Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  ‘She wouldn’t want to see me,’ said Annie sharply. ‘She made that very clear.’

  ‘Oh don’t give me all that, Annie. The truth is you’re very happy with your own life, so what do you care about hers?’

  ‘Of course I care.’

  ‘No you don’t. You don’t give a monkey’s, we both know that. You were always a daddy’s girl, you never had any time for Mum.’

  ‘That isn’t true.’

  ‘Yes it bloody-well is.’

  ‘I don’t want to fight with you,’ said Annie tiredly.

  ‘Oh, of course you don’t. You’re all ladylike now, I forgot. But you’re a whore, that’s all you are. Kath told me all about your privileged life as Max’s kept slag.’

  Fuck it, she knew. Ruthie knew. Annie sat back on the couch, at a loss.

  ‘Yeah, I know all about it,’ said Ruthie. ‘You bloody tart! Max and me were going to try again, too.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake Ruthie,’ snapped Annie. ‘Both you and I know that’s wishful thinking on your part.’

  ‘He’ll never marry you,’ spat Ruthie.

  ‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t you think I don’t know that better than you? He won’t divorce you. He can’t.’

  ‘So that’s spoiled your plans, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t have any plans, Ruthie. All I know is I love him and he loves me.’

  ‘Love?’ roared Ruthie. ‘You’re his tart! He don’t know the meaning of the word love and he certainly don’t love you.’

  God, that hurt. But Annie knew she deserved it. Both barrels, straight through the heart. Ruthie had really hit the target.

  ‘Where’s Mum at the moment?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, you don’t want to hear the truth, do you? The truth hurts. She’s in hospital. They don’t think she’ll last the night. She’s not coming out of this one.’

  Annie put the phone down. She wished Max was here, but he was on business and she knew not to disturb him, even if Ruthie didn’t. She could handle this.

  Dig deep and stand alone, she thought. She’d lived by that credo all her life, but for once she wished that he could be here to support her. When, of course, he should have been with Ruthie, supporting his wife. Not his tart. Grimly she went to get ready for hospital visiting. Her mother was dying, but she didn’t feel a thing.

  Connie looked like a corpse already. That was all Annie could think as she stood by her mother’s hospital bed. There were tubes going in and out of her skinny, yellow little body. She wore a hospital gown. She looked fucking awful. But Ruthie was Mrs Max Carter and Carter money had provided the best for her, so she had a private room. Ruthie had managed to get in touch with Max at last and although he hadn’t visited – and wouldn’t, Annie was sure of that – he had sent flowers, a huge bouquet of mixed pinks and creams. Not red and white, thought Annie. You never sent red and white – it meant blood and bandages. And yellow meant forsaken, didn’t it?

  Annie tried to look anywhere else but at her mother’s face. Connie didn’t have a tooth left in her head and she had her dentures out, giving her wrinkled cheeks a sunken look. Her hair was like wisps of dried straw. Annie looked at Ruthie instead. No comfort there. Ruthie was sitting there holding Connie’s gnarled hand. Look at the mother and you’ll see the daughter in thirty years’ time, that’s what they said. Annie looked at Ruthie, and saw Connie sitting there as clear as day. Weak women left to their own devices and failing to stand alone. One drunk following in the footsteps of another.

  What a way to end up, thought Annie. Connie had struggled to get by all her life. Annie knew that she had never got over Dad leaving like he did. Her one triumph had been Ruthie’s wedding to Max. But even that hadn’t worked out for her. Max despised drunks and wouldn’t have them near him, in-laws or not. Without Ruthie close at hand to monitor her intake, Connie had sunk fast. Now all that remained was for her to give up her last breath and leave this world for good.

  ‘This is my fault,’ said Ruthie. ‘I should never have left her.’

  Annie drew up a metal chair and sat down.

  ‘What were you going to do, Ruthie? Spend all your life propping her up? Never have a life of your own?’

  ‘God, you’re a hard cow,’ said Ruthie, glaring.

  ‘I told you, I’m not going to argue with you.’

  ‘I bloody hate you, Annie Bailey.’

  ‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘You hate me because I get what I want out of life and you’re too soft to try.’

  Shit, why had she said that? She had promised herself on the way over here that she wouldn’t get into any rucks with Ruthie. It was pointless. And here they were again, trading insults.

  ‘Fuck, I’m sick of this,’ she said, and stood up.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Ruthie in panic. ‘Don’t leave me alone with her.’

  Annie froze.

  ‘Stay with me this once,’ said Ruthie, her voice shaking. She put a hand up to her disordered hair. Her hand was shaking too.

  Of course it is, thought Annie. Ruthie had been here for hours and she probably left home in a panic and forgot to pack a bottle. She had the DTs because she hadn’t had a drink. Fuck it, talk about history repeating itself.

  ‘I can’t cope with this on my own,’ said Ruthie, tears in her eyes.

  Annie slowly sat back down. ‘No more arguments,’ she said.

  Ruthie shook her head frantically. ‘No. No more arguments, I promise.’

  ‘Or I walk,’ said Annie, feeling sick at heart.

  So they sat there together, in silence, and waited for Connie to die.

  * * *

  At half past eleven that night, Annie said good-night to Donny and quietly let herself into the Park Street apartment. Max’s keys were in the dish; he was back. She switched on a table lamp, then went to the open bedroom door and looked in. Max had fallen asleep with the bedside light still burning. His chest rose and fell smoothly with the rhythm of his breathing. Annie softly crossed the room and turned off the light. Then she went back into the sitting room and sat down, knowing that she couldn’t get into bed with him tonight, not after spending time with Ruthie, not after watching their mother quietly fade away.

  She sank her head into her hands. Jesus, what a day. She stank of disinfectant, she realized. Disinfectant and death. Her mother had slipped so quietly into that final sleep, the nurse checking her pulse, shaking her head, then walking away to let them say their goodbyes.

  She had been more choked by it all than she had expected. Ruthie had sobbed and wailed inconsolably, but Annie had been unable to cry, although she had felt waves of misery engulf her. All she had been able to do was hold Ruthie tight, stroke her arms and kiss her hair.

  It was a measure of Ruthie’s distress that she had allowed this. And to Annie it had been painfully poignant, reminding her how long it had been since she had enjoyed this close contact with the sister she still – despite everything – loved so much.

  So no, there was no way she could sleep with Max tonight.

  Although she loved him.

  Adored him.

  She lay back against the couch and thought about Max. God knows it was easier than thinking about poor bloody Ruthie. Max who so enthralled her, who shared her life here in this apartment. This felt like reality, what they shared here, not the harsh, threatening outside world. They were at it like rabbits most of the time, they had christened every part of this place – this couch, the floor, the bath, everywhere. The sexual pull between them was so strong, so overpowering. Everything there was to do, they had done it together. Nothing was off-limits. And they were close. Really close.

  But still he was Ruthie’s husband and he should have been with Ruthie, she knew that, comforting her, waiting in her bed. Not in Annie’s.

  ‘How’d it go?’ asked Max from the bedroom doorway.

  Annie glanced around, startled. He was running a hand through his dark hair, pulling on his robe, yawning. So bloody casual.

  She felt
anger rise. ‘Oh fine. My mother, and incidentally your wife’s mother too, died about an hour ago.’

  Max came and sat down beside her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ Annie looked daggers at him. ‘For not being there for Ruthie? For my loss? What?’

  ‘Both,’ said Max. ‘I know how bad I felt when my mum died.’

  That wasn’t at all the same. Annie knew that Max had idolized Queenie and mourned her passing with genuine grief. Ruthie had been horribly cut up to lose Connie, but for Annie it was different. Of course she was sad at her mother’s death, but most of all she was glad that Connie’s suffering was over.

  Annie took a breath, shut her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said, opening them and looking at him. ‘I just feel so bad about Ruthie. At least she had Mum before. Now what’s she got, the poor little cow? I’m worried about her.’

  Max nodded. ‘I’m selling the Surrey place. That’s why I’ve been busy these past few days,’ he said.

  Annie stared at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

  ‘Ruthie hates the fucking place. I hate the fucking place too. I think it’s jinxed. Everything bad that’s happened, it’s happened there. Mum going like she did. And poor bloody Eddie. I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

  ‘But what about Ruthie? Where will she go?’

  Every time she saw her sister, it seemed to get worse. The guilt, the worry, the anxiety. It was eating at her more and more. The thoughts she’d had in the hospital about Connie declining after their dad left kept niggling away at her. Now she saw a parallel with Ruthie and Max. If Max abandoned Ruthie, what would become of her? Would she have the strength to carry on? Oh, they would still be married, Max would never contemplate divorce. But they would live completely separate lives. Shit, they already did.

  ‘Ruthie can move into Mum’s old place in Bow.’

  Annie thought about that. She knew this was a huge concession on Max’s part. Queenie’s place was sacrosanct. To live in it was, to him, an honour. She just hoped Ruthie saw it the same way.

  ‘Don’t give up on her, Max,’ said Annie tiredly. ‘I really am worried about her.’

  ‘What, you mean the drinking?’

  ‘Oh. You know about that.’

  ‘Bloody sure I know about that. You’d be amazed what I know, Annie. It pays to keep your ear to the ground.’

  Now what did that mean? Watch out, I’ve got my eye on you?

  ‘She needs a bit of support,’ said Annie.

  ‘Like her mother?’ asked Max. ‘Sweetheart, you could have propped Connie Bailey up with iron staves and she would still have keeled over.’

  ‘I know. But as a favour to me, Max? Be nice to Ruthie.’

  They locked eyes.

  ‘I’ll be nice,’ said Max. ‘I promise.’

  36

  Another fucking funeral, thought Annie. She ought to feel sadder. This was her mother being planted in the ground. Sooner or later she might begin to feel some sort of real loss instead of relief – but she doubted it.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me, Dolly love,’ she said to the woman sitting beside her in the back of the black Jaguar Mk X. Donny was up front as usual, sitting silently behind the wheel. Max was, of course, with Ruthie. Some of Connie’s friends would be here, although times had been hard for Connie and friends had been few. But all Max’s boys and their families would turn out. This was Max Carter’s mother-in-law, after all. One of the family and to be shown the appropriate level of respect. Jonjo was there, so were Jimmy and Kath and her mother, Maureen.

  Annie sat and watched them all walk past and disappear into the church with the funeral cortège. The coffin was draped in pink flowers. Pink had been Connie’s favourite colour. It was Ruthie’s, too. She’d seen Ruthie, arm in arm with Max, following behind the coffin. That was where Annie should be too, but that would be pushing it too far. She’d already decided she would wait until everyone else was inside the church, then follow on and just sit quietly at the back.

  ‘It was good of you to keep me company,’ she said to Dolly.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Dolly pulled a face. ‘I know what it’s like when you don’t get on with your mum and dad. You hate them but you love them too, ain’t that right? I cried buckets when my old dad died, the rotten bastard. You feel guilty because you hate them, and you hate yourself because you love them.’

  Annie looked at Dolly with a new warmth. Dolly was respectably dressed today in a neat navy dress and matching coat. Her hair was styled in an urchin cut and the colour had been toned down – less brass, more honey. Dolly looked a treat, and Annie was proud of her. She’d backed a winner in Dolly, she was sure. Whatever Dolly had previously lacked in polish, she more than made up for in spirit.

  ‘We ought to go in,’ said Annie, not wanting to.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ said Dolly. ‘These things are never as bad as you think they’re going to be. People behave themselves at funerals. Max Carter won’t have anyone kicking off, trust me.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Annie. She took a breath. ‘Right, let’s go.’

  They got out of the car. It was a bright, sunny day, which seemed wrong somehow. At Eddie’s funeral there had been spatters of rain and an icy wind, which had suited the occasion better.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Annie with distaste, then she spotted the woman standing out by the lych gate. She felt a twinge of annoyance. She wanted everyone inside before she went in. What was the hold up? Then she froze. She grabbed Dolly’s arm and stared intently. ‘Hey, Doll. Don’t that look like Celia out by the gate?’

  Dolly turned, and looked. The woman had a black veil over her face, but there was something about her dress and demeanour that shouted Celia.

  ‘Yeah, it is. I think it’s Celia.’ Dolly started waving. ‘Hey, Celia,’ she shouted.

  Fuck it, thought Annie as the woman turned and hurried away. Trust Dolly to open her yap and scare her off.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, and hurried after the woman. She heard Donny lumbering out of the car and slamming the door, the heavy tread of his size twelves on the gravel behind her as she legged it towards the lych gate. She wasn’t ever supposed to rush off without Donny, she knew that. But fuck it, this was Celia. Well, she hoped it was.

  When they reached the gate the woman was already some distance away, walking fast towards a waiting taxi.

  ‘Fuck, she’s getting away,’ said Annie, and kicked off her courts and ran. The woman had the back door of the taxi open and was climbing inside when Annie barrelled into her and grabbed her and held on tight.

  ‘Hey!’ said the taxi driver. ‘You gettin’ in, or you havin’ a friggin’ dance?’

  Dolly came hobbling up clutching Annie’s shoes. Donny arrived right on her heels, panting.

  ‘Jesus, I didn’t realize we were havin’ a fuckin’ tea party here,’ said the taxi driver.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Annie. ‘Celia?’

  The woman got back out of the taxi.

  ‘Now what the fuck?’ roared the taxi driver. ‘Make your bloody mind up love, in or fucking out?’

  Donny leaned into the front passenger window. The taxi driver leaned away from him.

  ‘Shut yer mouth, my friend, or I’ll shut it for you,’ Donny said gently.

  The taxi driver held up both hands. ‘Hey, no offence, pal. I’m just the driver.’

  ‘Then drive,’ Donny suggested, and the taxi driver gunned the engine and roared away.

  ‘I already paid for that cab,’ came Celia’s voice from behind the veil. ‘Let me go, Annie. I shouldn’t have bloody come here.’

  Annie didn’t give a shit. She pushed back Celia’s veil.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Dolly breathlessly. ‘Celia!’

  Celia looked miffed, but well all the same. Annie hadn’t known what to expect when she’d shoved the veil out of the way. Scars or something maybe. She didn’t know. But now she felt almost limp with relief. The button-bright brown eyes were the same, and the carefu
lly made-up face. It was Celia. She looked a little older, more care-worn, like she’d had it hard. But she was okay.

  ‘For God’s sake, Celia, where have you been?’ demanded Annie. ‘What the hell were you thinking of running off like that and leaving nothing but a fucking note? We were thinking all sorts, we were bloody frantic with worry over you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Celia, eyes downcast.

  ‘Sorry? Is that all you’ve got to say? We were pulling our ruddy hair out and you say sorry?’ Annie grabbed Celia’s shoulders. ‘What’s been going on, Celia? Why’d you go like that?’

  Celia just shook her head.

  Annie looked at her aunt. Maybe she was being too hard on her. She must have had her reasons. She let go of her shoulders and reached for her hand. Celia stepped back, almost cringed away from her.

  ‘No, let me go …’ she started to say.

  Annie looked down. The ivory fag holder was missing. The ivory fag holder in the right hand. Annie stared and suddenly felt faint.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said.

  Celia had no right hand.

  ‘Don’t tell him you saw me here,’ said Celia. Her voice trembled.

  ‘Celia.’ Annie was staring at the space where Celia’s right hand should have been. She felt sick, dizzy. ‘Celia.’ It seemed to be all she could say. She couldn’t take in the horror of it.

  Dolly was standing there dumbstruck, white as a sheet, her hand covering her mouth as if she was about to spew her guts up, her eyes locked on the stump of Celia’s right wrist.

  ‘Celia …’ Annie swallowed convulsively and somehow managed to get a sensible word out. ‘What happened … ?’

  ‘Promise me you won’t tell him,’ pleaded Celia.

  Annie shook her head, staring. You turned up for your mother’s funeral and found your long-lost aunt here minus her right hand. She couldn’t take it in.

  Donny was giving Celia the hard eye. Celia caught him staring and her expression transformed into one of total dread. She knew one of Max’s boys when she saw one.