Lord of London Town

by Tillie Cole

  Lord of London Town

  Tillie Cole

  Contents

  Copyright

  LORD OF LONDON TOWN BRITISH SLANG & TERMS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  The End

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Author Biography

  Follow Tillie

  Copyright

  Copyright© Tillie Cole 2020 All rights reserved

  Copyediting by www.kiathomasediting.com

  Formatted by Stephen Jones

  Cover Design by Murphy Rae

  Photography by www.wanderbookclub.com

  Model: Andrew Biernat

  Ebook Edition

  No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places,

  actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

  - William Shakespeare

  LORD OF LONDON TOWN BRITISH SLANG & TERMS

  (Note: many of these slang words/terms have multiple uses in British slang. The ones stated below are used in the context of this novel)

  Arse — buttocks. “He fell on his arse.” Can also be used as an insult. “You arse!”

  Away with the fairies — not all there. A little crazy. Dreamlike state. “She was away with the fairies.”

  Barmy — slightly crazy. Odd. Strange. “You’re barmy, mate.”

  Bird — girl or young woman. “That bird’s hot.”

  Bloke — man. “He’s a big bloke.”

  Bloody — mild expletive. “Bloody hell!”

  Bobby/Bobbies — a police officer/the police. “Call the bobbies.”

  Bollocks — testicles. “She kicked me in my bollocks.” Can also be used to call out a lie. “That’s total bollocks!”

  Bonkers — insane. “You’re bonkers!”

  Boot — trunk of a vehicle. “I put my suitcase in the boot.”

  Booze — alcohol. “Bring some booze to the party.”

  Cabbie — taxi-cab driver. “I paid the cabbie.”

  Cig — cigarette. “Pass me a cig.”

  Clapped eyes — to see or look at someone or something. “I clapped eyes on her.”

  Cockney — a native of East London. “He spoke with a Cockney accent.”

  Dodgy — something wrong or illegal. “That looked dodgy.”

  Fannying — messing around. “Stop fannying about with your phone.”

  Fella — man or boy. “Little fella.”

  Firm — British-based organised criminal gang/syndicate. “They’re part of the notorious Adley Firm.”

  Flannel — washcloth. “I washed my face with a flannel.”

  Flat — apartment. “My flat was on the fifth floor.”

  Gaffer — boss. “Talk to the gaffer.”

  Gear — drugs. “They had the best gear in England.”

  Geezer — man (generally old in age). “He was a proper geezer.”

  Gobshite — loud-mouthed person who talks a lot, but nothing of real worth. “He’s a proper gobshite.”

  Graft — hard work. “That was hard graft.”

  Half-arsed — to do something to a poor standard. “That was a half-arsed attempt.”

  Hard — tough. “He was hard as nails.”

  Hen do — bachelorette party. “It’s my hen do on Saturday.”

  Jumper — sweatshirt. “He was wearing a red jumper.”

  Knackered — extremely tired. “I’m bloody knackered!”

  Knickers — female undergarments. “Her knickers were lace.”

  Legless — extremely drunk. “He was legless!”

  Lift — elevator. “We took the lift upstairs.”

  Mate — friend. “My best mate.” Can also be used in a negative term toward someone who has annoyed you. “Mate, back the hell off.”

  Mobile (phone) — cell phone. “I answered my mobile.”

  Numpty — a derogatory term meaning ‘stupid’. “He was a bloody numpty.”

  Old Bill — police. “Here come the Old Bill.”

  Pigs — a derogatory term for the police force. “Here come the pigs!”

  Pissed — drunk. “He was completely pissed.”

  Pissed off — angry. “You pissed her off.”

  Plank — mildly offensive term meaning ‘stupid’ or ‘idiot’. “Shut up, you plank.”

  Prick — a derogatory term meaning ‘stupid’. “Stop being a prick!”

  Secondary school — High school. “I’m at secondary school.”

  Shag — to have sex. “Fancy a shag?”

  Sixth Form — non-compulsory final two years of high school. “We went to the same Sixth Form.”

  Slapper — offensive term for a woman with loose morals. “She was a total slapper.”

  The Big Smoke — a large city, especially London. “We headed back to The Big Smoke.”

  Tosser — mildly offensive term. “You tosser!”

  Trap — mouth. “Shut your trap!”

  Trolleyed — drunk/intoxicated with alcohol. “They were completely trolleyed.”

  Trousers — pants. “He wore black trousers.”

  Twat — a derogatory term meaning ‘stupid’ or ‘obnoxious’. “He was a twat.”

  Wanker — mildly offensive term. “You bloody wanker.”

  Prologue

  ARTHUR

  Aged thirteen

  I stared into the fire.

  The flames grew higher and higher, crawling up the stone chimney. I felt the blistering heat on my forehead and cheeks, felt my eyebrows begin to singe. I leaned in even closer. I wanted to know what it felt like when the flames licked my skin.

  I wanted to know what they had felt when they were trapped, when the fire had burned them alive. I reached out my hand, my fingers moving closer to the flames. Their dance was reflected in my glasses. All I could see was an aura of orange and red and yellow. My skin started to burn as my fingertips almost touched the flame. I smelled my arm hair burning. I moved closer and closer, almost touching it—

  “Arthur!” Someone pulled on my shoulder, wrenching me back into the ancient wingback chair. “What the fuck, son?” My dad crouched before me. I looked into his eyes but could still see the flames beckoning me closer from the corner of my eye. “What the hell were you doing?” He took hold of my upper arms, then my throbbing hand. It was bright red where the flames had got too close. “Christ, Arthur! Look at the bloody state of your hand!”

  “I wanted to know what they felt,” I said, staring at my red and bubbled skin. Dad got up
and walked into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a bag of frozen peas. He pressed it to my palm. It hurt like a bitch, but I wouldn’t tell him that. I didn’t care if it hurt.

  I wanted it to hurt.

  “Keep that pressed on there,” Dad said, then moved to the bucket of water beside the fire and threw it on the raging flames. The fire instantly died down until it hissed as it lost its breath and black smoke raced up the chimney. I watched the blackness rush away. But the darkness in my heart and head never went away.

  I saw our country cottage in my mind. Our family cottage when all that was left was burnt bricks and charred wood … and only the teeth of my mum and little sister. Bodies burnt to nothing. Fire had eaten their flesh like a demon from the depths of hell.

  Dad crouched down again and held my chin. I met his eyes. “I know it’s hard, son. You lost your mum, you lost Pearl.” I thought of Mum and Pearl. Pearl annoyed me. Always a shadow behind me and my friends. Always wanting to be in my room, in my fucking life. She was only a year younger than me, but she was still my little sister. I always protected her. In our life, I had to. But I hadn’t protected her in the end. When she needed me most.

  When I closed my eyes, I pictured her holding on to Mum in the middle of the living room in the cottage, the fire knocking the door down to get them, to consume them, to fucking burn them alive. I could hear their screams in my ears. Could hear Pearl calling for me to save her.

  I’d failed her. Her and Mum.

  “If you’d gone with them, I would’ve lost you too, son.” My dad’s voice was tight, low. He never showed emotion—he was an ice box when it came to his feelings. He was hard and brutal. Never spoke about love and shit. But when he mentioned Mum and Pearl, I heard the slight crack. Even though he hardly ever talked about them, I knew he missed them too.

  His hand moved from my chin to the back of my head. He pulled me to his chest. He smelled of tobacco and mint. Dad had kept me from going to the cottage a month ago. He’d had business here in town. I’d just turned thirteen. He’d wanted me with him; my time had come to be shown the family business.

  I could still feel the knife in my hand. Feel my fingers wrapped around its handle as I stood in front of our enemy in our deserted warehouse in Mile End. I didn’t even flinch as I rushed forward and plunged the knife straight into the fucker’s chest. He was one of the Yakuza. He’d ratted us out to an enemy. He’d deserved to die.

  It was my introduction to our way of life.

  I was a true Adley now, legitimately part of the firm.

  As I’d killed the enemy, my baptism into our notorious crime family’s legacy, my mum and sister had breathed their last breath as our Cotswolds cottage fell down around them.

  My dad pulled back from me, searching my face. I wouldn’t cry. I didn’t want to cry. I wasn’t sad; I was fucking enraged. Anger ran thick in my blood. I wanted to find whoever was responsible and kill them. Both the fire brigade and police investigation had said it was an electrical fault—a common issue with such old country cottages. Ours had been over five hundred years old.

  It wasn’t enough. I didn’t care who, but someone needed to pay for my losing my mum and sister. I needed someone to blame. I couldn’t take it being an accident.

  I needed someone to die … slowly … painfully.

  “Arthur,” my dad said, pulling me back from darkness. “It’s only us now. Us and our firm—they’re our only family now. You’ve got Charlie, Vinnie, Eric and Freddie. They’re your brothers. Always have been. They’ll be with you all your life, just like their dads have been beside me in mine.”

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder, clutching it tightly. “We’ve got to keep going, Arthur. No looking back. We’ve got a firm to run. We can’t afford anything to make us weak.” Dad got to his feet. I dropped the bag of frozen peas on the table beside me. I wanted to feel my scalding skin. I wanted the fire’s scars to remind me of what and who I’d lost. Dad looked at the discarded peas and his lips curled in a proud smile—my old man loved any display of strength, especially if it was from me. “Get your coat. I’ve got a meeting. You’re coming.”

  I followed my dad to the hallway and grabbed my thick black overcoat. We stepped out of our old converted church in Bethnal Green and toward the car that waited for us. The night was freezing cold, my warm breath turning to white smoke as it hit the frigid air. I climbed into the back of the Rolls Royce. My dad sat beside me.

  Wordlessly, we pulled out of our drive and onto the roads of our kingdom—East London. I stared out of the window as the streets that we owned passed by. I kept my focus outside, the views moving from battered warehouses with boarded-up windows, terraced council houses and run-down pubs to upscale restaurants and bars, mansions and one-hundred-thousand-pound cars.

  Motherfucking Chelsea.

  Jack, my dad’s personal driver, stopped in front of a mansion in SW3. Jack kept the engine running. Rain had started to pour outside, the heavy drops thundering on the car windows and roof like bombs. Jack got out of the car and opened my dad’s door. He opened a black golf umbrella to protect him from the rain. Alfie Adley always had to look pristine. I followed him from the car, and Dad took the umbrella off Jack. “We won’t be long,” he said to Jack.

  We walked to the house, and Dad knocked on the door. A fucking butler of some type answered. Dad pushed past him, knocking him backwards into some no doubt expensive but ugly-as-fuck vase. “I’m here to see George.”

  “But, sir, wait!” the butler argued. Dad opened the hallway door, and I shut the front door, locking us inside. A man about my dad’s age came rushing down a huge central staircase and stopped on a landing.

  “Wait here, Arthur. I won’t be long,” Dad said, his eyes locking on the fucker who was glaring at him with wide and fearful eyes. My dad cut a deadly look to the butler. “Make sure Alfred here doesn’t do something stupid like call the Old Bill.” Dad cracked his neck, never taking his glare off the butler. “This is a friendly meeting, right, George? No need for things to go south.”

  “It’s okay, James,” the man—George, I guessed—on the landing said to the butler, and my father followed him up the stairs. Putting my hands in my pockets, I moved to the wall in the hallway and the pictures that hung there, keeping the butler in my peripheral. I cleaned my glasses on my shirt, rubbing the rain from the lenses so I could bloody see. When I put them back on, I was in front of a picture of a girl about my age. She had dark hair and dark eyes and olive skin. I passed pictures of a brunette woman and George.

  Done browsing, I sat on the ornate red sofa in the foyer and looked around the house. Money. Whoever this George prick was, he had a fuck-ton of money.

  My eyes moved from the posh artwork and sculptures and went back to the girl in the picture. Then I didn’t look away. Just as I wondered who she was, the stairs creaked. My eyes snapped up.

  Brown hair.

  Brown eyes.

  Long legs.

  Olive skin.

  The girl from the picture froze on the stairs, her eyes widening when she saw me. My eyes dropped to her clothes. She was wearing pyjamas. The white top was sleeveless, and the bottoms were shorts with pink polka dots all over them. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders.

  I watched silently as she searched around the foyer, her cheeks blazing red. She came further down the stairs until she was stood on the black-and-white tiled floor of the hallway. “W-who are you?” Her posh accent sailed into my ears. A proper Chelsea girl. No doubt brought up with a silver spoon in her mouth. And what a fucking mouth she had. Full, dark pink lips that seemed to permanently pout. Eric, one of my best friends, called those cock-sucking lips.

  In this bird’s case, I had to agree.

  She folded her arms across her chest but edged closer. “Who are you?” she asked again.

  I leaned back against the couch. “Arthur.”

  “Arthur,” she echoed and came closer again. She was only a few feet away. Her skin was lightly tanned and
smooth, and her shorts showed off her perfect thighs. Posh birds never really did it for me. But by the twitch of my cock, this one seemed to be the exception. “Arthur …” she said again, her posh accent wrapping around my name. Suddenly, the sound of raised voices came from upstairs. Her head whipped in that direction.

  “Daddy? That’s Daddy’s voice.” She faced me, panicked. “Who’s up there with him?”

  “My old man.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Business.”

  She frowned, then said, “You don’t give much away, do you?”

  “What’s your name?” I asked, ignoring her question.

  “Cheska.”

  “Cheska … ?”

  “Cheska Harlow-Wright.” She tilted up her chin—she was proud of her name. My eyes found a picture I’d seen on the wall, one in front of a factory, “Harlow” written on the signage.

  All the wealth suddenly made sense.

  “Harlow Biscuits.” I suddenly knew how they could afford to live in a house like this in the best postcode in Chelsea. There wasn’t a home in all of England that wouldn’t have had a pack of their biscuits in the cupboard to dunk into cups of tea.

  “Yes.” She followed my gaze. The picture on the wall was old. An elderly geezer was stood outside the biscuit factory. There was a younger man there too, and a little girl, no more than about four years old, dressed in a bonnet and a red coat. “My mum,” she said and moved to the picture. She pointed to the little girl. “When she was little, with my granddad and great-granddad.”