1969: the East End of London. Dark days where rival gangs and the IRA vie for supremacy.
What can the darkness take from you?
Love — perhaps the most precious commodity — can be dangerous. Deadly, even. Love can lead or abandon; it can be all-seeing or blind.
It can also be a reason to tread where good sense does not prevail. For Wendy Richards, psychiatrist at the Royal London Hospital in the East End, never was a truer word said. Danger was nearer than Wendy could ever imagine.
Cherchez la femme — look for the woman. Would that be Maude Larkin or Bess Saint? Would it be Wendy?
Or, would it be the Black Rose?
