Michael Butler led his father away. The poor old sod was eighty now, and had been so upset when Michael picked him up earlier. ‘Take no notice, eh? You know what Mum’s like. Her bark is worse than her bite.’
‘No, it isn’t. Her bite is far worse than her bark, son. Like a pit bull.’
As the striking black horses took Vivian Harris on her final journey, the sun made an appearance through the clouds.
Lots of old neighbours who’d moved away to areas such as Kent and Essex returned to pay their respects, and the church was soon full to the brim. The vicar Queenie and Viv had known since childhood had recently suffered a stroke, so Queenie had appointed the young Reverend Johnson to conduct the service. He was a local chap, and both she and Viv had known his mother for years.
Flanked either side of their mother, Vinny and Michael Butler looked a formidable force. Both wore their thick black hair Brylcreemed, Vinny’s combed back and Michael’s parted and smoothed to the side. Their expensive suits, shoes and Crombie coats were part of their image. Neither would dream of being seen out in anything less than a top-of-the-range suit. ‘You need to look the part if you want others to respect you,’ their mother had told them from an early age.
Queenie fought desperately not to crumble as the vicar gave a glowing eulogy. He described Vivian as a vivacious, humorous, good-natured pillar of the community who would do anything to help the less fortunate. The last part wasn’t exactly true, but his words were lovely nevertheless.
‘Morning Has Broken’, Vivian’s favourite hymn, was played, then Michael stood up and gave a heartfelt tribute to his aunt. Vinny had wanted to give a eulogy, but Queenie decided to honour her sister’s wishes. ‘If I croak it before you, don’t you dare let that murdering bastard of a son of yours speak at my funeral. Disobey my wishes and I swear I will come back and haunt you,’ Viv had insisted.
Sitting in the front row next to his father, Little Vinny felt his body stiffen and the colour drain from his face. ‘You Are My Sunshine’ was the song that had been played at Molly’s funeral, and as an image of what he’d done to her flashed through his mind, he felt the bile rise to the back of his throat. Her eyes were bulging with sheer terror and the look of confusion on her face as he’d pressed against her windpipe would haunt him for ever. He was so sorry, but nothing would bring Molly back. He had to live with what he’d done.
‘You OK?’ Vinny asked. Little Vinny put his hand over his mouth and ran from the church as rapidly as his shaking legs would allow.
Annoyed by his son’s departure, Vinny squeezed his mother’s hand. ‘You sure you want to speak? I can say something on your behalf if you like?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Queenie answered, somehow maintaining a stiff upper lip. She walked up the front and turned to face the mourners. ‘My Vivvy. Where do I start? She was an angel, she really was. The best sister I could have wished for. She was kind, loving, funny, charming and so loyal. She always had my back. As kids we would play along the Waste for hours on end. Hopscotch was our favourite pastime. Then as adults we’d get dolled up and spend our Saturdays mooching along Roman Road market. So many happy memories of the good old days, that’s all I’m left with now.’
Pausing to blow her nose, Queenie bravely continued. ‘I never used to believe in life after death, but that’s the only thing I can hold on to now. I’ve got to make myself visualize Vivvy in heaven with her Lenny and cling on to the hope that one day we will be reunited. I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the mornings otherwise. My heart is broken – beyond repair, to be honest. But my Viv was a tough old cookie and she’d want and expect me to carry on with my life. It’s so difficult, though, as she was such a big part of it and I feel like I’ve lost my right arm, I really do. We were inseparable, as most of you know, and some days I kind of forget she’s not here and pick up the phone to call her. Like the other day, for instance, when the news broke that a bloke had been found dead floating on top of Michael Barrymore’s swimming pool. Loved Barrymore, Vivvy did. Me and her used to roll up at My Kind of People. We’d take the mickey out of all the notrights on there.’
Dabbing her eyes, Queenie’s expression turned vicious. ‘A natural death I could’ve coped with better, but not this. Scum, they are, the ones who did this to my Vivvy, and I hope they rot in bastard hell. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Cunts, that’s what they are, who did this to her. Wicked, despicable cunts.’
In shock that the C word had been used not once but twice in the house of God, the vicar quickly took over. ‘Let us pray,’ his voice boomed.
The service ended with Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’, and there was barely a dry eye in the house. Albie Butler was a broken man, shoulders hunched, sobbing into his handkerchief. Ava, Vinny’s daughter, was in pieces. Queenie’s obvious pain could probably be heard as far away as the Mile End Road, and even Vinny and Michael had tears rolling down their faces.
Vinny put an arm around Michael’s shoulders. ‘Come on, we’ll have a cigar and look at the flowers. We’ve done Auntie Viv proud, eh?’
Michael nodded. Some of the floral tributes had been spectacular. He and Vinny had a beautiful white angel made with AUNTIE VIV spelled out in pink roses. The neighbours had all chipped in to buy a big LADY OF THE MANOR display and the Frasers had sent a beauty that simply said LEGEND, which was very apt. Vivian Harris had received the kind of send-off a legend like herself truly deserved.
Little Vinny was crouched around the back of the church, head in hands. How he could have done such a detestable thing to his own flesh and blood he did not know. But he had, and he’d had to live with it ever since.
Growing up, Little Vinny had issues. His mum had died when he was very young and his dad was too busy running the club to take proper care of him, so he’d ended up living with his nan. At school he wasn’t popular, and his only real pal was another loner, Ben Bloggs. Little Vinny would call the shots and Ben would dance to his tune. It was when they got into the skinhead scene that Little Vinny’s behaviour went from bad to worse. He was a lost soul back then and had a ruthless, evil streak. Sniffing glue, getting drunk and smoking cannabis became the norm to him, and he was paranoid and eaten up with jealousy that his father doted on his little sister. So he’d planned three-year-old Molly’s abduction, enlisting Ben’s help, and then callously strangled her – dumping the body in a shallow grave near Hackney Marshes.
‘There you are! Are you OK? You’re shaking. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Did you find the service too upsetting?’ Sammi-Lou asked, her kind face full of concern.
Panic attack in full flow, Little Vinny took deep breaths like the doctor had once told him to, and nodded his head. What else could he do? Admit that he’d murdered his beautiful little sister and the police had locked up the wrong person?
The sun continued to shine for the actual burial, then the rain lashed down again.
‘Gawd stone the crows! That has to be a sign from Vivvy, boys. She wants us to know she’s OK. I mean, come on, it’s not stopped raining this week, has it? Not up until the hearse arrived.’
Vinny and Michael glanced at one another. Neither were big believers in the afterlife, but they agreed with their mother, offering words of comfort. If it made their mum feel better to think that Viv had the power to change the bloody weather, then so be it.
‘The caterers have done us proud. I belled Nick when I popped to the loo, and he reckons they’ve laid on a feast fit for a king. The seafood display is the bollocks, by all accounts,’ Vinny said.
Relieved that the funeral was over, Queenie