LITMIR.BIZ

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customers,’ Mary replied, walking over to the jukebox.

      ‘Bleedin’ racket is giving me a headache. Don’t be turning it up no louder just because the murderer’s brother has asked you to,’ Mad Freda shouted out.

      ‘Who you calling a murderer? Michael’s brothers are good lads,’ Kevin said, sticking up for his best pal.

      ‘Who rattled your cage? You little black bastard,’ Freda spat back.

      Michael grabbed Kevin by the sleeve of his parka. ‘Come on, mate, let’s go. Everyone knows that Freda is off her head, so there’s no point arguing with a bigoted nutjob. It’s like talking to a brick wall.’

      Albie Butler was not in the best of moods. The doctors had told him he could be discharged before Christmas if he had somebody who could care for him until the plaster was taken off his legs. Trouble was, he couldn’t find anyone who could do so. Even his own brother had refused his pleas for help. Bert had made the excuse that his wife was ill.

      Knowing that Queenie was his last chance of getting out of the hellhole of a hospital before Christmas, Albie decided to swallow his pride and call her.

      ‘What do you fucking want?’ Queenie hissed down the receiver.

      ‘I need a favour, love. The doctors said I can leave hospital if I’ve got somewhere to stay and a bit of help. Now, I know it’s over between us, but it won’t be for long, Queenie. As soon as I’m up and about again, I’ll find meself a little bedsit or something. Please help me, even if it’s only for old time’s sake?’

      Furious by the cheek of the untrustworthy waste of space, Queenie gave her deceitful husband what for. ‘For all I care you can go and sleep under the arches with the rest of the fucking tramps. I will never allow you to darken my doorstep again, you dirty old toad. You’re dead as far as me and my sons are concerned. Even little Brenda don’t ask about you no more. I hope you rot in that hospital, and I pray you get bedbugs and sores as well. I’m hanging up now. Happy Christmas, you old cuntbag.’

      When the line went dead and the nurse wheeled the phone away, Albie couldn’t stop the tears running down his cheeks. He didn’t want to spend his Christmas in bloody hospital. Now his family had disowned him, he had no visitors at all, and couldn’t even get somebody to sneak him in a bottle of brandy.

      Old Mr Perry opened one eye. He had been pretending to be asleep, but he had heard Albie ask Queenie if he could move back in with her. It was now time for one of his little sing-songs. ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you.’

      Unable to take any more of Mr Perry, or life in general, Albie put his hands together and said a little prayer. ‘Just let me croak it, God. Please, just let me fucking die, so I can get some bastard peace.’

      Absolutely seething over what they’d just heard, Queenie and Vivian marched into the café like two bulls in a china shop.

      ‘See you, you fucking old cow. I have just about had enough of you slandering my family. Who do you think you are, eh? My boys are good boys. And how dare you call Kevin a black bastard, you bigoted old hag,’ Queenie yelled, her face dangerously close to Freda’s.

      Pushing her dinner plate away, Freda stood up. She was a stout woman with more than a bit of meat on her, whereas Queenie and Vivian were skinny as rakes. ‘I ain’t frightened of you, you pair of old dragons. Ruined my beloved Whitechapel, you and that scum you raised have.’

      When Queenie and Vivian both lunged at Freda, Mary screamed in fright.

      ‘What the hell is going on?’ Donald asked, running out of the kitchen with a tea towel in his hand.

      ‘Oh my God, Donald. Do something,’ Mary shrieked hysterically, when a cup and saucer got smashed in the fracas.

      Sturdy or not, Freda was no match for Queenie and Vivian, and was already lying on the floor with her legs open, showing her bloomers.

      Being Christmas Eve afternoon, the café was empty now, so Donald had no alternative other than to break up the three brawling women himself.

      Nancy and Christopher had both heard the commotion and, petrified, they ran down the stairs. ‘What’s happening, Mummy?’ Nancy screamed, when she saw Vivian hit her father with her umbrella.

      ‘Get out,’ Donald shouted, as he grabbed Vivian’s wrists to stop her from hitting him again.

      Thinking that his father might get stabbed and die like the man outside the snooker club, Christopher put his hands over his eyes. ‘Leave my dad alone,’ he screamed.

      When Freda suddenly leapt up and grabbed Queenie around the throat, Mary was rather relieved to see Vinny Butler barge through the café door. ‘Mum, Auntie Viv, get in the car now,’ he barked.

      ‘And don’t bloody well come back. You are officially barred from my premises,’ Donald spat, as the two women stopped fighting and dusted themselves down.

      ‘Watch it, mate. That’s my mother and aunt you are talking to,’ Vinny hissed. He had been stuck in traffic outside and had only glanced inside the café to see if he could see little Christopher, when he had spotted his aunt attacking Donald with her umbrella.

      ‘Come on, Queenie. The food was shit in here anyway,’ Vivian said, grabbing her sister by the arm.

      ‘Yep. You’re right. That last sandwich we had in here was fucking rotten,’ Queenie lied.

      Seeing Christopher standing behind the counter with his mother and sister, Vinny took a twenty-pound note out of his pocket, screwed it up, and chucked it on the floor at Donald’s feet. ‘That’s to pay for any damage and whatever’s left, give it to your kids as a Christmas present,’ he said, generously.

      ‘Silence money, that is. I know that Christopher witnessed you murder that man, ’cause I bloody saw him standing there,’ Freda yelled.

      Absolutely terrified of Vinny, and unable to cope with the lie he had told, Christopher burst into tears and ran up the stairs.

      ‘Get out, all of you. Get out now,’ Donald bellowed.

      Heads held high, Queenie and Vivian strutted out of the door as proud as peacocks.

      ‘And I don’t want your dirty money,’ Donald said, picking up the twenty-pound note and chucking it back at Vinny.

      Vinny did not like Donald one little bit. In his eyes he was nothing more than a jumped-up pompous prick. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Christopher had lied on his behalf, Vinny would have upped him there and then. ‘The money’s yours, if you don’t want it, give it to your kids,’ he ordered.

      ‘Am I barred too?’ Freda asked Donald.

      ‘Yes. Get out,’ Donald yelled.

      Terrified that Donald and Vinny were now going to start fighting, Mary took Nancy upstairs. ‘I don’t like it here, Mummy. Can we please move back to Stoke Newington?’ the girl sobbed.

      Realizing that they now had no spectators, Vinny gave Donald his special stare. ‘I’d watch your back if I was you, mate. No-one speaks to my mother and aunt like shit and gets away with it, and I mean fucking no-one.’

      When Vinny walked out and slammed the door, Donald quickly locked it, then crouched down with his head in his hands. They had only been in Whitechapel for a short while and already their lives were in ruins. There was no way back after today’s events. Whether Mary liked it or not, Donald was determined to put his foot down now. The quicker he got his family away from this God-forsaken area, the better.

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      Queenie Butler absolutely loved Christmas. The festive season was all about family, and there was nothing she enjoyed more than having all her brood around her. She opened the oven door to check on the sausage rolls and mince pies. Most women that she knew did the bulk of their cooking on Christmas

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