‘You’re nicked, my son,’ said the copper, grabbing hold of nine-year-old Charlie Stone’s collar with one beefy hand.
Terry, Charlie’s best mate, kicked the policeman in the shin and hefted a dead rat at him. It was so ripe, the tail dropped off and its innards spattered the copper’s legs. The stench was horrible.
‘You dirty little bastard,’ said the copper, swiping at Terry while trying to keep a grip on Charlie, who was wriggling like an eel.
Terry darted in and kicked again. The rest of Charlie’s gang had scarpered already, headed back to the den. But Terry wouldn’t desert Charlie. They were a pair, these two. They skived off school together. Went scrumping together. And together – today – they’d shinned over the back gates of the grocer’s and started lobbing apples and pears over the top for their mates to catch.
Everything had been going good, then this filth had come out the back door of the shop. One of the neighbours must have raised the alarm.
Terry kicked again.
‘Little fucker,’ roared the copper, and let go of Charlie.
Charlie tore off and scrambled back over the gate and was gone, Terry hot on his heels. The copper snatched at Terry’s short trouser leg but Terry was up, he was over – he was away. Him and Charlie ran off down the street, gasping and laughing fit to bust.
Charlie Stone was leader of the gang. And their den – his den – was set deep in scrubby woods where the gang met under Charlie’s rule and divvied up their bounty. Bill ‘Beezer’ and little Col Crowley’s father owned a sweet shop where Charlie had spied out a big half-pound box of chocolates set high on a shelf. If Beezer and his little shadow Col wanted to be part of the gang, then that was the price.
Beezer paid it. The chocolates, the fruit from the grocery store, other things. He robbed stuff out of a few cars, teaching little Col how twocking – take without owner’s consent – worked. Then everything was taken back to the den and laid at Charlie’s feet.
‘More,’ said Charlie every time. ‘We need more.’
They were the Charlie Boys gang, and Charlie was their king. They charged across the old bomb sites on the manor, armed with dustbin lids for shields and wooden swords. Slowly they grew in strength, and purpose, and bulk.