Little Vinny took the razor blade out of his pocket. ‘Rot in hell, slag,’ he hissed, as he slashed first Alison’s right wrist, then her left. He then took great pleasure in watching the blood and life seep out of her body.

Patrick Campbell aka Pervy Pat was not a stupid man. He’d experienced more in his twenty-five years than most blokes had in a lifetime.

Left in a public toilet as a newborn baby, Pat had no idea who his actual birth mother was. He’d then been shunted from one children’s home to another before being fostered by Lena and John at the age of ten.

John had been a nice man, had encouraged him to take up sport. Lena, however, was a bitch. When John had a heart attack and passed away, Pat had been led a dog’s life, both physically and mentally, thanks to Lena. Well aware that he was now notorious among the locals, since his release from prison Pat had taken to going further afield in search of prey. Pretending he was some big shot usually got him what he wanted these days without a struggle.

Rubbing his hand up and down his latest victim’s back, Pat was rather pissed off when she informed him that she had no intention of leaving with him, no matter how much he flashed the cash and promised her a good time.

‘Your loss, sweetheart. There’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ he said, turning away.

What Pervy Pat didn’t realize as he sipped the last of his brandy and sang along to Black Slate’s ‘Amigo’ was that outside the Fanshawe Tavern a rather unpleasant surprise was waiting for him.

Parked up behind Patrick Campbell’s car, Michael Butler was becoming rather impatient at being kept waiting. ‘I thought you said he always left this boozer before ten.’

‘He did the other nights, Michael, but we’ve only followed him a few times, remember,’ Pete reminded his boss.

‘Give us that torch. It’s as black as Newgate’s knocker out there,’ Michael ordered.

All three men were sitting in the back of the van while keeping a watchful eye out the front window. ‘Don’t start shining torches. We don’t want to bring unwanted attention to ourselves. No way can we miss him parked ’ere,’ Paul warned.

‘So what’s occurring exactly, Michael? We need to know our alibi,’ Pete said.

‘Our alibi is a game of poker at the club. Us three, plus Nick, the Kelly brothers and Jimmy Elliot. The others are all back at the club as we speak. I’ve told ’em to answer the phone and say I’m in the middle of a card game if anyone buzzes or rings. I’ve also told Nick to make two outgoing phone calls to my mum and dad, just in case the phone records are checked. I’ll wise my parents up on what time I supposedly called when I get back.’

Seeing Pete and Paul glance worriedly at one another, Michael grinned. ‘Like two rabbits caught in the headlights, you pair remind me of. Chill, for fuck’s sake. I know you’re thinking I shouldn’t have involved Nick ’cause he has Old Bill in the family. But that makes for an even better alibi, if you get my drift. Anyway, we’re not committing murder, just gonna teach Pat what happens to perverts.’

Pete stood up and leaned over the passenger seat. ‘Speak of the devil.’

Pat Campbell’s pride and joy was his Jaguar XJS, so his first thought when he was grabbed from behind by two men in balaclavas was that they were after stealing his car. ‘Get off me, you shitbags,’ he yelled, desperately trying to break free from their grasp.

Seconds later, Pervy Pat was smashed over the head with a hammer by a third man, then dragged into the back of a van.

Little Vinny was in high spirits as he strolled back towards the club. Today had been a good day. Visiting Hainault to pay his respects to Ben had made him feel much better about himself, and killing Alison was the icing on the cake. If Ben was looking down from heaven, Little Vinny knew he’d be relieved that his brothers and sisters would no longer have to suffer the hardship he had. At least in care the poor little bastards would be bathed, fed and clothed properly.

The spring in his step left Little Vinny the moment he put his hand in his pocket. His keys were missing.

Patrick Campbell had no idea where he was being driven to, or who’d abducted him. The bang on the head had left him dazed and confused, and he couldn’t see a thing because a sack of some kind had been placed over his head and tied up around his neck.

‘Where am I? What’s going on?’

Michael Butler grinned at Pete as he supplied the answer: ‘You need a little operation, me old mucker. Did you know that poor young Janey was a pal of mine’s granddaughter?’

‘Operation! But I’m not ill. And who the hell is Janey?’ Pat mumbled through the sack.

Pulling the sharp carving knife out of the bag of goodies he’d brought with him, Michael ordered Pete to tie their prey’s arms up.

‘What you gonna do to him?’ Pete asked, alarmed. He and Paul had been under the impression they were just going to teach the nonce a valuable lesson.

Michael Butler had never been as cold-blooded or sadistic as Vinny. Even Roy had got off on violence more than he had. However, now that he had been left in sole charge of the Butler empire, Michael knew he had no choice other than to do what he was about to.

The man’s screams were horrendous when Michael unzipped his trousers and began hacking wildly at his penis.

‘Jesus wept! He’s gonna die and we’re all gonna be up for murder now,’ Pete hissed.

Chucking the severed penis out of the window as though it were no more than an unwanted pork sausage, Michael ordered Pete to shut the fuck up and told Paul to take the next turn off and stop the van as soon as the coast was clear.

Ten minutes later, the cockless, unconscious pervert who’d wronged Auntie Viv was lying on a grass verge in Aveley, while Michael and his henchmen were on their way back up the A13 towards London.

Little Vinny was in a complete panic. It wasn’t just his old house keys on the keyring, the bunch his uncle had entrusted him with for the club were on there too.

He’d had them when he went into Alison Bloggs’ place, so they must have fallen out of his tracksuit bottoms while he was sitting on her shabby sofa. In his stoned, drunken stupor he’d been so elated at killing her that he’d forgotten the most important thing of all: covering his tracks.

Not knowing how to dig himself out of the hole he’d got himself into, he tried to get hold of his uncle and then Ahmed. When that failed he was at a loss. Having made his way back to the club he decided his best option would be to hide in a doorway opposite the club and wait for Michael to show up.

‘Got any drink or money, Sonny Jim?’

Little Vinny startled at the sight of the dishevelled old tramp peering in at him. It occurred to him that this doorway was probably the vagrant’s spot, and the last thing he needed was the guy kicking off and drawing attention to him. He held out his bottle of cider. ‘Here, have this.’ Then he reached into his pocket for his last fiver and handed him that too.

‘Bless you, my boy. May God take good care of you,’ the tramp said, before walking away with his gifts.

Slumped in the doorway with his head in his hands, Little Vinny decided he had nothing to lose by putting his own faith in the big man above. ‘Please, God, I swear, if you help me out of this situation, I will never drink, take drugs or do anything else bad ever again,’ he mumbled.

When his Uncle Michael suddenly appeared, as if materializing out of nowhere, for the first time ever Little Vinny truly believed that it paid to be nice to people.

PART TWO

Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind or the mystery of a tiny baby growing in its mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things.

Ecclesiastes 11:5

CHAPTER SIX
Summer 1984

Queenie and Vivian had always been creatures of habit, and for the past few years they had fallen into a regular Saturday routine. First they would travel down to Plaistow Cemetery to tend to the graves of Roy, Lenny and Molly. Then they would visit their dear old mum’s plot in Bow before popping home, getting dolled up and heading off to the Roman.

Roman Road market was most certainly the place to be these days, especially on a Saturday. The trendy stalls and shops attracted women done up to the nines, not just from London but Essex and the surrounding counties as well.

At fifty-seven, Queenie was three years older than her sister. Both women wore their hair straight, shoulder-length and bleached blonde, and they had often been mistaken for twins. Neither lacked confidence. The heavy foundation they applied helped cover up their wrinkles, the bright red lipstick thickened their naturally thin lips, and the high heels they wore made them look much taller. Queenie was only five foot two, Vivian five three, but in their eyes they looked far more glamorous than all the younger dolly birds the Roman seemed to attract.

Vivian nudged her sister. ‘Look at the bleedin’ state of that! Talk about mutton done up as lamb.’

Queenie craned her neck to see who her sister was referring to. ‘Gordon Bennett! She’s got to be in her fifties. That ain’t a skirt, it’s more like a wide belt. If you look close enough, you can see what the old trollop had for breakfast this morning. Fancy walking about showing your muff at her age! Got no class these women, have they?’

About to reply, Vivian unfortunately caught her heel in a hole in the pavement and fell flat on her face.

Queenie crouched down. ‘You all right, Vivvy?’

Within seconds, Vivian was surrounded by concerned shoppers and stallholders. Steve, who sold fruit and veg, gathered up Viv’s shopping bags. ‘You OK? Let me help you up, darling.’

Being the aunt of such notorious nephews often had its advantages, but right now Viv wished she was anybody but herself. The story of her stacking it would be all round Whitechapel by this evening and her nosy neighbours would probably dine out on it for months. ‘Poxy bastard shoes. Me heel snapped off. Show’s over, people,’ Vivian spat, as she scrambled to her feet.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Queenie asked, her face full of concern.

Hobbling towards her sister with one shoe on and one off, Vivian grabbed Queenie’s arm and hissed, ‘I’m fine. Let’s go to the pub.’

Michael Butler grinned as he finished counting the previous evening’s takings. His brilliant business brain had proved all the doubters wrong. He was literally raking it in.

When Vinny had first got banged up, Michael had gone along with his wishes and kept their club as it was by sticking with the singers, comedians, live bands, etc. But when the takings had dipped even more, he’d had no choice but to move with the times. His mother and Vinny had been appalled. But Michael had stuck by his guns, and his disco idea had taken off almost immediately.

The club now opened four nights a week. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights were aimed at the youngsters, and on Monday evenings Michael had come up with an over-thirties’ night. He and his staff privately referred to it as ‘grab-a-granny night’, but it had proved a massive success. The only thing from the past that Michael hadn’t got rid of was the strippers on Sunday lunchtimes. They attracted perverts from all over and perverts spent good money.

His two old stalwarts Pete and Paul remained as invaluable as ever, but it had been Little Vinny who had proved to be the biggest asset to Michael at the club. His nephew was now eighteen and unrecognizable as the scruffy skinhead delinquent he’d once been. The lad worked like a Trojan, had a great business brain, and as a result Michael had added a commission-based bonus on top of his wage.

To say Michael had been surprised by the change in Little Vinny was an understatement. He’d been convinced his nephew was a liability, especially after the night when he’d returned to the club after chopping Patrick Campbell’s cock off to find out the stupid kid had killed Alison Bloggs and left his keys in her house.

Doing what any decent uncle would have, Michael had broken into the property in the middle of the night to rectify Little Vinny’s mistake. Thankfully, he’d found the keys within seconds and made a speedy exit, leaving Alison’s body where it was.

Both he and Little Vinny had got away with their crimes. The police had concluded Alison’s death was an open-and-shut case of suicide. As for Pervy Pat, he’d survived his ‘operation’ and after a spell when his story was on the front page of all the national papers as well as the London press – it wasn’t every day a geezer had his manhood chopped off on the A13 – he’d slunk off, disappearing without trace.

Michael had just finished locking the takings in the safe when the phone rang. The minute he heard his drama queen of a wife ranting at him hysterically down the line, his good mood evaporated. His sons were a handful, especially Daniel. But boys would be boys and, as per usual, Nancy was making a mountain out of a molehill. So what if they’d had a ruck with some lads from the opposing team while playing football? That’s what lads did, and Michael was glad his boys had inherited his genes and stuck up for one another and themselves. ‘Nance, I really can’t be dealing with this right now. I’ll have a word with the boys tomorrow, OK?’

‘No, Michael. It’s not OK. I told all three of them to go to their room and stay there, but the only one who made a move to obey me was Lee. Daniel just laughed in my face, then dragged Lee and Adam out the door with him. I have no idea where they are now, so you really need to take a break from that bloody club of yours, and put your family first for once.’

‘It’s three in the afternoon, not the morning, Nance. Lee’s twelve, Dan’s eleven and Adam is nine. They’re hardly toddlers, are they?’

‘No, more’s the pity. Definitely got your family’s genes though. I despair for their futures, Michael.’

Feeling his hackles rise, Michael took a deep breath. No way would he still be with Nancy if it weren’t for the fact the boys needed a mother. ‘You need to take a reality check, Nance. The only one of my sons who has never brought the police to our door is Lee – and Denise gave birth to him, not you. If you’re searching for bad genes, why don’t you take a butcher’s at your own side of the family, eh? Your mum’s top drawer, bless her. But your father and brother are two of the biggest arseholes God ever put breath in.’

Little Vinny parked up in Cardigan Road, closed the roof of his white Ford Cabriolet, and sauntered towards the market. His life was pretty decent these days, apart from the odd flashback that disturbed his sleep now and then.

The July sun was scorching, so Little Vinny took off his T-shirt and slung it casually over his right shoulder. Checking out his reflection to ensure he had not messed up his carefully gelled hair, he was aware of a few admiring glances from younger and older females as he continued his journey.

Sammi-Lou Allen grinned as she spotted her boyfriend from afar. He was so handsome and at six foot tall he stood out even in a market full of people. With his jet-black hair, piercing green eyes and cute turned-up button nose, it really had been a case of love at first sight for Sammi-Lou. The fact he ran a nightclub and was Vinny Butler’s son was just an added bonus.

Putting his arms around his girlfriend’s waist, Little Vinny treated her to a short but passionate kiss. Sammi-Lou was the seventeen-year-old daughter of multi-millionaire Gary Allen, who owned Allen’s Construction. Five foot five, with beautiful blonde hair, a voluptuous figure and big chocolate-coloured eyes, it had been a case of love at first sight for Little Vinny too. Before Sammi he had played the field. The club turning into a disco and him being classed as management had enabled him to take full advantage of the young birds who flocked there in their scantily dressed droves – and take advantage he most certainly had.

‘What do you want to do first? Shop or eat?’ Sammi asked excitedly. Unlike her ex-boyfriend, Little Vinny was as passionate about shopping and fashion as she was.

‘Let’s grab a bite to eat. Not sure I’ll have time to shop today. My nan rung me as I left home. My aunt took a tumble earlier and she’s twisted her ankle. They’re in a boozer along the road here and I said I’d pick ’em up at four.’

‘Aww. I hope your aunt is OK. Her and your nan make me laugh so much. My dad’s organizing a big party at our house for my mum’s fortieth. All your family are invited. My mum can’t wait to meet Viv and Queenie. I’ve told her so much about them.’

Little Vinny felt a shiver run down his spine. He had been with Sammi just over six months now and had met her parents twice. Both times Sammi’s little sister had been present, and it had really freaked him out. The child was seven, had blonde curly hair and reminded him of how Molly might look now. Worse still, her name was Millie. ‘I won’t be able to get time off work, babe, if the party is at a weekend. I have a club to run, you know that.’

‘But it’s only one night, Vin, and I want you there with me. Surely you can take one Saturday off?’

Desperate to change the subject, Little Vinny clasped his girlfriend’s hand and smiled. ‘I’ll do my best. Speaking of parties, you looking forward to Charlene’s tonight?’

Sammi grinned. ‘Yep, but I’m only staying a couple of hours. I’ll be at the club with you by eleven.’

Little Vinny grimaced. As much as he thought the world of Sammi-Lou, ever since she had passed her driving test and her dad had bought her a brand-new Mini, she had taken to showing up at the club every single Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. ‘Sam, it’s your best mate’s eighteenth. You can’t sod off after a couple of hours. It’s not right.’

‘But I like spending Saturday evenings with you, and waking up with you on a Sunday morning.’

‘Yeah, I know you do, and I like it too. But because I thought you weren’t coming to the club tonight, I invited some old school pals of mine down. We’re gonna have a game of cards with Uncle Michael and a couple of his mates once we lock up. I can’t cancel now, it’s too late,’ Little Vinny lied. He didn’t even have any old school friends. The only pal he’d ever had in those days was Ben.

‘OK. If you don’t want me there, I won’t come,’ Sammi said, her eyes brimming with tears.

Suddenly feeling as suffocated as a Doberman locked in a two-foot cage, Little Vinny took his girlfriend’s hand and steered her into Beau Baggage. He knew it was one of her favourite shops. ‘Let’s not argue. Pick out whatever you want and I’ll buy it for ya.’

Vinny Butler finished his hundred press-ups and decided to have a rest before starting his sit-ups. At least six times a day he exercised vigorously. In prison you needed something to focus the mind on.

Thanks to his smart-arse brief and brilliant Queen’s Counsel, Vinny had literally gotten away with murder. The prosecution had tried to portray him as some kind of monster, but the jury had clearly been touched by Molly’s untimely death, and all he’d ended up with was an eight-year stretch for manslaughter. Bobby Jackson’s family and friends had gone apeshit when the murder verdict was read out as ‘not guilty’. Jackson’s lunatic of a mother had even lunged at Queenie and then been dragged from the court kicking and screaming.

Having already spent over a year on remand before his trial, Vinny should have been up for parole soon. It was usual to serve only half your sentence if your behaviour was good. Unfortunately for Vinny, he’d had a few altercations with other lags over the years, and as a result the authorities had argued he should not be released yet. His brief, however, was on the ball and had told Vinny that, providing he stayed out of trouble, he was sure he could get him parole in the next year.

Lying on his bunk, Vinny stared at the ceiling. He was by far the most respected inmate in the Ville now, and so he bloody-well should be – after all, he was the Vinny Butler. It hadn’t been easy, getting his head back together after Molly’s death, but once he’d made his vow not to think or speak about his daughter, he’d started to get back to his old self. It had been tough, and even now he couldn’t stop Molly appearing in his dreams, but he refused to shed a tear. Only weak men cried, and if prison had taught Vinny anything, it was how to be mentally strong.

He checked the time; his brother would be here soon. It was a prospect that gave him no pleasure. Relations between himself and Michael had become somewhat strained ever since he’d been banged up. Right at the start they’d had a bust-up over Little Vinny’s living arrangements that kept them from speaking to each other for nine months. Vinny had expected his son to move in with Michael, and had gone ballistic when his brother had instead rented a house opposite his own and allowed Little Vinny to live in it with their arsehole of a father. In Vinny’s eyes, Molly would still be alive if his old man hadn’t fathered an illegitimate child with that slag Judy Preston.

When Michael disobeyed his wishes and turned the club into a disco, it had led to even more friction. It grated on Vinny that his brother had been right and he’d been wrong. Even though it was earning him big bucks, he’d rather the disco had failed. Anything would have been better than having to eat humble pie.

In Vinny’s opinion, the success of the venture had gone to Michael’s head. According to Ahmed, he was now swanning around Whitechapel in a brand-new red Porsche convertible like he owned the fucking area. He’d gotten far too big for his boots, and Vinny would have liked nothing better than to bring him down a peg or two.

Resisting the urge to punch the wall, Vinny took a deep breath and did his sit-ups instead. He had no idea why Michael had insisted on visiting him today, but he’d be glad when the visit was over.

Standing in the queue to be searched, Michael Butler smiled politely at a blonde who seemed unable to take her eyes off him. He was used to lots of female attention. His boyish good looks and charm attracted all types.

The blonde walked over to him. ‘Hi, I’m Wendy – I’ve seen you in the Blind Beggar. I’d just like to thank you for getting rid of you-know-who. He attacked me many moons ago and I’m so glad I never have to bump into him any more.’

Rumour had spread around the East End that Michael was responsible for Pervy Pat’s little accident and subsequent disappearance. Billy Higgins had recovered from his heart attack, then died of another six months later, and Janey had since moved away from the area. Far too wise to ever admit his involvement, Michael nevertheless enjoyed the notoriety. Even law-abiding members of the community looked upon nonces as vermin, and he was now seen as some kind of local hero.

After politely telling the blonde she must have mistaken him for somebody else, Michael allowed the screw to search him, then sauntered into the visiting area.

Vinny faked a smile as his brother approached. ‘What the fuck’s that?’ he asked, pointing at Michael’s new ring.

‘What’s it look like, Vin?’

‘Something you nicked out of a bender’s jewellery box.’

Knowing Vinny was being his usual facetious self, Michael decided two could play at that game. ‘Treated meself up at Hatton Garden, bruv. Look at the quality of that diamond. It’s flawless. Bought this Gucci watch an’ all. Thank God I had the foresight to turn our business around, eh? Would never have been able to afford such luxuries otherwise. If we’d stuck with those live singers like you wanted us to, I’d have been wearing a Swatch by now,’ Michael chuckled.

‘You have what is referred to in medical terms as short-term memory loss, Michael. Have you forgotten how you cried and threw all your toys out the pram when I marched in that shitty garage and told your old boss you couldn’t be his tea boy no more? You’d still be working there if it wasn’t for me taking the initiative.’

Smirking, Michael laughed out loud. ‘I doubt that very much. Got more of a business brain than you’ll ever have, that’s for sure. What I’ve done to the club speaks for itself. The proof is in the pudding, brother dearest.’

Vinny was not amused. ‘If you’ve come ’ere just to give it the big ’un, bruv, you might as well fuck off now. I really ain’t in the mood after the morning I’ve had.’

Sarcastic tone immediately changing to one of concern, Michael asked what had happened.

‘Jay Boy’s brother’s been killed, and I heard some Jock cunt laughing about it earlier. He’s so gonna get it. It’s the same mouthy prick who gave me stick when I first arrived. He’s only been back in ’ere a week. I’m gonna shut him up for good this time,’ Vinny hissed, before glancing around to check nobody was earwigging.

‘Sorry to hear that. I know how close you are to Jay Boy. Be careful though. You don’t wanna get more time added on your sentence.’

‘I’m gonna have a word with Jay later. He’ll be out before me and he needs something to look forward to. I’m gonna offer him a job at the club.’

‘Erm, aren’t you forgetting something? We’re partners, remember?’

‘Don’t start larging it again, Michael. The mood I’m in, I’ll smash you right across this room in a minute.’

Michael stood up. Vinny would never change. He was a regular Jekyll and Hyde. ‘I’m gonna tell Mum we had a pleasant visit and you’re sending me another VO real soon. Best you say the same if you don’t wanna upset her. Oh, and I’m happy to trust your faith in Jay Boy and employ him. Perhaps in future though you should ask me rather than tell me. It’s much more polite and professional.’

‘See you, you flash cunt. I’ve got people keeping an eye on you. So watch your back, big man,’ Vinny bellowed.

Michael held his hands out and pretended they were shaking. ‘I’m terrified, bruv. Honest I am.’

Losing it completely, Vinny leapt up to punch Michael’s lights out and was quickly restrained by the screws.

Having spent the afternoon drinking brandies in the Rose of Denmark, Vivian could now see the funny side of her little tumble. ‘Trust me, Queen, never gonna live down the shame, am I?’

Queenie chuckled. The sight of Vivian cursing, while hobbling down the Roman with one shoe on and the other in her hand had been comical and attracted some weird looks from passers-by. ‘I felt sorry for that nice lady who works in Ashby’s. She only asked if you were OK and you told her to mind her own fucking business. How we meant to queue up in there for our meat and salt-beef sandwiches in future, eh?’

Vivian roared with laughter. ‘I’ll go in and apologize to her next week. Silly question to ask though. If I was OK, I would hardly be limping along the road like a lame dog with one shoe in me sodding hand, would I?’

‘Oh, Viv, you are a case. How’s your ankle now? It’s definitely swollen. We’ll get a bag of frozen peas on that when we get home.’

‘Can’t feel no pain – the alcohol must have numbed it. It’s more painful looking at these poxy slip-ons you bought me. That’s the last time I’m sending you shoe-shopping. I look like silly-girl-got-none. Hope we don’t see anyone we know as we walk to the car.’ She checked her watch. ‘What time did you say Little Vinny was picking us up? Ring him and ask if he can bring a balaclava with him so I can’t be recognized in me new shoes.’

Her sides aching from laughter, Queenie urged her sister to behave herself.

Little Vinny was horrified when he arrived at the pub to find both his nan and aunt inebriated and giggling like two silly schoolgirls. He was clean as a whistle these days. Did not drink, smoke or take drugs.

‘What the bleedin’ hell do you look like? And why you got your jeans rolled up and those silly dark glasses on? Not sunny in here, is it? It’s a pub,’ Queenie tutted.

‘And he’s topless. I think me and you should walk in a boozer one day baring our top halves, don’t you, Queen? I mean, if you’ve got it, why not flaunt it? And if that skinny bag of bones has it, then so have we.’

Even though he knew full well he looked a cool dude in his rolled-up faded Levis, white Lacoste trainers and Porsche sunglasses, Little Vinny felt his face go red as he caught a couple of birds and a geezer looking his way and laughing. His nan and aunt had loud enough voices when sober, let alone when drunk. ‘Yous two wouldn’t understand fashion. Come on, we’re going.’

‘Don’t be so rude. You’ve not even bought me and Viv a drink yet. Put your top on and get up the bar. We’ll both have a brandy and lemonade,’ Queenie ordered.

‘Aw my gawd, Queen! He’s wearing pink. Take the T-shirt back off again, Vin. You look like a poof!’ Vivian guffawed.

Noticing the two birds and bloke on the next table laugh at him again, Little Vinny saw red. He ran towards the male, grabbed him by the neck and slammed his head against the wall. ‘You wanna be careful who you take the piss out of, you soppy-looking prick. I am Little Vinny Butler, son of the Vinny Butler, and I can easily arrange your funeral.’

Aware that his cellmate was trying to stifle his sobs, Vinny Butler walked over to his pal’s bunk and rubbed his back. He’d calmed down now, although Michael had pissed him off immensely. ‘Let it all out, Jay. Far better out than in – trust me, I know.’

‘I feel such a fucking dick crying, Vin, but I loved my bro so much,’ Jay wept in his broad Scouse accent.

Jay Boy Gerrard was an up-and-coming boxer who had only just turned pro when he’d ventured down to London for a pal’s stag night. Undefeated as an amateur, the future looked bright for Jay Boy until he’d got involved in a drunken brawl. One punch was all it had taken Jay to kill his victim. It hadn’t been his intention, but unfortunately the lad had fallen backwards, smashed his head against the edge of a kerb and died instantly.