“And did he get it right?” Jack asked.

Eddie just grinned. “Harry was a teenager and was walking round with wads of money in his pocket. He was very generous with it, mind you, but, at the same time, he enjoyed taunting people with it. Me, usually. He had it, I needed it. He learned that from Iris . . . He learned to not only know his own worth, but also the worth of others. After my dad died, it took Harry all of two seconds to work out that I could be bought for the price of a monthly food bill.”

As time went on, Eddie reveled vicariously in Harry’s good fortune as a young man—the E-Type Jags, the tailored suits from Shepherds, the handmade shirts, the women. Jack could see how a young boy with all of that genuine talent and charm could grow into an arrogant man who’d be feared and loved in equal measures.

“Iris had very high hopes for her boy—so when Harry turned up one evening with Dolly, Iris had a fucking fit. There was no way her son was going to marry an East End trollop!”

Eddie got up, crossed to a bureau and opened a drawer. He took out a large photo album, hugged it to his chest and, on wobbly old legs, returned to his seat.

“When Dolly found out that Harry had betrayed her by making her think he’d died in that underpass raid, she burned every photo of him she had.”

Jack leaned forward, eyes wide, eager. Was he about to see a proper photo of Harry Rawlins? He moved to the seat next to Eddie; both of them perched on the edge of their worn cushions, legs wide, elbows on knees. Eddie stared at Jack and tears welled in his red, drunken eyes. Jack knew exactly what he was thinking. He was wishing it was Jason sitting by his side—and not a stranger called Jack who just happened to have the same eyes. Jack smiled, which didn’t help at all. As Eddie began sobbing, Jack took the album from him and rested it on his own knee.

Eddie wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and slid the album across so they could share it. The contents were as Jack expected: Eddie and Harry as boys, then teens, then adults together with their respective families. Eddie was finding it difficult to talk. He just kept tapping photos; some of them meant nothing to Jack, some meant everything. The protective cover on each page had done its job well over the passing years and the images were still in pristine condition: Eddie’s mum and dad, their old homes, Harry’s parents. There was a photo of Harry on a bicycle with drop handlebars.

“He gave me that bike. He got a new one every year . . . so, I did too.” Page after page of Jack’s history. “This is his wedding.”

Harry was wearing a Tommy Nutter suit that he’d had made for him. Beside him, Dolly looked pale-faced, wearing a neat suit and carrying a small bouquet of flowers. There was page after page of Eddie’s wife Jackie, of Liam and Jason. As the boys grew, most of the photos became about Jason; he was usually in leathers on the back of a motorbike, giving a smoldering look to the camera. Eddie closed the album.