by Jessie Keane
‘I don’t know. Mum won’t talk to me. She thinks I’m the world’s worst whore because I set out to get my sister’s man.’
‘You can see she’d be peeved.’
‘I was jealous! How many times do I have to say it, I was wild with jealousy. Years and years of it. She had everything I wanted, just the thought of him and her together made me want to rip her eyes out. I was going mental with it, I had to do something.’
‘Well you did that – and now I guess you’re sorry?’
Annie pulled a face. ‘It’s too late for that. Mum won’t listen. I can’t get in touch with Ruthie, she’s buried down in the country somewhere so I don’t know what’s happening with her.’
‘You’re in a mess.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Your mother threw you out, that’s the story? No, don’t move that arm.’
Annie nodded and got the arm back into position. ‘So I went to Celia’s. I had nowhere else. Lost my job as well.’
Kieron paused. ‘The Carters have influence.’
‘You’d know all about that, being a Delaney.’
‘Off limits. So that’s why you agreed to sit for me? You needed the cash?’
‘Why else?’
‘I was thinking you loved my Irish blarney.’
Annie laughed. ‘You’ve got plenty of that.’
‘Although Orla did warn me against you.’
‘What for?’
‘She thought you were trouble. Didn’t like your connections.’
‘I don’t bloody have any. They’ve all buggered off.’
‘Ah, you poor thing. Would you consider taking your clothes off next time you sit for me?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Oh, go on.’
Annie’s eyes opened wide at his audacity. She had to laugh. ‘Are you taking the piss or what?’
‘The pay’s better.’
‘I don’t care.’ Annie paused. ‘How much better?’
‘Double.’
‘Never.’
‘It’s true, I’m telling you. So will you?’
‘No.’ But she was smiling. Kieron was easy to talk to, she liked that about him. But she had the feeling she could have been a bowl of fruit or a landscape or any damned thing, he was looking at her as an object, not as a woman. Which she felt sort of relieved about, and annoyed about at the same time. Granted, he was trying to get her clothes off, but not with any lustful intention. Which was a bit bloody insulting in a way. She was used to men slavering over her, and his approach threw her off balance.
‘I didn’t expect this,’ she said.
‘What?’ He was busy, absorbed.
‘That you’re a real artist. That you really do it.’
Kieron paused.
‘I thought you were just playing at all this,’ said Annie. ‘You’re a Delaney, for God’s sake. Delaneys don’t usually arse about painting pictures, do they? They …’ Annie hesitated.
‘Yeah, what do “they” do?’ asked Kieron.
‘They run their manor,’ said Annie. ‘People respect them.’
‘And fear them.’
‘That goes with the turf.’
Annie hesitated again. She thought of the Delaneys, and how they had bided their time, lulled the Carters into a false sense of security after Tory was knocked off, then suddenly gone for Eddie. These were dangerous people, cunning and cold.
Kieron paused. ‘Come on then, spit it out.’
‘Will they protect Celia? She’s afraid the Carters are going to get her.’
‘I told you, I don’t discuss the family.’
‘You could put in a word. If you wanted to.’
‘No, Annie.’ Kieron drew back from the drawing. ‘I told you, I don’t get involved.’
Annie looked at him. ‘Do you sell your work?’
‘What?’ Now it was Kieron’s turn to be off balance.
‘You heard me. You sell it, don’t you?’
‘Of course I sell it.’
‘In London galleries?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah.’
‘What do you mean, “ah”?’
‘Doesn’t the fact that you’re a member of the Delaney family work in your favour when it comes to getting gallery-owners to display your stuff?’
Kieron stared at her.
‘Or am I wrong? Do those gallery-owners kiss the Delaneys’ arseholes rather than risk the consequences?’
‘You’re a cheeky little mare, ain’t ya?’ said Kieron.
Annie shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is, you’re a Delaney when it suits you.’
Kieron threw aside his nub of charcoal. ‘Go on, get out. Get out before I kick your audacious arse down those stairs.’
‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it?’
‘Out!’
Something flared in his eyes, something Annie hadn’t seen before. She frowned as she left.
He’d noticed her now, all right. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But as she hit the street she was smiling again.
When she got back to Celia’s place, she found Darren, Aretha, Ellie and Dolly sitting around the kitchen table sunk in gloom.
‘What?’ she asked, feeling high because she’d managed to get one over on a Delaney without getting herself killed in the process.
Darren looked up at her. He still had two fabulous shiners from where Eddie’s attacker had punched him in the nose. He didn’t look good at all.
‘Celia’s gone,’ he said.
Annie sat down. ‘What?’
‘She went overnight,’ said Aretha. ‘All her clothes are gone, and her suitcase, she’s scarpered.’
‘Did she say anything before she left?’ asked Annie. This didn’t seem feasible. This place would be lost without Celia.
‘She left this for you,’ said Ellie. She gave Dolly a scathing look. ‘Dolly was going to rip it up.’
‘Grass,’ spat Dolly.
‘Open the thing, we’ve been dying to know what she says,’ said Aretha.
‘I was going to steam it open,’ confessed Darren.
‘What stopped you?’ asked Annie.
‘Ellie said she’d tell.’
Annie nodded. Ellie would always tell. Dolly would always be stroppy, and Darren would always be sweetly reasonable. As for Aretha … Annie thought she wanted watching. Aretha was the expert on supplying the needs of their kinkier clients, there was a dark side to her temperament. All these things she had learned. She tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. It said:
Annie love,
I’m going away for a bit, I can’t say where. Take over here, sorry I can’t say for how long. You know the ropes, and if you get stuck Darren will help, he’s a good boy.
Love
Celia.
Annie read it twice, the breath catching in her throat, a thousand thoughts running through her head. Celia, gone. Celia who had taken her in and given her a home when the rest of the world had spat at her. It didn’t seem real somehow. And she didn’t want to even think about this place without her, it would be empty, soulless.
She passed the letter to Darren. He read it, and passed it to Aretha. She passed it to Ellie, then Dolly, who looked ready to explode.
‘I’m not taking fucking orders off you,’ she told Annie.
Annie felt bereft. She’d become so close to Celia, and her presence was going to be sorely missed. But she couldn’t blame her for putting some distance between herself and the Carters. Eddie sounded really bad, and what if the worst – God forbid – happened? Celia would be up shit creek, no doubt about it. Celia had done the wise thing. But Annie was going to miss her like a limb.
Annie took a deep, calming breath. All right, so Celia was gone and God knew for how long. But she owed her everything, and it was up to her to make sure that Celia could return to a going concern, not a washout.
‘You don’t have to take orders from me,’ said Annie.
Dolly looked at her. ‘I should bloody-well t
hink not,’ she huffed.
‘You can fuck off out of here right now, if you want to.’
Dolly’s rosebud mouth fell open. Darren, Aretha and Ellie sat rigid with shock.
‘You what?’
Dolly stood up, knocking her chair over with a clatter.
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ asked Annie, giving her a hard stare. ‘Celia’s put me in charge and I’m going to do the right thing by her. If that means losing your services, fair enough. Bugger off then. If you want to stay, you can put the kettle on and fucking-well button it, okay?’
Ellie would always squeal. Annie knew it. So she wasn’t surprised when Pat Delaney called in person a few days later. Ellie was the Delaneys’ inside source, she knew it. She handed him the usual wad, and he pocketed it thoughtfully.
‘I hear there’s been trouble,’ he said, making himself comfortable at the table.
Annie nodded coolly. As powerfully as she had taken to Kieron on first sight, his older brother Pat repulsed her. He had a big leery face and was busy looking her over, but he was a Delaney. Although she didn’t want to, she had to give him some respect. Of course the Delaneys were supposed to make sure there was no trouble, although you wouldn’t know it judging by what had happened to Eddie and Darren.
‘There has,’ she agreed, sitting down opposite so he’d take his eyes off her legs for a minute. Darren and Ellie and Dolly were upstairs; Aretha was out. I’m in charge here now, she thought, and tried to remember it.
‘A client was attacked here,’ said Annie.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Pat, obviously not meaning it.
‘Yeah, it is,’ agreed Annie. ‘He was an important one.’
‘I heard that shirt-lifter Carter got slit,’ said Pat with a grin.
‘Celia didn’t want any trouble with the Carters. Neither do I, and she left me in charge.’
‘And you are … ?’
‘I’m Annie Bailey, Celia’s niece.’ Annie pushed Celia’s letter across the table to him. Her heart was thumping and her mouth was dry, but she kept up the cool front.
Pat read the note then looked up. ‘You think you can run this place?’ he asked, and his eyes said he found this funny.
‘I know I can. I’ve learned the ropes from Celia.’
‘I could put a manager in,’ said Pat.
‘Celia didn’t want that. She wanted me to take over.’
Pat eyed the girl carefully. Annie was a real beauty. And he was in a position of power here.
‘And you want to do that?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t want to. But she owed Celia big-time. Okay, she hadn’t seen herself running a knocking shop, but if that’s what she had to do, then fuck it, she’d do it.
‘Well, I don’t know if you’ll be suitable,’ said Pat with a smile. ‘So shut the door and come and give me a nice blow job, and I’ll consider it.’
Annie’s heart nearly stopped in her chest. She’d been afraid of this. But she kept her voice steady and her gaze direct. ‘I’m not a working girl, Mr Delaney. Like my Aunt Celia I run the show, I don’t perform in it.’
They locked eyes.
‘Ellie or Dolly would be pleased to oblige. On the house, of course.’
Pat smiled and stood up. ‘No thanks, girly. I wouldn’t touch any of the scuzzy old whores in this cathouse. We’ll leave it at that for now. But if you fuck up, watch out.’
‘Understood,’ said Annie, feeling nauseous as he passed her chair and left the room. She didn’t relax until she heard the front door close behind him. Then she slumped on to the table, head in hands.
17
‘How is he?’ asked Max from the shadows as Ruthie came out of Eddie’s room, pulling the door gently closed behind her.
Ruthie put a hand to her chest. ‘Not good,’ she said. Funny how her husband always made her jump. They should be easy with each other, like any other married couple, but they tiptoed around one another like strangers. Eight months they’d been married, and they barely knew each other.
Max stepped forward so that she could see his face.
‘The nurse is just changing the dressings,’ she told him.
‘He’s had the best care,’ said Max.
‘I don’t know. I think he should be in hospital.’ Ruthie looked at Max. She knew Max had pet doctors, the very best, who owed him or were afraid of him. So Eddie had received the best possible care. But his condition didn’t seem to be improving. His wounds hadn’t healed. The nurse and now the doctors were looking nervous and talking about possible blood poisoning. The knife could have been dirty, but then Eddie had been stabbed in the dirtiest possible place. Faecal matter could have added to the risk of infection, that was what the doctors had told them, looking at her with nervous eyes. She’d shaken their hands, wet with fear of what would happen if they failed to get Eddie Carter well again.
‘He’s staying here, at home,’ said Max.
‘Max …’
‘I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
‘He’s unconscious. Feverish.’
‘That’ll pass. He’s a tough little bastard.’
‘I hope so.’
‘For fuck’s sake, go and pour us both a brandy, will you?’ Max was irritated with her. She’d lost what little looks she’d had. She was skinny, her hipbones stuck out and her tits were gone. Her hair looked like straw. Her face was thin, like she’d been sucking bloody lemons. Her clothes had cost him a fortune, but she looked like shit in them. On the rare – almost non-existent – occasions that he attempted to fuck her, she reacted like he was a filthy rapist fresh from the sewers. There was no sign of a kid on the way. And now she was nagging him about Eddie, trying to get him to send him to some fucking clinical hell-hole to die.
‘You ought to go in and see him in a minute,’ said Ruthie.
‘I will, when she’s finished in there.’ In fact, he hated going into his brother’s sickroom now. The stench in there was horrible – the smell of mortal sickness. But he had a duty to Eddie. He had to go through it, because Eddie was going through it. Jonjo was no fucking use. If anyone was sick, Jonjo was nowhere to be seen. He just kept ranting about getting the bastard who’d done Eddie, and he’d given Deaf Derek the pasting of his life for taking Eddie to the parlour where it had happened. All of which was no use anyway. Ruthie was right. Eddie was in a very bad way.
They went downstairs to the drawing room and drank brandy. Max hadn’t the heart for Mozart at the moment. Only the Requiem would be appropriate anyway.
‘Gordon said he saw you in the annexe last week,’ said Max, sitting down heavily on the sofa.
Ruthie started guiltily. ‘I just had a look in,’ she said, hugging herself in front of the fire.
‘Don’t.’
‘What do you mean, “don’t”? I had a look inside. It’s a lovely little place, I could decorate it out and make some use of it.’
‘Decorate this house,’ said Max flatly, downing the brandy. ‘Leave that one alone.’
‘What, leave it as a shrine to the sainted Queenie?’ Ruthie snapped, smarting from his rebuke.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Max lobbed his glass at the fireplace. It shattered loudly, and spatters of brandy made the fire crackle and roar. ‘Don’t give me bloody earache, Ruthie, don’t you think I’ve got enough to be going on with? My brother’s upstairs at death’s door, and you want to cunting-well redecorate?’
Ruthie went pale. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘Well don’t fucking-well say.’ Max jumped to his feet and grabbed her arms and shook her. Her brandy glass dropped with a splatter on to the carpeted floor. ‘Leave the fucking annexe alone. Keep out of there. Make yourself busy. Other women do. Why not you?’
‘Maybe because other women are happy with their husbands,’ flung Ruthie.
‘Jesus, not this again.’
‘Maybe because their husbands don’t fuck their bride’s sister on the night before their wedding,’ shrieked Ruthie.
‘Um.’ The nurse tapped awkwardly on the half- open door. She had coloured up on walking into the middle of a row. She radiated agitation. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr and Mrs Carter. I think we should have the doctor over, quickly.’
Max was halfway up the stairs before she had even finished speaking. He burst into Eddie’s room and ran over to the bed. Eddie was tossing about on the pillows. His face was flushed, he was wet through with sweat. His eyes were open and he saw Max there. God, thought Max with revulsion – the stink in here.
‘Max,’ croaked Eddie.
‘I don’t think he should be speaking too much,’ said the nurse, wringing her hands. ‘He’s very weak.’
‘Phone the doctor, Ruthie,’ said Max, dismissing her. Ruthie left the room. ‘Give us a moment,’ said Max to the nurse.
‘I don’t think I should …’
‘Fuck off out of it,’ said Max fiercely.
The nurse went.
‘I’ve been thinking about things, Max,’ said Eddie.
‘What things?’ asked Max, holding Eddie’s hand in both of his.
‘I think the Delaneys done me because of Tory Delaney dying like he did,’ said Eddie.
‘No, Eddie. That’s not true.’
‘Yes it is. It’s poetic bloody justice.’
Max stared at the wreckage of his brother, his hair slick with grease and sweat, his skin erupting. The weight falling off him. The stench.
‘That night I buried the gun for you … did you do it? Did you shoot Tory Delaney? Everyone thinks you did.’
Max took a breath. ‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not lying, you berk. Why would I lie to you?’
‘You let me think you shot Tory Delaney, because of Mum,’ panted Eddie.
‘Maybe I did. But as God’s my witness, on Mum’s grave, I didn’t shoot Tory Delaney.’
‘Then who the fuck did?’
‘He had a lot of enemies.’
‘Yeah, mostly you.’
‘I didn’t do it, Eddie. I’ll tell you what I did, shall I?’
‘I know you fired the gun. I took it out and smelled it. It had been fired.’
‘You remember there was a break-in in the annexe, and Mum was there and her heart gave out with the fright of it.’