Laying still, Bella knew her luck could go either way now. Their mother was as likely to land him a punch as she was to believe him and blame her children instead.
'She was cursing me, Mary, love. I swear on me old mother's life. All I did was walk in that door and they gave me a mouthful before I'd even taken me coat off.'
Mary Doyle's gaze narrowed suspiciously. 'If you've lifted one finger against my kids – '
The man laughed suddenly. 'What'll you do? Chuck me out?'
'As sure as hell I would and you know it.'
'Ah, you drunken slut.' He pushed his face into hers. 'You'd do me a favour if you did. If I found myself a pigsty to kip in, it would be an improvement on this shit hole. I'm sick to death of you and your brats. I must've been mad to take the bastards on.'
'You were willing enough at the time,' she reminded him sourly, returning the crude gesture. 'You had nothing, were nothing! And if it wasn't for me you'd be six feet under and still scratching the coffin lid. You're a curse to women, you bag of shite.'
Bella gulped down her fear. Her wary brown eyes looked out from under the tangled curtain of auburn hair; she was waiting for the inevitable, a verbal and physical assault that had begun from the moment Rita, alias Mouth Almighty, had set her poisonous tongue free.
The first blow cracked aloud in the air. Jack Router stumbled, the heel of his boot landing heavily on Bella's leg. With a stifled cry she scrambled aside, dragging Terry with her into the only other habitable room of the dwelling. Here they crouched on a filthy mattress covering themselves with a threadbare blanket.
Bella buried her head against Terry's. He stank where he'd peed himself but the room smelled like the bog anyway. She prayed the planes would soon fly over and when the siren went, Mary Doyle and her man would be off, screaming at one another still, but thirst would drive them to search for liquor.
Terry's snuffling grew loud. His mouth fell open as the blood congealed in his nose.
'Tomorrow we'll tell Micky,' she whispered as a plan formed in her mind. Micky would know what to do. He always did.
Bella comforted herself with the picture of Micky's gun, not aimed at the wriggling sewer rats but pointed lightly against the brow of the man's head.
Bella rubbed her bruised cheek as she sat up.
A pale morning light seeped under the blackout. She stretched her stiff limbs as Terry stirred beside her, his long brown lashes laying softly on his swollen face. He'd rubbed the scabs from his nose in the night and was snuggled down in his coat. Both children were frozen, the temperature in the room at an all time low.
'Terry, wake up.'
His almond shaped eyes flickered. He groaned at he sat up. 'Terry hurts.'
'He gave you another bashing, that's why.' Bella took his hand and pushed the blanket away from his tight grasp. 'We're leaving before they come back.'
His eyes filled with tears. He lay down and pulled the blanket back over him. 'Terry don't want to.'
Bella wondered why God couldn't have left just a few brains in his head. Enough to tell him when he was safe and when he wasn't. Enough to make him understand that the man would kill them both after last night. Why had God forgotten Terry?
She ruffled his thin brown hair. 'Be a good boy, now. And do as Bella tells you.'
In the clothes they had worn day and night for more than a month they stole into the street. The cold March wind whipped around them and rain spattered down. Bella gazed up and down the rows of cottages. Only the rats, bugs and fleas that infested them moved in the early light. She looked up at the rotting pile of bricks that comprised number three, at the sunken roof and shattered windows lost in the drifting smoke of last night's raid. She shivered. It was the only home they knew and they were leaving it.
'Terry wants to stay.'
'We've got to find Micky.' She pulled his gas mask tighter across his shoulder. Jack would be home first, looking for trouble. And resisting the tears herself, she urged him forward.
'Is the bombs coming?'
'Tonight they will.'
'Terry don't wanna run away.'
Bella didn't want to either. But if only God had given him half a mind he'd know they didn't have a choice. The man said one day he would put them in a pot and cook them. And after last night, Bella believed him.
Chapter 2
Ronnie Bryant stood in the big kitchen of the rambling three-storey building and frowned out on the cold March morning. He pushed back his hair and stretched his aching arms. From the kitchen window he could see the piles of junk that filled the yards of Piper Street, and spilled around the Anderson like a shark-infested sea. No one would ever guess what was hidden under the floorboards of the air raid shelter. That's good planning, Ronnie my lad, he congratulated himself. The dugout had its uses after all. If the law came sniffing round, they were welcome to sort through all Dad's rubbish piled high on the stones. But it would take a shrewd copper to suspect the neat interior of the Anderson where all the booze and fags him and Micky and Sean had nicked from the docks were stashed safely away.
A gentle dew sparkled on the legs and arms of the ancient furniture and junk going back to the year dot. Their Dad's treasure trove, his legacy to his sons as he was always telling them.
Ronnie smiled, the quirk of his full, sensual mouth giving his young face a touch of maturity beyond his sixteen years. His cool grey eyes gleamed penetratingly, missing nothing under the heavy shock of raven black hair.
He glanced
