Dirty Game

He released her chin with a flick of his fingers. He was nodding. ‘It’s that fucker Delaney.’

‘No. It’s Ruthie. I can’t go on doing this to Ruthie.’

Max turned away. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘It’s the truth,’ said Annie, heart racing.

‘We were good together.’

Now Annie knew she’d been kidding herself. She looked into his eyes and saw only deception and cruelty there. Max Carter wasn’t the romantic hero she’d always believed him to be. Max Carter was a vicious, low-life thug, he always had been and he always would be. He would kill any fucker who crossed him, she knew that much. So would he really draw the line at wreaking vengeance for a crime against his family?

Annie stiffened her spine.

‘We might have been good together once,’ she said coldly. ‘But that’s over. It couldn’t go on. I see that now.’

Suddenly he turned back to her, grabbed her, kissed her hard.

Annie held herself rigid. He was hurting her. Punishing her. She tasted blood on her lip. She kept still, forced herself not to respond to him the way she always responded.

‘You’re mine,’ he said again against her mouth.

‘No,’ said Annie.

‘This is only over when I say so.’

‘No.’

‘We’ll see.’

The following morning, the nude portrait of her that Kieron had painted was thrown on to the pavement in front of the parlour. A car roared away. Chris came out and cautiously picked up the painting. The canvas was slashed right through.

38

Annie was sitting at the kitchen table next morning when Darren walked in. She was staring at the ruined canvas, propped against the wall in tatters. Darren looked at it, then at her.

‘Well, girl, he’s properly pissed off with you,’ he said.

Annie nodded. ‘There’s tea in the pot.’

Darren poured and sat down beside her. ‘Been up long?’

‘Hours – couldn’t sleep.’

‘Dolly wouldn’t say what had gone on. She said we ought not to talk about it to you.’

‘Dolly’s right, there’s nothing to say.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Look at the painting, Darren, don’t you think that says everything?’

Good old Dolly. She knew how to keep quiet, thank God. She might have a mouth on her like the Blackwall tunnel, but she knew when discretion was needed. Jesus, it was needed now. No one could know about Celia. Hadn’t the poor cow suffered enough? God knew what Max would do to her if he found out she’d come back, Annie knew all too well what he was capable of.

Still, Annie could scarcely believe that he’d trashed the painting. Slit it wide open with a knife, by the look at it. She thought of Celia’s missing hand. Of Kieron. Max seemed convinced this had something to do with Kieron.

‘Oh fuck,’ she moaned, and put her head in her hands.

‘It’ll all work out,’ said Darren, patting her shoulder.

‘Yeah?’ Annie dropped her hands and glared at him. ‘How, exactly? It’s a total bloody mess, and I’ve got no one to blame but myself.’

‘You sorry you left him?’

Annie thought of lying in bed with Max. All right, he was a man. Mum – God rest her, the poor cow – had told both her daughters over and over that men were bastards, that all they needed was a hole to stick it in and they were happy. But it had been different with Max and her. There had been passion, yes, but there had also been laughter, and Annie believed that she had got closer to Max Carter over the last month or so than anyone else had in a long while.

Maybe she had just been kidding herself, because just look – he’d done this. He was behaving like any other thwarted male, raging about the place destroying things and threatening revenge.

‘I’m not sorry I left him,’ said Annie dully. ‘There was nothing else I could do.’

‘Then you’ve got to pick yourself up and move your life on again,’ said Darren.

That easy. Annie sat there and felt like a puppet with its strings cut.

She stood up. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ she said.

Darren watched her go. Christ, this wasn’t the Annie Bailey he knew.

Annie had managed to sleep for an hour or so when Aretha knocked on her bedroom door. Annie lifted her head from the pillow and squinted up at her.

‘Fuck, girl, you look rough,’ said Aretha.

‘Thanks,’ said Annie.

‘You got Mr Big on the phone. Wants to talk to you.’

Annie shot upright. ‘Max?’

‘Redmond Delaney.’

Annie hauled herself out of bed, wrapped herself in the expensive turquoise silk dressing gown Max had bought her, and crawled downstairs. Chris was there in the corner. He nodded at her and went back to his paper. Dolly and Darren and Ellie were in the kitchen, chatting. Everything was as if she’d never left.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Bailey,’ said Redmond’s cool, calm voice. ‘Are you well?’

Annie drew in a quivering breath. ‘Fine.’

‘I heard you’d come back,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you going to stay?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you want to stay?’

‘I don’t know that either.’

‘Only there could be difficulties. Miss Farrell’s in charge now, she’s doing well.’

Annie had to think for a moment. Who the fuck was Miss Farrell? Of course. Dolly. Dolly had settled into her job as Madam and Redmond didn’t want her treading on Dolly’s toes.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You sound very tired.’

It was simply an observation, but Annie’s eyes filled with unexpected tears.

‘Yeah,’ she said.

‘I heard about Kieron’s painting,’ said Redmond.

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘Not your fault. Take care.’ And the line went dead.

Annie wandered through to the kitchen. Conversation stopped. Then Dolly piped up: ‘What did he say?’ There was an edge of unease in her voice.

‘Nothing much.’

‘You look like shit, Annie Bailey,’ said Dolly a touch unkindly.

While she looked great. Annie thought that Dolly had never in her life looked so good. So polished, so elegant. How the tables are turned, she thought, how the mighty have fallen. Dolly looked like the cover of a magazine, and she, Annie Bailey, formerly queen of this establishment, looked – yes, Dolly was right – like shit.