was it? That old bag Sylvie Stanley’s son was involved, by all accounts.’
‘Delhi Duncan or Ginger Kevin?’ Michael asked. All Sylvie Stanley’s kids looked very different.
‘Duncan. It was him and that loudmouth with the shaved head. The one who wears the gold chains and walks about with them two Alsatians.’
‘What loudmouth?’ Vinny asked.
‘I know who Mum means. He’s only appeared round ’ere in the last few months. I’m sure someone told me Duncan is knocking out drugs for him. The pair of ’em are hanging around the betting shop most days.’
‘And the Grave Maurice. That’s where they nicked the medals. Both were drunk and taking the piss out of Mr Arthur, asking him questions about the war. He didn’t realize they were taking the mick. Knocking on now, ain’t he? Bless him. And he’s gone deaf in one ear. Anyway, they sits with him and asks to see his medals, so he took them off his jacket to show ’em. They gave him back four and pocketed the other two, the no-good bastards. Big Stan was stood at the bar, saw what was going on and confronted them. Obviously, they denied taking ’em, said Mr Arthur was senile and he’d only shown ’em four. When Stan demanded they empty their pockets, the big thug threatened him. Said he knew where Stan and his wife lived and unless he wanted a petrol-bomb through his window, he was to mind his own business.’
‘He said fucking what!’ Vinny exclaimed.
Vivian put the tray of teas on the table. ‘Getting worse round ’ere by the day, it is. Something needs to be done about it.’
‘And this family owes Mr Arthur big time. If it wasn’t for him getting on that bus and following Jamie Preston home, we might never have got justice for Molly. Well, we haven’t exactly got our justice yet, but you know what I mean.’
‘Don’t worry, Mum. We’ll sort it,’ Vinny promised.
‘I want it sorted immediately. I think because neither of you live round ’ere any more, people have forgotten how to behave. They need reminding, and Mr Arthur needs those medals back, so yous two better get cracking.’
Michael took a gulp of his tea, then stood up. ‘Come on, bruv. Let’s go and teach some manners.’
Mr Arthur froze as he heard the hammering on his front door. Helen, his kind neighbour who often cooked him dinners and popped in for a chat would always phone him first, and he rarely had any other visitors these days.
Creeping into the hallway, Mr Arthur yelled, ‘Who is it?’ Since the mugging, he never answered the door without first knowing who it was.
‘It’s Vinny and Michael Butler. We heard what happened yesterday and wanna help ya get your medals back,’ Vinny shouted.
Vinny’s deep, gruff voice was unmistakable, so Mr Arthur twisted the key. ‘Sorry, lads. I don’t answer the door any more unless I know who it is. Been asking the council for ages to put one of them spyholes in my door, but they haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘Forget the council, they’re useless. I’ll sort the spyhole for you, Mr Arthur. You’ll have it fitted by tomorrow at the latest,’ promised Vinny. ‘Now, in your own time, tell me and Michael exactly what happened yesterday in the Grave Maurice …’
When Vinny and Michael were growing up, a man would dress to impress of a Sunday. While the wives stayed at home to knock up the only decent meal most could afford all week, the men would gather in their local, all suited and booted.
Vinny and Michael were never seen in public in anything but a suave suit and expensive shoes. ‘If you want to be taken seriously in life, you need to dress like you mean business. First impressions really do count,’ their mother had drummed into them from a young age. So Vinny was unimpressed by the sight that greeted them as they stepped out of Queenie’s front door.
‘State of those shitbags over the road. No self-respect whatsoever. Gotta be in their thirties. Don’t they realize how ridiculous they look in those shell-suits?’
‘Obviously not, bruv. And what is it with all that gobbing over the pavement with the other mob? Is it part of their religion or something?’
‘Scum, Michael. I wish Mum and Auntie Viv would move. Worries me sick, them living round ’ere now – and I certainly want better for Ava. I’ve offered to buy ’em gaffs wherever they want, but neither will budge. See if you can talk some sense into ’em, will ya?’
‘Hello, lads. Where you off to?’ Nosy Hilda asked.
‘Church.’ Vinny grinned.
‘I take it you heard what happened to Mr Arthur yesterday? Is that where you’re going, the Maurice? They’re in there, you know. Just popped in for my Guinness and saw ’em. Terrible state of affairs, isn’t it?’
‘You toddle off home, Hilda. There’s a good girl,’ Michael said, checking out his reflection in a shop window.
‘Nosy old bat. No wonder Mum hates her,’ Vinny remarked, when Hilda did a U-turn and walked back in the direction of the pub.
Michael handed his brother a cigarette. ‘Right, how we gonna play this?’
Delhi Duncan wasn’t actually from Delhi, but had been given the nickname at school because of his dark skin. He had no idea where his father was from or who he was. His mother was an old lush and a whore.
‘What’s up?’ Russ Collins asked his latest gofer. Duncan had gone white.
‘The Butler brothers have just walked in. I told you to give those fucking medals back, didn’t I?’
‘Chill, you prick. I’ll deal with this.’ Russ was from Luton, had only moved to Whitechapel recently and even though he’d heard some rumours about the Butler brothers, he wasn’t scared of anybody.
Vinny Butler sneered at the big old lump with the shaved head and silly gold chains. He was also covered in tattoos. Vinny hated tattoos with a passion.
Not clocking the petrified expression on his pal’s face or the smirks on the regulars’, Russ decided to give it the big ’un as Vinny and Michael approached. ‘Fuck me, Dunc, it’s the Brylcreem Boys!’ he chuckled. Vinny’s thick jet-black hair was Brylcreemed backwards, Michael’s parted and smoothed to the side.
‘Shut it, will ya?’ Duncan pleaded, before nervously holding out his right hand. ‘Excuse my pal. He’s new to the area. How you doing, lads? Long time no see.’
The locals were in their element as Vinny went to shake Duncan’s hand, then twisted it so violently, the man screamed in agony. They were all aware of what had happened to Mr Arthur and thought it was disgusting.
When Russ threw a punch at Vinny, Michael kicked him so hard in the groin the big lump fell straight to the floor. Vinny then grabbed the massive chains around the idiot’s neck and twisted them tightly. ‘Walk,’ he ordered.
Holding his throbbing groin and going purple in the face, Russ spluttered, ‘Can’t walk,’ in a voice that bore a striking resemblance to a Dalek’s.
‘Fucking crawl then,’ Michael spat, before grabbing hold of Duncan and marching him into the men’s toilets.
‘It wasn’t my idea, I swear. I told him not to take the medals. Honest, I did,’ Duncan begged.
Still clutching the man’s gold chains, Vinny led him into the toilet like a dog on all fours. Once inside, Vinny placed his foot on the back of Russ’s head so his face was actually in the urinals. ‘Where’s the fucking medals?’
‘I dunno what you’re talking about. What medals?’ Russ stammered.
Vinny stamped repeatedly on the liar’s right hand.
‘Me fingers – you’ve broken me fucking fingers!’ Russ screamed. He was well out of his depth for once, and he knew it. What a shame he didn’t have his Alsatians with him. Vicious