Part 4 (1/2)

'I can't! Don't you understand that? I can't stop it!' the Doctor replied, his eyes blazing fiercely.

Sarah took a step back. She had never seen him like this before.

'Those people that die must die. It's history, it's already happened and there's nothing we can do to prevent it, Sarah.'

She was horrified by his fatalism. 'Then why did we come here at all?'

'To prevent a much greater tragedy, one that can still be undone.'

'I don't understand,' Sarah said. 'How can we stop one part of history but not another? Surely that's a a '

'Paradox?' the Doctor replied. 'Perhaps. But that doesn't stop it being real. Let me try to explain. We came from the future, where the events of the next few days have already happened. Thousands died and I had my picture taken alongside Tommy Ramsey. But I believe something far more terrible could happen in the coming days. That's why I have to be here, to try and prevent it. The photograph proves I will be here I just don't know what my role is to be.'

'A bit like a chess piece that can move itself,' Sarah said, beginning to understand his argument. 'Someone else is controlling the game '

'But I can still influence the outcome. My actions could save the lives of thousands or condemn them to a terrible, unnecessary death.' He smiled at her kindly. 'Now do you understand? I do care. I am involved. But it has to be at the right time and place, or all of mankind could suffer the consequences.'

Sarah nodded, feeling a little of the burden that he must be carrying. 'You're scared. You don't want to play G.o.d with people's lives.'

'Something like that.'

She gave the Doctor a hug. 'I'm sorry about what I said before. I didn't mean it really, I was just angry and frustrated.'

'I know.' He lifted her face up and looked into her eyes.

'People will get hurt, Sarah. People will die. We can't prevent that. But we must do all that we can...'

'To do the right thing.'

'Exactly.'

Sarah picked up her coat. 'Well, I'm going to have a bath before I go back to the boarding house for some sleep.

Tomorrow I have a job interview with the Ramsey Mob want to look my best for the new boss. What will you be doing?'

The Doctor returned to examining the troublesome circuitry.

'I am expecting another visit from Ramsey's thugs. I've become quite a thorn in their sides. Goodnight, Sarah.'

'Goodnight, Doctor.'

Thursday, December 4, 1952 Jim Harris blew into his cupped hands, trying to keep his fingers warm. He had been watching the Callum gang since dawn but had gathered little information of use. The youths had risen with the sun, stolen their breakfast from the window of a nearby bakery and lifted bottles of milk from an unattended cart. Hardly the work of a terrifying new force on the East End streets. Now they had returned to their condemned headquarters in Ironmonger Row.

Harris resented being given this job. By rights it should have gone to one of the Ramsey Mob's underlings, who were ever eager to catch the eye of the boss. But Tommy had insisted that a lieutenant study this new threat and Harris had drawn the short straw, thanks to his youthful features. How Tommy expected him to infiltrate this bunch of scruffy teenagers was a mystery!

Harris prided himself on his appearance, wearing the sharpest suits and finely woven silk s.h.i.+rts. Callum and his gang looked like they hadn't seen hot water for weeks.

Normally Harris would have been collecting information from his many contacts in the racing industry by now. Horses would be coming back from their early morning rides, some with old injuries flaring up, others fully fit again. That sort of intelligence was crucial in setting the right odds for local gamblers wanting a flutter. Harris prided himself on running the most profitable book in the East End. It helped having the full weight of the Ramsey Mob at your disposal when it came to collecting bets from reluctant payers. It also helped having a handful of the major trainers for both horses and greyhounds in your pocket, making sure races came in with the right result.

Like the other lieutenants in the Ramsey Mob, Harris had met Tommy during the war. Harris was the unofficial turf accountant for their unit, but the odds he offered were rarely to do with horses. He found soldiers were willing to bet on almost anything, even their own chances of surviving the next battle.

One soldier always bet against himself coming back alive. He claimed his bad luck at gambling would protect him when the bullets started to fly. It worked for five months. When his luck finally turned, Harris had shared the winnings around the unit so everyone could raise a gla.s.s to the dead man.

After the war, Harris had contemplated getting a straight job at a legitimate bookies, but he couldn't stick the hours. Nine to five was never his game. He liked the excitement of the dog track, the thrill of a fine filly emptying the pockets of his punters.

When Tommy took control of the streets around Sh.o.r.editch, Harris had been one of the first invited to join the Ramsey Mob.

It was among the proudest days of his life. So being asked to snoop on a bunch of unwashed teenagers with att.i.tude problems was not high on Harris's list of desired jobs for a chilly December morning.

Harris was contemplating sloping off for a cooked breakfast when he noticed someone was missing from the gang. A quick headcount confirmed his suspicions one of them had slipped away in the last few minutes. But which one? Harris was still scanning the faces of the gang when he heard the voice.

'Nice threads. Shame about the spying git wearing 'em.'

Harris swivelled to find Callum close behind him. 'What the ?!' 'You're not very observant for someone who's been watching us all morning. What's your name?'

Harris stared into the black, pitiless eyes of his interrogator.

'Harris. Jim Harris. You're in trouble, you and your gang.'

Callum grinned. 'How do you figure that?'

'Tommy Ramsey knows all about you. He'll crush you lot like bugs.'

'Is that right? Him and what army?' Callum's hand flashed forward and Harris caught a glimpse of something silver, s.h.i.+ning brightly, along with the swish of fabric being sliced apart. He looked down and was shocked to see a burgeoning red stain across his stomach.

Callum shook his head ruefully. 'That's a nasty cut. You should get that seen to. Don't want to get an infection.' His hand flashed forwards again. This time the sound was more like pork being trimmed from the bone. Harris sat backwards on the ground, no longer able to catch his breath. Something damp and warm was running down the insides of his legs.

Callum leaned over and glared into Harris's eyes. 'I've got a message for your boss. If you're lucky, you might live long enough for him to get you to a hospital. But I doubt it. Here's the message.'

Callum whispered a few words into the left ear of the fallen lieutenant before walking away. He wiped the blood from his hands on to a brick wall. When he got back to the rest of the gang, Callum called Charlie and Billy over.

'There's a spy from the Ramsey Mob across the road, badly wounded. He'll probably try to stagger back to his boss. You two watch him. Let me know if anything interesting happens.'

The two brothers nodded in unison and made for the stricken gangster.

A small crowd had gathered outside a humble shop on Old Street, just east of St Luke's Church. Most were paris.h.i.+oners from the church's congregation, but some people from outside the local area were present. Mrs Ramsey was at the front of the crowd, glaring at the man standing behind a red ribbon with Father Simmons. The guest of honour was Derek Carver, Chief Superintendent for much of the East End. A robust, ruddy-faced man, he filled his immaculate uniform to bursting.

The police chief had been invited by Father Simmons to officially open the first Bread of Life retail outlet. But the priest had been distracted from beginning the ceremony by a local newspaper reporter eager to get his story before a fast approaching midday deadline.