by Jessie Keane
‘It’s necessary,’ said Orla.
Their brother Pat was waiting for them in the car.
‘You could at least have come to the grave,’ said Orla coldly as they got in.
‘No point,’ said Pat. ‘Dead’s dead, there’s nothing there but a pile of bones.’
‘Even so. As a mark of respect. Redmond would appreciate it.’
‘Feck Redmond,’ said Pat, and Petey got in and drove them away.
‘I’ll tell him you said that,’ said Orla.
‘Do. And feck you too, Orla Delaney.’
‘Hey!’ objected Kieron.
There was silence as the car wove its way through the London traffic.
‘I’m not kowtowing to a precious shite like Redmond, much as he enjoys all the world kissing his arse,’ said Pat finally.
‘He’s the head of the family now,’ said Orla.
‘Our father’s still alive, unless you’ve forgotten,’ snapped Pat, glaring out of the window at the rows of terraced houses and the shops with their brightly lit windows.
‘Dad isn’t involved any more, you know that,’ said Orla after a pause.
‘Clubs and fecking parlours,’ grumbled Pat. ‘There are other trades, you know. Trades that pay a damned sight better.’
‘We’re not having that old conversation again, are we Pat?’ asked Orla tiredly.
‘You know it’s true.’
Orla did know it. Drugs were the new thing, there was an endless market for pills and smokes. But the firm was doing all right. Why fix what wasn’t broke? Pat was like a bloody stuck record, she thought, going on and on when they’d already decided no. When they got to Brompton Road she tapped Petey on the shoulder
‘Let us out here, Petey, there’s a love,’ she said. ‘Pat’ll take the car, you come with me. You too, Kieron.’
‘Yeah, you bugger off the pair of you,’ said Pat, as Petey pulled in to the kerb and his brother and sister hopped out. ‘I can take a hint.’
Pat replaced Petey in the driving seat.
‘You’re a sour bastard sometimes, Pat,’ said Orla. ‘I don’t think you can take a hint at all. And you’d be wise to.’
Pat made a face and didn’t reply. They stood on the pavement and watched him speed away, burning rubber.
‘He doesn’t improve with age,’ said Kieron.
‘He’s all hot air,’ said Orla, making for the huge building and dark green canopied doors of Harrods.
Inside it was a treasure trove into which Orla always loved to dip. Kieron wandered along with her, indulgent, exclaiming over this and that, having a nice time with her. Then Orla fetched up short at seeing a familiar face.
‘Hello Celia,’ said Orla.
Celia straightened up. Annie, standing alongside her, saw her aunt’s face change. Suddenly Celia looked cautious and deferential.
‘Hello, Miss Delaney,’ said Celia. ‘How very nice to see you.’
Orla inclined her head. It was a regal gesture. Annie stared at her. One of the famous Delaneys. And such red hair!
‘I don’t think you’ll have met my brother Kieron?’ said Orla politely. ‘He’s been away, he’s a painter.’
Celia nodded and shook Kieron’s hand.
Annie knew that if you were a Delaney you could be whatever the fuck you wanted to be. Everyone knew that. So he wanted to call himself a painter? Delaney contacts would ensure exhibitions and plentiful sales. Who, after all, was likely to turn the man away? Annie looked at him with jaded eyes. The gangs ran these streets and she’d already had a brush with the Carters, she didn’t want to get into conversation with another lot.
‘This is Annie,’ said Celia, not elaborating further.
Annie shook Kieron’s hand. Actually he was good-looking. Blond floppy hair and a long thoughtful face, brown eyes that seemed on the point of laughter. His hands were long, but strong. His grip was dry.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello.’ Kieron was staring at Annie and thinking how gorgeous she was. That long dark hair, those depthless dark green eyes, that delicious figure. His mouth was dry with sudden excitement. ‘Have you ever had your portrait painted?’
Annie laughed.
Celia nudged her sharply.
Annie stopped laughing. ‘Oh. Sorry. Are you being serious?’
‘Deadly,’ said Kieron, then, thinking that this might worry her, he added: ‘Very serious.’
‘No. I’m not into all that. Standing on pedestals and stuff.’ Annie wrinkled her nose.
‘Ah, you’re like me,’ said Orla. ‘You like to keep on the move.’
‘I’d pay the going rate,’ said Kieron.
Annie’s interest was perked. She had no job. Celia was being kind and letting her stay for nothing, putting aside all Annie’s protestations, saying that she was family and to say no more about it. But she felt bad, like she was sponging off her. Some money coming in would be very welcome.
‘What is the going rate?’ asked Annie awkwardly.
‘Five pounds.’
‘Oh.’ Well, it was something. ‘Well that would be okay, a fiver for the whole thing.’
‘No. That’s five pounds an hour,’ Kieron corrected her.
‘An hour?’ Annie echoed in disbelief. ‘That’s a bloody fortune. Sorry,’ she added to Orla, blushing because she had sworn in front of the sainted Delaneys.
‘It’s all right,’ said Orla. ‘Celia has our number. Perhaps you’ll give Kieron a phone call soon?’
‘I will,’ said Annie, although she felt unsure.
‘If you want to,’ said Kieron, looking a warning at Orla. ‘If you don’t, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Well… maybe in a little while,’ she stalled.
‘Sure,’ said Kieron. ‘Whenever. Just call, if you want.’
‘Are you sure he’s one of the Delaneys?’ Annie asked Celia as they stood and watched Orla and Kieron walk away across the store. ‘He doesn’t act like one.’
‘No, that’s true,’ said Celia. ‘But don’t upset him, Annie love. The Delaneys look after us. Don’t ever forget that. Tread carefully.’
14
Celia had succeeded in cheering Annie up. They were drenched in a dozen different perfumes and clutching bags full of clothes and shoes, all paid for by Celia. They were exhausted but happy.
‘Pay me back when you start earning, if it bothers you,’ Celia had said when Annie protested that she couldn’t pay Celia back yet. ‘But if an aunt can’t buy her niece a thing or two, it’s a pretty poor do.’
When they got back home Annie did a double- take when she saw Billy sitting at the kitchen table. This was Delaney turf, after all.
‘Billy! What you doing round here?’ she blurted out.
‘Oh, so you know Billy as well?’ asked Celia.
‘Of course I know Billy. Everyone on the Carter patch knows him.’
‘No one takes any notice of Billy coming here,’ said Celia. She smiled at him. ‘And he comes here every week for tea and biccies, don’t you, pet?’
Annie put down her bags feeling suddenly anxious. The poor loon would find himself filleted like a kipper if he wasn’t careful, wandering about down here.
‘What about the Delaneys?’ she asked.
‘They don’t bother Billy,’ said Celia, her gaze pointed as she looked at Annie. ‘I cleared it with Redmond Delaney, and none of his boys are going to argue with him. I lived next door to Billy’s mum years ago, he nearly grew up in my house and he’s been visiting ever since. We’re old pals – ain’t that right, Billy?’
Billy nodded shyly. He had coloured up at sight of Annie.
But Annie was still worried. Would Billy tell Max where she was? She didn’t know what went on in that funny brain of his. She knew Max had been good to him, and he was probably loyal to Max before all else, which could put her at risk.
‘Put the kettle on, Dolly, will you?’ Celia said, collapsing into a chair and kicking off her heels. Groaning with relief, she rubbed at her f
eet. ‘God, that’s bliss. We must have walked fucking miles.’
Dolly was one of Celia’s girls. She was a small, curvy and ill-tempered blonde who now slapped the kettle on the stove and slammed the doors open to get the tea caddy and the cups.
‘Four cups, Doll,’ said Celia, seeing that Dolly had only got out three. ‘Billy’s stopping for tea, and Annie’s parched, and you’ll join us, won’t you?’
Billy, his bulging briefcase perched on his lap, his raincoat buttoned to the neck, was scribbling in his notebook with a black Biro. He often did this. Annie had peeked once or twice, interested to see what he was writing. But all she ever saw was a dense, dark scrawl across the paper, meaning nothing. The poor sod wasn’t right in the head.
Dolly put four brimming mugs of tea on the kitchen table.
‘Biscuits?’ asked Celia, and the biscuit barrel was slapped down in front of her. ‘Thanks, Doll,’ said Celia, pulling out her cigarette holder and lighting up. ‘Everything been quiet here?’ she asked as she took her first luxurious pull.
‘Dead as a morgue,’ sniffed Dolly. ‘Aretha’s got a client in, but me and Ellie and Darren are at a loose end.’
They could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Andy Williams through the ceiling. Darren would be in there with her, having a girly chat. Annie thought Darren was sweet. She never thought she’d take to a shirt-lifter, but Darren was more like a girl than most girls she knew. And some of the male clients – particularly those who’d had a rough time with Nanny and learned bad habits at expensive boarding schools – preferred a pretty boy to a girl any day of the week, so he did good business.
‘It’ll pick up this evening,’ said Celia confidently. ‘Have a biscuit, Billy,’ she said.
‘I’m going on up,’ said Dolly, and took her tea upstairs.
‘So how are you, Billy love?’ asked Celia.
‘I’m v-very well,’ said Billy, and fell silent again.
Talk about witty banter, thought Annie. Poor bastard. Maybe he wouldn’t tell Max she was here. She thought – she hoped – that Billy liked her enough to keep quiet. And maybe Max didn’t care about her whereabouts any more. The thought was somehow not as cheering as it should have been. It might have been a quick fuck to Max, but she’d had real feelings for him. She still did, she realized miserably. The rotten handsome sod.
After a while, just trying to have a normal conversation with Billy, Annie felt tired. She admired Celia for her ability to wring a sentence or two out of him, but she hadn’t the knack or the patience.
‘I’m off up to get washed up, Celia,’ she said, and made her escape.
She took the remains of her tea and her bags upstairs. Up on the landing she could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Cliff Richard. Ellie and Darren were carolling away, horribly out of tune. Annie felt herself smiling. Overlying Cliff and Ellie and Darren and the Shadows was the sound of groans and the headboard hitting the wall in Aretha’s room. Annie dumped everything on her bed, kicked off her white PVC boots and was about to shut the door when Dolly appeared looking pleased with herself.
‘I know you,’ said Dolly. ‘Aretha thought she’d seen you somewhere, and she was right. And you know that loony Billy, don’t you, and he’s on the Carter payroll. You’re Ruthie Carter’s sister. Which makes you Max Carter’s sister-in-law.’
‘So what if I am?’ shrugged Annie.
‘You fell out with her and your mother,’ said Dolly.
‘So?’
‘Word was you’d stepped on Ruth’s toes, if you get my meaning.’ Dolly was smirking.
Whatever she’d said or done, there was no way she wanted to be standing here discussing it with this cheap little tart.
‘That’s my business,’ said Annie. ‘Not yours.’
‘No need to get all uppity with me,’ grinned Dolly. She was enjoying this. Annie had been queening it around here, Madam’s niece, too posh to pull punters. ‘Word is you fucked her bridegroom the night before the wedding.’
‘Whatever the “word” is,’ said Annie, ‘I’ve got nothing to say about it.’
‘Oh go on,’ crowed Dolly. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Annie.
‘That isn’t very nice, now is it? I’m only taking an interest.’
‘Who asked you to?’
Dolly’s smug smile dropped from her face. She came and stood directly in front of Annie. Annie was close enough to see enlarged pores clogged with too much make-up, and black roots in Dolly’s blonde frizzy hair. She smelt Dolly’s smoker’s breath and grimaced. Jesus! She pitied the punters. Imagine having to kiss a tart like this – and pay for the privilege!
‘I could tell you things I’ve heard,’ said Dolly.
‘Such as?’ asked Annie.
‘Word is your sister’s not well.’
Annie felt a tug of anxiety but she was careful to keep her face blank. ‘Says who?’
‘Says everyone. You know, you ought to be nicer to me,’ said Dolly. ‘I could get word to Ruth that you’re living in a knocking shop, how would that go down? You wouldn’t be so fancy then, would you, with your sister thinking you were making your living flat on your back.’
Annie slapped that fat, smirking mouth. Dolly stood a moment transfixed with shock and then she launched herself at Annie, knocking her back on to the bed, clawing at her hair. Annie hit her again, harder, and Dolly started screeching and trying to get her nails hooked into Annie’s face. Annie grabbed her wrists and pushed her back. Dolly was small and flabby – Annie was taller and stronger, and mad enough to bite this slapper’s head off and beat her with the soggy end. But all at once Darren and Ellie were pulling Dolly off her. Dolly was still shrieking and spitting. Between them they dragged Dolly back out on to the landing.
‘You’ll be sorry you did that,’ screamed Dolly.
‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ asked Aretha, joining the gathering on the landing wearing a very small white towel.
‘They were fighting,’ said Darren, who looked shocked and excited at the same time.
‘Well pack it in,’ hissed Aretha. ‘I’ve got a solid- gold punter in there and he’s getting nervous. He thought the sodding Old Bill were out here raiding the place.’
Darren tossed his blond head and took a step back. Through the half-open door he could see a man tied to the bed, face-down. There was a whip on the floor. The man’s naked buttocks were striped with pink.
‘Nice arse,’ commented Darren, who was a fine judge of such things.
‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back to her room. ‘Keep it down, okay?’
‘Come on love, shake hands and make up,’ said Ellie, a plump little brunette with a sweet face. She gave Dolly an encouraging smile.
Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.
‘That’s a no, then?’ asked Darren.
‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ promised Dolly, and went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
‘Come in and listen to Cliff with us,’ said Ellie to Annie. ‘She’s always getting her knickers in a twist, she’ll calm down.’
‘No, I’ve had enough excitement for one day,’ said Annie. She went back into her room, closed the door and fell on to the bed.
What the hell, she thought. Max didn’t care where she was. So long as she kept out of his way things would be fine, she told herself. She wondered if it was true that Ruthie was ill, or was that little tart Dolly just enjoying winding her up? She didn’t like to think of Ruthie being ill. Maybe Ruthie was pregnant. That thought cut into her like a knife. Ruthie, pregnant with Max’s child? Too restless and unhappy to settle, Annie went downstairs and got the Delaneys’ phone number from Celia.
15
Eddie Carter often wondered about the night he’d buried the gun for Max. His gut feeling was that Max had shot Tory Delaney dead, but something about the way Max had denied it niggled at him. He knew the police had been round asking questions, but Ruthie had pr
ovided an alibi, as any good wife would. It was best not to speculate. Tory was dead and that was an end to it.
Or was it? Because there was still Redmond and Pat Delaney.
Best not to think about that, either.
Eddie was enjoying his life, going round the clubs and pubs with his friends tonight, calling in on the Shalimar and The Grapes and finishing up at the Palermo Lounge. Max and Jonjo were in, the place was buzzing. They had their heavies with them, standing a discreet distance away. Eddie didn’t want a minder and had refused one more than once, even when Max tried to insist. He hated the idea of someone sneering at his sexual tastes, and he knew a lot of Max’s macho hard men did. Then one of the boys whispered that there was the most exquisite boy in a house not too far away, Eddie would adore him, why didn’t they go on over and visit?
‘Really?’ Eddie was intrigued but unsure.
His taste for pretty boys had got him into trouble a couple of times. He knew that Max disapproved. Jonjo despised Eddie for the fact that he liked to bed men instead of women, he knew that too. But Eddie did feel the urge, he was drunk but not incapable, so why not?
‘Is he blond?’ Eddie asked, his words only a little slurred. Max would disapprove of that, too. Drunks annoyed his sainted older brother. Drunks and loose women and men who liked shagging pretty boys … the list just went on and on. Eddie laughed at the thought of it. And there he was, the great Max Carter, sleeping in a separate room from his wife, a fact that must never ever be revealed to the wider world. Eddie liked Ruthie. The poor cow. Ruthie fussed over him like an older sister, and he liked that. He’d never had a sister, only a domineering mother who had frightened the arse off him most of the time, cuffing him around the ear or whopping his backside for stepping out of line.
Ruthie was different, gentler. She never nagged, never screamed like a tart in the street or hit people. He and Ruthie enjoyed their long chats and shopping trips. Despite the fact that he could see how unhappy she was, she never bad-mouthed Max to him or to anyone else. He liked that about her, too. Loyalty to the family was imperative. His mum had drummed that into them when they were growing up, and it had stuck. The Carters fought the world; never each other.