Backstabber. Kimberley Chambers
padded ones, and as Eddie Mitchell opened it the putrid smell engulfed his nostrils with enough force to make him gag. ‘What the hell! Vinny, Vinny!’ he bellowed.
Having recently acquired premises along the A13 that would soon be opened as a casino, Vinny Butler strolled towards his and Eddie’s office. ‘What’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. And what’s that terrible smell?’
‘Have a look for yourself. I ain’t going back in there.’
Vinny looked in disbelief at the bloodstained box and the two dead rats inside. Both rodents’ throats had been cut. ‘Who the fuck sent that?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Have a look at the postcode and see if there’s a note.’ Eddie was petrified of rats, even dead ones, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his new business partner.
Vinny put his hand inside the envelope and pulled out a typewritten note:
DEUTERONOMY 24:16
FATHERS SHALL NOT BE PUT TO DEATH BECAUSE OF THEIR CHILDREN, NOR SHALL CHILDREN BE PUT TO DEATH BECAUSE OF THEIR FATHERS. EACH ONE SHALL BE PUT TO DEATH FOR HIS OWN SIN.
Eddie could not but help stare at it in total horror. He and Vinny had only bought the gaff less than a fortnight ago and hadn’t overly broadcast their purchase yet.
‘Perhaps it was meant for the previous owner? Not got our names on the envelope, has it?’ Vinny said.
‘Don’t talk bollocks, Vin. Three days ago it was posted, from poxy Romford. You had grief with anyone recently you haven’t told me about?’
‘Don’t ya think I’ve had enough bleedin’ grief with all the incest bollocks and murder of my sacred aunt? I’ve been too busy holdin’ my grievin’, messed-up family together to be gettin’ up to no good.’
Rubbing the stubble of his chin as he usually did when deep in thought, Eddie Mitchell apologized. ‘I’m sorry, mate. It’s just worrying that we’ve already got grief and we ain’t even open yet. It’s obviously a quote from the bible or something. But who would send shit like that – and why?’
Vinny poured two large Scotches and handed a glass to his pal. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Probably some jealous bastard who wishes they were us. Best put it to the back of our minds, eh? I’m not being funny, but we’ve got enough on our plates as it is. Besides, if somebody was truly gunning for us they wouldn’t be sending us warnings. I had something similar happen to me donkey’s years ago. Funeral flower arrangement shaped as a gun, delivered to me mum’s with a card sayin’ “You’re next”. Sod-all came of it. Was probably that wrong ’un Ahmed trying to wind me up. And that’s all this is, a wind-up, so put it out of your mind, OK?’
‘Get rid of them rats and I will. Can hardly forget about it with that stench,’ Eddie complained.
Vinny chuckled, picked up the box, and eyed the dead rats. ‘You’re not scared of ickle rodents, are you, Mitchell?’
‘Leave off. It’s the smell. Making me feel queasy, it is.’
When Vinny sauntered out the office with the deceased Mickey and Minnie, Eddie sprayed some air freshener around before sitting on one of the luxurious leather chairs. Vinny had better not be telling him porkies, because if he was, he’d regret it.
‘You little squirt, what you think you’re doing?’ Harry O’Hara demanded menacingly. Harry and Georgie had been raised by their gypsy father, had only known their little brother for a matter of months, and Harry hated him with a passion.
Petrified of Harry, who was four years his senior, seven-year-old Brett averted his eyes and stared at his lap. If he had one wish in the world it would be that Georgie and Harry had never come to live with him. ‘I’m playing on my PlayStation Two.’
‘I’m playing on my PlayStation Two,’ Harry mimicked in a whiny voice. ‘Gis it ’ere. I wanna have a look.’
Too scared to say no, Brett’s hand shook as he handed over the controls.
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Harry kicked the controls around the room like a football.
‘Stop! You’ll break it,’ Brett pleaded, his eyes welling up.
‘Stop. You’ll break it,’ Harry repeated, in an even sillier voice.
‘What’s all that racket up there? We’re going out in a minute, boys, so get yourselves ready and downstairs, please,’ shouted Frankie Mitchell. The eldest daughter of Eddie Mitchell, Frankie felt much older than her twenty-nine years just lately. She was elated Georgie and Harry were home, but they were bloody hard work. Her once long, glossy, dark hair was now dull and lifeless, her complexion was sallow, everything about her looked worn out. She’d never expected instant harmony, but neither had she expected daily battles and arguments. It was tiring, to say the least.
Grabbing Brett around the neck, Harry warned, ‘You tell Frankie I did anything and you’re dead meat. Got me, cry baby?’ Harry found it hard to believe Brett had the same parents as he and Georgie. The boy was such a wuss which was obviously Frankie’s doing. Brett would’ve been knocked into shape had their dad raised him.
Brett Mitchell nodded. Not for the first time since his brother moved in, he actually wished he was dead.
‘How’s it going? Sorry I couldn’t get here any earlier. Something cropped up with Eddie,’ Vinny Butler explained.
Queenie Butler stood on tiptoes to kiss her eldest son. Both her sons were six-foot-plus strapping, handsome men who wore their hair Brylcreemed and dressed in the finest designer suits and handmade shoes. Everybody always commented on how immaculate and well turned out her boys were, and that made Queenie swell with pride. ‘That’s OK, boy. Your brother and me have got most of the boxes unpacked already. I’ll put the kettle on now.’
Vinny closed the lounge door. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asked in a hushed tone.
‘OK. Better than we expected. Slept well, by all accounts, and she’s already fallen in love with her new garden. Reckons there’s loads more birds to feed round ’ere,’ Michael Butler replied.
‘D’ya reckon it’s an act?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Hard to tell with Mum, but she seems chirpy enough whichever way you look at it.’
Having lived the whole of her life in Whitechapel, seventy-four-year-old Queenie Butler had been forced to up sticks thanks to the brutal cold-blooded murder of her beloved sister, Vivian. Vinny had found his mum a nice bungalow in a quiet road in Hornchurch, and both he and Michael were keeping a close eye on her.
‘Talking about me, are ya?’ Queenie snapped, as she walked in the front room. Vinny was her eldest. He’d be fifty-six soon. Roy, her middle son, was six feet under. Michael was fifty-one.
A doting mother, Queenie could not be prouder of her boys. She’d encouraged them to make something of their lives from a very early age, and they had. Notoriety and wealth were wonderful attributes for a man to have, especially if they had the looks to go with it. Both Vinny and Michael oozed charm, and looked much younger than they should.
‘I was just saying to Michael, that couple opposite seem nice. Spoke to me again, they did. Said you’re to knock there if you need anything,’ Vinny told his mother.
Queenie pursed her thin lips. ‘Don’t like the look of ’em. Remind me of those notrights who had the bungalow next to us down at Kings. Perverts, they were. Swingers.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Michael chuckled.
‘Well, I very much doubt the couple over the road are perverts or swingers. You gotta give people a chance round ’ere, Mum. You don’t want to alienate yourself,’ Vinny said sensibly.
‘I am quite capable of choosing my own friends, thank you. And I’m hardly gonna be bothering to socialize until I’ve given our Vivvy the send-off she thoroughly deserves.