Jessie Keane - Black Widow

Jimmy. Jeanette. Vita. Una. Danny.

The fury consumed her now, leaving a cold and deadly purpose in its wake and a hard single fact in her mind: she had been misled into believing that Jimmy Bond was her friend.

But he wasn’t.

He was her enemy.

‘So what do you think?’ Chris asked.

Chris was getting to be a regular visitor at Dolly’s place. He liked a chinwag with Ross, and having a bite to eat with Aretha and the other working girls. It was about two o’clock on Tuesday, and he’d caught Annie on the stairs when she’d come in and headed straight up them, not wanting to chat, needing to be alone, to think all this through.

‘What?’ Annie paused on the bottom stair.

Ross was off somewhere, probably on a fag break. Tony was out in the car. Chris and Annie were alone in the hallway.

‘About the… you know,’ said Chris pointedly. ‘The money.’

He meant the job at his depot. The money. The huge stash of money that could have saved Layla’s life. Could have , but now wouldn’t.

Annie shook her head. ‘No, it’s off.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t get the muscle.’ She wasn’t about to tell him that the boys had just given her a resounding vote of no confidence. It stung too much. She had thought she was gaining ground with them, but now she knew exactly where she stood, and it wasn’t in a good place.

‘Yeah, but you got the Carter boys,’ said Chris, twisting the knife deeper.

‘No, Chris. It’s off.’ She started walking off upstairs. Didn’t want to hear any more about it.

‘If the boys don’t want to get involved, I can maybe get some people together.’

Annie paused, shook her head in irritation. ‘Come on, Chris. Be reasonable. There ain’t time to set up a decent heist. And you don’t want to get into the heavy game. Think about it. We’d have to get you out and away somewhere; you wouldn’t be able to get in touch with your family or friends again; it wouldn’t be safe. Do you really want to go that far, just to please Aretha?’

‘We could do it,’ said Chris obstinately.

‘Oh sure. We could. Forget extra muscle, we could do it ourselves. You and me, Dolly and poor bloody Darren, Ellie and Aretha, all dolled up in balaclavas and packing shotguns. Get real, for fuck’s sake. Now drop it, okay? It’s off.’

She went upstairs. She had decided what she was going to do now. She sat on the bed, still wearing her coat, and her mind was suddenly clear and sharp. Jimmy had called her bluff, but he was mistaken if he thought she wouldn’t send that straight back at him. She sat there, breathing deeply, listening to the sounds of sex coming from the other rooms. Una drifted past the half-open door in a black leather basque and fishnet stockings. She looked in, her eyes cold, her face still bruised from the pounding she’d got off Annie. Then she looked away.

Watching me , thought Annie. She’s been watching me all the fucking time.

Annie listened to Una’s footfalls as she went down the stairs. Annie wanted to run after her, grab her by her scrawny, drugged-up head and give her a harder pounding than last time, but she fought back the urge. No, she had to think. No good going off half-cocked, not with Layla’s life still swinging in the balance.

Ecstatic moans were coming from Aretha’s room at the front of the house. Now there was a liberal marriage and no mistake. Chris was downstairs sipping tea; Aretha was upstairs shagging the clientele.

Aretha and Una, both mistresses of the dominatrix trade-but there was a difference. Aretha enjoyed enslaving her willing victims, got a sensual buzz from chastising and humiliating them, but there was a line she wouldn’t cross. Una was another thing entirely. Una adored shouting and screaming at her victims, relished inflicting pain on them, loved to grind them, squirming in agony, beneath her booted heels.

Max would rip my head off if I went on the game , she thought.

But then, Max was gone. She was alone.

And she wasn’t sure about Chris and Aretha. She wasn’t convinced that Chris was cool about Aretha coming back on the game. Maybe Chris was fed up with working nights, with the pitiful pay he got as a security guard; maybe he was edgy about Aretha’s return to the massage parlour.

Maybe Chris felt Aretha was undermining his position as breadwinner by coming back to work; maybe Aretha was even doing it intentionally, saying: Look, you can’t keep me as I wish to be kept, so I’m going back to humping strangers for money, how’s that with you, honey?

Marriages!

Annie’s face clouded. Well, she didn’t have any of that any more. No more jealousy, no more tiptoeing around the male ego. She had nothing at all.

The phone was ringing in the hall. She heard Dolly pick up. Then Dolly’s voice, taut with urgency, was calling up the stairs.

‘Annie! You there?’

Annie went out on to the landing and peered over. Dolly, white-faced, was holding the phone aloft to her.

‘It’s him,’ she hissed. ‘It’s the fucking kidnapper.’

Annie wasn’t even aware of going down the stairs. Suddenly she was down there in the hall, grasping the phone. Una was gone, thank Christ. She could hear Chris in the kitchen, talking in low tones to Ellie. Dolly stood there beside her, watching her face, wanting to help but unable to.

‘Hello?’ said Annie.

‘Ah, Mrs Annie Carter,’ said the Irish man.

Annie’s heartbeat picked up. What the fuck was going on? It wasn’t Friday yet. She still had some time. Was he going to tell her they wanted the money now, right now? Oh Jesus God-if that was it, then she was well and truly stuffed.

‘What do you want?’ she asked stiffly.

‘Well that ain’t very friendly, now is it?’

She could hear the smile in his voice-the loathsome piece of scum. She said nothing.

‘Just a social call, Mrs Carter,’ he went on. ‘Just checking you’ve got the money ready, that’s all.’

That’s all.

And she didn’t have it. Not a fucking penny.

‘Yeah,’ she lied. ‘I’ve got it.’

‘Good. Now I suppose you want to speak to your baby girl, Mrs Carter?’

Layla.

Annie closed her eyes, holding back the hot, sickening flood of hysteria. Dolly put an arm round her shoulders. She opened her eyes. Braced herself.

‘Can I? Can I speak to her?’ Her voice cracked on the last word.

There was a pause.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Not yet. When Friday comes, when I get the money, Mrs Carter, then you can speak to little Layla, how’s that?’

‘You fucking bastard,’ said Annie, unable to hold it back.

She had no way of knowing if Layla was alive or dead. Just to hear her voice would be so wonderful, so unbelievably sweet. He was playing with her, enjoying watching her writhing like a fish on a hook.

‘Yeah, and I’m the fucking bastard who’s got your girl, Mrs Carter, so you just remember that, you remember to keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me. Got it? Or maybe I’ll let you have a word now. What do you think?’

Annie was swallowing bile, locked in this mad cycle of fury and loathing, feeling powerless and defeated.

‘Please-let me speak to her,’ she managed to get out.

There was rustling at the other end of the phone. And then Layla said: ‘Mummy?’

Annie let out a scream. Couldn’t help it. She’d been sure Layla was dead; she knew they’d tortured her, cut off her finger, and she sounded so sleepy…was she drugged, was that it?

‘Now,’ said the man’s voice after a few seconds. ‘You’ve got the cash, right? I’m just checking, because if you ain’t got it, if you’re lying or some damned thing-then, Mrs Carter, your little girl is dead.’