Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End by Carol Rivers (first e reader txt) 📕

firmly. 'No creeping, no spotting, no fitting. Not even a touch at the market. No nicking wallets, bags or goods. Nothing goes down unless I say so. The Bryants think, act, even shit as one.'

Micky turned to face him and Ronnie was relieved to see a glimmer of humour return to his brother's eyes.

'What about them kids outside?' Sean asked suddenly. 'They've been kipping right on top of the stock.'

Ronnie had almost forgotten he'd allowed them to sleep in the shelter. After Mum's death he hadn't had the heart to send them back to Bow Street.

'They'll have to go,' Ronnie nodded.

'Lambs to the slaughter, I reckon,' Micky murmured, a glint in his eye.

'But they're not our problem,' Sean said anxiously. 'Are they?'

Micky shrugged. 'I reckon sending them back to Bow Street is like feeding mice to a cat. I'd like to see how handy the bastard is with someone his own size.'

It wasn't often Micky made sense, Ronnie thought, but this time he was in full agreement. He felt a grudging admiration towards Micky. More than that, he knew his brother was no coward and had taken his punishment on the streets as well as dolling it out. Inside him there was a vicious streak that was pure hate for authority of any kind. Ronnie knew that if this trait could be harnessed for the good of the family, they would have a valuable asset in Micky.

'You want to sort it out?' Ronnie asked.

Micky's dark eyes lit up. 'Now you're talking, bruv.'

But Sean was shaking his head. 'I don't like it. Those kids are bad news.'

Ronnie was under no illusions as far as Sean went. He was never cut out for the physical. Mum had spoiled him rotten, and him and Micky had understood why. Sean was the total opposite to Micky who, given the chance, would happily take a swing at a bull with a match up its arse.

'We'll start as we mean to go on,' Ronnie said without hesitation. 'Ask yourself this question, Sean. What would Dad have done if we had a sister and some lairy sod lifted a hand against her?' His face was set hard, its handsome proportions chiselled out in the broad daylight. 'This is our patch and we need the respect.' He paused, assessing his brothers' reactions. When no argument was forthcoming he continued. 'Now, are we all done?'

Ronnie looked at them again. Then he stood up and felt the smooth material of his trousers fall over his long legs. He liked that feeling. He liked the fact that he now had his brothers' undivided attention and made a vow to keep it that way.

Before leaving the room he picked up the newspaper. The polish of the table sparkled. He could remember his mum polishing it and the joy she took in doing so. It was a big, solid table, like the family he intended to cultivate. This was the first meeting he had called, but it wouldn't be the last. There would be many more to come.

Now he instructed Sean to change his clothes and put on his working clobber. Ronnie had already convinced himself that the action he was about to take to remedy a bad situation, would achieve a result that his Dad, if not his Mum, would sanction.

Chapter 4

Jack Router was in dire need of a drink. He was also chastened by the nights he had spent squeezed in those bloody shelters with the stink of every Tom, Dick and Harry up his nose. The confinement had made him appreciate Bow Street even if it was little more than a ruin. At least there was only him and Mary and her two brats. Mind, he'd rather cut his tongue out than admit as much to Mary Doyle. He hoped by now she had learned her lesson. No woman gave him the elbow, especially a brass. And what would the bitch do without his protection, for pity's sake? With her spiteful tongue it was on the cards to fall foul of some bolshie punter refusing to cough up the price of a shag. Jack smiled to himself. She needed muscle at her side and he was her man. If she was still alive and kicking after nine days fending for herself, she would welcome him back on her knees.

Damn the Luftwaffe, though! With landlords buggering off the instant the siren went it was hard to find a good drink these days. Not that he'd even set foot inside a pub today.

Jack marched on, his thirst increasing. He first noticed the woman trailing him as he walked up to West India docks. She was on the game, no doubt. Sizing him up at a distance, he guessed. Calculating his worth and wondering how much he kept in his pocket.

At first he ignored her. With that cow Rita Moult on the lookout, he had to be careful. He wasn't about to push his luck. Not in broad daylight anyway and not on the island. But a mile or two more and they'd be into Poplar.

'Fancy a drink, love?' A waft of cheap perfume washed over him as he turned into Poplar High Street.

'Clear off.' His tone was scathing as he glanced furtively over his shoulder.

'Come on, ducks. You look like you need cheering up.'

'I said clear off.'

She grabbed his arm. 'That's not a nice way to speak to a lady.'

'Show me the lady and I'm the pope.'

She smiled brazenly. 'You're a laugh a minute, you are, sonny boy.' Her fingers slid over him and her touch aroused him. Well, why shouldn't it, he thought lustily? He was only human after all. And wasn't a man entitled to look elsewhere if his woman spurned him? He was sick to death of Mary's nagging. He didn't know where her two bastards were and didn't care. Good riddance to bad rubbish if you asked him. If she blamed him for their disappearance, so be it. He'd find another bed easy enough.

'Come on, you could