Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘Not much. Unless you count the paper shamrock that was left in Layla’s trainer. And unless you count someone bombing my car.’

‘You what?’

‘My car was blown up. But hey – bonus – I wasn’t in it at the time. Someone was, though. Or at least they were near enough to get blown apart.’

Max was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘What the fuck have you been up to?’

Annie sank back in her chair with a sigh. ‘Anything kicks off and it has to be my fault?’ She shook her head and stared at him. ‘You don’t change.’

He stood up. ‘Look, I came back to see that Layla’s all right. So where is she?’

‘At Ellie’s place,’ said Annie. ‘Locked up tight.’

‘I’d better get over there.’

‘Yeah you’d better, hadn’t you,’ said Annie, and picked up the phone.

He went to the door. Paused there.

Annie looked at him. She just wanted him to go, before she lost it completely and flung a heavy object at his smug face. ‘What?’ she asked.

‘I’m glad you’re OK,’ he said, and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Annie sat there staring at the door in mute surprise. Then she shook herself and dialled her sister’s number.

‘Hello?’ It was Ruthie, picking up at her house in Richmond.

The sound of Ruthie’s voice calmed her a little. Her older sister was everything she was not. Ruthie was gentle, considerate, caring. She would have made a wonderful mother for Layla. So much more suitable than Annie was or could ever be.

‘Hi, Sis, it’s me,’ said Annie.

‘Annie. You OK?’

Hearing the smile in Ruthie’s voice, she hesitated. She hated to have to do this. Ruthie had her nice safe life. She was a dental receptionist, she had a nice home, she was straight. She was also single, and Annie was convinced that she liked it that way.

‘Not so good,’ said Annie, swallowing hard.

‘What is it?’ Ruthie’s voice was immediately anxious.

‘Max is back.’

‘Oh?’ Ruthie was silent for a moment. ‘That doesn’t bother you, does it? I mean… it’s over between you, isn’t it? Has been for… oh, how long is it?’

‘Eight years.’ And he can still rile me like no one else. I’m sitting here shaking like an over-excited teenager just because he’s been in this room.

‘That’s right. A long time.’

‘Yeah, but… thing is, Ruthie, Layla called him because we’ve had some trouble.’

‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’

Annie told her. And then she suggested it might be a good idea if Ruthie were to take herself off somewhere for a while.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ said Ruthie.

‘There is. It’s about the woman who was shot,’ said Annie. She hadn’t told Ruthie, not even Ruthie, that Layla had fired the gun.

‘You didn’t know her, did you?’ asked Ruthie anxiously.

‘I did. Ruthie, it’s really weird. I thought she was dead, years ago.’

‘Who?’

‘Orla Delaney.’

Ruthie was silent.

‘Ruthie?’

‘I’ll pack a bag,’ she said, and hung up the phone.

Layla was in the kitchen above the Shalimar. It was eight o’clock and the club was starting to come to life, the staff busying themselves putting the champagne on ice and making sure everything was looking glamorous for the punters. Meanwhile Layla was pouring hot water on to a pot of noodles. She really didn’t think she could eat anything, not after all that had happened. But she had to try.

‘Jesus, that looks grim,’ said a voice behind her.

Layla stopped pouring. She turned to find a vision standing in the doorway. The woman was about the same age as her, but she might as well have been a totally different species. She was tall – taller than Layla herself, and voluptuously built. She was wearing an emerald-green silk evening gown that showed off a terrific pair of breasts. Her hair was big too, tumbling down her back and shoulders in a rich dark cascade. Her face was pale, long, her lips pouty and accentuated with scarlet. Her brows were straight dark lines above huge black-lashed eyes of a strikingly clear light grey.

‘Hi,’ the creature announced herself. ‘I’m Precious.’

‘You’re what ?’ Layla was half-smiling at the absurdity.

‘Precious.’ The girl was smiling too, a huge megawatt grin. ‘Yeah, I know. We don’t use our real names here. You’ll meet China and Destiny too. And a couple of others. All called Jane or Margaret or something boring in real life. But this isn’t real life, is it?’

Layla blinked. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, no. This is dreamland. This is where men come when they’re tired of what’s going on out there, and need to connect with fantasy.’

‘Can I get you something…?’ asked Layla, stirring her noodles, trying not to gawp.

‘No, it’s OK. Just having a herbal tea,’ said Precious, reaching up to one of the cupboards and taking down a packet. ‘That’s all I ever drink, apart from a sip of bubbly when the punters are in.’

‘Right.’ Layla carried on stirring, still staring.

‘Ellie said she had a guest staying,’ said Precious, putting the kettle back on.

‘Oh! I’m Layla,’ said Layla, belatedly.

‘Layla. That’s your real name? That’s pretty.’

‘That’s me. Layla Carter.’ Layla took up a fork, leaned against the worktop and determinedly started in on her evening meal. ‘What’s your real name?’ she asked, curious.

Precious held up a manicured finger. ‘House rules. We don’t use those here.’

‘Oh.’ Layla felt rebuffed. And wrong-footed, somehow. Not only that, she felt plain. She didn’t wear make-up, she never had. Her fingernails were short and unpolished, and her hands were covered in paper cuts. And here was this apparition, so beautiful and bedecked in bright jewel colours, like a celestial being.

Precious poured boiling water on to her camomile tea. Her movements were delicate, very feminine. Layla watched her. She was almost mesmerized. She’d never even been inside one of her dad’s clubs before, in fact she’d avoided them. They were all part of that dodgy underworld her parents seemed to operate so comfortably in. She’d certainly never seen or spoken to any of the girls who worked here.

‘Layla Carter? ’ said Precious. ‘Hang on a minute. Are you Max Carter’s daughter? The Max Carter who owns these clubs?’

‘Guilty,’ said Layla. ‘So… you dance for money then.’

Precious turned to look at her; she was smiling. ‘Yep. It’s good, too. Well paid.’

But isn’t it embarrassing? Layla wondered. Writhing about half-naked with men watching you?

She couldn’t ask her that.

‘You enjoy doing it?’ she asked delicately.

‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’ She picked up her cup. ‘Look, I have to go. Catch up with you later, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ said Layla, and Precious left the room, trailing a waft of Giorgio strong enough to stun a bull.

Layla stared at her half-eaten noodles. Again the image rose in her mind – Orla Delaney, lying dead at her feet, killed by her own hand. She’d never set eyes on a dead body before. Her stomach clenched queasily and sick bile rose in her throat. With a shudder, she slung the rest of her dinner in the bin.

‘Layla?’ Ellie bustled into the kitchen.

‘Hm?’ asked Layla, wondering if she was going to hurl.

‘Your dad’s here.’

‘Dad!’ Layla ran out into the hall and flung herself into her father’s arms.

‘It’s OK, I’m here,’ said Max, hugging her tight.

Suddenly all the fear and bewilderment she’d been holding in became too much for her and she started to cry. Max’s eyes met Ellie’s over Layla’s shoulder.