LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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