Charlie tore off and scrambled back over the gate and was gone, Terry hot on his heels. The copper snatched at Terry’s short trouser leg but Terry was up, he was over – he was away. Him and Charlie ran off down the street, gasping and laughing fit to bust.

Charlie Stone was leader of the gang. And their den – his den – was set deep in scrubby woods where the gang met under Charlie’s rule and divvied up their bounty. Bill ‘Beezer’ and little Col Crowley’s father owned a sweet shop where Charlie had spied out a big half-pound box of chocolates set high on a shelf. If Beezer and his little shadow Col wanted to be part of the gang, then that was the price.

Beezer paid it. The chocolates, the fruit from the grocery store, other things. He robbed stuff out of a few cars, teaching little Col how twocking – take without owner’s consent – worked. Then everything was taken back to the den and laid at Charlie’s feet.

‘More,’ said Charlie every time. ‘We need more.’

They were the Charlie Boys gang, and Charlie was their king. They charged across the old bomb sites on the manor, armed with dustbin lids for shields and wooden swords. Slowly they grew in strength, and purpose, and bulk.

2

At fourteen, Charlie found there were plenty of opportunities for theft and he exploited every one of them. The Charlie Boys were now teenage tearaways, villains in the making while the manor was ruled by real gangs, much older and more dangerous. Things were changing. Churchill had resigned and Eden had taken over. Charlie and Terry started boxing a bit, but they had no real talent for it, so Charlie decided crime paid better.

Charlie was leader, so Terry agreed. Why not? All Charlie’s mad schemes seemed to pay off. They started doing more cars – only nobs, flash gits and doctors had cars, so the pickings were good – and then a few houses. They nearly got caught when they were clearing out some candlesticks and jewellery from one house, but Terry tripped the furious owner up and took a punch in the back of his head that made it spin, just to let Charlie make a clean getaway.

Afterwards, in the den, when it was only the two of them, Charlie expressed his gratitude.

‘He would have caught me,’ he said.

‘Nah, you were off on your toes, mate,’ said Terry.

Charlie’s button-like dark brown eyes held Terry’s. Charlie was a short, solidly built boy, brown-haired and red-faced, while Terry was thinner, taller. With his red-blond hair and green eyes, he was shaping up to be a good-looking man one day.

‘That ain’t the truth,’ said Charlie. ‘The truth is, Tel, you saved my arse, and I’m grateful.’