‘It was nothing.’ Charlie was Terry’s mate, had been ever since the cradle. They were war babies, tough as old boots, the pair of them. He’d fall under a bus for Charlie, gladly. ‘My job, innit? I’m number two, so I protect number one, don’t I? Simple as that.’

‘Yeah, I s’pose.’

Terry eyed his mate. ‘Forever, Charlie. I’ll always look out for you. You know that.’

‘Forever,’ echoed Charlie, and held out his hand. ‘We’re going to run this whole fucking manor, Tel. You and me mate. Together. You see if we don’t.’

Terry shook Charlie’s hand. ‘Forever,’ he said.

And that was it.

The pact was sealed, the deal done.

1960s

3

At nineteen, Charlie Stone and his mob were Teddy boys, getting into all sorts, slouching around in the new coffee bars with their duck’s-arse hairdos and brothel-creeper shoes, lounging around in the cane furniture surrounded by rubber plants and big-skirted girls while listening to Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard on the juke. Charlie’s ideas were getting bigger and better all the time. They were pretty well off now, Charlie and his crew, and they were dangerous enough for Charlie to receive a warning off one of the big boys, Gordie Howard, a Scottish loan shark who’d beaten back fierce competition from the Maltese and who now ruled the manor.

Charlie and Terry came out of the Palais one night and instantly they were set upon. Charlie was taken down an alley by two men and given the thumping of his life while another two blokes held onto Terry.

Finally, humiliatingly, Gordie held a battered Charlie down on his knees and pointed an old WW1 bayonet at his throat.

‘You see this, ya cunt?’ he asked in his thick Glasgow accent.

Charlie could barely nod his head, he was that beaten. He spat out a tooth. ‘What’s that then? A fucking butter knife?’

‘Clever bastard, aintcha? Well next time I see your fat grinning ugly mug, I’ll slice you open with it, you got me, pal?’

Charlie stared up at him.

Gordie pressed the bayonet harder against Charlie’s neck.

‘I said, you got me?’ he snarled.

Charlie had to nod or die.

He nodded.

Afterwards, Terry helped Charlie home where his mother Joan threw a fit. Charlie was patched up and put to bed. Next day, Joan was ranting that they should call the police, but Charlie – through a swollen jaw and several broken teeth – insisted it was nothing, a bit of a ruckus, forget it.

When she left his bedside and only Terry was beside him, Charlie said: ‘I’m going to kill that cunt Howard.’

‘Just rest up, Charlie.’