Dirty Game

‘Watch it!’ complained the girl.

‘Fuck off out of the way, you filthy whore,’ said Pat icily.

The girl took one look in Pat’s eyes and scrabbled up, dragging her old gentleman with her, his trousers still at half-mast. They fell to his ankles and he clawed at them, embarrassed. Pat let out a shout of laughter.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Darren, coming down the stairs with his client and seeing Dolly’s face as she stood in the front-room doorway.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. And then she noticed that Chris wasn’t in his seat any more.

Annie let herself into the Surrey place. There was no sign of Ruthie’s minder. She looked around at the great dark barn of a hallway and the big sweep of the staircase and heard only silence.

Christ, the place was huge. She thought of Ruthie living here, all alone. She must be going out of her head.

‘Ruthie!’ Annie called.

There was no answer.

She went through to the drawing room; empty, the fire unlit. She wandered through the whole ground floor, checked the kitchens, calling Ruthie’s name with increasing exasperation. Then she traipsed up the stairs and repeated the exercise, feeling more anxious with every step she took.

‘Ruthie! Where the hell are you?’

She pushed open three bedroom doors and found only emptiness beyond. She opened the fourth, and there was Ruthie, slumped fully dressed across the bed, boxes and clothes scattered around her. The nearly empty voddy bottle and the glass were there too.

‘Oh Jesus – Ruthie!’

Annie hurried to her side, her innards twisting with guilt as she saw Ruthie lying there drunk – drunk because she was miserable, and why was she miserable? Because of what she had done to her.

‘Oh, Ruthie, no,’ she moaned, snatching up Ruthie’s cold hand. ‘No, don’t do this …’

And then she saw the pill bottles. Lots of them.

 The clients were leaving like rats from a sinking ship. Not that Dolly blamed them. Pat Delaney was insulting everyone, laughing at their elderly gents, asking the Guards why they had to pay for it, couldn’t they get a woman to look at them, or did they just shag their precious horses?

‘You mouthy Irish bastard,’ snarled one, and Dolly had to step in quick.

‘Ah, you think you’d like a bit of me, do you, you poncy toy soldier?’ mocked Pat, downing tablets as he spoke.

‘Let’s all calm down,’ said Dolly, wondering where the fuck Chris was when you needed him. ‘Let’s all have a drink together and be friends, okay?’

‘I’m not drinking with him,’ said the Guard, shrugging into his shirt and stuffing it into his trousers. And he left.

‘You’re driving my clients away, Mr Delaney,’ said Dolly mildly.

‘Like I give a feck,’ said Pat. He reeled off to the toilet and came back again. ‘Another drink over here, poof- features,’ he said to Brian as he fell back on to the sofa in the rapidly emptying front room.

Dolly nodded to Brian. Best to give the sod all the drink he wanted, she thought. The sooner he passed out cold, the better. Then she’d just get some of Redmond’s boys to carry him out and take him home. No good waiting for Chris to put in an appearance. Chris was no fool. Rather than get into a ruck with Pat and make a vicious and powerful enemy, he was keeping out of it. Dolly couldn’t blame him for that. But all the Guards were gone now. It was starting to get dark outside, and the extra girls were making going-home noises. Brian was packing up too. Soon there would be just her and Ellie and Aretha and Darren alone with Pat Delaney, and that wasn’t a cheering thought.

 ‘Come on, Ruthie. Don’t arse about, you’re scaring me.’

Annie was patting her sister’s cheek whilst feeling the sickness rise in her own stomach. She was sweating all over, the fear squeezing her in a tight vice-like grip. Jesus, she’d slit her own wrists if the stupid cow was dead. She felt Ruthie’s scrawny neck and thank God, there was a pulse. She was breathing. She was alive. Her eyes flickered open.

‘Oh thank fuck for that,’ gasped Annie, and hauled her sister into a sitting position.

Ruthie moaned. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she sank back.

‘No, Ruthie. Come on.’

Fuck, this was bad, really bad. She’d known Ruthie was unhappy, but she had no idea she was low enough to try and finish it. Annie felt her guts twist with guilt. This was all her fault. What had she been thinking of, getting involved with Max? And poor Ruthie had been closer to Mum than she herself had ever been, she must have been feeling the loss of Connie so much more than her. Annie should have been here for her, she should have made sure she was all right.

Ah, but you felt too guilty even to look your sister in the eye, didn’t you? mocked a voice in her head. If there was damage done, you didn’t want to see it, did you?

Which was true enough.

Annie ran down the stairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on to boil, then she flung open cupboards and found the salt. She ran water into a glass tumbler, spooned salt into it, and raced back up the stairs. Ruthie was still lying there, her eyes open and gazing glassily at the ceiling. Annie hauled her up again. Ruthie moaned and muttered in protest.

‘Come on Ruthie. Drink up,’ said Annie, and held the glass to her sister’s lips.

It must have tasted foul. Ruthie’s face screwed up and she started to gag. Annie held her nose. Water sputtered on to the counterpane and all down the front of Ruthie’s dress, but a lot went down her throat. Ruthie pushed weakly against Annie as she made her down every drop of the vile-tasting liquid.

‘Oh you … you bitch  …’ gasped Ruthie, and then she started to retch.

‘That’s it,’ said Annie. ‘Let’s get it up,’ she said, patting Ruthie’s back. Her shoulder-blades were like knives poking through her skin.

I did that to her, thought Annie.

‘You bitch,’ groaned Ruthie again, and began to heave.

Vomit splattered out over the carpet.

‘That’s it,’ said Annie, as the smell and the mess erupted out of her.

Ruthie heaved again, and more came.

‘God, I hate you, you bitch, you bloody whore,’ whimpered Ruthie as drool hung from her lips.

Annie put a hand on Ruthie’s brow. She was sweaty and white, but hopefully she’d got whatever she’d taken out of her system.

Ruthie spat and wiped a shaking hand across her mouth. She looked at Annie, focused on her for the first time. ‘You utter cow,’ she said.

Annie went back downstairs and made strong coffee. She found cloths and a bowl and filled it with sudsy water. Then she took the whole lot back upstairs.

Ruthie was perched on the edge of the bed now, looked disgustedly at the floor. Annie handed her a mug of strong black coffee.

‘Drink,’ she ordered.

‘I bet you’re bloody enjoying yourself,’ accused Ruthie, wet-eyed and shaking. She clasped the mug of coffee.

‘Drink it up or I’ll hold your nose and pour it down you,’ said Annie, getting to work on cleaning up the mess.

‘Cow.’

By the time Annie had disposed of all the stuff Ruthie had sicked up, Ruthie was halfway through the coffee. Annie stood up.

‘Come on now, on your feet.’

‘Oh, just leave, will you? I didn’t ask you to come here,’ said Ruthie weakly.

‘I said on your feet,’ said Annie, and grabbed the mug and put it aside. She pulled Ruthie up with an arm