Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Who’s a naughty boy then?’ asked Aretha, biting pineapple and cheese from a cocktail stick and then giving the copper a playful stab in the buttocks with the point. He shrieked with ecstasy and writhed about.

  Frankly, Annie had seen prettier sights than this middle-aged man, his fat arse slick with baby oil, hung up there like a sodding Christmas ham. It tickled her that Chris was still sitting by the front door, his face impassive. He could have been a eunuch standing guard in a harem for all the interest he showed in the proceedings.

  ‘Another ten minutes.’ Annie looked at the alarm clock set up on the hall table. It would ring at three o’clock in the afternoon, announcing to their visitors that it was time to get gone. She was always relieved at this point, however much she became accustomed to what happened here. Dolly was upstairs with two punters, Ellie was drinking sherry with one of their dear old fellows in the front room. Darren had a judge upstairs, doing God knew what. Connie Francis was belting out her latest on the radiogram, Annie loved that song.

  She was tired now, tired of smiling and being Madam. Their new barman, Brian, was boxing up the empties, putting the dirty glasses to one side. All the food had been cleared today. It had been a busy party, and very profitable. No trouble, either. All in all, a good day’s work.

  Annie went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She kicked off her courts and sighed with pleasure. You couldn’t beat a cup of tea and a sit-down at the kitchen table with all your mates to talk over the day together. She looked around her happily, then frowned at the new kitchen door.

  Not frosted glass now. She didn’t like it, but this one was solid wood, with a peephole and a Yale lock. At the kitchen window, which looked out over a tiny square of garden, there was now an iron grid. There was also a discreet strip of barbed wire on the fence at the bottom of the garden and the side of the house, and a solid securely locked side gate had replaced the pretty, white painted, wrought-iron one that used to be there.

  None of this pleased Annie. She felt like she was living in fucking Stalag 13, and the wooden door blocked out a lot of light from the kitchen. Everyone was admitted from the front of the house now. No surprises, nasty or otherwise. She picked up Chris’s paper from the table and browsed through it, stopping dead when she came across a piece about two nightclubs being burned to the ground. Arson was suspected. The clubs were owned by the ‘influential’ Delaney family, it said. Enquiries were ongoing.

  Annie sat down at the table. Yeah, sure, she thought. The Bill were sure to enquire closely about what happened to gangland clubs, weren’t they. She hugged herself and shivered. She’d been feeling down since going over to Mum’s to see Ruthie. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Maybe a tearful, happy reunion? Perhaps for Ruthie to hug her and say, there, there, it’s all forgotten. To be forgiven for the unforgivable? What a fucking laugh. She’d told herself to buck up and get a grip. She’d done the deed, and these were the consequences. Still, she’d been undeniably low ever since. And now this!

  Did the fires have anything to do with Eddie Carter falling off the twig? She couldn’t forget her own involvement, or Darren’s. Or the way Celia had bottled it and taken off, who the hell knew where. She looked again at the solid door and the metal grille over the window. No surprises, nasty or otherwise. Perhaps it was best to be on the safe side after all.

  Redmond Delaney’s call came at four o’clock that afternoon. Everything was cleared and ready for the evening’s trade, Annie had luxuriated in a hot, deep bath, she’d got over the jitters. Wrapped in her thick towelling dressing gown, she came downstairs from her room at Chris’ call and picked up the phone.

  ‘Mr Delaney,’ she said as Chris shook out his paper and took his usual seat in the corner by the front door. ‘Are you keeping well?’

  ‘Very well, Miss Bailey,’ said Redmond. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m good, Mr Delaney. Thank you.’

  ‘And how is business?’ he asked.

  ‘Thriving,’ said Annie. She considered mentioning the fires, but thought better of it. Her relationship with Redmond was strictly formal. She knew that any hint of familiarity would be met with a sharp rebuff.

  ‘The barman is satisfactory?’

  ‘Brian’s perfect, Mr Delaney.’ And I’m paying his wages out of my profits, thought Annie. But she couldn’t complain. The profits were bloody good. ‘I shall need more girls for the next party.’

  ‘I’ll put the word round,’ said Redmond.

  ‘Only nice girls,’ said Annie. ‘Presentable and clean and experienced.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ said Redmond.

  ‘Maybe six?’

  ‘Six it shall be,’ said Redmond. ‘Goodbye, Miss Bailey.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Delaney,’ said Annie, and started to put the phone down.

  ‘Oh, Miss Bailey?’ said Redmond.

  ‘Yes, Mr Delaney?’

  ‘I hope I shall see you at Kieron’s exhibition on Saturday night?’

  Annie nearly dropped the phone. ‘Well … yes,’ she said in surprise.

  She hadn’t planned to go, but she supposed she ought to put in an appearance, if only to give Kieron a bit of a boost. She was amazed that Redmond had mentioned it. This was surely crossing the line into informality. That wasn’t like him.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Redmond, and the line went dead.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Annie.

  ‘Problem?’ asked Chris.

  ‘No, not at all. Just Redmond Delaney being nice to me.’

  Chris smiled and returned his attention to his paper. Annie put a call through to Kieron.

  ‘Listen, am I invited to this shindig on Saturday? This exhibition thingy?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course you are, if you want to come. I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’ve been such a reluctant sitter!’ barked Kieron. ‘Jaysus, you’ve acted right the way through as if I was trying to sell you into white slavery instead of painting your ruddy picture. I thought you’d hate to see the thing hung on a wall.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Annie.

  ‘Apology accepted. Come as my guest, I’ll pick you up at eight, will that do you?’

  ‘Hadn’t you planned to take anyone else?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t. I’m a working artist, I haven’t time to be chasing girls all around the town, you’ll be doing me a favour. How about it then?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Annie. ‘Saturday at eight.’

  After she’d put the phone down she realized that she hadn’t talked to Kieron about the fires, either. Ah, it was just as well. What would she say about it anyway? She didn’t want to go treading on dangerous ground. She didn’t want to know more than she knew already.

  27

  Toby Taylor was bricking it with excitement. He had never seen so many faces in one room at the same time. The Delaney twins had come to the opening, and the Regans were in with all their heavy friends. The Foremans of Battersea had already bought up several of Kieron Delaney’s paintings out of respect to their Delaney colleagues. The Nash family were in too, and some of the real hard, heavy boys from New York, the Barolli lot. And the Kray twins. Fucking good job Eddie and Charlie Richardson had been nicked, because they had been mixing it with the Krays, which wasn’t wise.

  ‘Christ,’ said Toby, mincing around the gallery with his long-term boyfriend Paolo. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was emanating discreetly from the expensive sound system. ‘You can smell the testosterone in the air, can’t you sweetie?’

  Paolo nodded. He didn’t share his older lover’s taste for danger. These people looked like they could cut up rough in an instant. He didn’t like it. Toby was a silly old queen, prancing around arse-licking to these people. Paolo thought that Toby was a joke with his spare tyre straining to get out of his pink floral shirt and his stupid toupee slipping sideways on his billiard ball of a head. Toby was sweating with excitement as the crowds grew thicker. The noise level rose with each bottl
e of Moët that was opened.

  ‘Darling, sweetie,’ said Toby as they stumbled across Kieron and Annie. ‘Mwah, mwah.’ Toby air-kissed either side of Annie’s head. ‘Don’t you look absolutely stunning, what a wicked dress. Have you seen it? Have you seen it?’

  It was very hard to miss, thought Annie. She’d been gob-smacked when she’d walked through the double doors at the front of the gallery and been instantly confronted by the painting of herself in the nude. It was placed at the centre of the landing above the big, double, open-tread staircase, cunningly lit and impossible to overlook. It made all Kieron’s other work, the beautiful African landscapes and the finely detailed wild-life studies, fade into insignificance. Everyone had seen it.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Annie.

  ‘And aren’t you thrilled with it?’ demanded Toby, clutching clammily at her hand with his beringed and pudgy digits.

  ‘It’s very impressive,’ said Annie.

  ‘She hates it,’ said Kieron with a laugh.

  ‘I don’t hate it,’ said Annie. ‘I just feel a bit, well, exposed.’

  ‘But this is Art,’ said Paolo in his charming Italian-accented English. ‘It is an honour to be the subject of such an artist.’

  ‘You won’t convince her,’ said Kieron. He chucked Annie under the chin. ‘Cheer up, Annie. I’ll go and get us another drink.’

  Toby and Paolo took themselves off to mingle with Ronnie and Reggie. Annie went and looked at a painting of a snarling tiger. Anything rather than look at the painting that was capturing everyone else’s attention.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t she,’ she heard.

  ‘Fantastic tits.’

  Oh Jesus!

  Annie moved further out of earshot. She was glad she’d chosen her discreet black dress and pearls to wear this evening. Like camouflage, it enabled her to move a bit more freely among the patrons and their wives and girlfriends. Not many of the women praised her tits, she noticed. They tended to admire the brush strokes and the texture of the paint rather than the jugs on the sitter.

  ‘There you are.’ Kieron was back with two brimming champagne flutes. ‘What are you doing, hiding away over here? Why not get behind that cheese plant there and have done with it?’

  Annie gave him a whack in the stomach. She wished they’d put something more lively on the sound system. Some Stones or Beatles, she liked them. All these violins wailing away depressed her.

  ‘Ow,’ complained Kieron.

  ‘How would you feel, to have a roomful of people admiring your bits?’ asked Annie, glancing around. There was a very polished and strikingly good-looking, silver-haired man in his late thirties across the room, looking at her. He was with two teenage boys, one dark, one fair, and a very handsome middle-aged woman who looked faintly Italian.

  ‘I’d feel flattered and proud,’ said Kieron. ‘I would probably give them my elephant impression as an encore.’

  Annie slapped his stomach again, but she had to smile.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, curious, indicating the silver-haired man.

  Kieron’s gaze followed hers.

  ‘Constantine Barolli. American mob, New York. They call him the silver fox. Loads of business interests in the West End, it was Redmond’s idea to invite him and his family tonight. Redmond’s trying to woo him but Barolli seems to prefer doing business with the Carters. Those are his sons, I think. There’s a daughter too, a stunner, I wanted her to sit for me but her father wouldn’t allow it.’

  Annie looked back and her eye caught Barolli’s again. She shivered.

  Someone just walked over my grave, she thought.

  Toby went hurrying past trailing his chiffon scarf and a worried-looking Paolo. Something about Toby’s manner made Annie look more closely. Toby was a mob tart and at his happiest among bad lads, but now he looked genuinely alarmed.

  ‘Kieron, I wonder if I could have a word with you about this fine job you’ve done over here,’ said one of the Delaney’s male hangers-on.

  Kieron wandered off and Annie found Orla Delaney standing in front of her beside – Jesus! – a man who looked so like her it was incredible. His thick Titian hair was swept back off his pale face and his eyes were luminously green as they looked into hers. He was dressed in black, his turnout immaculate. He was very handsome and had a cool, unfazed demeanour. Orla was in black too, and against her long red hair it looked truly chic.

  ‘Hello, Miss Bailey, do you remember me?’ asked Orla, holding out a hand.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Annie. Once seen, never forgotten – that was Orla Delaney. Celia had been here then. Annie had been gauche and overwhelmed. Now things were different. She shook Orla’s hand coolly.

  ‘This is my brother Redmond – Redmond, this is Miss Annie Bailey.’

  ‘How nice to meet you at last, Miss Bailey,’ said Redmond, shaking her hand too. His hand was cool and dry, his touch light. Just like Orla’s. Annie found herself remembering what Kieron had said about the twins – that they were a pair, entirely independent from everyone except each other.

  ‘Mr Delaney,’ smiled Annie.

  ‘We’ve only spoken over the phone,’ Redmond explained to Orla. ‘Miss Bailey has taken over Celia Bailey’s business interests. Celia is her aunt.’

  ‘Really?’ Orla did her best to look interested. ‘And how is business, Miss Bailey?’

  ‘Good,’ said Annie. ‘Better than ever.’

  A sort of hush was spreading around the room. It was coming from the doorway, where Toby and Paolo were fussing around some new arrivals. Annie looked and her mouth dropped open. It was Max Carter, with two heavies. There was a movement near Orla and Redmond as their minders drew in closer. Toby was glancing nervously back at Redmond and Orla, while Paolo was taking Max’s coat. Redmond and Orla exchanged a look.

  ‘Jaysus, what’s he doing here?’ asked Kieron, rejoining them.

  Redmond paused. He looked across at Max, then at Toby. He nodded. Toby relaxed a bit. Then Redmond said: ‘Mr Carter is very welcome.’

  ‘Thank God Pat couldn’t be bothered to turn up,’ said Orla.

  ‘Very welcome,’ said Redmond. ‘This is Kieron’s night, and we want no trouble.’

  And he walked off to where Max was standing, Orla and two heavies trailing behind him. Kieron edged up to Annie.

  ‘That’s Max Carter?’ he said.

  Annie nodded.

  ‘That’s the one you had the fling with.’

  Annie gave him a look.

  ‘Only asking,’ said Kieron, and went off to get them something to eat.

  Annie followed, anxious not to be anywhere near Max. She didn’t trust herself. And where was Ruthie? If Max was coming to the gallery, couldn’t he have given the poor cow a night out on the town? But then she knew the answer to that question. Max was here to make a big show of doing whatever he wanted, and fuck the Delaneys. If they wanted trouble, he’d provide it. That was the message.

  They raided the buffet table, but Annie’s appetite was gone and she gave most of her blinis with caviar and devils on horseback to Kieron, who wolfed them back. The evening wore on, everyone behaved themselves and Annie wished to God she was home in Celia’s kitchen drinking tea and gossiping with Darren and the girls. Her feet hurt in her new high heels, and her head ached with tension. All she could think was Max is here.

  Then the inevitable happened. Kieron nipped off to the bathroom and suddenly Max was standing in front of her.

  ‘How’s things, Annie?’ he said. His minders were standing two paces behind him, looking at her with suspicion.

  ‘Max,’ she said, feeling almost dizzy because he was standing here, so close to her. ‘I called in to see Ruthie at Mum’s the other day,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Did you.’ Max nodded.

  Jesus, he was so gorgeous, she thought. That strong profile, the dark skin … his hair, so thick, so black. His eyes, blue as blue, bored into hers. She felt she could drown in those eyes.

  ‘She’s lookin
g well,’ said Annie.

  ‘She’s too skinny.’

  ‘That’s the fashion.’

  ‘Yeah, it is.’

  ‘It was a terrible thing about Eddie,’ she said.

  What the hell was he saying to her, wondered Kieron, watching them from a distance. He’d come out of the loo and was winding his way back to Annie’s side when he’d stopped and looked ahead for the first time. The ready smile faded from his face. They were talking intensely, looking at each other so closely. He’d seen that kind of look before. Fuck it, Annie Bailey had never looked at him like that. And now he could clearly see why. She was still in love with this Max Carter, this fucking mobster. It would be obvious to a blind man, he thought, and felt a tightening in his guts that he hadn’t experienced before. He had to think about it for a while before he recognized the sensation as jealousy.

  28

  If this was what love did to you, thought Annie irritably a few days later as she sat at her dressing table, then you could stuff it. She stared at her face in the mirror, looking for answers and finding none. Was this love? Or just lust? She didn’t know. She’d only felt like this once before, she knew that much. And look at the trouble it had caused. It had been him that time and it was him again. It was always him. The bastard.

  ‘Annie girl, you look like shit,’ she told herself. She snatched up a hairbrush and tried to sort out the haystack which seemed to have landed on top of her head.

  Bugger this, she thought, wrenching the brush through, punishing herself with the pain. But her insides were fizzing like she’d eaten a packet of Love Hearts. She was waking up at all hours of the night since the exhibition, lying there in the dark alone, thinking of him. Of how good he looked, and – oh yes – of how his skin had felt against hers on that one night, that unforgettable night. The heat of him, the hardness, his hands that were so strong they were almost hurtful as they held her.