Jessie Keane - Black Widow

Vita felt the dry heaves start in her throat again. The kid had been spark out of it when Danny had done that -she couldn’t even name it in her head-and afterwards he had told Vita to fetch the Dettol and bandages he’d brought along with them, he thought of everything, Danny, mad as he was, crazy as he was, he never dropped a stitch.

He had shown his sister how to hold the kid’s arm up to stop the bleeding, had shown her how to clean the wound, the stump , and bandage it up. Because it was Danny-and because she had never, ever, said no to Danny-she did it, but she had gagged all the way through and afterwards she had gone into the loo and vomited up her breakfast.

She had started to wonder what damage it would do the kid, the way Danny kept her drugged up all the time. Even when Layla was conscious, when she ate-and how little she ate, just a tiny amount, was that normal?-she was in a daze, not quite with it, poor little cow.

But Vita knew the drugs were necessary. Otherwise, Layla would probably start screaming her head off, they would have to gag her, and she’d still make a noise, and they couldn’t risk that. Not in the hen house behind the little place in Palma, because there were other people living close by, and Marietta coming and going. Not on the boat either, because Phil had carried her aboard in a large canvas holdall that Danny had slashed here and there to make air holes.

The fishermen on board didn’t ask questions. Probably thought they were transporting drugs, and they’d been paid well, what did they care?

But no, it was Layla, it was a little kid drugged to fuck, unconscious. And now Vita was really worrying about it all. Would all this really not harm the kid? Would she really recover?

And now they were back in England. It was all building up to some sort of horrible crescendo, and she was full of fear, wondering where this mad scheme-which had seemed so easy, so simple, to start with-was going to end.

Danny was hopping to his feet again, all restless energy.

‘Get packed up,’ he told her. ‘We’re off up to the Smoke tonight.’

He left the room.

Vita sat there, looking at the ducks in the half-finished painting. Then her eyes strayed to Danny’s gun, just lying there on the table, and she thought of Layla, who would probably always suffer the after-effects of all that crap Danny had been dosing the poor little bitch with; Layla, who had seen her face.

Annie thought she would never stop being sick. She was crouched over the toilet bowl heaving her guts up and Dolly was there, stroking her hair, making soothing noises. Even when there was nothing left to bring up, still she was heaving and gasping, her innards rebelling at the outrage.

Lay la’s finger.

They’d cut off her baby’s finger, and placed it on the front doorstep and walked away.

Bastards.

How could they do that? How could anyone torture a child that way?

Of course it had been Dolly who had stayed calm, stoic to the last. Annie had screamed her head off when she saw it. Ellie had cringed back in disgust. Darren had turned milk-white and looked as though he might faint. Then Annie had fled the room, blundered into the loo and been sick.

Dolly had searched desperately for something to say, anything , that would help Annie’s pain.

‘Look, it means she’s alive at least. They’re trying to throw a scare into you, that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ Annie straightened, tore off a strip of toilet paper and wiped her mouth and stared at Dolly. ‘I tell you what, Doll-they’ve fucking well succeeded.’

And the finger didn’t mean Layla was still alive , she thought. Of course it didn’t. They could have hacked it off after they’d killed her. They could post back her baby girl to her bit by bit to prod her into raising the cash, only to reveal at the end that Layla had been dead all along.

‘What the fuck am I going to do?’ she asked Dolly wildly.

Dolly flushed the loo and let out a sigh. ‘I wish I knew, Annie love. I really do.’

Annie stood up shakily and rested her head against the cool tiles on the wall.

‘I need help,’ she moaned. ‘I can’t handle this.’

‘Yes you can. You can handle any damned thing.’

Annie was shaking her head, her hair hanging in rat-tails around her ashen face.

‘No. I can’t. I need help. Get hold of Billy. Tell him to get Jimmy Bond to meet me at the Palermo and to bring the locksmith. We’re getting that fucking safe open.’

Jimmy didn’t bring the locksmith to the Palermo. He brought a tall, ginger-haired man with a potbelly and a long, hawkish face, carrying a Gladstone bag.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ she demanded when they came into the office and the ginger-haired one promptly pulled out a stethoscope.

Tony had driven her over to the Palermo, and she had twitched around the office for an hour waiting for Jimmy and the locksmith to show, and now he hadn’t brought the locksmith, and she was hopping mad with Jimmy Bond’s lack of cooperation, lack of respect, lack of giving a fuck about what happened to her and to her daughter.

‘Jimmy …’ she started in, furious.

‘This is Ginge,’ said Jimmy. ‘I didn’t think the locksmith was a good idea. We don’t know what’s in there and we don’t want the general public knowing our business, do we? Ginge is safer, he’s one of our own, he’s good on combination locks. Go to it, Ginge.’

Ginge knelt down by the safe, pulled on a pair of thin cotton gloves, put the stethoscope in his ears and attached it to the metal beside the dial on the safe.

‘Jimmy,’ said Annie. ‘For God’s sake can we hurry this up?’

Ginge half turned and held a finger to his lips.

Fuck it all.

Annie sat down at the desk and waited. Jimmy stood there, hands in coat pockets, waiting too.

After ten minutes, Annie stood up.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said, and left the room.

She went downstairs, went into the deserted club, walked around. Seeing nothing. Her footsteps echoed around the place. She walked around because she couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t rest.

Suddenly she grabbed a chair and flung it across the dance floor. Then another. Then another. Then she stopped, panting, the blood singing in her ears, her heart thudding, her hands shaking so badly she wondered if she was about to collapse.

I’m cracking up , she thought. I’m losing it. And I can’t afford to do that.

She drew a deep breath. Tried to steady herself, get a grip. But her mind was full of Layla.

All she could see in her mind’s eye was Layla’s finger. All she could imagination was Layla’s suffering.

All she wanted was the blood of these people who had hurt her baby.

She put the chairs straight again. Sat down. Gathered herself. After twenty minutes had passed she went back upstairs to the office.

Ginge was turning the dial and listening to the tumblers clicking over on the mechanism. Jimmy was perched on the edge of the desk. She sat down again in the big leather chair. Another five minutes passed.

Then there was a distinct click and Ginge swung the safe door open.

He drew back, repacking his stethoscope into his Gladstone bag, tucking away his gloves. He didn’t look inside the safe. He nodded to Annie, shook Jimmy’s hand briefly, accepted an envelope from him-no doubt an envelope stuffed with cash-and trotted off down the stairs.

They heard the club’s outer door swing open, then close.