Jessie Keane: Ruthless

She had an hour to kill, and then he’d be gone. Then she’d go home, wait for Layla to come in from school, try and console her – if she could. And somehow, after that, she was going to have to carry on, to salvage something from the train wreck of her life.

Talk about the best-laid plans, though. Her plan had been to meet Dolly at the Ritz as arranged, give it at least an hour; that would be ample time for him to get the hell out of her house. But no. When she opened the front door at Holland Park, there was Max’s overnight bag and suitcase still in the hall – and from the study, there came the sound of Layla crying.

Annie closed her eyes and leaned against the door. Please, no more, she thought.

But she pushed herself upright and walked over to the study and eased the door open.

Max was there, leaning on the desk. Layla, wearing her school uniform of plain skirt and white blouse, her dark hair pulled back into a pleat, was holding on to him and sobbing.

Fourteen years old, thought Annie. God, what are we doing? What are we putting her through?

Max looked up at his ex-wife as she stood there. Annie felt her guts constrict as he stared at her. Her husband. Correction: ex -husband. He had chipped away at her love for him remorselessly, but still – even now – she found him physically almost irresistible with his black wavy hair, his tanned skin, his predatory hook of a nose, his dense, dark navy-blue eyes. Even if they were looking at her with something close to hatred, right this minute.

‘Layla?’ said Annie hoarsely. ‘What are you doing home? You’re meant to be in school.’

Layla said nothing, just shot her a tear-stained glance and cuddled closer to Max.

Max cleared his throat. ‘She was afraid I’d be gone before she got home, so she told them she felt ill.’

‘Well, she shouldn’t have done that.’ Annie’d had no education to speak of, and she was always determined that Layla, who was very bright, should not be raised the same way. Layla’s schooling was of the utmost importance.

‘I don’t want you to go!’ shouted Layla, and started sobbing again. ‘Please, Daddy, don’t go.’

‘We’ll still see each other. As often as you want. I’ll come to London to see you, and you’ll come out to see me,’ said Max, rubbing his daughter’s back soothingly.

‘It’s not the same.’

Annie could only stand there, feeling sickened and powerless. This was a bloody disaster. Max was supposed to have been gone before Layla got home – to avoid a scene. Only it was all going wrong, pulverizing her afresh with the pain. She hated what they were doing to Layla. But it was done. And it was best now – wasn’t it? – to just get this over with.

Max straightened, seeming almost to read her thoughts.

‘I’d better go,’ he said, easing Layla away from him.

‘No, Daddy, please don’t,’ she wailed.

As if she was four, not fourteen, thought Annie in anguish, feeling Layla’s torment as if it was her own.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Max, kissing Layla’s cheek. ‘Very soon. OK?’

Layla nodded dumbly, crying more quietly.

Max moved away from her, came towards the open door where Annie stood. He paused there, and their eyes met. If she reached out to him now, said, Let’s talk, let’s not do this , would he stay?

She almost did it, but her pride stopped her.

Then the moment was gone. Max brushed past her, walked across the hall, picked up his suitcase and bag, and left.

Annie gulped hard, trying to compose herself. It was finished. Leaving her with a heartbroken girl to look after. It didn’t matter how she felt, she had to focus on Layla. She walked towards her. Layla’s sobs had died away to hitching little gasps.

‘Honey, why don’t you go and find Ros-’ she started.

‘Don’t you come near me,’ yelled Layla suddenly, stopping Annie in her tracks. ‘This is all your fault. All you had to do was be here, but you always had to be running around doing your stupid business. I hate you.’

She ran past Annie, shoving her aside. She flew across the hall and up the stairs.

Annie stood there, feeling sick with hurt, and heard the door to Layla’s room slam shut. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. The silence of the house enveloped her. She was alone again.

On shaky legs she walked over to the leather-tooled desk and sat down behind it, slumping there in exhaustion and despair. She didn’t even know who she was any more. She took the decree absolute out of her pocket and put it on the desk and stared at it.

Well, I’m not Mrs Max Carter, that’s for sure.

God, she was tired. Too tired to think, but still it all spun around, unravelling in her tortured brain – losing Max in Majorca, believing him to be dead. Then her involvement with Constantine Barolli, Alberto’s father. All the troubles and the dangers she had endured to come to this point.

Was it worth it?

Ten years ago she had been an underworld power to be reckoned with, running the streets of Bow. Until Redmond and Orla Delaney, the psychotic twins who’d ruled Battersea with an iron fist, tried to kill her. And that had ended in their deaths, organized by her Mafia contacts.

So much trouble.

So much pain.

The attempt on her life had caused her to step away from all that. She’d thought she could leave it behind her, sit back and enjoy the good life – but it hadn’t worked out that way.

Annie gazed around her at the empty, opulent study with its tan Chesterfield sofas, its walls lined with books, the costly Aubusson rugs on the floor. She had everything… and she had nothing at all. She’d lost her husband, and her daughter hated her.

Raindrops pattered against the window panes. She stared out of the window at the darkening sky, and wondered how the hell she was going to come back from this. She’d fought so long and so hard, but all she felt was defeated. She was too worn out even to try any more.

Annie sat there and thought of old friends, old enemies, her weary mind a tangle of jumbled images. Two faces emerged from the fog in her brain and she shuddered.

The Delaney twins.

She could see their faces, their cold, pale green eyes, their red hair. Those twisted, horrible bastards.

It was raining harder now and she was dimly aware that she was crying. She never cried. Dig deep and stand alone, that was the motto she’d always lived by. And she’d never been more alone than she was right this minute.

Well, that was one thing she no longer had to worry about. The Delaneys were gone. And she couldn’t help thinking that, perverted as they were, evil and vindictive and out for her blood as they had always been, the Delaney twins were the lucky ones. She was here, alone and suffering: Redmond and Orla Delaney had been fortunate in comparison.

They were out of it.

They were dead.

Over the Irish Sea…, 1970

Orla Delaney had always been a nervous flyer. She was nervous anyway, on this flight – for it was a flight in every sense of the word. Along with her twin, Redmond, she was fleeing for her life in the Cessna 210, knowing that London was over as far as they were concerned. Orla’s only comfort was the knowledge that, before their crime empire had collapsed, they had finally got rid of Annie Carter.

Barumph!

The wind buffeted the small plane with a vicious swirl and she clutched harder at her seat, stifling a scream as the four-seater rocked from side to side and then plummeted, dropping like a stone, leaving her stomach somewhere up on the padded ceiling. She wondered if she was about to be sick.