Playing Dead

by Jessie Keane

  Max stepped forward. ‘Chris is alive. Be grateful.’

  Ellie’s mouth opened, but she thought about the wisdom of mouthing off at Max Carter and decided against it.

  While she thinks nothing of tearing lumps out of me, thought Annie.

  ‘Can we see him?’ she asked Ellie.

  Ellie gave her one last, disgusted look. ‘Yeah. He’s in here, come on.’

  Chris was laid out in bed in a pair of neon-striped pyjamas. His neck was bandaged. As he heard them coming, he opened his eyes. His left eye was red where the blood vessels had burst.

  ‘They’ve told me his eye’s going to clear,’ said Ellie, bustling forward like a mother hen and taking Chris’s huge hand in both of hers. ‘They said it was lucky he lifted weights; it made his neck muscles dense and that saved him, that’s what the doctor said.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Chris hoarsely.

  ‘And he can’t talk, he’s not to talk, they said that too.’

  They sat down. Chris’s eye caught Annie’s.

  ‘Not your fault, Mrs C,’ he managed to say.

  Ellie’s lips tightened to a thin line and she glared across at Annie.

  Of course it’s your damned fault, her angry eyes said. Ain’t everything?

  Annie sat there feeling like shit. She did blame herself.

  All my fault, thought Annie. Yeah, Ellie’s right.

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ said Max to Chris. ‘Ellie’s right. Just shut the fuck up, lie there and get better. That’s all you got to do.’

  Chris managed to raise a smile at that. He nodded and mouthed okay.

  When Max and Annie had left the hospital, Ellie sat there still, gazing at Chris and wondering why she was such a fool and couldn’t tell him how much she loved him.

  Well, she knew why. She was afraid of rejection. She was fat. All right, curvy according to her friends. But in her own eyes she had only ever been fat. And Chris’s late wife Aretha had been so beautiful, so tall and lithe; Aretha had carried herself like a warrior queen. She’d worn clothes like they were made for her; she could turn the cheapest market tat into designer gear just by putting it onto her exquisite body.

  And then there’s me, thought Ellie as she sat there and Chris drifted off into sleep.

  Fat, insecure little Ellie, always diving in the biscuit tin.

  Oh, she knew she was Madam now, and she’d upped her game considerably, dressed accordingly; but in her own mind she was still the same little Ellie her mother had called dumpling. All the cutting remarks made to her over the years, she could remember every single one.

  Her dad, when she was going out to a party aged twelve: ‘Christ, she looks fat in that.’

  Her first boyfriend: ‘No one’s ever going to call you Twiggy, are they?’

  And so on.

  She was fat dumpling little Ellie, who was – who always had been since the minute she first saw him – in love with Christopher Brown, who had nearly died today.

  And if he had died, she would never have got the chance to say how much she loved him. And now . . . his eyes were closed; he was asleep anyway.

  She stood up; time to go. She looked down at him: a huge, ugly, hairy-arsed thug who stood guard on a knocking-shop door to scare away the lairy punters . . . all right, he wasn’t pretty. But Chris was noble, in his way. A gent. A lovely, lovely guy.

  He wouldn’t hear her say it anyway. It didn’t matter. So – what the fuck?

  ‘I love you, Chris,’ she said.

  And then she turned and left the ward, and she didn’t see Chris’s eyes slowly open as her words sank in.

  Chapter 81

  ‘You know, Ellie’s right,’ said Max as they were leaving the hospital. ‘You certainly do attract trouble.’

  Annie shot him a glare as they went out into the car park.

  ‘Well, I attracted you so I suppose she got that right.’

  He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to a halt, turned her in to face him. His eyes held hers.

  ‘I thought it was mutual,’ he said.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘But within a few months of my “death”, you’re off playing doctors and nurses with Constantine Barolli.’

  Annie took a deep breath. She was tired, so tired of trying to explain, trying to make everything come out right.

  ‘Look,’ she said at last. ‘You owe Constantine.’

  ‘Yeah? Explain that.’

  ‘He saved me. He saved Layla. He looked after us when you weren’t there to do it.’

  Max was silent, his eyes on her face. ‘And you loved him for it,’ he said.

  ‘Not for that. It was never about gratitude. You were gone. I was devastated by that, but you were gone. And then he came along.’

  ‘And you loved him.’

  ‘Yeah. All right. I loved him.’

  ‘And forgot about me.’

  ‘I never forgot about you,’ said Annie fiercely. ‘How the hell could I do that?’

  ‘Pretty damned easily, by the sound of it.’

  Annie wrenched her wrist free and turned away. ‘Oh what’s the fucking use?’ she spat, and went over to the car.

  He was never going to believe her. Or forgive her. It was hopeless.

  Chapter 82

  ‘So how are they doing?’ asked Dolly, polishing glasses as Annie sat at the bar of the Palermo the following day.

  It was only mid-evening and still quiet – not many punters in. The girls were already up on their podiums, swaying along to ‘Get It On’.

  ‘They?’ asked Annie.

  ‘The Yanks,’ said Dolly, tutting at her ignorance. ‘You said they showed up here. How you getting along with them now?’

  Worse than ever, thought Annie. The Barollis were, so far as she could tell, in tatters. Lucco was losing it, Cara and Rocco were dead, Aunt Gina was in heavy mourning, Alberto too; the whole thing was crazy.

  ‘They’re all flying back to the States tomorrow,’ said Annie. She hadn’t told Dolly about all that had gone down with the Barollis, and she didn’t want to start now. It made her feel weary, just to think of it.

  ‘Well, you won’t miss them,’ said Dolly, tossing aside her cloth and coming to lean on the bar. She looked at Annie with brightly inquisitive eyes. ‘So, what about you and him, then? Any news?’

  Annie shook her head. Max had driven her here and dropped her off, saying he’d be back in an hour. But would he come back at all? He had Layla now; she was his for the taking. She expected . . . well, what she really expected was that he wouldn’t come back for her. That she’d phone the Holland Park house, and that one of the staff would answer and say, no, he wasn’t there; he’d gone, and he’d taken the little girl with him.

  ‘No news,’ she said wearily. ‘He’s threatened to take Layla and he probably will, sooner rather than later. And he’s right, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. Nothing at all.’

  ‘That don’t sound like the Annie Carter I know,’ said Dolly. ‘Giving up? Come on.’

  ‘Doll,’ said Annie, ‘if you’d been through what I’ve been through these past few months . . . well, let’s just say it’s been rough. You know it has. And now . . .’

  ‘What? You’ve lost your nerve? Lost your taste for a fight?’ Dolly sniffed and straightened. ‘Sorry. Don’t believe you.’

  Now Annie jumped down from the bar stool and stared at Dolly.

  ‘What should I do then?’ she demanded. ‘What can I do? He’s got the boys on every street corner, this whole manor’s shut down tighter than a duck’s arse. He’s in control, not me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dolly, ‘we’ll see. Won’t we?’

  Chapter 83

  Next day, they gathered in the hall of the Holland Park mansion to say their goodbyes. Fredo and two heavies were loading the bags into the car ready to take Alberto, Lucco, Daniella and Aunt Gina to the airport to board the private Gulfstream jet.

  There was a sombre air over the whole gathering – as well there might be, Annie thought, as
she came out of the breakfast room and stood there watching them. The visit to England had been intended as an interlude of light relief and as homage to Constantine’s memory.

  But look what had happened. Rocco and Cara were dead. The whole family was shattered, blown apart. Just like Constantine was, she thought. What goes around comes around.

  Lucco was standing in the doorway, looking tetchy and tense, exchanging a word or two with Gina. As Annie closed the door to the breakfast room, he looked across at her with a deep and bitter loathing.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he said to her. ‘Leave your keys with the housekeeper when you go this time. You got it?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ said Annie.

  He turned on his heel and went out of the door. Aunt Gina glanced over at her, her face without expression. Annie nodded. To her surprise, Gina nodded back, and then hurried outside.

  ‘Stepmom,’ said Alberto, and came over to her.

  Annie thought he looked strained and pale, not himself. Of course he wasn’t. He’d lost his sister not too long after losing his father. It was a hard and very bitter pill to swallow, a double loss, tragic.

  He stopped in front of her and raised a thin smile.

  ‘You’ll come over and see us soon?’ he asked as Daniella joined them.

  ‘Very soon, I promise.’ Annie assured him. ‘I’ll be opening the club in September, remember.’

  ‘It’ll be a big success,’ he said. ‘I know it will.’

  ‘I hope so. Are you going to be all right?’ asked Annie in concern.

  Alberto’s smile widened. ‘Perfectly. There, you see? Smiling.’

  But bleeding on the inside, she thought.

  ‘Now stop fussing, Stepmom, and hug me,’ he ordered.

  Annie hugged him hard. It was like holding Constantine, and the moment was both sweet and heartbreakingly sad, because he wasn’t his father, he could never be; Constantine was lost forever.

  Over Alberto’s shoulder she saw Max appear on the top landing, watching her. She pulled back from Alberto and looked instead at Daniella, who was smiling shyly. Annie held out a hand, and Daniella took it.

  ‘You okay, sweetie?’ she asked her.

  Daniella nodded. Annie pulled her into her arms and hugged her tight. Then she pushed her back a little.

  ‘You know what? I’m going to miss you two,’ she said truthfully. She looked from Daniella to Alberto and thought that it was so sad that Daniella was tied to Lucco when it was clear that Alberto would have been the perfect match for her.

  You got that one wrong, my darling, she thought. Even Constantine could make mistakes: that much was clear. She just hoped that Daniella didn’t have to pay too hard and too long for it.

  ‘Well, the car’s waiting,’ said Alberto. He kissed Annie’s cheek briefly. ‘We must go. See you soon, yeah?’

  ‘You will,’ Annie promised.

  When they were gone, Max came down the stairs and crossed the hall to where she stood.

  ‘That was touching,’ he said.

  Annie blinked. ‘Don’t start,’ she said.

  Actually, it had been extremely touching and she found she had tears in her eyes. She loved Alberto, he truly was like a son to her. Or, at least, given their ages, a brother. And Daniella – well, who could fail to like her? She was so sweet and innocent, and it was gut-wrenchingly sad to think that life with Lucco was going to make a hardened and bitter woman out of her.

  ‘Where’s Layla?’ she asked. That was always the question she asked him every time she saw him now. She had no idea what he was still doing here. He should have left by now, taking her daughter with him.

  ‘Playing with Gerda out the back, by the pool. Why?’

  Annie shrugged. He was toying with her. Just batting her around like a cat with a mouse until he decided to act. She knew it. ‘No reason.’

  ‘He’s very like Constantine,’ Max went on. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  Annie stiffened. There he went again, making reference to Alberto’s looks and making snide insinuations.

  ‘No, actually I wouldn’t say that,’ she told him coldly. ‘Constantine will be impossible to replace. Alberto might look like him, but does he have the extra qualities required? I don’t know.’

  ‘He’s got his hands full with that smarmy little bastard Lucco, that’s for sure.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Him and Lucco had equal shares while Constantine was the godfather. They answered directly to him and he commanded them and the troops below them; he had it all stitched up tight. But now . . . well, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? Lucco’s unstable and ambitious, and that’s not a good combination. He wants complete control.’

  ‘But he’s got that.’

  ‘Alberto’s a threat.’

  ‘Alberto’s his brother.’

  ‘You think that matters? Lucco can’t hold it together, but he won’t share power with anyone. As the eldest son and as a mean, nasty little fucker he wants it all and he don’t want anyone looking smarter than he is. So Alberto had better be bloody careful,’ said Max.

  Chapter 84

  The tall blond one had followed him, but Frances had shaken him off. When he finally made his way back to Whereys, the first thing he saw was a For Sale sign outside. He swore and kicked it and shoved at it until it was down.

  Then he went to the front door and found it boarded up. He kicked the boards until he was able to get in, not noticing that his shoe had disintegrated and that his foot was bleeding.

  Sweating, panting and gasping with temper and effort, his tongue constantly snaking out to moisten his lips, he went through to the back door. That too was boarded, and he roared with rage and attacked it, wrenching at the boards, tearing at the nails, until his hands were bloody, the nails torn, the skin a mass of cuts and scrapes.

  He burst through the door at last and went out to the workshop with its stupid horseshoe over the door. He yanked the thing down and hurled it out into the wilderness of the back garden. His father had never loved him. He had never loved his mother, either. After all, hadn’t she always told her son that he was a secret: Daddy’s dirty little secret?

  ‘She did, she said that,’ he muttered to himself.

  So he and his mother had clung together, but then that had changed. She had started inviting the men in – strange, frightening men who drank – and that made him very scared. And angry too.

  ‘He should have been there with us, but he never was,’ Frances mumbled.

  And that was how it happened, thought Frances, going into the gloomy workshop. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the men had been there again, drinking, and his mother had been laughing and running in and out of the rooms with them, half dressed, and when at last they’d gone she’d said she was going for a soak.

  ‘Frances, baby, pass me that bottle will you . . .?’ she’d said, lolling there naked in the tub, just like she’d been naked earlier in the evening and on so many evenings before that, drinking and shrieking with laughter and falling onto the bed with the men, doing bad things there while the music played on and on and he clamped his hands over his ears to try to shut it all out.

  He wanted it to stop.

  So he picked up the half-full gin bottle like she asked, and smashed her over the head with it.

  He hadn’t meant to.

  He had just been upset, scared. And angry. One quick whack with the bottle – he put all his strength behind it – had felt like a moment of blissful release. She’d screamed once, then he hit her again with it. And then she’d gone quiet and she’d sunk under the water a bit.

  He’d gone out the back and flung the bottle away, way out into the Hollywood Hills, never to be found. He’d felt bad then, because he’d done that, hit Mommy. He thought he ought to go back in, so he did; he went to the bathroom and her head was above the water now, but there was blood on her face and in the tub but she was quiet. Then he’d got scared again because Daddy wasn’t there, he was never there, and so
Frances had phoned for help, for an ambulance.

  Now he stood in his father’s workshop. He dumped the grenade back in the box with the others, then for long moments he just stood there, stock-still, like a robot with a short-circuit while his mind replayed that night in all its horror.

  Finally, he stirred, and remembered what he’d come in here for. He started looking around.

  Ah yeah. There it was. He pulled out an orange plastic can from the heaps of detritus.

  Now he had it.

  Gasoline.

  He splashed it all around the lower storey of the house, found matches in the kitchen drawer, then retreated to the ruined front door. He wasn’t a fool, he wasn’t mad, not like dear old dad, no way. He knew you had to keep back. He lit a match, and tossed it inside.

  Whooomphh!

  Oh, he loved that sound, the cleansing sound of destruction. He stepped back, onto the path, driven there by the suddenly erupting ferocity of the heat. He smiled and watched his father’s home start to burn, and then he turned and walked down the path to the gate. The lanky blond-haired man was standing there. He hadn’t lost him after all.

  ‘Hey, freak,’ said Gary Tooley, and started towards him.

  This time, Frances didn’t bother to run. Now would be a good time to finish it, after all. Neat. Sort of fitting.

  He stood there, and waited for whatever came next.

  Chapter 85

  Annie was sitting at Constantine’s desk in his study, just soaking up the atmosphere, feeling him close to her somehow . . . but not close enough. He was gone. She was trying to convince herself otherwise by sitting here brooding like this, but that was the truth of the matter. He was gone, and he would never return.

  He didn’t visit her in nightmares any more. She was puzzled by that. She had grown so used to those horrors unravelling in her sleeping brain, so used to seeing him as a spectre, a hideously deformed and threatening thing that came to terrorize her in the night, that she had believed she would feel this way forever.