Black Widow

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Told you,’ said Ellie past a mouthful of biscuit. ‘She kicked me out cold. I was just minding my own business and going up to start doing the bedrooms—I ain’t been up there yet, had my hands full downstairs, I can tell you—and she went apeshit. She said to get out and not bother coming back. Said she didn’t want me poking around among her private things, it gave her the creeps. I ask you. I was getting sick of it anyway, working there,’ said Ellie. ‘I mean, the place is a tip. I don’t mind a bit of mess, but that place is something else. And she was always following me around the place while I cleaned, too. Actually, I never saw the upstairs at all. I wasn’t sorry when she told me to clear off.’

  ‘Well,’ said Annie. ‘At least you tried.’

  ‘I certainly did,’ said Ellie, giving Aretha a smug glance, as if she’d just got a commendation off teacher. Then she looked at Annie. ‘I was sort of thinking, maybe you’ve got something going for me at the Carter clubs?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘The clubs are shut.’

  ‘Yeah, but you could reopen them,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Not right now,’ said Annie.

  Christ, didn’t she have enough to think about without that?

  And open them as what? Jimmy was right about one thing: the old-style clubs that Max had favoured were no longer in fashion. Strip joints were the new thing. And discotheques. Not classy nightclubs. Those were going to the wall every day. She knew that. Yeah, Jimmy was right. But right now, she didn’t have the strength or the inclination to tackle the problem.

  ‘Come on,’ wheedled Ellie. ‘We could all help. It’d be us against the world again. The four musketeers.’

  ‘Except there’s five of us,’ pointed out Darren, nodding at Aretha as he sat there chewing a hangnail, shoulders hunched as if against the cold. It was toasty warm in the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t split hairs—we could do it,’ pouted Ellie.

  ‘Annie don’t want to do it,’ said Dolly, giving Ellie a warning look. ‘She’s got a shitload of problems already, don’t talk rubbish, Ellie.’

  Ellie’s expression was sulky. ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘An’ a good one,’ said Aretha. ‘But maybe not right now.’

  ‘Who asked you?’ snapped Ellie.

  Aretha shrugged amiably. ‘Just sayin’.’

  ‘How you getting on with Una?’ Annie asked her, tactfully changing the subject.

  She knew Ellie was needled by Aretha coming back here to work. Dolly had said there might be one or two minor ructions about it, because Aretha had what Ellie had always wanted—a good steady husband in Chris, a home, a proper life, maybe even soon a baby. It offended Ellie that Aretha was coming back here to get pin money and a few thrills when she had all that Ellie desired. But Annie thought that if Ellie pushed her luck too far with the sharp comments, then Aretha’s legendary good nature might reach the edge of its endurance. And, when that happened, she would without doubt kick Ellie straight up the puss.

  Aretha rolled her eyes at mention of Una. ‘Oh, she just a barrel of laughs that one. Sashays around the place like she own it. Don’t you worry, I got her number. An’ from what I hear, you have too, Annie girl. Knocked her showy white behind all down the stairs, I heard. Wish I’d seen that. Good goin’, sister.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘First punter of the day,’ said Dolly, standing up and stretching. ‘Come along, troops, time to shake a leg.’

  A week on Friday, the kidnappers would be expecting Annie to pick up the phone and say yes, she had the money.

  Today was Wednesday.

  Annie’s guts churned as she lay on Dolly’s big comfy bed that afternoon, listening to the sounds of sex all around her in the other rooms. The moans, the shrieks, the bouncing bed springs.

  A week on Friday.

  In just over a week, she was going to have to perform a miracle. Produce the money. That huge amount of money. Or risk losing Layla’s life. Constantine still hadn’t said a definite yes or no to that, and she knew what he was waiting for. For her to succumb, to agree to his demands.

  She listened to the sounds of sex. Couldn’t help it. The sighs, the groans, the secret shared laughter…she’d had all that and more with Max. He had been a wonderful lover: rough, passionate, vigorous.

  She thought of Constantine Barolli, and into her mind came the treacherous images that she’d been fighting off since she had last seen him. What would he be like as a lover? She knew he would be different to Max. Subtler, she thought. Slower. More sensuous. Very different.

  She turned over, beat at the pillow, tried to get comfortable, tried not to feel the ache of it, the soft siren pull of sex.

  If the people who were looking for Layla actually found her, would Constantine tell her, or would he withhold the information until his demands were met?

  Annie rolled over, hugging herself. She was supposed to be resting, but she couldn’t. She was churning around at night, exhausted during the day. Dolly had suggested she take a nap in the afternoon, but she couldn’t sleep. Just couldn’t. The tension of it all was getting to her, gnawing away at her remaining shreds of composure.

  She buried her head in the pillow and thought: What the fuck am I going to do?

  And the answer came back, loud and clear. Whatever you have to, to get Layla back alive.

  48

  Constantine Barolli was at his desk when the call came in.

  ‘We’ve got a line on something,’ said a male voice.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The other woman who was there when the kid was snatched. Nasty background she’s got.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh yeah. A brother and two sisters, records for GBH, smash and grab, demanding money with menaces. One of them’s called Vita; she was in Palma the day before the hit at the villa with another blonde woman, she bounced a cheque on a pair of shoes, the shop owner was very annoyed.’

  ‘Okay, I want to know all about this family, where they are, what they’re doing, capisce?’

  ‘You got it.’

  The line went dead.

  49

  Max was knocking on the door. A soft, insistent knocking, wanting to come in, to know what the fuck she was playing at, considering sleeping with another man when she was his, absolutely and completely his. Hadn’t he always told her so? Hadn’t she said she’d loved him forever?

  Knock, knock, knock.

  But the thing was this. If Max was her husband, her one true love, then how could she be lying here now thinking about Constantine Barolli? Thinking about how it had felt to be held by him, how it was to be kissed by him. Thinking that if that little rat Lucco hadn’t interrupted them, then she could have betrayed Max, trashed her wedding vows, right then and there.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  It was Max at the door. Furious with her, of course, because he would know, Max always knew everything…but wasn’t Max dead?

  A shiver coursed through her body and the erotic images faded. Her and Constantine, twined together like snakes in a broad, warm bed. Suddenly all that was gone, and instead there was a nightmare image in her brain. The Monkey’s Paw. One bleak Christmas—all her childhood Christmases had been bleak—her drunken mother Connie had sat Annie and her sister Ruthie down and said she was going to tell them a ghost story.

  It was Christmas Eve, it was traditional, she told them. She was a little drunker than usual. It was Christmas, she was alone bringing up two kids, their father had fucked off long since. Times were hard. So she drank a little more, keep the cold out. Medicinal purposes only, ha ha. She sat them down and read them the story.

  It was a chilling tale, about a son horribly injured and killed in an accident, and a grieving mother who had a magical monkey’s paw which would grant her three wishes—and she wished to have her son back. Of course she did. In the middle of the night, there came the knocking. Her son was there. He had come back to her, fresh from the grave, mangled, inhuman, rotting…as Max was coming back to Annie now.<
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  Knock, knock, knock.

  With a sense of impending doom, she was leaving the bed. She reached for the door, and it swung wide…

  Suddenly she was wide awake. Bolt upright in the bed, her hand clamped to her mouth to stifle a scream of horror. She was sweating with terror. Oh Jesus no, she thought helplessly, screwing her eyes tight shut and then opening them wide. It was dark. It was…night. She’d fallen asleep at last, and…oh shit…it had only been a dream. A horrible fucking dream.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  This time she did cry out.

  Someone really was knocking.

  She’d heard it, there, for real—not dreamed, not imagined.

  She saw a slit of light appear under the bedroom door. Outside, a car door slammed, and an engine roared away into the night. The landing light went on. Someone else had heard it too. Shaking, Annie threw back the covers and swung her legs to the floor. The cold night air hit her overheated skin, making her shiver. Voices out there now, nervous voices, worried voices. Someone was going downstairs.

  Don’t answer it, thought Annie, the dream still winding its foul tendrils around her brain.

  She snatched up Dolly’s robe from the floor, scrabbled around, found the light switch, blinked against the sudden glare. Looked at the little clock on the dresser. It was two thirty in the morning. Dolly had let her sleep right through. She stood up, slipped the robe on, belted it. Went over to the door and flung it wide.

  Dolly was going down the stairs. Darren was watching her from the landing in his pyjama bottoms, no top.

  Christ, he’s skinny, thought Annie. You could play a sodding tune on those ribs.

  Ellie was just coming out of her room, belting her robe around her bulky middle, yawning. She looked at Annie, at Darren, at Dolly descending the stairs.

  No Una. The place could be firebombed and Una wouldn’t wake. Too stoned, probably.

  ‘Dolly!’ Annie hissed it. Dolly froze on the bottom stair and glanced back up at her. Dolly looked pale, worried.

  ‘Wait,’ said Annie, and went back into Dolly’s room.

  She got the gun out of the knicker drawer and went out on to the landing and down the stairs to where Dolly stood.

  Dolly looked at the gun, wide-eyed, then at Annie’s face.

  ‘Who the hell can it be?’ Dolly whispered.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  They both flinched back, staring at the door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ whispered Annie. ‘But we’ve got to be careful.’

  Ross had left at one o’clock, after close of business. No help there. The front door was securely locked, chained; it was solid. But there was a letter box, through which people could put post—or burning rags. She thought of Tony’s words at Jeanette’s equally solid-looking door: ‘I could get that door open with the cheeks of my arse.’ She thought too of Redmond Delaney’s visit, his almost sorrowful face as he told her that something would have to be done about her actions. Something bad.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  And then they heard a long, spine-chilling, agonized moan.

  They froze.

  Annie looked at Dolly and Dolly looked at her. Dolly swallowed hard. There was someone out there, someone hurt.

  Or was there?

  Was it just a blind, to entice them to throw the door open, to admit whatever trouble was lurking out there in the shadows of the night?

  ‘Who the hell is it?’ bleated Ellie from the top of the stairs, hugging Darren.

  Annie shushed her.

  She moved to one side of the door, and hauled Dolly after her. If someone was going to blast the door with a shotgun, they would have been standing right in line. Not clever.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Annie licked her dry lips. Her heart felt as if it was going to burst right out of her chest, it was beating so hard. She flicked off the safety catch and held the gun at the ready.

  ‘Who is it?’ she shouted at the door.

  The moan again. Just that. No answer.

  Annie yanked back the bolts, undid the chain, braced herself, held the gun at the ready. She threw the door wide open—and Billy Black fell at her feet.

  It was what was left of Billy, anyway. What tumbled into the hall was no longer a human being. It was a tangle of arms and legs and clothes, all bathed in blood. But the face was Billy’s.

  ‘Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus,’ Dolly was saying over and over again, one hand clutching her midriff, the other half over her mouth. She looked as if she was going to be sick.

  Ellie was screaming.

  Annie stood, dumbstruck, horrified, at what lay at her feet. She could not believe what had been done to him. Could not take it in.

  Because of me. Her mind seemed to flinch at the thought.

  Redmond Delaney, standing in the front room talking to her, full of regret but saying he had to act, had to be seen to act, or there would be trouble and he wouldn’t have that. Cold, efficient Redmond Delaney. Needing to strike at Annie in a decisive way. Needing to hit hardest where it would hurt her the most. Regretting it, naturally. But doing it anyway.

  And who was her staunchest ally, the one Carter boy who would walk the streets for her tirelessly, doing her business, fetching and carrying for her? Why, Billy of course. Billy who had for years been allowed safe passage around the Delaney manor because Redmond Delaney had decreed it. Now that decree had been violently revoked.

  Billy moaned and rolled over, lying there like a parcel that had come unwrapped. There was a frayed bit of rope still tied around his waist and she thought she knew what they’d done to him. He’d been dragged through the streets behind a car, his clothes dissolving into tatters, his skin flaying from his poor broken body. Annie felt herself starting to gag, but she forced it back when she saw that his eyes were open. They were open and they were looking at her.

  She put the gun down and knelt beside Billy. The blood was still seeping from him, very slowly, where once it must have gushed. Blood soaked the hem of Dolly’s robe. His eyes were still open, looking at her but already taking on a milky glaze.

  I did this, she thought, and somewhere inside her she howled with grief and rage at what had happened to this poor soul who worshipped her. But she smiled down at him, trying desperately to hide the shock.

  ‘Hello Billy,’ she said, and stroked his bloody cheek. The flesh was cold. Already, it was cold. She felt her smile falter, but pasted it back on.

  His lips moved. He was trying to say something. Annie put her head down closer to Billy’s, looked in sorrow at the long, thin, vacant face, the soft brown eyes that only ever wanted to please her.

  ‘You’re going to be all right, Billy,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Which was a useless lie, but if it gave him some comfort, why not?

  His mouth was moving again. The pool of blood was spreading, enveloping Annie’s knees, the robe soaking it up like a sponge, seeping into the long thin rug that ran the length of the hall.

  Annie was aware of Dolly moving, stepping towards the phone to get an ambulance, but she looked up and shook her head firmly. Dolly stopped moving. Ellie stopped screaming. They were silent now, watching Billy.

  His mouth moved. His eyes never left Annie’s face. He tried again.

  ‘My…beautiful…Annie,’ he managed to mumble at last.

  And then Billy Black quietly died.

  50

  Annie called Tony, who picked up the phone, barely able to speak through his tiredness.

  ‘H’lo?’ he grunted.

  ‘It’s me. Can you come over? One of the customers is playing up and we need a hand, he’s made a bit of a mess of the place. You might need a van instead of the car, take the rubbish away.’ Her voice broke then and she swallowed hard. Sorry Billy, she thought. ‘Um…bring one of the boys with you.’

  She didn’t wait for a reply. Tony would come. And if the phone was tapped—as she now firmly believed it was—then nothing out of the o
rdinary would be recorded. Just an unruly customer. Not a dead body, a body that had been dragged through the London streets behind a Delaney car, then dumped on Dolly’s doorstep.

  Annie sat in the kitchen later and thought of that, of how he must have suffered, and thought of the Delaneys with a black and bitter hatred in her heart.

  Hadn’t Max told her that the Delaneys were vipers, never to be trusted? Yes, he had. And he was right. She had once felt sorry for Orla Delaney, and Redmond her twin had once been Annie’s business partner. But now the battle lines were clearly drawn.

  She was a Carter.

  They were Delaneys.

  It was war.

  Time drifted on. Ellie and Darren came gingerly down the stairs and hurried into the kitchen, stepping around the horror in the hallway. Tony arrived with ugly monkey-faced little Jackie Tulliver. They stared in disbelief at what awaited them.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Tony gasped, forgetting his language in front of Annie and going a bit pale around the gills as he stared down at Billy’s corpse.

  ‘Shit,’ said Jackie Tulliver. He pulled a face as he realized his shoes were sticking to the doorstep—sticking to the blood that had seeped out of Billy.

  ‘You’ve got to get him out of here,’ said Annie, and she told them where she wanted Billy taken.

  Tony was nodding, pulling on his gloves, telling Jackie to do the same.

  ‘We’ll sort it out, Mrs Carter,’ said Tony.

  Dolly went out to the kitchen and Annie went upstairs to clean up. She had a quick bath, lying there in the hot water and still shaking, still shivering, looking at the gun on the loo seat and thinking that she would like to shoot the bastard who had committed such an act of hideous violence against Billy.

  But then she remembered Constantine Barolli’s words of warning. You pick up a gun, they pick up a grenade…things get out of hand, Mrs Carter. Be careful.

  She hadn’t been careful enough. She’d been so busy panicking over Layla’s safety that she had blundered badly and had cost Billy his life. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but she knew she was responsible. Even that fucker Jimmy Bond had warned her.