Dirty Game

‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back to her room. ‘Keep it down, okay?’

‘Come on love, shake hands and make up,’ said Ellie, a plump little brunette with a sweet face. She gave Dolly an encouraging smile.

Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.

‘That’s a no, then?’ asked Darren.

‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ promised Dolly, and went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.

‘Come in and listen to Cliff with us,’ said Ellie to Annie. ‘She’s always getting her knickers in a twist, she’ll calm down.’

‘No, I’ve had enough excitement for one day,’ said Annie. She went back into her room, closed the door and fell on to the bed.

What the hell, she thought. Max didn’t care where she was. So long as she kept out of his way things would be fine, she told herself. She wondered if it was true that Ruthie was ill, or was that little tart Dolly just enjoying winding her up? She didn’t like to think of Ruthie being ill. Maybe Ruthie was pregnant. That thought cut into her like a knife. Ruthie, pregnant with Max’s child? Too restless and unhappy to settle, Annie went downstairs and got the Delaneys’ phone number from Celia.

15

Eddie Carter often wondered about the night he’d buried the gun for Max. His gut feeling was that Max had shot Tory Delaney dead, but something about the way Max had denied it niggled at him. He knew the police had been round asking questions, but Ruthie had provided an alibi, as any good wife would. It was best not to speculate. Tory was dead and that was an end to it.

Or was it? Because there was still Redmond and Pat Delaney.

Best not to think about that, either.

Eddie was enjoying his life, going round the clubs and pubs with his friends tonight, calling in on the Shalimar and The Grapes and finishing up at the Palermo Lounge. Max and Jonjo were in, the place was buzzing. They had their heavies with them, standing a discreet distance away. Eddie didn’t want a minder and had refused one more than once, even when Max tried to insist. He hated the idea of someone sneering at his sexual tastes, and he knew a lot of Max’s macho hard men did. Then one of the boys whispered that there was the most exquisite boy in a house not too far away, Eddie would adore him, why didn’t they go on over and visit?

‘Really?’ Eddie was intrigued but unsure.

His taste for pretty boys had got him into trouble a couple of times. He knew that Max disapproved. Jonjo despised Eddie for the fact that he liked to bed men instead of women, he knew that too. But Eddie did feel the urge, he was drunk but not incapable, so why not?

‘Is he blond?’ Eddie asked, his words only a little slurred. Max would disapprove of that, too. Drunks annoyed his sainted older brother. Drunks and loose women and men who liked shagging pretty boys … the list just went on and on. Eddie laughed at the thought of it. And there he was, the great Max Carter, sleeping in a separate room from his wife, a fact that must never ever be revealed to the wider world. Eddie liked Ruthie. The poor cow. Ruthie fussed over him like an older sister, and he liked that. He’d never had a sister, only a domineering mother who had frightened the arse off him most of the time, cuffing him around the ear or whopping his backside for stepping out of line.

Ruthie was different, gentler. She never nagged, never screamed like a tart in the street or hit people. He and Ruthie enjoyed their long chats and shopping trips. Despite the fact that he could see how unhappy she was, she never bad-mouthed Max to him or to anyone else. He liked that about her, too. Loyalty to the family was imperative. His mum had drummed that into them when they were growing up, and it had stuck. The Carters fought the world; never each other.

‘Yeah,’ said Deaf Derek, queer as a yellow duster with his earrings glinting in the light of the big revolving mirrored ball in the centre of the club. It winked like fairy dust over the dancers on the small dance floor, highlighted the boys in the four-piece band. It was late in the evening, everyone was feeling mellow and grabbing a last excuse to waltz up tight with their ladies. Jonjo was up on the floor hugging a curvaceous blonde in a bear grip. Max sat at his table alone, watching the dancers.

‘Is he slim?’ Eddie watched his own weight religiously, and dressed to flatter his elegant frame. His idea of a living nightmare was to find himself closeted with a fat, ugly old queen. Deaf Derek was sweating in the heat of the club. He wore a hearing aid, he’d been born deaf in one ear.

‘Slim. And young. He’s gorgeous,’ Derek told Eddie.

‘Well,’ said Eddie, ‘why not?’

 A taxi took them to an address in Limehouse. Eddie stumbled into the house with Deaf Derek, only vaguely seeing the clean, cosy, red-flocked hallway, a clock on the wall shaped like a guitar, a wooden plaque showing a bull and bullfighter, red cape whirling. They climbed the stairs, Derek first, Eddie giggling because Derek stumbled and nearly fell.

‘You’re pissed,’ laughed Eddie, but Derek was up ahead and a bit mutton so he didn’t respond. Up on the landing they were met by a pretty young man. Yes, he was slim. Almost skinny. But a lovely face, a shiny mop of blond hair, friendly blue eyes, nicely turned out.

‘How much for the night?’ asked Deaf Derek brusquely.

‘For you?’ The guy looked Derek up and down and sniffed. ‘You couldn’t afford me, darling.’

‘Not for me. For my mate Eddie.’ He pulled Eddie forward and suddenly Eddie wished he hadn’t agreed to this. He was wishing he’d just gone back to Queenie’s old place and crashed. He felt tired. And having to pay for it yet again felt demeaning. But the boy was smiling at him. And he was pretty.

‘To you,’ said the boy, smiling seductively into Eddie’s dazzled eyes, ‘twenty.’

‘Twenty?’ Deaf Derek echoed. ‘This ain’t fucking Mayfair, girly.’

‘Okay,’ said Eddie. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Darren,’ said the boy.

‘Really?’

‘No, really it’s Horace,’ said Darren with a laugh. ‘But I’ve been Darren since I was sixteen and left home.’

Eddie turned to say that Derek could go now, but Derek was already halfway down the stairs. He was alone on the landing with a male tart.

‘Come on in,’ said Darren, and they went into his room. It was neat and clean as a new pin, which was what Eddie would have expected. There was a small sink in the corner. ‘Wash your dick, there’s a love. Towel’s on the rail.’

Again Eddie felt that stab of mortified disgust at his own behaviour, but he was already excited. He was closeted with a beautiful queen and he couldn’t wait to get down to business. He went to the sink, pulled down his trousers and pants, and washed his genitals carefully. He dried himself on the towel, and when he turned around Darren was on the bed, naked.

Eddie felt a crushing disappointment. He’d wanted to talk, to get to know Darren a bit before they got down to it. This felt so cold, so businesslike. He hated being a queer. He didn’t have to hide it away like some people did because he was a Carter, and no one poked fun at a Carter. But he missed the easy closeness that men and women could enjoy. You went out, saw a woman you fancied, took her home to meet Mum, and lived happily ever after – in theory anyway. But Eddie always had to struggle to get past the ‘are they or are they not queer?’ question, sometimes offending people without meaning to, and it slowed things down, ruined the mood.

Sometimes he found it was easier being alone than going to the bother of finding a partner who wanted the same things out of life. Which was why he often resorted to paying for sex. Because it was a transaction – a bit of business, and that was all. Soulless, yes; but at least no hassle. He looked down, dismayed to feel his hard-on dissolving.