in those days I’m surprised we’re all still alive, let alone still in touch!

  And last, but certainly not least, I must acknowledge Chas and Dave. Gutted you split up boys, but your music will live forever!

  PROLOGUE

  Summer 1970

  As Eddie Mitchell ran his fingers along the side of the baseball bat, he could feel the beads of sweat forming along his forehead. It was one of those muggy days, where flying ants appeared. It was far too hot to be suited and booted and stuck in the back of a Transit van.

  Eddie listened intently as his father repeated his instructions. ‘We don’t want an all-out war, so nothing too heavy, boys. This is a little warning for ’em, and if they don’t get the message, then heavy’ll come later.’

  As the rest of the family discussed the feud, Eddie sat in silence. In his eyes, the O’Haras had taken a fucking liberty and deserved more than a little warning. For as long as Ed could remember, his dad, Harry, had run the pub protection racket in the East End. No one messed with the Mitchells, no one dared, and then, like an unwanted disease, the O’Haras appeared on the scene and tried to muscle in on their patch. Eddie was the youngest member of the family firm. His dad ran the show, along with his uncle Reg. Then there were Paulie and Ronny, his two elder brothers.

  ‘You OK, son?’

  Smiling with anticipation, Eddie nodded at his father. The O’Haras were a travelling family who had recently moved to the East End from Cambridgeshire. Eddie hated travellers. In his eyes, they were uncouth, lowlife, inbred scum. In particular, he hated Jimmy O’Hara. He was the strongest of the sons, the loudest, and flash didn’t even begin to describe him.

  ‘I wanna be the one to take out Jimmy, Dad.’

  Harry eyed his son proudly. Even from an early age, Eddie was the one full of promise, and Harry knew without a doubt that one day his youngest child would be head of the family business.

  As the Transit van pulled up outside the pub, the Mitchells clutched their weapons.

  ‘Right, let’s do it,’ Harry said as he sprang from the van.

  Barging his brothers and uncle out of the way, Ed followed his father into the boozer. ‘See you? You’re dead, you piss-taking pikey cunt,’ he screamed as he spotted Jimmy O’Hara and lunged towards him.

  As the pub erupted into full-scale mayhem, Eddie was grabbed around the neck from behind.

  ‘Do him, Jimmy, fucking do him!’ he heard a voice shout.

  As the knife slid down the left-hand side of his face, Eddie felt anger, not pain. With blood spewing from his face, he went for O’Hara like a rabid Rottweiler.

  ‘You inbred pikey piece of shit!’ he screamed, as he threw off the geezer behind him and repeatedly thrust the baseball bat against Jimmy O’Hara’s head.

  In that moment, Eddie completely lost it, and if his family hadn’t dragged him away, Ed swore he would have committed murder.

  Harry, Reg, Paulie and Ronny managed to clump and scare the rest of the O’Haras and, aware that Eddie’s face was almost sliced in two, they quickly bundled him into the back of the Transit van.


  ‘Let me go back. I’ll kill him, I’ll fucking kill him!’ Eddie screamed.

  ‘Your face is fucked. We need to get you stitched up, son,’ Harry said seriously.

  Ed was seething as he held the side of his face together. He was covered in claret from head to toe. The wound was so deep, it had even soaked through his suit.

  Aware that his mouth was full of blood, Ed spat a mouthful onto the floor. As he turned to his father, his expression blackened.

  ‘I’ll get me own back, Dad, if it’s the last thing I do. Even if the O’Haras lay off our turf, this feud ain’t over. It will never be over between me and Jimmy, not now – not ever.’

  ONE

  1971

  Joyce Smith smiled as she carefully lifted her best dinner service out of the box. She rarely used her expensive china, but today was a very special occasion and she was desperate to impress.

  As Joyce entered the living room, her smile immediately turned to a frown. That lazy husband of hers was still glued to that filthy, stinking armchair of his. ‘Stanley, get your arse up them stairs and get yourself ready. You haven’t even washed or shaved yet and they’ll be here soon.’

  More interested in the 3.45 at Kempton, Stanley leaped up and down. ‘Go on my son, get in there. Go on my son, you can do it!’

  As his horse got pipped at the post, Stanley threw the Sporting Life up in the air in temper. ‘Stupid, bastard nag!’ he shouted.

  Annoyed that her husband was ignoring her orders, Joyce picked up her broom and clumped him on the head with it. Why he betted, she’d never know. He always bloody lost. ‘I won’t tell you again, Stanley. Now get up them bleedin’ stairs and smarten yourself up.’

  Stanley knew better than to argue with his wife. She wore the trousers, and he just complied with her orders.

  ‘Your nice blue shirt and best slacks are hanging on the wardrobe door; put them on,’ Joyce ordered.

  ‘Anyone would think the Queen Mother was coming for tea,’ Stan replied, as he ran up the stairs.

  Picking up the duster and polish, Joyce did her best to tidy his dirty little corner. She had a quick vac round then, to finish, sprayed a whole can of air freshener around the house. That’s better, she thought as she studied her domain.

  Joyce was very proud of her three-bedroomed council house. It was situated in a road off Upney Lane, but she always told people that she lived in the upper-class part of Barking. Obviously, she would have liked to have bought a private property in a better area, but on Stan’s bus driver’s wages, that was never going to happen.

  A proper little homemaker, Joyce was always buying new ornaments and furniture to tart up her surroundings. Her neighbours all said that she had the poshest house in the street and Joyce loved the compliment. Being known as the posh woman suited her down to the ground.

  Stanley mumbled and cursed to himself as he shaved and got changed. Not only was he annoyed with the jockey and nag that had just lost him money, he was also annoyed with his daughter, Jessica, for messing up his usual plans.

  Apart from the one in four Saturdays when he had to work, Stanley loved these afternoons. They were like his day out of prison, when he’d escape Joycie’s moaning and spend the whole day in the pub or the bookie’s with his pals. Today, he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. His daughter, Jessica, was bringing this new boyfriend of hers around for tea and Joyce had insisted he stay indoors and play happy families.

  Like most dads, Stanley was quite protective of his only daughter. Jessica was only seventeen and still lived at home with them. Petite and blonde, Jessica was a very pretty girl with a sunny nature. She’d had boyfriends in the past, but there’d been nothing serious until this latest one.

  His son, Raymond, was forever bringing different girls home, but Stan wasn’t worried about what he got up to. With Jess it was different. He knew what it was like to be a hormonal young man and he would hate anyone taking advantage of his little girl.

  Stan checked his appearance in the mirror. From what Joyce had said, this new boyfriend sounded like a right Flash Harry. Call it father’s intuition, Stanley just knew he wasn’t going to like him very much.

  Joyce stared out of the window as she plumped up the cushions. They should be here any minute and she couldn’t wait to meet this Eddie. For the first time in her young life, Jessica had fallen hook, line and sinker and Joyce was ever so pleased for her. Joyce’s own life had always lacked excitement and romance, and she wanted her daughter to have everything she hadn’t. Sometimes she wondered why she’d even married Stan and then she remembered her mother’s harsh words: ‘You’re twenty-two now, Joycie. Look at all your mates, every one of them married. Even that fat Doreen from across the road has found herself a husband. Young Stanley’s from ever such good stock. I know all of his family, even his aunts and uncles. You don’t wanna be left on the shelf, do you now?’

  ‘But I don’t think I love him, Mum,’ Joyce complained.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, Joycie. I wasn’t in love with your father when I married him, but we made the most of it. Love comes later, dear. Take my advice and marry Stanley. If you say no and leave it any longer, at your age there’ll be little else to choose from.’

  Six months after that little chat, Joyce reluctantly agreed to marry Stanley. Jessica arrived a year later, closely followed by Raymond. Love between her and Stan had never really blossomed, but Joyce threw herself into the children and in her own way was happy with her little lot. Romeo and Juliet, she and Stan most certainly weren’t, but they jogged along quite nicely, especially since he’d stopped wanting sex.

  Joyce loved reading and what was lacking in her love life she found in the pages of Mills & Boon novels. Now she hoped that Jessica and her new beau would fill a void in her life and inject some much-needed romance.

  Seeing her clean-shaven husband walk towards her, Joyce smiled at him. ‘That’s better! What a difference to see you in a nice shirt and slacks. See Stanley, you do scrub up well when you try.’

  Stan tutted and flopped in his armchair. ‘Scrub up well! I feel like a bleedin’ pox doctor’s clerk,’ he moaned.

  Joyce shooed him out of his chair. ‘They’re due in five minutes. Stand up, or you’ll crease your shirt.’

  Stan jumped up as though he had a firework up his arse. He wasn’t the bravest man in the world and over the years he’d realised that it was easier to comply with Joycie’s orders than to argue with her.

  ‘Where’s Raymond?’ he asked.

  Twitching the curtain, Joyce explained. ‘Gone round his mate’s. I told him not to come back until later. He’s been a cheeky little sod lately and, as for that racket he keeps playing upstairs, I didn’t want him to give a bad impression of us in front of Eddie. Quick, here they are, this is them. I’ll answer the door, you go and get some beers out the shed to offer Eddie. Now, Stanley. Quick, chop-chop.’

  As they approached the house, Jessica squeezed Eddie’s big hand. Clocking Ginny and Linda staring at her from the house across the road, she waved proudly. Jessica couldn’t stop grinning. To say Eddie was a looker was an understatement. The expression tall, dark and handsome could have been created just for him. She was dying for her parents to meet him, especially her mum. The only worry she had was the age gap between them. Eddie was thirty but she had told her dad he was only twenty-five. Her mum knew the truth and once her dad got to know Eddie and like him, she would tell him the truth as well.

  ‘This is it, number eleven. Now, remember what I told you about my dad. He still thinks of me as his little baby, so if he’s not overly friendly, please don’t take it personally.’

  Eddie kissed her on the nose. ‘You worry too much, Jess. I’ll have a chat with your old man, just leave him to me.’

  Unable to contain her excitement any longer, Joyce flung open the front door.

  ‘Ed, this is my mum. Mum, this is Eddie,’ Jessica said, beaming.

  Eddie shook Joyce’s hand and politely kissed her on both cheeks. ‘It
’s a delight to meet you, Mrs Smith. Your Jessica’s told me so much about you.’

  Joyce giggled. ‘All good, I hope?’

  ‘Most definitely,’ Eddie said, winking.

  Joyce led them into the living room. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of tea, Jess, and let the men have a beer,’ she said.

  Jessica smiled as she noticed her mother had got the expensive china out. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked.

  Joyce offered Eddie a sandwich. ‘Gone down to the shed to get some beers. Speak of the devil – here he is now.’

  Eddie put his sandwich down and stood up as Stan entered the room. ‘Dad, this is Eddie who I’ve been telling you about,’ Jessica said nervously.

  At five feet eight inches tall, Stanley felt inadequate as he shook Eddie’s strong hand. He thought of the jockey who had lost him the race earlier and, for some reason, felt like his twin brother.

  ‘Would you like a piece of homemade fruit cake, Eddie?’ his wife asked.

  Stan flopped into his armchair and studied the object of his daughter’s affection. He’d been right all along. He didn’t like the look of him one little bit. Jessica had told him that Eddie was twenty-five, but the bastard looked old enough to be her dad. He was broad-shouldered, with dark hair and was wearing tailored grey trousers with a long black Crombie coat. As he turned his head, Stan noticed the massive scar that ran from the outside of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. Stan knocked back his bottle of Double Diamond and opened another. Eddie looked an out-and-out villain. He certainly wasn’t the sort of chap he envisaged or wanted his beautiful daughter going out with.

  As the conversation flowed, Stan could tell that Mr Fucking Charming Bollocks had Joycie eating out of his hand.

  ‘That fruit cake was amazing, Mrs Smith. So much better than the cakes I’m used to,’ the smarmy bastard said.

  ‘You’re ever so quiet, Dad. Are you OK?’ Jessica asked, as she handed him and Eddie another beer.

  Knowing that he was expected to join in the conversation, Stanley cleared his throat. ‘Jessica said that she met you at a local party. Do you come from round here, Eddie?’