Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  Think of her as a bowl of fruit, he thought to himself. Or a landscape. Kieron started to sketch Annie’s curvaceous outline on to the canvas. His hand shook slightly.

  ‘How come you don’t have a minder?’ asked Annie while he drew.

  ‘I can’t be doing with all that,’ said Kieron. There was a stunning woman lying in her pelt in front of him. Bowl of fruit. Bowl of fruit.

  ‘Yes, but you’re a Delaney. And there’s a lot of trouble going on at the moment. Wouldn’t you feel safer with a minder?’

  ‘Ah, but you’re forgetting that I don’t get involved with the family business side of things.’

  ‘That’s a naïve attitude,’ said Annie. ‘You may not be “involved”, but you can’t help being a member of the family. I mean, your parents care for you. They wouldn’t want any harm to come to you. And people might not pick and choose. They might just see a Delaney, “involved” or not.’

  By people Kieron knew she meant the Carters. He paused and smiled.

  ‘Ah, but you’re forgetting I have another family connection,’ he said.

  ‘Oh? Which one is that?’

  ‘You. You are my insurance.’

  ‘What?’ Annie thought that sniffing turps had obviously affected his brain.

  ‘You’re Max Carter’s sister-in-law.’

  Annie snorted. ‘Kieron, you fool, I’ve told you the story. I’ve no influence with the Carters.’

  ‘They could have burned your aunt’s place to the ground after that business with their brother,’ he pointed out.

  ‘But they didn’t.’ Although it had crossed her mind. It had obviously crossed Celia’s, too. Celia had been so panicked by it all that she had fled.

  ‘Ah, but they could have. You and your gang of workers could have been dust and ashes.’

  ‘Shut up, Kieron.’ Annie was uncomfortable with this line of conversation. She didn’t like being on some invisible line between the two gangs, but somehow this was where she had ended up. It was an unnerving place to be. All she could do was keep her head down, do her job, and hope for the best.

  ‘And I wonder why they didn’t,’ considered Kieron, busy with the charcoal. ‘Not because you were there, I suppose?’

  ‘Kieron, you’re dreaming,’ sighed Annie.

  ‘Am I though?’ Kieron grinned. ‘You see, what I’m thinking is that you will plead for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I ever get into trouble, if on one dark moonlit night I get grabbed and people want to do unpleasant things to my poor sweet innocent young body, you’ll be there putting in the glad word with your brother-in-law – won’t you, Annie Bailey? You’ll come to my rescue.’

  ‘What, and stick my own stupid head above the parapet to be shot at?’ She had to smile back. What a nutcase he was.

  Kieron looked at her. ‘Word is that Max Carter might be persuaded by you.’

  ‘By me?’ Annie turned her head away from his gaze. ‘Forget it, Kieron,’ she said glumly. ‘Max isn’t interested in me.’

  But that look, she thought.

  Something electric, something almost visceral in its power, had passed between Max Carter and her on the day of Eddie’s funeral. Something she couldn’t bear to think about.

  22

  Max got the shock of his life when Ruthie said she wanted to go back to her mother’s. He was so used to her being apathetic and accepting, but this was the worm turning in a big way, and it startled him.

  ‘What the fuck for?’ he asked.

  He sat on one of the big couches in the drawing room at his Surrey place. She sat on the other one, her legs pulled up beneath her. They were miles apart, in every way. She’d got thinner still. And she’d done something to her hair, it was no longer mouse but almost blonde. He didn’t like it. Only brunettes had ever done anything in the bedroom department for him. Not that there was a fucking thing happening in their bedroom anyway, he thought bitterly.

  ‘She’s not very well,’ said Ruthie with a shrug, her eyes not meeting his. She took a sip of her brandy.

  ‘She’s pissed as a fart most of the time, if that’s what you mean,’ said Max.

  God, he despised drunks. He watched Ruth drinking the brandy, relishing it almost like a lover’s kiss, and wondered if she was going the same way. He’d done a few discreet checks around the place when it seemed the drinks cabinet was emptying too fast. He’d looked at the empties, sounded out the housekeeper and got Ruthie’s minder to mark a few bottles.

  If Ruthie was a drunk, she was a smart one. He knew she’d spotted the marks and kept the bottles topped up with water so that her real consumption was masked. But he smelt it on her breath sometimes, when he got close enough, which was bloody rare. Sometimes she concealed the alcohol tang with mints. She wasn’t a fool. But she couldn’t hide her bleary eyes or the way she staggered sometimes when she stood up. He looked at her, his wife, his Ruthie, and felt more miserable than he’d ever felt before.

  ‘I just think I should spend some time with her, that’s all,’ said Ruthie mulishly. ‘She isn’t coping very well on her own. Of course, if she could come and stay here with me, I wouldn’t have to go, would I?’

  ‘She isn’t moving into the annexe,’ said Max.

  ‘But Max …’

  Christ, not this again! Ruthie was always banging on and on about the same old thing. Max stood up. He was bored to the fucking back teeth. You could only say sorry so often before you started to feel that sorry ought to be accepted. He had apologized for what had happened with Annie, over and over again. But Ruthie was unforgiving. She used his guilt over the incident to beat him with whenever they argued. And they always argued. Fuck her, he thought. He’d had enough.

  ‘Look, do whatever you want,’ he said, ‘but leave that fucking annexe alone, you got that?’

  Not waiting for her to reply – he didn’t need any more bloody earache – he left the room.

  He tore across the hallway, grabbed his coat, then shot out the front door and into the car.

  Even if his wife was in the process of leaving him, even if Eddie was dead, life had to go on. Max knew it. He was too tough to just give up and lie down. But he had too much other shit going on right now to go ahead with the job he’d been planning.

  That was why he called the boys together that night in the office of the Blue Parrot and told them that the heist was definitely put back for next year. They didn’t like it, but fuck them, they’d do as they were told. He gave them their orders and told them to bugger off. Jonjo didn’t attend, he was out somewhere with another blonde. Max knew he’d have to weather that particular storm later on, Jonjo was keen to get the job done and he was going to be upset at the delay. But fuck him, too. Max sat alone late into the night in the office above the club, listening to Johnnie Ray seeping up through the floorboards.

  The Prince of Wails, they called him. Johnnie went all through his repertoire and ended with ‘Cry’. You had to hand it to the man, he could sell a tune. Better than these new boys, The Beatles or Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas or Freddy and his Dreamers. Max preferred the songs from his twenties, the good balladeers like Sinatra, like Ray and Darin, those you simply could not beat.

  The music was so emotive. When he listened to Johnnie Ray pouring his heart out in song he thought of Annie Bailey standing in the graveyard when they’d planted poor little Eddie.

  She’d looked more beautiful than ever. Polished, somehow. Grown up. No longer the dolly bird, but a woman in a chic suit, her dark hair neatly groomed. She’d looked almost odd among the rough crowds. She’d shone out like a beacon. Their eyes had met. There had been a spark of the old magic there. In the depths of tragedy, he’d felt a treacherous sexual arousal. Useless. His wife’s sister.

  What a fucking disaster his life was turning out to be.

  23

  The phone was ringing as Annie shot past it on the stairs. Chris, sitting like a well-fed Buddha just inside the door reading the Daily Sketch, reached out but she
shook her head and snatched it up. It was Friday. Party day. She had decided that her parties would be held at lunchtimes, when all the other women in the road would be busy in their kitchens – too busy to take an interest in what was going on here. She was wound up fit to burst.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Bailey,’ said Redmond Delaney.

  ‘Ah, Mr Delaney,’ said Annie, hopping from one foot to the other in her impatience to get on. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘I hope you are well?’

  ‘Very well. Thank you. And you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Annie was getting used to the weekly calls now. She didn’t nearly shit herself with fear any more when she heard that cool Irish lilt on the end of the phone. Redmond was just keeping an eye on his business interests, that was all. It was nothing personal. It was sort of reassuring, really.

  ‘Is everything ready for the party?’ asked Redmond.

  Darren and Aretha thundered down the stairs. Aretha went into the front room, but Darren paused. Who is it? he mouthed.

  Redmond Delaney, she mouthed back.

  Oh, mouthed Darren. He threw Chris a flirty smile and followed after Aretha.

  ‘Just about,’ said Annie.

  ‘Well, good luck with it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Delaney.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Redmond, and put the phone down.

  Annie did the same.

  ‘Chris, what does Mr Delaney look like?’ she asked thoughtfully. ‘I’ve met his sister Orla. Is he like her?’

  Chris laid his paper across his knees. ‘Identical,’ he said.

  Annie had a think about that. A tall, red-haired, green-eyed man. Cool as could be. No small talk about him. Nothing like Kieron with all his blarney. Nothing like Pat either, Pat was a disgusting and frightening bruiser. Funny how one family could contain so many disparate elements.

  ‘What about the mum and dad?’

  ‘Molly and Dave?’ Chris took up his Sketch again. ‘Retired.’

  No more information was forthcoming, so Annie decided to go up and get changed. Today she was the hostess, neat in a black shift, pearls and black-patent-leather pumps, nothing tarty. Nothing to suggest she was a player instead of an observer. Hopefully all their regulars would be here to have fun and spend money both on the door and upstairs in the bedrooms. Drinks on the house. Food on the house. It had to work, she thought. Or she was going to end up looking a right berk.

  As she came downstairs the phone was ringing again. She waved Chris away and picked up.

  ‘Annie darling, will you sit for me tomorrow morning?’ asked Kieron.

  ‘No, Kieron, I can’t.’ There would be clearing-up to be done. She anticipated a lot of mighty hangovers among the staff too.

  ‘Afternoon?’ wheedled Kieron.

  ‘Is this the last time?’ groaned Annie.

  ‘Last one, I promise.’

  She’d sat for him for the nude portrait three times now, lying there in the altogether feeling horribly self-conscious. She hated it. But if this really was the last time, she supposed she could bear it. And the pay was good. If the party idea bombed and no one showed up, she was going to need every penny. Dolly came clumping down the stairs in her dressing gown. Annie put a hand over the phone.

  ‘Dolly, will you sort yourself out?’ she asked, shooing her back up. ‘It’s nearly eleven, get clean, tidy and dressed.’

  Dolly pulled a face. ‘Oh for fuck’s safe, what is it with you? There’s plenty of time yet,’ she said.

  ‘Dolly, what did I tell you? What did I say?’ asked Annie.

  Dolly sighed. ‘You said …’

  ‘I said it’s my way or the fucking highway,’ said Annie. ‘Go and get ready.’

  Dolly looked pissed off but she did as she was told. Annie was pleased at how Dolly was coming along, on the whole. Poor Dolly. Celia had been too easy on her, she needed a firmer hand, but Annie could appreciate why Celia had been so lenient. Celia had explained to Annie about Dolly’s background. Annie got the horrors every time she thought of how Dolly had been dragged up.

  Poor cow, a backstreet abortion with an enema syringe and half a packet of Daz was enough to turn any woman sour. And to know that the dead child that came away was your father’s … it was nothing less than a nightmare. Celia had told her all about it.

  Celia. God, she’d been so busy she’d hardly had a second to think about her, but she thought about her now, wondered where she was, wondered if she was okay. She’d been watching the post since Celia went, hoping for a letter, for even a fucking postcard, anything would be good. But there was nothing – no news, no contact. She thought of asking Redmond Delaney if he had a clue where her aunt had got to, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Her conversations with Redmond were always business, never personal. It was an unwritten rule.

  Annie sighed and said to Kieron: ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock until three, Kieron, I can’t spare more. See you.’

  Ol’ Blue Eyes was booming out from the front room.

  ‘Not so loud,’ shouted Annie. Jesus! The neighbours!

  ‘Sorry,’ yelled Aretha and Darren as she joined them. She quickly tweaked down the volume and looked around the room. It looked good. She popped open a bottle of bubbly.

  ‘I’ve been putting the word round to my regulars,’ Darren was saying. He was looking very dapper in purple cords and a matching flowered shirt.

  ‘Mine too. God, hope we don’t get any more of those Golden Rainers showin’ up at the door,’ said Aretha. ‘I don’t mind kinky, but a girl has to have her limits.’

  Annie handed them each a glass. Living at Celia’s place had quickly proved to her what an innocent she was. Now she knew that Golden Rainers were men who liked to be pissed on. The diversity of their clients’ sexual tastes was a constant source of amazement to her, but she was fast becoming unshockable.

  ‘To us,’ said Annie as Ellie and Dolly joined them. Everyone was done up to the nines; they all looked good, and they knew it. They raised their glasses. ‘And to the success of our parties.’

  They clinked their glasses together as the doorbell rang. Annie tweaked up Frank and deftly removed the covers from the food. The ambience was good, with candles on the mantelpiece and soft side lights, and lovely comfy seats. She looked around and nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘First client,’ she said, as she heard Chris opening the door. There was a pause. Chris was taking the client’s coat and accepting payment. They drank and pasted smiles on their faces as the first punter came into the front room.

  ‘Hello,’ said Annie brightly, extending a hand to the gentleman, one of Ellie’s older regulars, and putting on her best posh voice. All right, she knew it wasn’t her. She had her roots and was never going to deny them. But this was business. The punters would expect a lady, and if that was what they wanted, that’s what they’d get. ‘How lovely to see you again. Come and sit down.’

  The party was on.

  Annie sat at the kitchen table next morning and reviewed the situation. She was not as unshockable as she’d thought. The party had gone with a swing, but it wasn’t a tea, dinner or bloody wine-and-cheese party with one of those new-fangled fondue sets at the centre of the table for dipping. It was a sex party, and the twenty-four gentlemen (she had anticipated twelve, tops) who had shown up had expected some pretty lively entertainment to be on offer.

  Dolly had soon proved her worth. Dolly could take on three men without even drawing breath. And Aretha had quickly provided a large proportion of their public-school gents with what they craved, which was to be tied up, handcuffed, blindfolded and soundly thrashed while she wore a selection of open-crotch panties and cut-out bras. Darren had set to and serviced the gentlemen who craved male rather than female attentions, and Ellie with her gentle wheedling ways was a favourite with the older gents who might take just a little longer over their fun.

  Throughout all this Annie had kept a straight face and dispensed drinks and food to keep the re
vellers nourished while they played. Chris, equally po-faced, had kept a discreet eye out for people getting too drunk or abusive, but everyone behaved themselves. Chris, Annie realized, was a wonderful visual deterrent to bad behaviour.

  By four in the afternoon it was over. The place looked like a bomb had struck. All the workers were hung over and battle-weary. But then they had to set to and get it all cleaned up ready for the evening’s trade.

  Now the dust had settled and Annie was counting out the proceeds on the kitchen table. She was coming to the conclusion that Celia had been a fool. She’d been sitting on a fucking gold¬ mine and hadn’t exploited the fact. Annie realized that she needed three or four more girls for the parties, and she needed a skilled barman too, how the hell was she to know what went into a Gin Sling? But these were minor problems, she thought as she counted out the loot. In all her time at Celia’s place, Annie had never seen money flooding in like this.

  There was a knock at the back door. Annie jumped. She could see a shadowy figure out there through the frosted glass. A hat, the bulk of a man. Chris had heard it too. He came hurrying purposefully through from the hall.

  ‘It’s okay, Chris, it’s only Billy,’ Annie realized, scooping up fivers and tenners and quickly shoving them in the dresser drawer.

  Chris let Billy in. Billy preferred the company of women, and he was uneasy around macho men like Chris. He looked nervously at the man-mountain.

  ‘Chris, this is Billy, a friend of ours – Billy, meet Chris, our new doorman,’ said Annie.

  ‘Hello Billy,’ said Chris. He looked annoyed. Annie knew that he had spent a lot of time over sharpening up security; it shouldn’t have been possible to even reach the back door. And he’d told Annie that she needed something solid there, not a door with glazing, but she liked the light it let into the kitchen. ‘How did you get round the back there?’

  Billy looked awkward. ‘I climbed over the fence,’ he said.

  Annie could see Chris making a mental note that involved higher fences and barbed wire. She suspected her nice frosted-glass door was soon to be bound for the tip. Billy had always used the back door, and in his mind that was the only door to use. Annie understood that, but Chris didn’t.