Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  He’d taken her to this really posh restaurant where you sat in a vast lounge before dinner and a chap in evening dress played the piano. The chairs were huge and comfy, and you drank something called an ‘aperitif’ while your table was prepared. The menu was all in French and there were no prices beside the dishes. Ruthie was overawed. She was struck dumb by the opulence of it all.

  And then Max asked her what she’d like, and she panicked, she couldn’t understand a word on the menu. Blushing and feeling a fool, she had to ask him to explain what the food was, and her ignorance seemed to amuse him. He looked at her fondly, and she started to relax.

  There were people around them who looked rich and spoke in that haw-haw way that posh people did. The men wore dinner jackets, the ladies wore glittery dresses, fur stoles and heaps of jewellery. Ruthie drank it all in, knowing that such good fortune was unlikely to come her way again.

  But it did.

  Max took her out again.

  And again.

  Although he kissed her, he never tried to go all the way. He was always the perfect gentleman, and she liked that. She knew this was a permissive society now, with girls on the Pill and enjoying a free sex life without fear of the backstreet abortions that had been the plague of women all through the fifties. But that wasn’t her. Max treated her with respect, and she loved him all the more for that.

  Finally they were engaged, and now plain little Ruthie Bailey was emerging from the gleaming white Rolls-Royce into sunlight outside the church. Her Uncle Tom, Mum’s brother, was giving her away. He took her arm with a smile. Annie and Kath kept hold of her long lacy train. It had rained last night, and it mustn’t be allowed to trail in the mud. It was an expensive item.

  But then, Max was paying. Max always paid. He knew the Baileys didn’t have much, and he had plenty. There were new nets up at Connie’s windows now, and she was the proud owner of a television, and even a fridge. She was made up.

  Ruthie looked around her at all the smiling faces. The vicar was standing at the church door waiting for her. For her! Ruthie Bailey. Soon to be Mrs Max Carter.

  The photographer was fussing around them now, setting up shots.

  ‘Veil up for this one,’ he said, and Annie lifted the veil off Ruthie’s face, which for once was radiant with pride and happiness.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ruthie to Annie, who was very quiet today. Unusually quiet.

  Connie, their mother, was clucking around, trying to tell the photographer how to do his job. This was a big day for her too – her daughter, marrying into the Carter clan. People around here were going to have to start treating her with more respect after today. Connie was relishing the idea and throwing her weight about already. She knew that Max’s boys always met upstairs in the house that had once been Queenie’s, but Connie was going to suggest that they meet at hers instead. After all, she would be family. She would take care of them, make tea and cakes. Imagine the neighbours’ faces when that happened!

  Ruthie looked sympathetically at her younger sister. ‘Don’t worry, Annie,’ she said. ‘It’ll be your turn before you know it.’

  Annie eyed her sister with dislike. How dare the smug cow patronize her!

  Annie was in a foul mood, still smarting from the fact that Max had walked past her fifteen minutes ago without even acknowledging her existence. All right, she hadn’t expected hearts and flowers, but after what they’d shared last night she expected at least a show of warmth.

  All the hurt of years seemed to flood up into her throat, choking her. Ruthie the favoured one, Ruthie the good girl. Ruthie the one who was making a fantastic marriage while she, Annie, stood behind her and watched the man who should have been hers wed himself to her holier-than-thou sister.

  She’d had years of it.

  All the hand-me-downs. All those seconds worn first by Ruthie; things that were too long, too loose, threadbare, washed out and worn out. Second-best. Everything Annie had ever had was second-best. Ruthie came first.

  But not this time.

  ‘Maybe I’ve already had my turn,’ Annie said, her eyes hard and angry.

  Ruthie’s smile faltered. She stared at Annie. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh – nothing.’

  ‘Yes you do. What are you talking about?’

  The photographer had gone into the church to set up his tripod for the aisle shot. Connie was fussing around Kath’s peach draperies. Uncle Tom was taking a furtive nip of brandy from a hip flask. The vicar was talking to Gary Tooley, a close associate of Max’s, who was one of the ushers. For the moment, the two sisters stood alone.

  ‘Nothing. It’s nothing,’ said Annie. Then her eyes looked straight into Ruthie’s and her mouth curved into a vicious smile. ‘I’ve had your hand-me-downs all my life, Ruthie. But today, guess what? You’re getting one of mine.’

  ‘Come on, Ruthie. Let’s get your veil down, oh, don’t she look a picture, Tom?’ Connie was there again, pulling the veil down over Ruthie’s shocked and stricken eyes.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Uncle Tom obligingly, his eyes lingering covertly on the far more eye-catching Annie.

  Ruthie saw the look. She swallowed, reeling, sickened, as the full meaning of Annie’s words sank in. She tried to compose herself again as she stepped up to the church’s grand entrance.

  ‘My little girl, getting married,’ gloated Connie.

  Kath and Annie stepped in behind Ruthie and the vicar, and then the Wedding March sounded loud and clear from inside the church.

  Annie followed her sister up the aisle to join Max at the altar. Her throat was closed and she was choking with hatred and misery. She saw Max there looking impossibly handsome and his brother Jonjo as best man standing by his side. She saw the expression in Max’s eyes as he looked back and saw Ruthie.

  He’d never looked at her like that.

  The bastard.

  But at least she’d had her revenge for the way he’d so casually dismissed her. Ruthie knew. There was no going back from that.

  Ruthie knew.

  5

  They sat outside in the car and looked at the shop. They were Max’s boys, and they were following orders. One of his most trusted lieutenants had told them to do the shop late on the Saturday afternoon when the information was that there would be upward of three thousand quid in the till.

  They knew that they were on the Delaney patch. They knew the shop-owner was paying protection to the Delaneys, and this had caused them some concern.

  ‘Just do the fucking job, leave the thinking to those that can,’ came the orders when they questioned this action.

  There were four of them, all of them handy but still worried. If the Carters were looking to take a pop at the Delaney manor, there was going to be seven kinds of shit flying about, and they weren’t happy.

  Some things were set in stone. The Richardsons and the Frasers had the South, the Regans the West, the Nashes had The Angel, the Delaneys held Battersea – and a small pocket in Limehouse down by the docks, often disputed over – the Krays had Bethnal Green and the Carters had Bow. You never argued with that. But the boys were loyal, and there was a bonus in it for them. When they had asked what their cut was to be, the answer had come swiftly back from Jonjo Carter.

  ‘Take the fucking lot. Piss it all up against a wall if you want to, just take it.’

  Which was very unusual. The Carters were notoriously keen on taking their pound of flesh. The boys took this to mean that this job was intended as an insult to the Delaneys, a message to say, look you cunts, we can take you any time you like, no worries.

  They were worried all right. There had been rumours that Tory Delaney was out of circulation, maybe ill, maybe God knew what.

  But orders were orders, and Max Carter was the guvnor. He knew what he was doing, and he didn’t like people questioning his judgement.

  ‘Right then, here we go,’ said the driver when the last of the punters departed at five to five, then one of Max’s boys pulled on his
mask and gloves and ran into the shop.

  The owner was there, mopping up after the day’s trading. He froze like a deer in headlights, which was good. The till was one of those big heavy efforts, but Max’s boy was tasty and could lift it easily, he’d already taken care to look it over.

  He leaned over and grabbed the thing.

  Or he tried to.

  ‘Shit!’

  It was screwed down.

  The shop owner started gabbling away in a foreign language. Christ knows what he was saying. Fuck you, probably. The man started slapping at Max’s boy with the wet mop. It was a bit funny but Max’s boy was getting steamed up.

  Two of the others had seen there was a problem and came running in to help, while the driver stayed put. The mop attack and the slopping of water all over the place and the shouting was getting worse and worse. Then the shop-owner chucked the remains of the bucket of water over the lot of them and suddenly they were skidding and sliding all over the fucking place. Then he reached for the phone.

  One of the boys yanked the cord out of the wall and gave him a cautionary slap.

  Another went back out to the car and grabbed a pickaxe from the boot. With it he demolished the counter and then they had it away with the till, no problem.

  They took the till, with bits of broken counter clinging to it, outside and got it into the car. They piled back in and the driver gunned away. They pulled off their masks and gloves and roared with laughter in the aftermath of the excitement. They were drenched to the skin.

  ‘Jesus, it was like being slapped in the face with a cod,’ said one, trying to dry himself on a rag from the dashboard. ‘Good job Jonjo wasn’t there, he’d have wrung his fucking neck.’

  Two of them were in the back with the till.

  They opened it.

  Plenty of notes.

  They sat back, smiling.

  ‘That’s what I call a good day’s work,’ said one.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed his companion.

  6

  Ruthie was very quiet, thought Max.

  He knew she was never one to gabble on, but this was quiet even by her standards. Because there was heavy business going on they had to forgo a foreign honeymoon, but he knew she would be impressed with his Surrey place and he took her straight there after the reception, his Jag rattling with tin cans until he stopped round the corner and took them off.

  During the rest of the drive she was silent. Then they got home to Surrey and she was still too quiet. Maybe she was just overawed.

  She was mistress of this grand manor house now, she would live among the fancy furnishings and crystal chandeliers and would step on to deep-pile carpets when she emerged from her bath or from the big bed they would share tonight.

  There were grounds instead of gardens, huge stretches of green to do as they liked with. There were garages and outbuildings. There was an annexe, for Christ’s sake. It was a far cry from the East End, a very long way away from what she was used to.

  That was it, he thought. She was probably just overcome with it all. Max could see that she was tired, and suggested they go straight up. It was after two in the morning. It had been an exhausting day for them both.

  He opened a bottle of the best champagne that had been laid out ready by the bed. His housekeeper Miss Arnott had turned back the sheets, stoked up the fire, made everything comfortable for the newlyweds. His mum would have done it had she been here and, as always when he thought of Queenie, he felt the wrench of grief at her loss and the gut-deep anger at those who had taken her from him.

  He poured the bubbly while Ruthie hovered uncertainly by the bed. She looked almost pretty today in her going-away suit of soft cream wool. Her hair, always her best feature, was swept up in an elegant chignon, throwing the clean lines of her face into sharper focus.

  ‘You look lovely today,’ he said, pouring the champagne into expensive crystal flutes and holding one out to her.

  Poor kid, she looked more lost than lovely. But there were three things that never failed with women. Talk to them gently, tell them they look good even if they didn’t, please them sexually.

  Ruthie came around the bed and took the glass and drank from it.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked. ‘I’ll get something sent up.’

  She shook her head and gulped down more champagne.

  ‘Steady with that,’ said Max with a smile. ‘It goes to your head.’

  Ruthie drained the glass. She still felt numb after what Annie had said.

  Annie and Max.

  She’d been so happy to be marrying him, she’d loved him so much, worshipped him almost. She’d felt that he was too good for her from day one. But somehow he’d convinced her that it would all work out okay. That she was what he wanted.

  But now she knew the truth.

  Annie and Max.

  How long had that been going on? And – oh God – would it still go on now that Max was married to her?

  How could she stand that?

  She felt anger thaw the numbness until she flushed with heat. They’d made a fool of her. All the time she’d been misty-eyed with love, they’d been at it, screwing like animals. Like dogs in the street.

  Max took the glass from her and placed it on a side table. All the furniture in here looked costly to Ruthie’s eyes. The whole place was full of lovely antique pieces, things she had never even been close to before. Connie’s furniture was charmless Utility stuff from the war and a few modern bits that had come off the back of a lorry, no questions asked.

  This was a whole new world, a world that she had felt so excited to be entering. But now it was all ruined, and she hated Max and Annie for doing this to her, for killing her dream.

  ‘I’ll get ready for bed,’ she said coldly.

  Then she looked around. He’d brought her small suitcase upstairs with them and she was so tired, she just wanted to change into her nightdress and go to sleep. But Max was here. He was here, and things were expected of her. But she couldn’t undress in front of him.

  She just couldn’t.

  Max saw her sudden confusion and took pity on her.

  ‘You get yourself settled in,’ he said, swigging champagne then putting the flute aside. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

  He went into the adjoining bathroom and relieved himself, then shucked off his suit and washed, shaved and splashed on cologne. He felt excited at what was to come, every part of him seemed to pulsate with anticipation.

  His wedding night.

  Christ, married at last.

  Well, it had to happen. He wanted to pass all this on to someone, and Jonjo was still the crazy bachelor, showing every sign of staying a fucking playboy for the rest of his natural, while Eddie was a bum-bandit and unlikely ever to father a kid. Some fucker had to carry on the Carter family line, to build the family back up into the force it should be, and it was going to have to be him.

  He put on his dressing gown and went back out to the bedroom. Ruthie was sitting up in bed looking like she was about to be shot. Her hands were gripping the bedcovers so tightly the knuckles were white.

  Her nightie was one of those cotton floral things, nothing seductive but somehow sweet and showing her purity, he thought. He knew he’d made a good choice in Ruthie. She would do very nicely. He was pleased.

  He faced the bed and took off the dressing gown. He saw her eyes widen as she clocked the size of his erection, but he didn’t hesitate, he got into bed and cuddled right up to her.

  She was cold to his touch.

  Poor kid, he thought. She’d never had it before and probably had never even felt the urge for it, this was bound to be a shock.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said softly, hugging her. ‘We’ll take this slowly, okay?’

  Ruthie was trembling with rage and disappointment. Max Carter, the man of her dreams, was naked in bed with her, his hands working their way under her nightie, and all she could see was her treacherous sister’s face.

  ‘Lie back,’ he said, kissi
ng her neck and touching her between the legs. A spasm of pleasure shot through her as he touched the little button there, but she was unresponsive and so upset that she just couldn’t let go.

  Bitterness welled up in her, smothering all prospect of enjoyment, but Max was shoving the nightie up under her armpits and cupping her small breasts in his hands. Ruthie knew they weren’t as lush or as pert and big as Annie’s, and she imagined him doing this to Annie, and she knew that Annie would be up for it, far more so than she was.

  Max moved between her legs, panting now, and she felt that big stiff thing nudging her sex open.

  ‘No,’ she said, pushing at his chest, furious, gasping with pent-up rage.

  ‘Come on sweetie,’ cooed Max, pushing at her.

  ‘I know about you,’ spat Ruthie.

  ‘We’ll talk afterwards,’ said Max, nudging harder. She was as tight as a duck’s arse, he thought. Tight and dry.

  ‘About you and Annie!’

  He burst through her hymen and thrust in deep. Ruthie screamed. Max froze, not believing what he’d just heard, but he was in now and too excited to stop. He thrust quickly, ten, twenty times, while Ruthie groaned and shoved helplessly against him, then he came. He rolled off her. Ruthie curled up into a foetal ball, aware only of the pain between her legs and the bitter hurt in her chest. She started to sob.

  Max lay there and looked up at the ceiling in a daze.

  Shit, that little bitch Annie.

  Her and her fat gob, she’d ruined this. He’d told her to keep it buttoned, but she couldn’t resist rubbing Ruthie’s nose in it. The fucking little cow. He touched Ruthie’s shuddering back, but she twitched away from him.

  After a while he got up, put on his dressing gown, and went to the adjoining bedroom. He got into the cold bed and lay there cursing Annie Bailey and swearing to himself that she would pay for not keeping her trap shut.

  7

  Kieron Delaney stood shivering at the side of his brother Tory’s grave. Summer had given up for the day and was drenching the funeral party in cold rain. The weather suited their business here. His mum and dad were standing like statues beside him.