Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘It was in the papers, what, three years ago? Nineteen seventy it was. Where have you been, on the moon? They reckoned the plane crashed in the Irish Sea. No bodies were ever recovered. Not even a scrap of wreckage.’

Rufus stared into his beer, deeply troubled. He couldn’t bear to think of Orla perishing that way, in the icy churning waters.

‘Rumour has it that while Max Carter was away, his old lady was mucking about with some Mafia type from New York, and that one arranged the crash. Which is entirely possible, it seems to me. You don’t mess around with those people, they’ll have your guts.’

Rufus heaved a sigh. Jesus. Orla, gone. He looked at Gabby. ‘What else do you know about the Carters?’ he asked.

Gabby filled him in.

Rufus felt as if the heart had been knocked out of him. His mind was full of Orla, full of those sunlit days in the garden when they were young and carefree, when he had kissed her. Sadness gripped him to think of her gone for ever. And anger took hold as he thought of the Carters, the trouble they’d brought upon her.

But he had to keep his head down, even over here. If he was going to keep out of Don’s way, it would be better not to make waves. He was safe here, and he could make a life for himself, provided he wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t, despite what his cousins Tory and Pat had said.

‘Rufus the DOOFUS,’ they used to shout when he’d visit the farm to play. ‘Rufus the DOOFUS!’

Only now he wasn’t a hulking inarticulate thug of a teenager, upset by such goadings. Now, he was a man in his prime. Gang bosses saw his worth and made good use of him. He was a freelancer, a mercenary, hiring himself out to the highest bidder, with no loyalty to anyone but himself. The only gang he would never work for was the Carters. He spat on the ground every time their name was mentioned.

Once, he saw her , Annie Carter, sweeping out of a black Jaguar with a bulky bald-headed minder at her side. She was a stunner, he had to admit that. Dark hair falling around her shoulders, the black coat, the heavy shades, the red full mouth set in a grim line. She looked both exceedingly sexy and completely formidable.

The gangster woman.

Married to one gang overlord, Max Carter.

Then married again – to Constantine Barolli, Mafia boss. A bona fide Mafia queen.

And she looked it, every inch of it. Dangerous. Alluring. Expensive.

If she truly was behind the deaths of Orla and Redmond, revenge was on the cards. But that would have to wait. For the time being, he was keeping a low profile. Doing jobs. Breaking a leg or two. Intimidating late payers with his fists or a baseball bat. And always a trip to the confessional afterwards. Time passed in a blur. He was enjoying the city life and the rewards that his choice of career brought him, which were plentiful.

Soon he had his own flat, more willing girls than he could handle, a nice motor. Life was sweet.

And then, in the way that life does, it all came crashing down on him once again.

Rufus had been up to Chingford on a little job, chasing a late payer for one of the Pozo boys. The Pozos were Italian immigrants, avaricious loan sharks. Rufus had to wonder at people allowing themselves to become embroiled in the webs the Pozos spun. Did being poor make you stupid?

No – but he guessed it made you desperate enough to deal with scum like the Pozos. Borrow a thousand quid off them, and soon you owed fifteen hundred as the interest racked up. Six months down the line, after a few late payments, you could be looking at three thousand.

Which of course you couldn’t pay back.

Then the threats started.

Big men turning up at your door with dogs snarling and straining at their leashes, taking your telly, your fridge, anything saleable. Object and you’d get a slap. Default after that, and you’d be in for much worse. Somehow, you had to get the money. So you stole it off family, or employers, or any fucker, you were that desperate, there were heavies after you, nowhere was safe any more.

Whatever it took, you paid up.

And, hopefully, you were wiser next time.

As always, Rufus did the job dispassionately, collected the cash, and departed. Ignored the spitting, the anguish, the tears, the occasional kick or inexpertly thrown punch from the punter under pressure. It was all in a day’s work. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Soon as he was back in London, he headed for the pub.

‘Heard a word on the street,’ said Gabby, setting the drinks on the table.

‘Oh yeah?’ Rufus took his first mouthful of Guinness. Nectar.

‘Someone’s been asking around about you.’

His interest sharpened. ‘Who?’

‘It’s been passed along to me by a mate or two. Some Irish called Callaghan was interested in finding you, they said.’

Rufus’s stomach clenched sickly as the cold Guinness hit it. He went very still, sitting there at the table, ‘Sultans of Swing’ playing on the jukebox. The telly over the bar, sound turned down, was tuned into the Moscow Olympics coverage. Everyone was going crazy because Seb Coe had won the fifteen hundred metres.

‘Feck,’ he said.

Rufus looked at his pal. He’d got quite matey with Gabby over the last few years, but trust him? No. He didn’t trust anyone much any more. Not since Rory’s missus had dobbed him in. He’d been living on his own in London, giving out nothing about his background. It was obvious he was Irish. He only had to open his mouth to reveal that. Fear of discovery, of Big Don Callaghan tracking him down, had made him cautious.

He’d been so careful. Thought he was settled, sorted, at last.

And now, this.

‘You know him, this Callaghan fella?’ asked Gabby.

‘Maybe,’ said Rufus.

‘Well, go careful. Lay low a bit.’

‘Thanks for that, Gabby.’

‘No problem.’

They had another round, and then Rufus made his excuses. ‘Got a bird waiting,’ he said.

He didn’t. But suddenly the pub felt too open, too exposed. Everywhere he turned, he seemed to see covert glances, people eyeing him up and then quickly looking away. Ridiculous, of course: but Gabby’s news had made him edgy.

If Don caught up with him, he was dead meat.

He thought again of poor Pikey, erupting in flames like a fucking Roman candle. Damn, Don couldn’t think that he’d wanted things to turn out that way, could he?

On the other hand, if he were in Don’s shoes, he would react the same. He would want revenge on the one responsible for his nephew’s death. And the one in charge that night had been Rufus, which made him responsible for what happened. He couldn’t argue with that.

‘Give her one from me,’ said Gabby with a salacious wink.

‘I will,’ said Rufus, and made his way to the door.

From the pub, Rufus headed straight for his flat. He was so jumpy now. He felt wired, as if he’d been on the steroids like so many of his colleagues, fuelled up with ’roid rage. But Rufus wasn’t into all that. His body was a temple, he wasn’t going to sully it with drugs. He’d even packed up the fags. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but his health and fitness meant a lot to him. It was his living, after all.

Instead of parking in his usual spot, he left the car round the corner, just to be on the safe side. Trying to look casual, he studied the cars parked along his road, keeping an eye out for anyone sitting in a car watching, or loitering on the street, waiting for him to show up.

Nothing. All the cars were empty, the street was deserted.

He began to calm down. False alarm.

Then he saw the flare of a lighter in a doorway and spotted two men, not twenty yards away, smoking, chatting in low voices, glancing around them, paying particular attention to the entrance to his block. They were waiting for him to show up. Rufus felt his guts clench with queasy fear. His heart started to hammer wildly in his chest. Gabby was right. Don had found him.