Free The Runaway by Martina Cole

London boys. At the end of the day, with the eldest there just sixteen, they weren’t like the big timers, though all of them wanted to be seen that way. By their peer group at least.
    Eamonn took the gun and put it back in his jacket pocket. He loved the attention it created. Loved the feeling of being in charge of them all, being the main man. Eamonn Docherty craved the limelight. Craved the feeling of being someone important, and the gun guaranteed him that.
    No one would dare disrespect him with a gun aimed at their heads. No one.
    Looking at his gang he felt a moment’s intense happiness. He loved to lead people, loved to be the one telling them all what they were to do, where they were to go. They all looked up to him as if he were something special. He had made up his mind that one day soon everyone would know him, would understand he was a dangerous man, a force to be reckoned with.
    The gun, and his natural leadership abilities, would guarantee him that. After tonight his name would be known everywhere in London while simultaneously his East End cronies would retreat behind a wall of silence and he would, in effect, get away with murder.
    He had been living for this night for too long. All he wanted now was to get it and his dirty work over with. Then he could start his career, his real life.
    The Krays would give him a job; they liked a face with bottle and he had plenty of it. No more listening to his father’s old crap, no more living in a two up, two down with an Irish drunk and a houseproud bitch. No more scraping along, doing a little bit here and a little bit there.
    If everything went to plan, he’d finally hit the big one. Payola. He would be a real villain now, and that meant the fast track to money, cars and prestige.
    Tonight was to be his watershed, his blooding. He couldn’t wait to get started.
    He didn’t have to wait long. The South London firm was waiting for them at the top of the Embankment.
     
    James Carter was a Bermondsey boy through and through. Of Irish descent, he had a lot in common with Eamonn Docherty though neither of them would admit that.
    He watched the other gang’s arrival with cold green eyes. Taking out his steel comb, he pulled it through his hair, fastidiously pushing his quiff into place and replacing the comb in his pocket. His full-lipped mouth was set in a cruel smile and inside his jacket was a cut-throat razor. Eamonn Docherty was to get the biggest shock of his life tonight and James Carter was going to be the man to give it to him.
    Behind him his gang stood stock still. Every face was hard. Every hand was shaking. Not with fear, but with excitement.
    As the East Enders drew close, they stopped and the two gangs stared each other out. Then, as if all of one mind, they pulled out their weapons.
    A car driving past speeded up, rattling towards Westminster. Gang fights were common, but it was unusual to see one on a common thoroughfare.
    The Embankment was quiet at eleven-thirty at night; most revellers had gone on to other places or were already home. The only sound now was of the Thames lapping gently against the green-slimed wall.
    Eamonn touched the bicycle chain around his neck, his cosh down the back of his trousers. They waited patiently for everyone to arm themselves. This was the unwritten rule. When the streetlamp glinted on the gun pulled from Eamonn’s pocket there was a collective exhalation of shock from the South Londoners.
    James Carter’s voice was deep, resonant with an Irish inflection. ‘Fuck off, Docherty. No one uses guns.’ Even though his voice was heavy with menace, everyone sensed the underlying fear there.
    They were all experiencing it too.
    Eamonn smiled lazily, his voice matter-of-fact and terrifyingly normal. ‘You should have thought of that when you beat up poor Harry. Eight to one, I heard. So I thought I’d even the odds up like - for him.’
    The flash that came from the gun was a surprise to all there. The East London boys