In Cold Blood: A Brother’s Sworn Vengeance

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

1974

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

1979

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Exclusive sample chapter (#litres_trial_promo)

Further titles in this series (#litres_trial_promo)

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About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

The Canterbury Warriors (#u2997a235-37d3-5595-b688-3d9d4cf4f6b7)

We are the Canterbury Warriors

We stay out late at night

If anybody dare come near us

There’s sure to be a fight

Last night we were in trouble

Tonight we are in jail

We’re doing six months’ hard labour

For pulling a donkey’s tail

Way back whoa back

Come and get yer money back

Pea and pies for supper

Our old lass has plenty of brass

And we don’t give a bugger!

(Anon.)

Note by the Author (#u2997a235-37d3-5595-b688-3d9d4cf4f6b7)

My name is Julie Shaw, and my father, Keith, is the only surviving member of the 13 Hudson siblings, born to Annie and Reggie Hudson on the infamous Canterbury Estate in Bradford. We were and are a very close family, even though there were so many of us, and those of us who are left always will be.

I wanted to write these stories as a tribute to my parents and family. The stories are all based on the truth but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I’ve had to disguise some identities and facts to protect the innocent. Those of you who still live on the Canterbury Estate will appreciate the folklore that we all grew up with: the stories of our predecessors, good and bad, and the names that can still strike fear or respect into our hearts – the stories of the Canterbury Warriors.

1970 (#u2997a235-37d3-5595-b688-3d9d4cf4f6b7)

Chapter 1 (#u2997a235-37d3-5595-b688-3d9d4cf4f6b7)

Bradford, October

June McKellan was standing in front of her chipped-tile fireplace, skirt hitched up slightly at the back. She was warming her backside from the last of the embers that were sizzling out on the coal fire. Her husband, Jock, was slouched across the brown moquette settee in his favourite position – bottle of cider in one hand, cigarette in the other. His eyes were glued to the television as he squinted through a cloud of fag smoke to watch the last race of the day. June stared at the sight she had married. ‘Are you gonna fucking move today, or what?’ she asked him. ‘And if you’ve won fuck all on the horses again, you better get yourself out on the tap. We’ve no coal, and I’m off out tonight!’

Jock dragged his gaze from the TV and looked up at her. ‘Shut your cake-hole, June,’ he said. ‘You’re going no-fucking-where till you’ve got me another bottle of Joe Rider and some twifters.’ Jock turned his attention to his wife then, his gaze full of animosity as he looked her up and down, and she could tell exactly what he was thinking. And knowing none of the thoughts were nice – the contents of his head rarely were – she jabbed him in the shoulder to reinforce her orders.

‘I’ve got your cider and your fags, gob shite,’ she snapped. ‘Now move your arse off that couch before our Vinnie gets in for his tea. Fucking social worker’s coming at half five.’

‘What?’ Jock said, alert now. ‘What the fuck for?’

‘Been to see Moira,’ June told him irritably. ‘Needs to talk about something apparently. And, no, I don’t know what, because I haven’t spoken to her yet, have I?’

‘Moira?’ he said again. ‘Why Moira?’

‘Because I was fucking asleep, okay?’ And hungover, same as you were, she thought but didn’t add. ‘Anyway, get up and get out, will you? I don’t want you sitting here pissed as a fart when she gets here. Go on – go round your Maureen’s and borrow some coal and a few quid till we get your dole.’

Jock dragged himself up and pulled his woollen cardigan closer round his bloated stomach. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of this, June,’ he said, crushing out his cigarette. ‘Our Maureen thinks I should give you a fucking slap and make you stay in.’

June threw her head back and laughed at him. ‘Your Maureen’s coming out with me, idiot! And I’d like to see the day you give me a fucking slap!’

Jock slammed the door as he stumbled out of the house, and into the sooty late afternoon light. Little twat! He was a good foot and a half bigger than her, and one of these days he would knock her out, never mind the slap. What a fucking cow bag she was, stood there like that, all bleached hair and lippy. Oh, all his mates had thought he’d cracked it when he copped for June – five foot fuck all, and a waist you could get your hand around. Well, they didn’t know what he had to put up with, did they? Gobby little cow that she was.

He meandered down the path and into the street, scowling as he dodged the dog shit on the pavement. He could do nothing right in her eyes. Not these days, at any rate. The three kids, on the other hand, could do no wrong. Fucking twat. He’d slap her proper, one of these days.