by Jessie Keane
He stole a glance at them.
His mother was devastated, her white curls and floods of tears hidden by a thick black veil. His father seemed to be swaying on his feet, as if he would fall at any moment. Kieron was appalled to see how much weight his father Davey had lost. Suddenly, big strapping Davey Delaney, founder of the family firm, looked his age. Kieron saw his older brother Pat clutch at their dad’s arm to steady him.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest, dropping dirt on to the coffin in the hole.
He held the box out to Redmond, who took a handful and slung it in. Then Pat. Then Orla, who was tearless and composed. Then Kieron. Then their mum and dad.
Kieron tuned out the rest of it. He thought of Tory Delaney, his big brother, carrying him on his shoulders when he’d been tiny. He remembered the soft feel of Tory’s curly golden hair beneath his little fingers, remembered the booming Irish laugh of this man who was now nothing more than a corpse being buried in the dirt.
They’d drifted far apart over the years. Kieron was the youngest of Davey and Molly Delaney’s five children, and he had benefited from the family firm’s wealth without ever having to get involved in it.
He’d stuck his head in the sand and refused to acknowledge the sort of dodgy business his siblings were engaged in. He’d gone to art college and then had a year travelling. Ignorance was bliss. But in his guts he’d known that his dad had been into all sorts in his time, including a spell in Strangeways, and that Tory, Pat and Redmond had built the firm up from that base into what it was today.
He knew damned well his brothers were racketeers, thugs, criminals; he knew they ran girls and were into the ‘heavy game’, their term for armed robbery.
Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought.
‘I wonder you bothered to show up,’ said Pat when it was over and they had moved away from the grave.
Kieron looked at Pat. There had always been a sting of animosity between them. Kieron thought Pat a stupid bully, and Pat thought Kieron a fairy. The two were never going to happily co-exist, so Kieron had been glad to get away from home and see the back of his thuggish older brother. But it was clear to see that nothing had changed between them despite time and distance.
A few years back, Kieron would have flown at Pat in a rage. Today, he merely smiled.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Brought your sketch pad, did you?’ Pat sneered.
‘Padraig!’ said Molly sharply, coming up to them and touching Kieron’s arm.
‘It isn’t a crime to have a talent,’ said Kieron.
‘It’s a gift from God,’ said Molly, patting his arm. She looked back towards the grave where Davey her husband was still standing, supported by Redmond. ‘This is going to kill your father,’ she predicted with a tremble in her voice.
‘No it isn’t, Mum,’ said Orla, hurrying over and embracing her mother. ‘Dad’s a tough nut.’
A year away had given Kieron a new perspective. His sister Orla was a lovely young woman now, no more the freckly girl. Her red hair was long and sleek, and her green eyes were gorgeous. She was tall and slender, like Redmond her twin, and the black of mourning flattered her pale skin.
‘Tory was a tough nut too,’ said Molly. ‘And now look.’
The priest was striding back towards the vestry for his tea and biscuits. The crowds were dispersing and there were many sad faces.
Things would change now.
If Tory was no more, then who would take over the manor? The Carters were chipping away at them day by day. It would be down to Redmond, the eldest, to take over the firm, but for now no one could face that prospect. Everyone on the manor had respected Tory Delaney and they were all sick at heart to see him gone. The streets had been lined with bare bowed heads when the cortège drove through to go to the church. No one would be celebrating on the manor tonight.
Davey and Redmond joined the rest of the family.
‘I want to know who did this,’ said Redmond. Unlike big golden Tory, Redmond’s hair suited his name. It was red like his mother’s had once been, long ago. He had green eyes and pale lashes. He did not appear a man of action, but he looked sleek and elegant in his black coat and leather gloves.
Redmond hadn’t got into boxing like Tory and Pat, like their dad before them. Accountancy was his game, adding up figures and doing deals, and he was good at it, Pat had to admit that. Pat looked at his effete older brother and wondered if Redmond could ever hope to fill Tory’s shoes.
And then Pat wondered, not for the first time, if he could do the job better. Jaysus, he knew full well that he could.
‘We’ll find out who did it,’ said Pat.
The police seemed clueless about the shooting, or at least took pains to appear so. It was how the Bill always reacted to gang business. All the boys knew that the police’s attitude to a feud in the East End was, fair enough, so one of them’s dead, so what? Cut down the numbers a bit, that’s a good thing.
And there were plenty of coppers in the pay of the other major gangs, everyone knew that. Sometimes a blind eye was turned because the payment had been right. A fortnight on the Costas, a cash sum, all helped to obscure the vision of the boys in blue. That was just the way it was. You couldn’t rely on the police to do your work for you.
All this week the papers had been full of the news of this alleged ‘gangland killing’.
The public were enthralled.
The police didn’t give a fuck.
‘Let’s get home,’ said Molly from behind her veil. ‘I’m sick of this day. Kieron, you can show me all these paintings you’ve been doing and tell me all about your travels. Cheer me up a bit.’
Kieron nodded. Padraig looked at him daggers, but Orla was smiling at him. His big sis had often saved him from a beating from the pugnacious Pat. Kieron looked at Redmond, but those strange green eyes gave nothing away at all. Not grief. Not elation. If Tory had been hot-headed, Redmond was unfailingly controlled.
No, cold was more the word, thought Kieron, suppressing a shudder. Cold as fucking ice. That was Redmond.
8
The minute Annie got home from work, she knew something was wrong. Connie was sitting at the kitchen table alone, chain-smoking, an ashtray brimming with stubs in front of her. When Annie came into the kitchen Connie jumped to her feet and gave her youngest daughter a heavy slap around the face.
‘What the hell was that for?’ asked Annie, holding a hand to her stinging cheek and watching her mother as if she might go for the carving knife next. Annie’s eyes were watering with pain.
Connie waved her fag in Annie’s face, ash spilling down her tightly belted trench coat. Fucking English weather, she was tired and drenched through and now this.
‘You know what it’s for, you little slag,’ she yelled.
Annie was about to open her mouth to speak when she saw a suitcase at the foot of the stairs through the open hall door.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her heart racing.
‘What’s going on?’ sneered Connie. ‘What’s going on? Christ, you’ve got some front, I’ll say that for you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Annie, beginning to shake with the shock of her mother’s attack.
‘Oh you don’t?’ Connie took a deep drag, sucked the nicotine right back into her lungs. Christ, if Connie Bailey lasted until fifty Annie would be amazed. She was used to her mother’s bad temper, and it was even worse since golden-girl Ruthie had got married and flown the nest. It wouldn’t be too long before Connie got herself invited to stay at Max’s posh place in Surrey. Annie knew her mother, she knew that this would be Connie’s master plan. She’d take Queenie’s place at Max’s table, and lord it over all she surveyed. As for Annie, she would have to piss off and fend for herself. If she had Ruthie near at hand, Connie would certainly not want Annie.
‘Then why is it I’ve had poor Ruthie in tears to me on the telephone, telling me all about you, yo
u dirty little whore, and her new husband?’
Annie recoiled as if Connie had struck her again. Her words were a total shock. Annie had never imagined that Ruthie would be so stupid as to tell anyone that she knew Max and Annie had been together. She felt her belly start to crawl with dread.
‘Oh that,’ she said, deliberately casual. ‘We had a little fling, that was all. And Ruthie found out. But it was nothing. Just a fling.’
‘A fling? Ruthie’s in tatters down there, you selfish little tart,’ roared Connie, her face inches from Annie’s. Annie shut her eyes. Connie’s breath was foul from all the fags, and flecks of saliva spattered Annie’s face with the force of her mother’s shrieking.
‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ demanded Connie. ‘We’re talking about your sister’s intended. You should have had the decency to leave him alone, not go spreading your legs for him at the first opportunity.’
Annie opened her eyes. Something snapped inside her head. ‘I saw him first,’ she said flatly. ‘He should have married me, not her.’
Connie threw back her raddled head and howled with croaky smokers’ laughter. ‘You?’ she mocked. ‘He didn’t have to marry you to get what he wanted, did he, you bloody little fool. Trust me, no bloke would want to put a wedding band on your finger. You’ve got whore written all over you. Not like Ruthie. Ruthie’s a good girl.’
‘Yeah,’ flung back Annie, stung. ‘I bet the wedding night was a barrel of laughs. She’s as frigid as a fucking nun and we both know it. That won’t keep a man like Max happy for long, trust me.’
Connie flung her fag down on to the scratched lino and stamped it out with a gesture of finality.
‘I want you out of here right now,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘OUT!’ yelled Connie. ‘O. U. T. Out. Out that bloody door. Your stuff’s all packed, pick up your bag and clear off. I’ve had enough of your tarting about. And doing this to your own sister? It’s the final fucking straw, and I’ve had enough.’
Annie started to speak, but Connie grabbed her with surprising force and pushed her out into the hall. Connie flung open the front door while Annie stood there in a state of shock. Connie snatched up the suitcase and flung it out on to the pavement. She grabbed Annie’s arm and hustled her out after it. Annie found herself out on the pavement in the drizzling rain. People were passing, and they looked curious but carried on by.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she yelled.
Net curtains were starting to twitch. A couple of doors opened and female heads peered avidly around doorframes.
‘Chucking you out, you worthless tart,’ said Connie. ‘And good riddance.’
The door slammed shut.
Annie stood there, wondering what had hit her.
‘Annie?’ The low male voice broke into her tumbling thoughts. Where would she go? What would she do? She looked around to find a hunched man in a deerstalker hat standing there staring at her with limpid brown eyes. He wore a mac and held a large, brown leather briefcase. It was Billy. He was a bit slow in the head, but he was one of Max’s boys. She knew him of old. He was always wandering around the manor with that vacant look on his face, poor bastard.
‘Hello Billy,’ she said absently.
A car went by, nearly hitting the suitcase which was lying in the road. The horn blared. She went and retrieved it and put it on the pavement. She glared at their next-door neighbour, who was still peering out nervously. ‘Seen enough?’ she demanded loudly, and the door closed. A curtain twitched again across the street. ‘Nosy old bitches,’ shouted Annie, and the curtain fell.
She snatched up the case and started walking. She didn’t know where she was going or what she was going to do about a roof over her head. She’d think of something – she’d have to. She was deeply irritated to see that Billy had fallen into step beside her. Why didn’t he just bugger off? This was just what she needed, an idiot for company when she was on her uppers.
‘Has she chucked you out?’ asked Billy.
‘No, I’m off on my holidays. Of course she’s chucked me out. What else did you think when you saw this suitcase flying past your ear?’
‘What will you do?’ he asked. Billy was impervious to mockery and deaf to insults. He’d suffered them all his life. He was happy for the moment because he was at last talking to the beautiful Annie, the girl of his dreams, and she was talking back to him.
‘Who knows?’ Annie shrugged, but deep down she was worried. She wondered who else Ruthie had told about her and Max. This could turn out to be a difficult situation if she’d blabbed it about too much.
It was starting to rain more heavily. People were diving for cover, ducking into shop doorways, heading for home. Home! She didn’t have a home now. She looked up and down the road and saw a big black car drawing nearer. Her heart seemed to stand still in her chest. The car drew level with them. Annie and Billy stopped walking. The back window wound down and Max looked out with cold blue eyes.
‘Fuck off, Billy, there’s a good lad,’ he said.
Billy glanced between Max and Annie. He hesitated, but knew better than to disobey. He scuttled away up the rain-misted street and was soon lost to view. There wasn’t a soul about now. Annie’s hair was hanging around her shoulders in rat-tails, her mascara was running in the rain. She was shivering.
The car door opened. ‘Get in,’ said Max.
* * *
‘Take a walk, Tony.’
The driver got out and walked off, flicking his collar up and hunching his shoulders, into the rain. The windscreen wipers were still going. Ker thunk. Ker thunk. Ker thunk. Annie felt the sound inside her head. She felt as if she were going mad. Max just sat there, cool as you like. He was always cool. Usually, she liked that about him; but she didn’t like it now. It smelled of leather in here, and petrol, and expensive cologne. She felt as if she was going to throw up. Yet despite her fear she felt that old treacherous tug of attraction. Max had an aura of intense male sexuality. Even when he was looking at her as if he despised her, still she felt its pull.
‘Some men hit women,’ said Max.
Annie’s head flicked round. She stared at him. He looked right back at her, dispassionately, like she was a bug wriggling on a pin.
‘My old man,’ Max went on, ‘was going to hit my mum once. Came home from the pub all tanked up and full of himself, she had a go, gave it some verbal, and then he thought he’d have a go. Funny how you remember these things.’
Something was required of her. Annie worked some spittle into her dry mouth and swallowed before she could speak.
‘What happened?’ she asked, trying to make it sound casual.
‘I broke his arm,’ said Max. ‘In two places. Men who beat up women are scum. They’re not men at all.’
Annie nodded. It was too soon to feel relieved, but still, she did. She knew Max had a strict code of honour. A man on equal terms, fair game. Women or children, forget it. So she was safe enough. And yet, she doubted it. He was seriously pissed off with her, that much was plain.
‘Why did you do it, Annie?’ Max asked.
Annie shook her head. It was all a jumble. All those years of being second-best with Ruthie forever the favourite. All those small slights and hurts that had somehow burrowed beneath her skin until they formed one huge uncomfortable boil, that somehow had to be lanced. When she had whispered in Ruthie’s ear on her wedding day there had been one blissful moment of utter release. At last, she had her revenge. But then there had been the numb hurt on Ruthie’s face, Ruthie who had always been kind to her, even when she was far from deserving it.
‘I don’t know,’ she said hopelessly. It was all a mess, muddied by rivalry and bitter black hatred and deep despairing love.
Max suddenly grabbed her chin and dragged her face close to his.
‘What do you mean, “I don’t know”?’ he snarled. ‘You wreck your sister’s happiness, you piss me off, and you say “I don’t know”? What the fuck’s all that
about, Annie? What the bloody hell did you go and do that for?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Annie.
‘You’re sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the fucking word yet, girl.’
Yet. Too soon to be relieved, then. Far too soon. Her jaw was aching in his grip, but she kept still.
‘I told you it was a one-off. I told you to keep it buttoned. What did you think, that I was having a laugh or something? That I didn’t mean it? Do you think I say things I don’t mean, Annie Bailey? For fuck’s sake, say something.’
‘I’ve got no excuse,’ said Annie, closing her eyes with the pain. ‘She got on my nerves, all right? She was so smug and self-satisfied.’
‘Well you must be pleased now. She’s in fucking bits.’
Yeah, I should be pleased, thought Annie. But somehow I’m not. There were all these confusing images in her mind. Ruthie at ten, giving Annie a lick of her ice cream when she’d dropped her own on the mucky pavement. Ruthie picking her up and dusting her down when she fell over and scraped her knee. Ruthie defending her when she committed the indefensible and was down for a hiding from Mum. Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie. She hated her and loved her in equal measures. After the relief of hurting her had come the remorse. A sick, soul-eating remorse that had been gnawing at her ever since.
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Annie. ‘All right?’
‘No, it ain’t all right.’ Max released her with a derisory flick that sent her reeling back against the car door. The expression on his face was one of complete disgust. ‘What a selfish little tart you are,’ he said.
Annie rubbed her jaw. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said bitterly. ‘That’s me.’
‘Go on, bugger off.’
Annie stared at him.
‘Bugger off!’ yelled Max. ‘And keep the fuck out of my way in future, or you’ll be sorry.’
Annie hardly knew she had opened the door, but she tumbled out on to the pavement. Tony, the driver, was there in an instant, plonking her suitcase down at her side as she scrambled to her feet. He stepped into the driver’s seat, and the car pulled away. Annie was left there, the rain beating down on her head. With nowhere else to turn, she started walking up the road towards Limehouse, towards her only possible place of refuge.
