Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Seven,’ said Ruthie.

  The feelings of emptiness, of coldness, washed over her again.

  And nothing happening in any of them, she thought.

  ‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ she said.

  Kath watched her cousin covertly as they tramped down the huge staircase and went into the drawing room.

  A fucking drawing room! thought Kath. There was a roaring log fire, big couches on either side of it. A massive gilt mirror above the mantel. Drapes and carpets and … God, it was a fabulous place. Kath was pea-green with envy.

  At least, she was until she looked at Ruthie’s face.

  Because this wasn’t the Ruthie she knew of old.

  This was a pale, drawn stranger.

  Kath thought that Ruthie didn’t look well. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. She was wearing an olive-green dress and jacket with a lovely silky sheen to it. Her hair was pulled back into one of those classic French chignon things. She was nicely made-up. Ruthie looked elegant, and skinny, and … well, rich. Which of course she was. But she didn’t look well. She didn’t even look happy. There was a sort of bleakness about her and once she’d been so warm, so full of laughter.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see you, Kath,’ said Ruthie as they stood warming themselves before the fire.

  Kath saw that there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ Kath rushed forward and hugged her. Ruthie felt frail, as if she might snap in two if you hugged her too hard. Christ, she even smelled different now. Kath inhaled a sweet expensive perfume when she pulled Ruthie into her arms. Whatever scent she was wearing, it wasn’t cheap and cheerful four seven fucking eleven. It was exotic. It matched her look.

  Ruthie pulled herself free, wiping away a tear.

  Kath saw that her nails were bitten down to the quick.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ said Ruthie.

  She went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured out what looked like a large sherry for them both. She brought the brimming glasses over and plonked herself down on the couch, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her birdlike legs up under her.

  Kath had expected a cup of tea, not bloody sherry in the middle of the day. Still, she took a sip just to be sociable. She didn’t like alcohol much and she was appalled to see that Ruthie knocked half of hers back straight away.

  ‘So,’ Kath said briskly, ‘what’s it like, being Mrs Max Carter?’

  Ruthie pulled a face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and dipped into the sherry again.

  ‘He’s ever so good-looking,’ said Kath. ‘You always sort of fancied him, didn’t you? When we were thirteen or fourteen you used to stop over with me at night. Remember? We used to lie in the dark and talk about Max Carter and Jonjo and the rest of the boys, and wonder what it would be like to be married. To be in charge of our own household.’

  Ruthie nodded, her heart like lead in her chest. She wasn’t in charge of this household. It was in charge of her. Or Miss Arnott was. She thought back to those carefree teenage years, of all the dreams they’d had, her and Kath; how exciting and full of promise the future had seemed.

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ She emptied her glass and went to fill it again.

  ‘We used to wonder what it would be like to actually do it,’ laughed Kath, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  Ruthie seemed preoccupied. She was sitting down again, taking quick sips of the sherry. Fuck, she’s really putting it away, thought Kath.

  ‘It’s not so great,’ said Ruthie.

  ‘What?’ Kath spluttered. ‘With Max Carter? You kidding?’

  ‘It’s like being poked with a stick, if you want the truth,’ said Ruthie, and emptied her glass again. She stared moodily into the fire. Max and her hadn’t done ‘it’ since the night of the wedding.

  ‘Right,’ said Kath, her smile fading. She could see there was something horribly wrong here. ‘Has your mum been down yet?’

  Ruthie shrugged. ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘She must be made up.’

  ‘She is.’ Ruthie thought about her mother, poncing around down here like she owned the place. Visiting her daughter, Mrs Max Carter. She enjoyed chucking her weight about with snooty Miss Arnott, lapped up being chauffeur-driven by Dave.

  Silence fell.

  ‘What about Annie?’ asked Kath a bit desperately, then wondered if she wouldn’t have been better to keep her fat mouth shut on that subject.

  She knew there’d been some sort of a falling-out with Ruthie and Connie and Annie, but even Kath’s mum Maureen didn’t know what had gone on. Connie wouldn’t tell her. All they knew was that Annie had moved out. No one was saying where to.

  ‘I haven’t seen Annie,’ said Ruthie, frowning.

  She couldn’t even bear to think about the sister who’d betrayed her. She could hardly bear to think about Max, her husband. Yet already she’d been obliged to lie for him. The police had called one evening asking desultory questions about the death of gang leader Tory Delaney, but she’d been adamant that on that night, the night before their wedding, Max had been with her.

  Wasn’t that a bit unusual? asked the police. Wasn’t that considered unlucky?

  That was the groom seeing the bride on the morning of the wedding, Ruthie had told them, with Max’s arm around her shoulders, the happy couple, so much in love they couldn’t even wait for the wedding night.

  What a laugh.

  What a lie.

  But everyone on the Carter patch would swear it to be true.

  ‘Come on, let’s get something to eat,’ she said, and managed to get through another hour of forced chatter until Kath said she really had to be going.

  ‘Not already?’ Ruthie was suddenly anxious for her to stay.

  ‘I’m dating Jimmy Bond,’ said Kath proudly. ‘He’s taking me to the Shalimar tonight.’

  ‘He’s one of Max’s boys, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, and he’s gorgeous.’ Kath looked at her cousin awkwardly. ‘Sorry and all that, Ruthie. I’ll come down again.’

  But as they hugged goodbye, Ruthie knew that Kath felt awkward here, out of place, and that she wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

  So here she was, alone again with the big empty house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the whole place. The awful soul-churning anger and the God-awful loneliness gripped her by the throat again, nearly choking her. She swigged back another drink and then took the glasses into the kitchen and washed them. Didn’t want Miss Arnott thinking she was hitting the bottle during the day and having the nosy old biddy pass on the glad news to Max, now did she?

  As she stood at the sink, her eyes were caught by the keys hanging beside the back door. She’d looked at them many times – keys to unknown doors, unlocking secrets. She was fascinated by them. She knew what some of them were for, but there were a couple she didn’t. Emboldened by the drink, she grabbed the whole bunch and went out of the back door and across the courtyard to the annexe. It was locked, as usual. She tried a couple of the keys and one fitted. She pushed the door open, glancing behind her to check that she was unobserved.

  Of course she was.

  She felt a little woozy, sherry on an empty stomach was never a good idea. She knew she should cut back, but at the moment the booze was all she had. But did she really want to end up like her mother? Just look at Mum, the poor raddled old cow, that’s what the drink did to you. See and learn, see and learn, Ruthie.

  Giggling to herself, she stepped into the hall. It was so small, compared with the big house. And cosy. A real little home, with nice floral carpets on the floor and up the stairs. She wandered into the silent place, feeling like an intruder. She opened a door and found a proper lounge, nothing like that big barn of a room in the main house, where she had to sit on her own day after day, night after night. This lounge had a fireplace and a sofa and lots of ornaments, pictures of Max and Eddie and Jonjo as babes in arms, kids at the seasid
e, teenagers wearing boxing gloves, hard-eyed men lounging against big black cars. Over the fireplace was a larger portrait. Ruthie froze.

  It was Queenie Carter. Queenie with her imperious expression, her hard little mouth, her sharp blue eyes, her white hair billowing out around her face like a cloud. Queenie seemed to stare back at her and ask what the fuck Ruthie was doing, wandering around inside her home without permission. Ruthie left, closing the door firmly behind her. Her heart was racing and she felt light-headed, almost sick. She knew she shouldn’t be in here, Max had said she could go anywhere but not into the annexe, and now she could see why.

  This was not an annexe. This was a shrine to Queenie Carter.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said a voice behind her.

  She turned. Max was there, he’d found her. But no, it was okay. She blinked and clutched a hand to her hammering chest. It was only the gardener. She’d forgotten this was his day to come and do the lawns, trim the shrubs.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Carter,’ said the gardener. ‘I wondered what was going on. Sorry to make you jump like that. I haven’t seen anyone in the annexe since Mrs Carter died. Mr Carter’s mother, I mean.’

  ‘I know who you mean,’ said Ruthie, shoving past him and relocking the door. Suddenly she felt stone-cold sober. ‘She died, I didn’t. I’m still alive.’

  But as she walked back to the main house, she wondered if that was really true.

  12

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ asked Aretha, leaning her rangy black frame against Annie’s open door.

  Annie was sprawled out on the bed flicking through a magazine. She wasn’t in the best of moods. She didn’t like being at Celia’s. All that bumping and grinding in the night, people coming and going at all hours. This morning, glad to get out of the place, she’d turned in for work as usual at the corner shop. Monday morning. Ruthie had been Mrs Max Carter for a month but for Annie it was just more of the same old shit.

  But this Monday, things were different. Bert Tobey, the owner, looked uncomfortable as she started to shrug off her coat.

  ‘Better keep that on, Annie love,’ he said, his eyes avoiding hers. ‘Sorry, but your job’s gone.’

  Annie stood there, half in and half out of her coat, and stared at him. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘We don’t need extra staff any more,’ Bert said. His big good-natured face looked unhappy. ‘Vi and me can manage on our own, we’ve decided. Sorry, but there it is.’

  ‘But I need this job,’ said Annie. ‘You’re happy with my work, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve had no complaints on that score,’ said Bert carefully.

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘Well nothing.’ Suddenly his eyes blazed with irritation. ‘I’ve told you, the job’s gone. You’re all paid up until last Saturday, so we’re square. Now piss off.’

  Annie recoiled. Bert had never spoken to her like that before. Through the beaded curtain that led to the stock room she could see Vi, his wife, listening to what was going on. And then she understood and rage engulfed her.

  ‘Who are you telling to piss off, you old bastard?’ demanded Annie.

  She knew what was going on. She knew damned well that Bert paid for protection. She’d seen Billy in here, collecting. Blushing when she spoke to him, the stupid git.

  ‘This is Max Carter, isn’t it,’ she said in bitter realization.

  ‘Look, I told you nicely, I don’t want to see you here again. Clear off,’ said Bert, and stormed off into the stock room.

  So that was that. Annie left the shop and started walking back to Celia’s. Now her job was gone and she’d be lucky to get another one, she knew that. Certainly not on Max’s manor or in the areas controlled by most of the other gangs, gangs who were friendly with Max and would be only too pleased to do him a favour by making sure she stayed out in the cold. The bastard!

  For the first time in her life she was on the Delaney patch. She’d lived all her life on Carter territory, seeing Max and Jonjo passing by in their big black cars, seeing them treated like royalty, people bowing and scraping. Consequently she’d grown up with the firm notion that the Delaneys were mad, dirty, red-haired Irish tinkers. The Delaneys were the enemy. But now it seemed that the Delaney manor was the only place she could breathe around here. Talk about a turnaround. But she’d brought all this on herself. She’d been a silly cow. She knew it.

  And now here she was, dossing down in her disreputable aunt’s knocking shop, on dirty Delaney soil, with a brass wanting girly chats. She was not in the mood.

  ‘I said – don’t I know you?’ said Aretha, her dark brown eyes challenging.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Annie, and got back to her mag.

  ‘Only you look kind of familiar.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  This was bad news. If this tart recognized her from somewhere as Ruthie Carter’s sister, then the shit would hit the fan and she would possibly have to move on. And where to? She hadn’t a clue. She was already jobless. She didn’t want to be homeless again. She comforted herself with the fact that the Carters and the Delaneys were at loggerheads. This was Delaney turf. But still she didn’t feel safe.

  Annie took a look at the girl. Aretha was beautiful, tall, muscular in the way that black women often were, no spare padding at all. A big powder puff of black curls, big earrings. A tiny pink top pulled tight across small breasts. A black belted PVC miniskirt. Thigh-high black boots. How could anyone look that good and be a brass? Or a masseuse, Annie corrected herself. The girls here gave massages to a surprisingly diverse range of men. She’d spotted dockers and navvies coming and going, but she’d also seen one or two well- known actors, an MP, and a high-ranking police officer. All here to be ministered to by Celia’s three masseuses and one masseur, who by the way also gave blow jobs, hand jobs and a good shag at an additional fee, thank you, your honour.

  ‘She really your Aunt Celia?’ asked Aretha.

  ‘She really is.’

  ‘Some aunt.’

  Annie shrugged.

  ‘You a working girl too?’

  Annie slapped her magazine shut. ‘No,’ she said, and got up and shut the door in Aretha’s face.

  Aretha knocked on the door.

  Annie flung it open. ‘Okay, what?’

  ‘Don’t go shuttin’ the door in my face, baby doll. Or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘I want some privacy. Is that a crime?’

  ‘Ain’t no need to go puttin’ on airs just because you’re related to Madam down there, always sippin’ her tea with her little finger stuck out and paintin’ her nails and smoking that friggin’ fancy cigarette thing and tellin’ us to be sure to get ’em to wash their winkles before we get started on any little extras.’

  ‘You got something against Celia? Take it up with Celia,’ said Annie.

  ‘I got no beef with her. But she makin’ a good chunk o’ money out of us eager beavers.’

  ‘Oh really,’ said Annie.

  ‘Yeah, really. So how come you not gettin’ a little of the action? Plenty of money to be made, I tell you.’

  ‘I’m not a brass,’ said Annie.

  ‘Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a brass,’ said Aretha. ‘You get to charge for it instead of givin’ it away for free, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s very interesting. Thanks for the information,’ said Annie, and shut the door again.

  Or she would have, if Aretha hadn’t stuck a large boot in the gap.

  ‘I’m sure I know you.’ Aretha gave her the once- over. ‘You’re a looker all right. Sometimes a client like a little man sandwich, know what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Annie, which was true.

  ‘Hell, you naïve.’ Aretha was tickled by this. She grinned hugely. ‘Man in the middle, girl either side, got that? You and me, we could be good in a threesome. You so pale, I so dark, they’d love it. Top dollar.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Annie, and kicked Aretha’s boot out of her doorway. She slammed
the door shut and leaned against it. She heard Aretha stroll off along the landing to her own room. She was roaring with laughter.

  ‘Cheap bitch,’ muttered Annie, and threw herself back on to the bed. God, she was fed up. And she wouldn’t admit it to a living soul, but she missed having Ruthie to talk to.

  13

  Orla Delaney bent down and laid a fresh bouquet of blood-red roses on her brother Tory’s grave. Dead brown leaves whirled in the cold wind. Months now since he’d been gone. Kieron stood back and watched as his sister replaced the old, dead blooms with the new ones. She was a lovely girl, he thought. Her red hair shone like flames in the sunlight. Her skin was alabaster-pale, like the marble of Tory’s headstone. Her hands were long and moved with elegant precision. He’d drawn and painted her often as they grew up, much to her annoyance. Orla never wanted to be still. Time enough for that in the coffin, she said.

  All of a fidget, that was Orla, thought Kieron. She had the nervy energy of a thoroughbred racehorse. He knew she didn’t sleep well. Dreams, she’d told him more than once. Disturbing dreams. But she hadn’t elaborated on that. Actually she didn’t need to. Kieron understood, better than Orla could ever suspect.

  ‘Hard to believe he’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Very hard,’ she agreed.

  ‘I’ve often thought it must be nice to have a twin. I envy you and Redmond that closeness.’

  Orla turned and stared at him.

  ‘I’ve always felt a bit of an outsider,’ shrugged Kieron.

  ‘You’re too sensitive.’

  ‘Goes with the artistic temperament, I’m told.’

  ‘You’re not an outsider.’

  ‘Sure I am.’ He smiled at her as she stood up, and took the rubbish bag from her to dispose of later. ‘I don’t have anything to do with the firm, for one thing.’

  ‘You’ve never been here long enough to do that,’ said Orla as they left the graveside. Petey, her minder, joined them at a discreet distance as they moved back to the car.

  ‘It feels bloody odd, having heavies tagging along at every turn,’ said Kieron, glancing back at the big man.