LITMIR.BIZ

       PROLOGUE

      Autumn 2001

      Queenie Butler slung another of her ornaments in the box marked ‘RUBBISH’ and momentarily felt comforted by the sound of it shattering into tiny pieces. That’s how her heart felt right now: broken and beyond repair.

      Delving into a bag, tears stung Queenie’s eyes as she came across the first suits she’d ever bought her beloved boys. Vinny had been about nine, Roy seven and Michael a mere toddler. So smart they’d looked at their nan’s funeral. Everybody had commented on how fine they were turned out, but what was the point of keeping the bloody things? Wouldn’t be needing them now, would they?

      Huffing and puffing, Big Stan ambled down the stairs with yet another heavy load in his arms. ‘That’s the last of it, Queen. The loft’s empty, love.’

      ‘Thanks, Stan. Only remembered I had stuff up there this morning and didn’t know who else to bloody ask. Thanks for always being there for me and mine over the years. I was never the perfect neighbour, I know that. Too wrapped up with me own, I suppose.’

      ‘Don’t be daft! You’ve always been the Queen of this street and always bleedin’ will be in my eyes. Ain’t gonna be the same without you and Vivvy, that’s for sure,’ Big Stan replied, his voice tinged with genuine sadness.

      Queenie handed her neighbour a photograph. ‘Remember that night?’

      Big Stan stared at it solemnly. Queenie and Vivian, so happy and vibrant-looking, done up to the nines in their expensive furs. Vinny and Roy, fresh-faced teenagers, suited and booted with a menacing edge even back then. Michael and Brenda, innocent schoolchildren with their whole lives ahead of them – or so you would’ve thought. And young Lenny Harris, poking his tongue out for the camera. ‘Course I remember it. Early sixties, was taken at the opening of the Butlers’ club. Brilliant night that was, the joint packed to the rafters. Teddy Drake the comedian and Dickie doobry – what was his name? The singer.’

      ‘Parker. Dickie Parker. Those were the days, eh, Stan? The good ol’ days. Look how happy we were. Breaks my heart to think the majority of us in that photo are now dead. None died from natural causes either. Murder and bleeding mayhem killed ’em all. What did my family ever do to deserve such tragedy, Stan? Perhaps we were wicked bastards in a past life, eh?’

      Big Stan’s eyes welled up. ‘Bless your heart, Queen. Gonna miss you, ya know. Me and the missus moved ’ere in 1944 and you were the first neighbour we ever spoke to. You were pregnant with your Vinny and I offered to carry your shopping bags. Where have all those years gone?’

      ‘In a puff of misery, that’s where.’

      Awkwardly hugging the distraught woman, Big Stan mumbled, ‘I wish there was something I could say or do to make things right for you, lovey. I’m truly sorry for your loss and for what happened at the wedding. Me and the missus will be attending the funeral of course and … Well, you’ve got our number if you need us for anything else in the meantime.’

      ‘You’re a diamond, Stan. What’s the fucking racket outside? Because if it’s that scum over the road again, mood I’m in, I’ll march over there and take an ’ammer to ’em.’

      Big Stan looked out the window. ‘Yeah, it’s them. I’ll have a word. When did our wonderful Whitechapel go so downhill, Queen?’

      Telling Stan to pour them both a large brandy, Queenie settled herself in her armchair and waited for him to take a seat on the sofa. ‘I’ll tell you exactly when things went from bad to bloody worse, shall I? Now cast your mind back to the spring of 1986 …’