Dirty Game

the rabid reporters out of the way.

‘Jesus,’ she said as she sat in the lobby and Jerry Peters came to greet her dressed in his working clothes of black gown and grey wig. ‘I didn’t expect so much Press interest.’

‘It’s a titillating subject,’ said Jerry. ‘The Press will lap it up.’

Bastards, thought Annie. Talk about a three-ring circus. They wouldn’t be so bloody keen to dish the dirt if it was their backsides on the line here.

When she at last stood in the dock and heard the dreaded words ‘All rise’ and the judge came in all po-faced and looked at her like she was shit to be scraped off his shoe, she knew she was in trouble.

‘Let’s hope we don’t get that Bartington-Smythe asshole,’ Jerry had said in chambers. ‘He’s a Puritan to his boots.’

Judge Bartington-Smythe glowered down at her. Oh fuck, thought Annie.

Well, she’d done all she could do. Her dress was dark and demure, covering her from neck to wrist to ankle. Even her friends, sitting across the court from her, had toned it down to show their conservative support. Aretha and Dolly and Darren looked positively respectable sitting there watching the proceedings. No Ellie. After all her backstabbing, Dolly had made it clear she wasn’t welcome to accompany them to the trial. No Ruthie or cousin Kath, but then she hadn’t expected them to show up. But Max was there across the court. He winked at her. She felt like she was going to throw up with fear, but his being there gave her comfort.

‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of exercising control over three prostitutes and keeping a disorderly house?’ asked the judge.

‘Guilty,’ said Annie, as Jerry had instructed her.

So lock me up, she thought. Get on with it.

But first it all had to come out. Annie closed her eyes and ears to it as much as she could. She looked at the judge sitting up there looking down at her and thought, hypocrite. His posh mates had been among her clients. She was faintly surprised to realize that he hadn’t been one himself. Several judges and barristers were among her regulars.

It was tiring. She was well now, the bullet scar was still there but it would fade within the year, the doctors told her. But she had been left weak and easily tired by the shooting. She could have done without all this shit so soon after the event.

It’ll pass, she told herself. She shut out the shouts of laughter from the Press gallery, the judge’s admonitions to them, Jerry’s impassioned pleadings in her defence, the cruel jibes of the prosecuting counsel, the endless summings-up and evaluations of all her many and various sins.

Finally, it was done. She stood in the dock and Judge Bartington-Smythe glared at her. She looked at Dolly’s face, taut with worry. Good old Dolly. Darren was chewing his nails and Aretha was so tense she looked like she was carved from ebony.

Good luck, girl, she mouthed at Annie.

She was standing alone again. She took full responsibility. All the pillars of the community who had flocked to see her girls were unnamed, home free. Her girls were out of the frame too. She alone stood accused, and in the judge’s summing-up was such venom that she knew she was sunk.

‘I do not accept that you are ignorant of the law, Miss Bailey,’ he said in a voice that chilled her to the marrow. ‘I therefore fine you one thousand pounds and order you to pay costs of one thousand five hundred pounds for keeping a disorderly house and exercising control over prostitutes. I also sentence you to eighteen months’ imprisonment,’ he said.

Annie clutched the front of the dock for support. Eighteen months! For fuck’s sake, she would die shut away in some hell-hole for that long. She felt dizzy suddenly, her ears buzzing. She looked over at Dolly, who had tears streaming down her face. Darren was talking to her, putting his arm round her shoulders. Aretha was patting Dolly’s back. Annie looked straight at Max, whose face revealed not a flicker of emotion.

Rotten, cold-hearted sod, she thought in fury.

Then the judge cleared his throat and went on. ‘But as this is your first offence it will be unconditionally suspended for one year, during which you will be required to conduct yourself as a model citizen…’

The old boy droned on and on, while Annie stood there with her mouth hanging open.

Suspended.

She was not going down.

Annie looked over at Dolly, Aretha and Darren. A slow grin spread itself over her face. Dolly suddenly let out a delighted shriek. Aretha jumped up and punched the air. Darren grinned and blew Annie a kiss. The Press gallery went crazy. Judge Bartington-Smythe gave them all a look of sour disfavour.

Annie looked at Max.

He winked.

Jesus Christ, he’d bought the judge. She couldn’t believe it but it was true. He’d bought the fucking judge!

The court was in uproar. In a daze Annie found herself shaking Jerry by the hand, found herself being hustled outside, fetched up at the door of the court with Max by her side. His boys formed a cordon around them as they left the court building.

‘You bought the fucking judge,’ Annie hissed at Max as they emerged into bright daylight and the Press went crazy, bulbs flashing, crowding around, asking if there was any comment. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘I did tell you I was looking into things,’ said Max, slipping his arm around her shoulders.

‘Any comment, Miss Bailey?’ asked someone, shoving a microphone in her face.

‘No comment,’ she said, and Max’s boys got them down the steps and away.

65

Ruthie was down in the country, wandering around Max’s big imposing house alone. She’d spent some time in London while Max and Annie had been here together. She’d gone shopping, caught up with Kath and Maureen, had some fun for once. Hadn’t touched a drop, either.

She’d been following Annie’s trial in the papers and on the telly. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of going to court and watching Annie squirm up there. Poor little cow. The Press were calling her ‘the Mayfair Madam’ and making a big joke out of the whole thing. Not mocking the well-to-do men who’d shagged the girls there, oh no. It was always the women who paid and the men who got the gravy.

The phone was ringing. She went into the drawing room and picked up.

‘She got off,’ said Kath’s voice in outrage. ‘Jimmy just came home from the court and told me. Talk about the devil looking after his own.’

Ruthie sagged with relief.

‘Ruthie? You there?’

‘Yeah, I’m here.’

‘She got off, can you believe that?’

‘Yeah. Thanks for letting me know, Kath.’

Quietly Ruthie replaced the receiver. Kath was still babbling away, full of bile towards Annie and all that she had done. But Ruthie felt calm now. She thought of Annie, and of Max, the cunning bastard.

I knew you’d come to the rescue, Max Carter, she thought with the ghost of a smile. You never could resist being the hero could you?

She went to the window and looked out at the bright clear day. Gordon was out in the garden, cutting back the plants and tidying up. Autumn was coming in fast, and the beeches were beginning to turn red. She watched him from the drawing-room window. Big Dave was in his flat over the garage, no doubt eyeing up his posters and reading his smutty magazines.

She was alone.

She looked over at the drinks tray, but it didn’t have any appeal. Funny how Annie had been her downfall and also her saviour. She had started drinking when Annie had betrayed her; she had stopped drinking when Annie