Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  Annie had to suppress a smile. Hard to imagine Mira or Jenny or Thelma on the streets. In luxury apartments being kept by wealthy admirers, perhaps. On the streets? Never in a month of Sundays.

  ‘Well, you’ve convinced me,’ said Annie as Max sat silent beside her. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There’s been a lot of Press interest in this. They’ll dig around and try to find more juicy morsels to titillate the readers. Is there anything else I should know, bearing that in mind? We don’t want any nasty surprises.’

  ‘I ran a parlour in Limehouse when my aunt took off unexpectedly. I carried on, kept it going for her.’

  Jerry stared at her face, then nodded and made more notes.

  ‘How many girls?’

  ‘Three. And one boy.’

  ‘But your aunt told you it was a massage parlour, not anything else? Not, for instance, a brothel?’

  ‘I was never under any illusion about what went on there.’

  ‘You must have been, surely?’ He prompted her with his eyes.

  Annie took the hint. ‘When my mother kicked me out due to a family disagreement, I went to stay with Celia. At first, I didn’t fully realize what went on there… but after a while, I did. And when Celia vanished, I took over the running of the place.’

  ‘So it was an established business. You carried on running it as a favour to your aunt. You were almost running a public service, isn’t that true?’

  ‘I suppose so. Celia had lots of older clients. She gave them discounts. She was very sympathetic to their needs.’

  ‘Definitely a public service,’ beamed Jerry. ‘Now, have I warned you fully about the Press?’

  Jerry had warned her about the Press but he hadn’t warned her enough. Outside the court when the trial began it was a madhouse. Flashes went off in her face, questions were shouted. Max was there with her, though, and a line of Max’s boys established a way through for her up the courthouse steps and into the building, elbowing the rabid reporters out of the way.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said as she sat in the lobby and Jerry Peters came to greet her dressed in his working clothes of black gown and grey wig. ‘I didn’t expect so much Press interest.’

  ‘It’s a titillating subject,’ said Jerry. ‘The Press will lap it up.’

  Bastards, thought Annie. Talk about a three-ring circus. They wouldn’t be so bloody keen to dish the dirt if it was their backsides on the line here.

  When she at last stood in the dock and heard the dreaded words ‘All rise’ and the judge came in all po-faced and looked at her like she was shit to be scraped off his shoe, she knew she was in trouble.

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t get that Bartington-Smythe asshole,’ Jerry had said in chambers. ‘He’s a Puritan to his boots.’

  Judge Bartington-Smythe glowered down at her. Oh fuck, thought Annie.

  Well, she’d done all she could do. Her dress was dark and demure, covering her from neck to wrist to ankle. Even her friends, sitting across the court from her, had toned it down to show their conservative support. Aretha and Dolly and Darren looked positively respectable sitting there watching the proceedings. No Ellie. After all her backstabbing, Dolly had made it clear she wasn’t welcome to accompany them to the trial. No Ruthie or cousin Kath, but then she hadn’t expected them to show up. But Max was there across the court. He winked at her. She felt like she was going to throw up with fear, but his being there gave her comfort.

  ‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of exercising control over three prostitutes and keeping a disorderly house?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Guilty,’ said Annie, as Jerry had instructed her.

  So lock me up, she thought. Get on with it.

  But first it all had to come out. Annie closed her eyes and ears to it as much as she could. She looked at the judge sitting up there looking down at her and thought, hypocrite. His posh mates had been among her clients. She was faintly surprised to realize that he hadn’t been one himself. Several judges and barristers were among her regulars.

  It was tiring. She was well now, the bullet scar was still there but it would fade within the year, the doctors told her. But she had been left weak and easily tired by the shooting. She could have done without all this shit so soon after the event.

  It’ll pass, she told herself. She shut out the shouts of laughter from the Press gallery, the judge’s admonitions to them, Jerry’s impassioned pleadings in her defence, the cruel jibes of the prosecuting counsel, the endless summings-up and evaluations of all her many and various sins.

  Finally, it was done. She stood in the dock and Judge Bartington-Smythe glared at her. She looked at Dolly’s face, taut with worry. Good old Dolly. Darren was chewing his nails and Aretha was so tense she looked like she was carved from ebony.

  Good luck, girl, she mouthed at Annie.

  She was standing alone again. She took full responsibility. All the pillars of the community who had flocked to see her girls were unnamed, home free. Her girls were out of the frame too. She alone stood accused, and in the judge’s summing-up was such venom that she knew she was sunk.

  ‘I do not accept that you are ignorant of the law, Miss Bailey,’ he said in a voice that chilled her to the marrow. ‘I therefore fine you one thousand pounds and order you to pay costs of one thousand five hundred pounds for keeping a disorderly house and exercising control over prostitutes. I also sentence you to eighteen months’ imprisonment,’ he said.

  Annie clutched the front of the dock for support. Eighteen months! For fuck’s sake, she would die shut away in some hell-hole for that long. She felt dizzy suddenly, her ears buzzing. She looked over at Dolly, who had tears streaming down her face. Darren was talking to her, putting his arm round her shoulders. Aretha was patting Dolly’s back. Annie looked straight at Max, whose face revealed not a flicker of emotion.

  Rotten, cold-hearted sod, she thought in fury.

  Then the judge cleared his throat and went on. ‘But as this is your first offence it will be unconditionally suspended for one year, during which you will be required to conduct yourself as a model citizen…’

  The old boy droned on and on, while Annie stood there with her mouth hanging open.

  Suspended.

  She was not going down.

  Annie looked over at Dolly, Aretha and Darren. A slow grin spread itself over her face. Dolly suddenly let out a delighted shriek. Aretha jumped up and punched the air. Darren grinned and blew Annie a kiss. The Press gallery went crazy. Judge Bartington-Smythe gave them all a look of sour disfavour.

  Annie looked at Max.

  He winked.

  Jesus Christ, he’d bought the judge. She couldn’t believe it but it was true. He’d bought the fucking judge!

  The court was in uproar. In a daze Annie found herself shaking Jerry by the hand, found herself being hustled outside, fetched up at the door of the court with Max by her side. His boys formed a cordon around them as they left the court building.

  ‘You bought the fucking judge,’ Annie hissed at Max as they emerged into bright daylight and the Press went crazy, bulbs flashing, crowding around, asking if there was any comment. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘I did tell you I was looking into things,’ said Max, slipping his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Any comment, Miss Bailey?’ asked someone, shoving a microphone in her face.

  ‘No comment,’ she said, and Max’s boys got them down the steps and away.

  65

  Ruthie was down in the country, wandering around Max’s big imposing house alone. She’d spent some time in London while Max and Annie had been here together. She’d gone shopping, caught up with Kath and Maureen, had some fun for once. Hadn’t touched a drop, either.

  She’d been following Annie’s trial in the papers and on the telly. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of going to court and watching Annie squirm up there. Poor little cow. The Press were calling her ‘the Mayfair Madam’ and making a big joke out of the whole thing. Not
mocking the well-to-do men who’d shagged the girls there, oh no. It was always the women who paid and the men who got the gravy.

  The phone was ringing. She went into the drawing room and picked up.

  ‘She got off,’ said Kath’s voice in outrage. ‘Jimmy just came home from the court and told me. Talk about the devil looking after his own.’

  Ruthie sagged with relief.

  ‘Ruthie? You there?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘She got off, can you believe that?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for letting me know, Kath.’

  Quietly Ruthie replaced the receiver. Kath was still babbling away, full of bile towards Annie and all that she had done. But Ruthie felt calm now. She thought of Annie, and of Max, the cunning bastard.

  I knew you’d come to the rescue, Max Carter, she thought with the ghost of a smile. You never could resist being the hero could you?

  She went to the window and looked out at the bright clear day. Gordon was out in the garden, cutting back the plants and tidying up. Autumn was coming in fast, and the beeches were beginning to turn red. She watched him from the drawing-room window. Big Dave was in his flat over the garage, no doubt eyeing up his posters and reading his smutty magazines.

  She was alone.

  She looked over at the drinks tray, but it didn’t have any appeal. Funny how Annie had been her downfall and also her saviour. She had started drinking when Annie had betrayed her; she had stopped drinking when Annie needed her. Maybe I’m just weak, thought Ruthie. Weak like Mum was.

  She shivered when she thought that she could so easily have gone the same way as Connie, down that slippery slope to death by drinking. She went over to the tray on the sideboard and picked up the bottle of vodka. Deliberately she carried it through to the kitchen and tipped the contents down the sink. She put the bottle in the rubbish bin then gave a dismissive brush of the hands.

  Picking up her bag, she took the keys down from their hook and went out of the back door and over to Queenie’s annexe. She let herself inside, then went along the quiet hallway to the cosy little sitting room. It was still kept immaculately clean, dusted, cared-for. She looked up at the portrait over the fireplace, at the gimlet-eyed Queenie glaring down at her.

  ‘Well, you old bag,’ said Ruthie. ‘I’m going. You never wanted me here in the first place, did you?’

  Ruthie smiled. Queenie couldn’t answer her. The mean thin line of the lips and the imperious stare said it all. This wasn’t a woman who would welcome a rival for any of her sons’ affections.

  ‘Do you know what I thought I’d do?’ Ruthie asked the dead woman in the portrait.

  Ruthie rummaged in her bag and came up with a cheap cigarette lighter. It had been Connie’s, and she had kept it out of sentimentality. It reminded her of her mum, who had been a disgusting old lush but who had nevertheless given life to her. She flicked it with her thumb and a flame ignited. Ruthie stared at it, then at Queenie, up there like royalty. Named as a Queen and regarded as one by all the boys and by everyone on Max and Jonjo Carter’s manor. Ruthie thought of Annie – a worthy successor if ever there was one. The thought tickled her and she smiled. Annie would be more than a match for Queenie, dead or alive. Annie and Max. Maybe some things were just meant to be.

  ‘I thought I’d do this place,’ said Ruthie. ‘Then the main house. Then your London house. Burn the whole lot to the ground.’

  Only silence answered her.

  Ruthie smiled at the portrait’s glassy blue eyes for a moment longer, then flicked the lighter shut.

  ‘But you know what?’ she asked. ‘It isn’t worth it. What would I be proving? That I care enough to bother? Strangely enough, I don’t. Not any more.’

  Ruthie tucked the lighter back in her bag. ‘I’m free as a bird,’ she told Queenie.

  She had freedom from a loveless marriage, freedom from a drunken mother, freedom from all care. She had it within her grasp now.

  ‘I can go anywhere and do anything I like. And you know what, Queenie Carter? I think I will.’

  With that she turned and left the room, walked along the hallway, left the annexe.

  Rest in peace, thought Ruthie as she relocked the outside door. You old bag.

  66

  Max had taken a suite in a posh but discreet hotel up West to keep Annie out of the way of the Press after the trial. No way was Max going to doss down overnight in the Limehouse brothel – on Delaney territory – and the Press would have a field day if he did, they both knew that. He thought the Palermo’s little flat might contain too many bad memories for Annie. They could have gone to his mum’s old place, but it was cheerless, less a home than a meeting-place these days.

  So, instead of slopping out as she had expected, Annie found herself on the morning after the trial bathing in luxury, then breakfasting not on horrible prison food but on delicious kedgeree and vintage champagne. Max went out to do some business at lunchtime, and Annie made some calls, thanked her lucky stars and then had a surprise visitor.

  ‘Redmond told me you were here, so I thought I’d stop by. You know, you’re a lucky woman. I seriously thought you were dead that night at the Palermo,’ said Orla, breezing into the suite and settling herself on a small, ornate sofa.

  ‘So did I.’ Annie wasn’t surprised Redmond had known where she was. She knew that the mobs kept careful tabs on each other. For sure Max knew where Redmond was, too, at any given moment.

  ‘And I seriously thought you were going down yesterday.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Orla smiled. ‘So what are your plans?’

  ‘I’m going straight,’ said Annie, frowning. All right, she’d been lucky this time – thanks to Max. But she was not going to push her luck and risk ending up in the dock again if she could help it. ‘Got to keep my nose clean. I’ve had enough of being a Madam anyway. I got into it by accident, but I’m getting out of it by design.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Orla. ‘You’re a good businesswoman.’

  ‘Well, if that’s true,’ reasoned Annie, ‘then I can make a go of something else, can’t I. Something legit.’

  ‘I came to say sorry,’ said Orla, her smile fading fast. ‘About Kieron. I never thought he had it in him. First he shoots Tory dead, then he tries to shoot Max Carter.’

  ‘And how is Kieron?’ asked Annie coldly. Not that she gave a fuck. But if Orla could make an effort to be civil, then so could she.

  ‘It’s big of you to ask that, since he damn near killed you. He’s abroad, I think. Painting, probably.’

  Kieron had spoken to Annie weeks ago about the Spanish light. He would be there, she thought. Lying low. But he would be back. She felt sure of that.

  ‘I don’t think he’s right in the head,’ said Annie. Even the thought of Kieron Delaney gave her the jitters now.

  Orla smiled. It was the most chilling smile Annie had ever seen.

  ‘We’re all disturbed. My father’s senile, my mother lives in a fantasy world where her “boys and her girl” can do no wrong. We’re career criminals, for the love of God. But she’s always seen only the good in us. Refuses to see the bad.’

  ‘Pat was bad,’ said Annie, seeing in her mind’s eye that horrible night when he’d died.

  ‘So he was. And not much missed.’

  ‘And Tory too.’ Annie shook her head in wonder at all that Orla had suffered, and at the hands of her own family too. ‘You’ve really had the shit kicked out of you. But you’re not disturbed. Damaged, perhaps.’

  ‘Damaged,’ considered Orla. ‘Now that’s probably the right word for it, I’d say. Do you know, I was wetting the bed until I was eighteen. Terrified of the night, I was. When I reached puberty and couldn’t share a room with Redmond any more, the terror got worse. I had to have a light on all night. But I was still scared. I peed myself nightly, I was so scared. Even though by then there was a bolt on my door because I couldn’t sleep in a room alone without one.’

  Annie looked at Orla and felt he
r heart might break.

  Damaged, she thought. Yeah, that’s the right word.

  ‘Kieron saw things happening,’ said Annie. ‘Maybe that excuses what he did, to some extent. To see that must have affected him too.’

  ‘Still, he had no right to treat you like some sort of star prize,’ said Orla. ‘What gets into men, that they think they own a woman, have rights over her?’

  ‘Well, no one has rights over you,’ pointed out Annie.

  ‘No,’ said Orla. ‘And I’m glad of that.’

  Annie paused.

  ‘No boyfriends then?’ she asked. ‘No husband? No children?’

  Orla shook her head. ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I can’t see that happening for me. I’ll concern myself with business, I think. I want nothing of all that.’

  ‘I never had a brother,’ said Annie, her mind still on children, because she was late. And she was never late. She felt sort of different too. Her tits were sore and swollen. Her stomach too. There could be no doubt about it, no doubt at all.

  ‘None of mine were worth having,’ sniffed Orla. ‘Except Redmond. He sends you his regards.’

  ‘He must be a comfort to you.’

  Orla shrugged. ‘All we have is each other.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Annie.

  ‘Ah, don’t be,’ said Orla. ‘It’s enough. We make the best of it.’

  God, what a life. Annie looked at Orla and thought how brave she was. Had such horrors happened to her, would she be so strong? She doubted it.

  Orla moved quickly off the subject of her family after that; it was obvious to Annie that it hurt her even to mention it. Instead she talked of lighter things – how Elizabeth Lane was becoming the country’s first female High Court judge and how David Bailey, the famous fashion photographer, had just got married with Mick Jagger as his best man.

  Max came back in, greeted Orla with cool civility and then retired to the bedroom. Orla took the hint and got up to go, and Annie thanked her warmly for coming.