Dirty Game

Christ, that would really put the cat among the pigeons. Darren, the male prossie Eddie had been attacked with, turning up at a Carter funeral.

‘Are you sure you should go?’ asked Darren.

‘Celia would go,’ said Annie flatly, and was relieved to hear the taxi tooting away outside. She didn’t want time enough to talk herself out of this. It wouldn’t take much to make her bottle it altogether. But she owed it to Celia to at least show up and pay her respects. Dig deep and stand alone, she told herself.

‘Take over, Darren,’ said Annie, and left.

 The streets all around the cemetery were thronged with people turning out to show respect to the Carters. Annie paid the taxi driver, told him to come back in an hour, and decided to walk the rest of the way. She caught snatches of the conversation of other mourners.

‘See,’ flu can be nasty. Carry you off in a minute.’

‘Our Gillian had it last winter, she was fucked. Too weak to lift a finger.’

‘And he was so young.’

‘Yeah, but never strong.’

‘Just goes to show.’

So that was the story. Eddie Carter had died of complications brought on by influenza. She went into the church. It was already nearly full, and she was pleased about that. She tucked herself away at the back, glad to be lost among the crowds.

Annie thought that organ music was the most depressing thing in the world. All around her people were talking in whispers, scared to appear disrespectful by raising their voices in a place of worship. She looked up at the stained-glass window. Angels were clustered around Christ on the cross. Candles glimmered on the altar. It was pretty and serene in here. When she thought of how Eddie had died, it pained her to look at any of it.

There was a rustle of louder whispering now. The hearse had arrived. The music changed, swelling with Saul’s Dead March. There was movement and lowered voices from the porch, then the coffin came, beautifully draped in white lilies, borne aloft by six men. She saw Jonjo Carter and Gary Tooley, Jimmy Bond and Steven Taylor, Jackie Tulliver – and Max.

Annie felt her heart kick violently in her chest. She hadn’t seen him since he’d chucked her out of his car. Christ, such a lot had happened since then! She’d changed. She could see that he’d changed, too. He’d lost weight. His face was sharper, his dark skin almost pale. Every pulse in her body seemed to have speeded up. She quickly looked away from him, it hurt too much.

All her stupid unvoiced hopes for this day had proved worthless. She had almost convinced herself that his power over her would be gone, that she would look at him and not feel what she had always felt. She didn’t know what this was – love or lust? More like a fucking obsession. Whatever it was, she had to get rid of it.

Then the six grim-faced men were moving slowly on up the aisle. They stopped in front of the altar and placed the coffin carefully on the dais. The music stopped. The vicar told everyone to be seated. Annie sat numb throughout the readings then stood up to mouth the words of hymns. She lost track of time, it was like a waking nightmare, but at last the coffin was coming back down for the interment. This time she didn’t look at Max. But she saw Ruthie and Mum following on behind the coffin.

Mum looked fucking awful, but then she always did. Black drained her, made her look scrawnier and pastier than ever. But Ruthie was a shock. She was so skinny now, and her expensive dress hung on her like a rag. Where had Annie’s plump, warm-featured sister gone? Ruthie looked like a mannequin, painfully thin and cold.

It was better outside in the air, even if the wind cut like a knife near the grave. Queenie’s headstone was huge and elaborate, a tribute from Max and Jonjo and Eddie. Now Eddie was joining her, to lie beside her for eternity. The many mourners, Annie among them, stood back and let the close family cluster around the grave. The vicar was saying the ancient, soothing words. Ruthie was crying and dabbing at her eyes. Connie put her arm around her and Annie felt her guts clench in sympathy. Jonjo was a big, bulky presence, standing with head bowed beside a rigidly upright Max.

Annie allowed herself to look at him again. One look, one last guilty moment of pleasure before she stopped this silliness once and for all. She stared at his face. The hooked nose, the dark hair being tossed by the wind, the steely blue eyes that raised and now looked – oh God – straight into hers. Annie’s breath caught with the shock of it. Their eyes locked for a long time, then Max looked down at the grave again.

‘It’s a fucking shame,’ someone was saying behind her. ‘Not that long since the old lady went, and now the boy.’

Then it was over. Thank God, thought Annie. She rushed out of the cemetery gates to the waiting taxi. She didn’t look at Max Carter again. She didn’t dare.

21

Redmond Delaney sent over an ex-boxer called Chris Brown for the job on the door. He was an ugly bald man, six-and-a-half feet tall and eighteen meaty stones of muscle, with a battered nose and misshapen ears. Chris had a gentle, respectful way with women and a hard but polite way with men. He dressed immaculately. Annie took to him at once, but was appalled to realize how much he expected to make out of her. She hammered him down to the lowest possible basic, adding that there would be perks to the job.

‘Tips on the door, food and drink, a bed if you should need it, and the use of the facilities.’

‘The facilities?’

‘The girls. Or Darren. Work out any charges with them.’

‘No freebies?’ Chris smiled.

‘This is a place of work, not a dating agency,’ said Annie firmly. ‘And the golden rule here is discretion. We get on okay with our neighbours, because they don’t know our business. I don’t want them to, either. Keep inside, don’t make yourself obvious out in the street. Break that rule and you’re out. And Mr Delaney will be told why.’

‘Mr Delaney said you were tough,’ said Chris, unruffled. ‘I respect that, Miss Bailey.’

‘Good. Then we’ll get along fine.’

With Chris installed from late afternoons to early morning, she felt safer. Poorer too, but still – everything came at a price in this world. He was handy as well. He reviewed their security, telling her she needed better locks front and back, security chains, a peephole on the front door, locks on all the windows and a firmer line on house personnel. She needed to monitor more closely who was in and who was out. He hit on the idea of a book on the hall table. When someone, staff or punter, left, they were signed out. When they came back, they were signed in. That way, Annie insured against any nasty surprises. And keys must be more carefully guarded.

‘See to it,’ said Annie. More fucking expense, but she knew he was right. ‘But remember …’ ‘Be discreet. Got it,’ said Chris, squeezing into his Zodiac and roaring off to the hardware store.

Kieron was still being a pest. A week after the funeral, he phoned and at last she agreed to sit for him again – and this time in the nude. She wasn’t happy about it. Her mind was in turmoil. The pressures of Eddie’s death, seeing Max and Ruthie, preparing for the first of the parties and not knowing whether it would pay or not, wondering where the hell Celia was and if she was okay – it was all getting to her.

And now – this.

‘I’m not sure about any of this,’ said Annie when she got to his flat at Shepherd’s Bush and stood there in the paint-spattered room with the smell of turps and linseed oil nearly choking her.

Kieron was busy putting a prepped new canvas on the easel, not taking any real notice of her. As usual. What was the matter with the bastard? she wondered in sudden fury. He’d pushed a tatty, red velvet chaise to the centre of the room, ready for her to recline upon. Probably heaving with nits and all sorts by the look of it, she thought angrily. For God’s sake, did she really need this?

‘There’s a robe on the door, get changed in that little room through there,’ he said, not even glancing at her, tossing boxes aside as he hunted for fresh charcoal.

The ‘little room’ turned out to be a broom cupboard. She barked her shins on a metal bucket and knocked over mops and brushes when she tried to turn round.