Dirty Game

sociable. She didn’t like alcohol much and she was appalled to see that Ruthie knocked half of hers back straight away.

‘So,’ Kath said briskly, ‘what’s it like, being Mrs Max Carter?’

Ruthie pulled a face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and dipped into the sherry again.

‘He’s ever so good-looking,’ said Kath. ‘You always sort of fancied him, didn’t you? When we were thirteen or fourteen you used to stop over with me at night. Remember? We used to lie in the dark and talk about Max Carter and Jonjo and the rest of the boys, and wonder what it would be like to be married. To be in charge of our own household.’

Ruthie nodded, her heart like lead in her chest. She wasn’t in charge of this household. It was in charge of her. Or Miss Arnott was. She thought back to those carefree teenage years, of all the dreams they’d had, her and Kath; how exciting and full of promise the future had seemed.

‘Yeah, I remember.’ She emptied her glass and went to fill it again.

‘We used to wonder what it would be like to actually do it,’ laughed Kath, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Ruthie seemed preoccupied. She was sitting down again, taking quick sips of the sherry. Fuck, she’s really putting it away, thought Kath.

‘It’s not so great,’ said Ruthie.

‘What?’ Kath spluttered. ‘With Max Carter? You kidding?’

‘It’s like being poked with a stick, if you want the truth,’ said Ruthie, and emptied her glass again. She stared moodily into the fire. Max and her hadn’t done ‘it’ since the night of the wedding.

‘Right,’ said Kath, her smile fading. She could see there was something horribly wrong here. ‘Has your mum been down yet?’

Ruthie shrugged. ‘A couple of times.’

‘She must be made up.’

‘She is.’ Ruthie thought about her mother, poncing around down here like she owned the place. Visiting her daughter, Mrs Max Carter. She enjoyed chucking her weight about with snooty Miss Arnott, lapped up being chauffeur-driven by Dave.

Silence fell.

‘What about Annie?’ asked Kath a bit desperately, then wondered if she wouldn’t have been better to keep her fat mouth shut on that subject.

She knew there’d been some sort of a falling-out with Ruthie and Connie and Annie, but even Kath’s mum Maureen didn’t know what had gone on. Connie wouldn’t tell her. All they knew was that Annie had moved out. No one was saying where to.

‘I haven’t seen Annie,’ said Ruthie, frowning.

She couldn’t even bear to think about the sister who’d betrayed her. She could hardly bear to think about Max, her husband. Yet already she’d been obliged to lie for him. The police had called one evening asking desultory questions about the death of gang leader Tory Delaney, but she’d been adamant that on that night, the night before their wedding, Max had been with her.

Wasn’t that a bit unusual? asked the police. Wasn’t that considered unlucky?

That was the groom seeing the bride on the morning of the wedding, Ruthie had told them, with Max’s arm around her shoulders, the happy couple, so much in love they couldn’t even wait for the wedding night.

What a laugh.

What a lie.

But everyone on the Carter patch would swear it to be true.

‘Come on, let’s get something to eat,’ she said, and managed to get through another hour of forced chatter until Kath said she really had to be going.

‘Not already?’ Ruthie was suddenly anxious for her to stay.

‘I’m dating Jimmy Bond,’ said Kath proudly. ‘He’s taking me to the Shalimar tonight.’

‘He’s one of Max’s boys, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, and he’s gorgeous.’ Kath looked at her cousin awkwardly. ‘Sorry and all that, Ruthie. I’ll come down again.’

But as they hugged goodbye, Ruthie knew that Kath felt awkward here, out of place, and that she wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

 So here she was, alone again with the big empty house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the whole place. The awful soul-churning anger and the God-awful loneliness gripped her by the throat again, nearly choking her. She swigged back another drink and then took the glasses into the kitchen and washed them. Didn’t want Miss Arnott thinking she was hitting the bottle during the day and having the nosy old biddy pass on the glad news to Max, now did she?

As she stood at the sink, her eyes were caught by the keys hanging beside the back door. She’d looked at them many times – keys to unknown doors, unlocking secrets. She was fascinated by them. She knew what some of them were for, but there were a couple she didn’t. Emboldened by the drink, she grabbed the whole bunch and went out of the back door and across the courtyard to the annexe. It was locked, as usual. She tried a couple of the keys and one fitted. She pushed the door open, glancing behind her to check that she was unobserved.

Of course she was.

She felt a little woozy, sherry on an empty stomach was never a good idea. She knew she should cut back, but at the moment the booze was all she had. But did she really want to end up like her mother? Just look at Mum, the poor raddled old cow, that’s what the drink did to you. See and learn, see and learn, Ruthie.

Giggling to herself, she stepped into the hall. It was so small, compared with the big house. And cosy. A real little home, with nice floral carpets on the floor and up the stairs. She wandered into the silent place, feeling like an intruder. She opened a door and found a proper lounge, nothing like that big barn of a room in the main house, where she had to sit on her own day after day, night after night. This lounge had a fireplace and a sofa and lots of ornaments, pictures of Max and Eddie and Jonjo as babes in arms, kids at the seaside, teenagers wearing boxing gloves, hard-eyed men lounging against big black cars. Over the fireplace was a larger portrait. Ruthie froze.

It was Queenie Carter. Queenie with her imperious expression, her hard little mouth, her sharp blue eyes, her white hair billowing out around her face like a cloud. Queenie seemed to stare back at her and ask what the fuck Ruthie was doing, wandering around inside her home without permission. Ruthie left, closing the door firmly behind her. Her heart was racing and she felt light-headed, almost sick. She knew she shouldn’t be in here, Max had said she could go anywhere but not into the annexe, and now she could see why.

This was not an annexe. This was a shrine to Queenie Carter.

‘What’s going on?’ said a voice behind her.

She turned. Max was there, he’d found her. But no, it was okay. She blinked and clutched a hand to her hammering chest. It was only the gardener. She’d forgotten this was his day to come and do the lawns, trim the shrubs.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Carter,’ said the gardener. ‘I wondered what was going on. Sorry to make you jump like that. I haven’t seen anyone in the annexe since Mrs Carter died. Mr Carter’s mother, I mean.’

‘I know who you mean,’ said Ruthie, shoving past him and relocking the door. Suddenly she felt stone-cold sober. ‘She died, I didn’t. I’m still alive.’

But as she walked back to the main house, she wondered if that was really true.

12

‘Don’t I know you?’ asked Aretha, leaning her rangy black frame against Annie’s open door.

Annie was sprawled out on the bed flicking through a magazine. She wasn’t in the best of moods. She didn’t like being at Celia’s. All that bumping and grinding in the night, people coming and going at all hours. This morning, glad to get out of the place, she’d turned in for work as usual at the corner shop. Monday morning. Ruthie had been