Doctor Who_ Amorality Tale Part 1

AMORALITY TALE.

by DAVID BISHOP.

Prologue.

London December, 1946

Ernie Evans stamped his boots on the stone steps outside St Luke's Church, trying to keep his feet warm. The temperature was close to freezing and Ernie's breath hung in the air like a cloud. The short, pinch-faced man blew on his icy fingers and pulled the heavy greatcoat tighter around his chest. In the distance a bell mournfully chimed twelve times.

Ernie had been waiting for nearly an hour and his patience was wearing thin. Five more minutes and he was leaving. Didn't matter how good a deal the Yank was offering for the hooky cigarettes, it wasn't worth freezing outdoors in the middle of winter. You could catch your death of cold doing this. Ernie was just about to give up and go home when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, coming from the west. The black marketeer slipped back into the church doorway, melting into the shadows.

A lone figure was walking along Old Street from Charterhouse. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with a face some would consider handsome. His black hair was swept back from his forehead with Brylcreem, making it s.h.i.+ne beneath the street lights. Metal b.u.t.tons glinted on his American army greatcoat. The end of a cigarette glowed red in his left hand. The soldier stopped outside the gates to St Luke's and took one last draw on the cigarette before crus.h.i.+ng it underfoot. He turned and looked up at the church entrance.

'You got the money?'

'What took you so long?' Ernie demanded.

'Had to dodge the military police.' The soldier smiled wolfishly. 'Apparently there's a crackdown on American troops fraternising with your wives at night. We've been leaving behind a few too many unwanted pregnancies.'

Ernie emerged from the shadows and skulked down the steps. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Yanks. The war's been over a year why don't you go back home?'

'My unit's s.h.i.+fting back to the States next week. Soon enough for you?'

Ernie shrugged his round shoulders. 'Got my stuff?'

'Got my money?'

'You first.'

The soldier pulled a carton of cigarettes from within his coat.

'The rest is nearby in a truck. Now where's the money?'

Ernie dug a roll of bank notes from his pockets and began counting them out. 'One hundred, like we agreed.'

'Two hundred. The price is now two hundred.'

'You what?' Ernie squinted up at the American. 'That's well out of order!'

'Take it or leave it. I've got plenty of buyers if you're not interested.'

'Flaming daylight robbery, that's what it is!' Ernie grumbled, digging into another pocket for more money.

'Not at this time of night.'

Ernie pulled out a second roll of notes, much larger than the first. The soldier's eyes widened at the size of the roll it was big enough to hold several thousand pounds. Ernie counted out two hundred pounds and offered it to the American. 'Here's your money I hope it chokes you!'

The soldier's face hardened to a malevolent glare as he pulled a revolver from his pocket. 'Change of plan. Give me all your money and I'll let you live probably.'

'You b.l.o.o.d.y...' Ernie began as he stared at the gun. 'You won't get away with this. I've got friends who don't take kindly to strangers with shooters invading their patch.'

'You forget, I'm being demobbed back home in a week. I'll be long gone before your friends can do a thing.' The American smiled blithely at Ernie. 'So, what's it to be? Give me all your money and walk away alive. Sounds like a good deal to me. I mean, I wouldn't have thought your pathetic life was worth half the cash you're carrying. But still, considering the alternative...'

'What's that?'

'I shoot you and take all your money anyway.'

'You won't shoot too much noise.'

'You want to take that chance?'

Ernie swallowed hard. He knew he should have brought a weapon along tonight but hadn't counted on things turning nasty. The Yank had seemed a safe bet when Ernie met him in the pub two days ago, charming all the women and buying all the men a drink. Later the soldier had approached Ernie, saying he understood there was a market for surplus US Army items missing in transit. A deal had quickly been struck and a meeting arranged for the following night. Now Ernie was regretting the greed which had led him to this situation. He reluctantly handed over all his cash.

'Good choice. I like the English so polite, so trusting.'

Ernie resisted the urge to attack the soldier. Don't let him goad you, the black marketeer repeated to himself, don't let him goad you.

'You've got all me money, what do you want now?'

'I want to see the look on your weasel-faced features when you realise I'm going to kill you anyway,' the soldier replied.

'What?' Ernie asked, not immediately understanding. Then realisation was swiftly followed by incredulity and anger. 'Why you '

His words were cut short by the American smas.h.i.+ng the revolver into Ernie's face. The soldier beat his victim repeatedly about the head with the b.u.t.t of the pistol. Ernie collapsed to the ground, trying to call out for help. Still the blows rained down on him, one crus.h.i.+ng his windpipe and silencing his voice forever.

As Ernie lay on the cold stone steps gasping for breath, the American serviceman straightened up and looked around him.

n.o.body was watching, n.o.body had seen what happened. He smiled at his victim, 'You know the best part of all this? The gun wasn't even loaded.'

Ernie was fighting to stay conscious. He knew he was badly hurt and probably dying. His legs had gone numb during the beating and his arms did not respond when he tried to protect himself from the blows. Stupid way to die, he thought. Survived a war just to get beaten to death less than a mile from home over some stolen smokes.

Ernie felt himself drifting away but a voice caught his attention. It was the American talking, but he sounded more like a frightened child now.

'Who are you? What do you want?'

Ernie was confused. It sounded like the American was having a conversation, but there was n.o.body else speaking.

Ernie's eyes had swollen shut but he could still feel a bright light blazing down on to him from above.

The American fell to the ground beside him, like someone kneeling in genuflection at a church service. What was going on?

'Forgive me and I will become your servant for the rest of my days!'

Ernie decided it didn't matter anymore. Cold and exhaustion overwhelmed him. He relaxed, as if he was sliding slowly down into a cold sea. He remembered going to Margate as a child on a Bank Holiday outing with his Mum. The scorching sun turned the beach into a hotplate as he ran down to the water's edge, burning the soles of his feet. But that was years ago and his Mum had died soon after...

Wednesday, December 3, 1952

The heavy key rattled as it turned, opening the lock on the small door. The prison officer withdrew the key and pulled the door back, before stepping to one side. The prisoner was waiting with another guard, patiently watching the procedure. For some inmates, this day never came. They waited for the rest of their lives but never saw what lay outside the towering metal gates.

For others, being released from prison was something to fear.

Inside you could be a big fish in a small, enclosed pond of incarceration. Outside you were just another minnow in the big, wide world.

Tommy Ramsey had no such fears. He had been respected and feared inside and life outside would be much the same.

Tommy had earned his position in the community by a dedicated campaign of brutality, terror and cunning. Six months away should have made no difference to that. If it had, he would soon set things to right.

The prison officer looked at Tommy, 'Ready Mr Ramsey?'

'You bet!' Tommy replied in his rasping East End accent. He plucked a stray thread from his charcoal grey Savile Row suit before shaking hands with the two warders. Each smiled to acknowledge the twenty-pound note slid in to their hands, which they both pocketed. 'You boys look after yourselves, alright?'

Tommy took one last look around the prison walls before stepping out of the doorway into freedom.

Jack Cooper was waiting outside Wandsworth Prison by the long black Bentley. He saw Tommy emerge and tried to a.s.sess the mood of his boss. Tommy seemed happy, a smile creasing his severe features. His receding brown hair was cut close to the scalp Tommy had no time for elaborate hair styles or the men who wore them. The immaculate double-breasted suit was straining a little to fit his barrel-shaped chest. It looked like the boss had been exercising. Prison seemed to agree with Tommy Ramsey. But then most things did, if they knew what was good for them.

By rights Tommy should have swung for murder. The evidence against him at the trial had seemed overwhelming, but the gangland boss had left nothing to chance. Two key witnesses had disappeared, another developed a bad case of amnesia after a visit from Jack and crucial evidence was mislaid while being kept in storage by the police. A few thousand pounds spread around the jury members hadn't hurt matters either.

So it had come as no surprise when Tommy was found not guilty of murder. The East End gangster had been startled when he was convicted of firearms offences but accepted his prison term magnanimously. A woman was dead and somebody had to be seen to be punished, even if the sentence hardly matched the alleged crime. Tommy went to Wandsworth for six months and Jack had been chosen to take care of the business in the meantime.

Tommy embraced Jack warmly before getting into the back seat of the Bentley. Jack climbed in after and closed the door behind him. In the driver's seat was a huge man, a black peaked cap perched incongruously on his ma.s.sive head. He turned to look at the pa.s.sengers.

'Mr Ramsey, good to have you back! How was your holiday?'

'Good, Brick, very good. But they need to do something about the food in there. These trousers are almost hanging off me!' Tommy replied happily. 'Take me home the sooner I get north of the river, the happier I'll be.' Tommy nodded to Jack, who turned a handle set into the back of the front seat. A gla.s.s part.i.tion slowly rose in the middle of the car, providing the pa.s.sengers with some privacy from the driver. Brick started the car, which purred into life. He carefully drove away from the prison, making for the nearest bridge over the Thames before steering the vehicle towards the East End.

In the back seat, Tommy looked down at the floor of the car. 'I was going to ask you for the latest news. But first of all, perhaps you can tell me who's this lying here, all trussed up like a turkey? Did Christmas come early this year?'

In front of Tommy lay a young man, bound hand and foot with a gag through his mouth. His clothes were dirty and torn, one shoe was missing and his greasy black hair hung down over his bruised face. An attempted moustache was just visible above his upper lip. His eyes were full of terror at his predicament. Jack kicked the unfortunate youth before explaining.

'There's a rival gang hanging around Old Street, mostly kids, no more than seventeen. They've been busting up businesses under our protection, trying to grab the patch for their own.

Brick caught this one watching the house. His name's Jamie. He won't say anything else.'

Tommy's smile curled into a sneer. 'I don't like people taking liberties.' He glared down at the captive. 'Cat got your tongue, has it? Well let me give you a message to take back to your little gang. Old Street belongs to Tommy Ramsey and n.o.body, but n.o.body, looks after it. You got that?'

The youth nodded, tears of terror br.i.m.m.i.n.g in his eyes.

Tommy kicked the captive in the crotch for good measure.

'I said, you got that?!?'

The youth nodded vigorously this time. Tommy looked to Jack. 'I think he's going to cry. Should we send him home to his Mummy?'

'Guess so. How's he getting there?'

Tommy smiled. 'Express delivery. Get that door.'

Jack opened the car door on his side and held it ajar. Beyond it the road and gutter were visible as the Bentley sped across London. Tommy used his feet to shove the youth towards the doorway. The captive was crying out in protest but his words were m.u.f.fled by the gag and noise of traffic.

'Seems to have found his voice again,' Tommy noted, 'Too late, mate.'

A final shove from Tommy pushed the bound man out on to the road. Tyres screeched as cars swerved to avoid the body that had suddenly appeared, rolling along the kerbside. Jack shut the door as Brick drove on.

'Little toerag,' Tommy said bleakly as he lit a cigarette.

'What's next?'

'Some of the shopkeepers along Old Street have been slow paying their insurance money lately. They say if we can't protect them from outside gangs, why should they pay us? The ringleader seems to be a watchmender who's just set up in the shop opposite St Luke's Church.'

'So? Make an example of him. Get someone to smash the shop up. The others will come around quick enough after that,'

Tommy said.

Jack smiled at his boss. 'Billy is doing it this morning.' He glanced at his watch. 'He should be there by now.'

William 'Billy' Valance walked along Old Street towards St Luke's Church. A thick-set, imposing figure in a brown suit, he had a bland face disguising a menacing temperament. For the past seven years Billy had been a lieutenant for Tommy Ramsey.

They first met while in military prison for violent behaviour.

Once the war was over, Tommy returned to his native East End, keen to get a piece of London's burgeoning black market economy. He prospered amidst the austerity of post-war rationing and offered Billy a job as one of his enforcers. Within a few months Tommy had grabbed control of all illegal activities around Old Street and Sh.o.r.editch. Within a year he was taking good money out of Spitalfields Market and extending his reach into nearby Finsbury and Bethnal Green. The Ramsey Mob was something to be feared and Billy had rejoiced in the power and prestige he received by a.s.sociation with it.

But the last year had not been so happy for Billy Valance.

Jack 'The Lad' Cooper had emerged from the ranks to become Tommy's right-hand man. Jack was only just twenty and had not seen service during the war. Billy disliked taking orders from anybody younger than himself especially an upstart like Jack, with his pretty boy looks and curly blonde hair. Then Tommy was distracted by the murder trial and got sent down for six months. But the biggest shock of all came when Tommy left Jack in charge.

Billy had hoped to get the top job himself but Tommy was adamant. Billy was a good enforcer but he didn't have the nous to lead the firm, Tommy had said. The months had crawled by ever since and Billy had watched as Jack let things slide. It was just as well Tommy was getting out today he would sort the mess out, once and for all. If he had any sense, he'd sort Jack out at the same time. Billy believed the lad was far too lax with old enemies like Steve MacMa.n.u.s, who had begun to encroach into Ramsey territory.

Billy stopped outside the church and looked across Old Street to the shops opposite. One stood alone, a rare detached building in the traditional terraced row. The shop facade had recently been repainted, with a new sign over the door: FIXING TIME YOUR WATCHES AND CLOCKS MENDED.

PROPRIETOR: DR J. SMITH. Billy consulted a sc.r.a.p of paper to check he had the right address. Smas.h.i.+ng up the wrong shop would not look good now that Tommy was back on the streets.

Billy crossed the road and peered in through the shop window. The watchmender's was furnished like a front parlour, with plush leather chairs, a sofa and several standard lamps. But the most striking part of the shop was the clocks dozens of them. The walls were almost completely obscured by the timepieces hung on them, while tall grandfather clocks stood back to back on the floor. Any flat surfaces such as tabletops were also laden with more clocks.

Billy pushed open the front door and stepped inside. As it closed, he heard a bell ring at the back of the shop behind a red velvet curtain. Back office, he thought to himself probably got the workshop out there. In front of the curtain stood a gla.s.s-topped display counter filled with dozens of different watches. A cash register stood at one end of the counter, near the curtain.