Jessie Keane: Lawless

In fact, Daisy felt that lately she passed her days consumed with guilt, not only about Kit but about her babies too. She loved her boys desperately, but being a stay-at-home mum had left her feeling restless, a little frustrated, a little bored even. Did that make her a failure as a mother? She felt that she was. And having abandoned her babies – and every waking minute spent away from them was torment – had she now compounded her failure by being a complete washout at her job?

‘How’s it going?’ Ruby asked.

‘Hm?’

‘At the store.’

Shortly after Christmas, Daisy had asked her mother if she could perhaps work in the Darkes flagship Marble Arch store. Ruby had been surprised, but gratified. She had dreamed of her daughter following in her footsteps one day. But she insisted that if Daisy was going to work in the store, then she was going to have to learn the trade from the bottom up, just as she had. And Daisy had agreed, even though it wasn’t what she’d envisaged. She’d pictured herself doing a little clerical work in Ruby’s office, helping out Joan, her mother’s PA. She liked Joan, who was a merry-eyed matron and kindness itself.

The trouble was, nothing had turned out the way she’d imagined – least of all store work. And on top of that there was the agony of leaving the twins in Jody’s care. Daisy felt shaky and near to tears, hyper-emotional every time she had to leave them. Plus she was still breastfeeding, which meant she had to express milk for their feeds, and wear pads inside her bra because her breasts leaked. Granted, the boys were gradually being weaned on to formula feed so she wouldn’t have to do it that much longer, but each day it seemed more of a struggle. Maybe Simon, her ex, was right: maybe she was a bad mother. True to his usual form, Simon had flown into a rage when she’d told him she planned to start work in the store, accusing her of abandoning the boys. Much as she hated the thought of doing anything that would please him, it was so, so tempting to throw in the job.

‘It’s going OK, is it?’ Ruby persisted. ‘At the store?’

Daisy gave a smile. ‘Oh yes. Great.’

Ruby studied her daughter’s face; she suspected that Daisy was lying, probably to spare her feelings, to avoid worrying her when she had enough on her plate as it was.

I’m so lucky that I’ve found Daisy again. That she’s here with me , she thought. All the pain she had been through over the years, all the anguish, was softened by Daisy’s presence. Her relationship with Daisy, after almost three decades apart, had fallen almost easily into a comfortable, loving mode. But her relationship with Kit was never going to be so simple.

Ruby heaved a sudden sigh.

‘What?’ asked Daisy, watching her mother curiously.

‘I was thinking about your brother,’ said Ruby.

‘Well, he won’t be at the funeral, that’s for sure. He hated Tito!’ Daisy snorted. ‘And you don’t have to go either. Not if you really don’t want to.’

But Ruby knew that was not true. She did have to be there. Because of Bella, Tito’s mother. And because of the phone call.

Blood will flow.

What could Bella have meant by that? Was it a threat? Or a warning? Ruby shuddered to think of that voice on the phone, trembling yet full of determination.

She had no choice. She had to find out what Bella was talking about.

‘Honey, wake up! Wake up !’ squealed a voice in Kit’s ear.

‘Wha…?’ he groaned, deep in a dream where a woman jangling with gold smiled at him with flirtatious sea-green eyes.

An alarm was going off. Someone was shaking his shoulder.

Ah shit no. Lemme sleep. Let me go back to her…

‘Wake UP!’ shouted the female voice, shaking him harder.

Kit opened his eyes. A shadowed face was leaning over him, hair tickling his face. For a moment he thought it was her. But then he realized it wasn’t. Felt the numb deadness crush him again. ‘What the fuck…?’ he mumbled.

‘It’s ten o’clock. You said not to let you sleep past ten, remember?’ said the girl, sounding annoyed.

Kit came properly awake. No, this wasn’t Gilda. It was… damn. Couldn’t remember her name. His head ached, he’d drunk too much last night and fallen into bed with her, one of the hostesses maybe? One of the dancers? Who knew? Who cared? He’d been in a club, drinking. Which club, he didn’t know. His mouth was parched and sour, his eyes gritty.

Ten… Why had he asked her to wake him at ten? He couldn’t even remember doing that, and he knew that was bad. This whole drinking thing was bad.

The alarm was still blaring away. He reached out, thumped the switch to off. Silence fell, except for the steady background hum of traffic out on the main road. And then it came back to him, all of it. Today was the day of the funeral. Today was the day that Tito Danieri got planted.

‘Coffee,’ she said, and slapped a mug down beside the alarm clock.

Kit pulled himself into a sitting position, rubbed his hands over his face. He looked at them, briefly. Both his palms bore pale ugly scars, but they were as much a part of him now as his teeth or his hair. He was used to them. Then he looked around the bedroom. It was flooded with light, fabulous and airy just like every other room in his house, which was a tall and fiendishly expensive Georgian place a stone’s throw from Belgravia. No more poky bedsits for him: he’d made it. Or rather, Michael had made it, and then had made him. Once he would have been so thrilled with all this. His own house , after growing up in rat-hole council orphanages and then making his own way out on the streets. Now, he barely even cared.

He reached for the coffee.

‘So what are your plans for today?’ asked the girl, sitting there naked on the edge of the bed. She was pretty, blonde, but he still couldn’t remember who the hell she was.

I have to stop this , he told himself. The drinking. The women. Maybe after today, I’ll be able to. Who knows?

‘Going out,’ he said, wincing as scalding-hot and sour-tasting instant coffee scorched his lips. He put the mug down. Looked at her.

‘Only I thought maybe we could spend some time together? I’m not on till eight.’ Her tone was hopeful.

One of the dancers? Oh yeah. And her name is… Susie.

‘Sorry, Susie,’ he said. ‘Busy.’

The girl’s cheeks coloured. ‘I’m not Susie,’ she spat. ‘My name’s Alison.’

‘Sure.’

‘I just thought… after last night…’ she said, her voice trailing off. She was wounded by his indifference. She looked at the man in the bed, so handsome, so well-muscled; he was like a hard-looking version of that famous actor, Omar Sharif. His skin was the colour of warm caramel, his face very still in repose, as noble and serene as an emperor’s – but his eyes, unlike Omar’s, were that fabulous, unexpected bright cornflower blue. She was already halfway in love with him, and he didn’t even know her name … and now, looking at him, she didn’t think he remembered that they had made love last night either. And maybe they hadn’t. For sure, she had been making love: but now she could see, with painful clarity, that for Kit it had been anonymous, mindless sex.

Alison got off the bed. ‘You know what? You’re a bastard.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Yeah! Tell it to the fucking marines,’ she said, and hurried off into the bathroom.

Kit sat there in the bed, alone, and thought of the day ahead.

The day of Tito’s funeral.

Something to look forward to, after all.