Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘And I can’t drink. One glass of sherry and I’m out of it. Something else to add to my list of accomplishments, as outlined by you .’

‘And you’re a bad shot, in case you were building up to asking why I didn’t get you a gun, too.’

‘Thanks for that. Can’t drink, can’t play cards, can’t shoot, worth a single solitary damn.’

‘And your point is…?’

‘My point is, where the fuck do you get off, thinking you can treat me that way? Like the dopey little woman! You’ve got some bloody nerve.’

Max sat down at the other end of the sofa. ‘Jesus, a man can’t do right for doing wrong around you.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I was trying to protect you, you silly mare. That’s why I didn’t want you there in the first place. I said you shouldn’t come along. But you insisted.’

‘Christ, the word “chauvinist” was invented for you,’ said Annie.

‘Some things are too tough for a woman to get involved in.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Would you have used the gun?’

‘Like that? No.’

‘I rest my case.’

‘So you didn’t find him. You didn’t get this Rufus.’

Max shook his head.

‘I’m going to bed,’ said Annie, getting to her feet. ‘And tomorrow I’m going to call on Dickon’s landlady. What was her name? Moira?’

Max nodded.

‘See yourself out,’ she said, heading for the door.

Max caught up with her when her hand was on the handle. He was suddenly standing very close behind her. Too close. She could feel the heat coming off his body, enfolding hers. She felt one hard-muscled arm snake around her middle, pulling her hard against him. His other hand was resting on her thigh.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked coldly.

‘Feeling you up,’ said Max, brushing her hair aside and putting his lips against her throat. His breath there made her shiver.

‘Well don’t, ’ she snapped.

‘Sure?’ His mouth was getting busy, and Annie was having trouble concentrating on non-arousal.

‘Perfectly sure, thank you,’ she said.

Max let her go. Annie thought she did very well, she didn’t even stagger though her legs felt like jelly.

‘Maybe I should stop here,’ said Max. ‘Act as chaperone to you and Golden Boy.’

Jesus was he never going to let that go?

But she realized he was only saying it to provoke a reaction. If she were to fly into a rage and turn on him, she knew precisely how the night would end – with them having wild sex, which would resolve nothing, mean nothing. Tomorrow, she would hate herself for having weakened. And tomorrow, the same old problem would still be there. His jealousy. His need to control her. His general craziness where she was concerned.

Annie reined in her temper. ‘Suit yourself. I don’t give a toss either way. There are at least a dozen bedrooms going begging, take your pick,’ she said, very casual. She wasn’t going to admit, not even to herself, that the idea of him sleeping under the same roof was disturbing. It was. It really was. But she’d die rather than admit it to him.

Max was staring at her face, trying to fathom her mood. ‘OK, I will,’ he said. ‘How about the one adjoining yours. That free?’

Annie stared at him. ‘That’s Layla’s room,’ she said.

‘But Layla’s not here. And as you say: plenty of rooms going begging. She can take one of the others if she comes back. In present circumstances, it’s better if I stay close. Don’t you reckon?’

Annie didn’t reckon. The very idea of having him in the same house , sleeping, living, was bad enough. Having him in the adjoining room – that would be torment.

‘Suit yourself. Goodnight,’ she said with as much dignity as she could manage, and she tore out the door and up the stairs, not looking back. Not once.

Next day, the Carter and Barolli boys returned mob-handed to Partyland. There were twinkling lights that flickered and Mexican-waved like a mini Vegas all along the front of the place. Boy George’s ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ was blasting from the speakers – an appropriate choice, given the circumstances. There were big brightly lit clown cut-outs all over the place, vividly coloured bumper cars in a smooth-surfaced little pen, polished and ready for the day’s entertainments. And cowering in the midst of them was a terrified manager who went the colour of putty when he saw the big men striding in. The only other employee was a teenage girl, doling out change to the kiddies from a booth. No evidence of Rufus Malone, anywhere.

The boys emptied the place of punters, gave a mouthy dad a warning slap, then took their baseball bats to the machines, pushing the gaily coloured money-guzzlers over like so many heavyweight dominoes, smashing the glass cases, until all the pops and whistles and toots and flashing lights fell silent and dark and were finally dead. Suddenly Partyland didn’t look much fun any more.

After the job was accomplished, Steve and Jackie drew the manager to one side. He was quivering with fear. Jackie was blowing cigar smoke in his face, turning him a sickly shade of green. Steve loomed over him, a wall of solid muscle, his face an implacable mask.

‘You see Rufus Malone around here,’ said Steve, tucking a small scrap of paper into the manager’s shirt pocket, ‘you phone me. Got that?’

The man nodded, apparently unable to speak.

Steve patted his cheek. ‘Good,’ he said, and the boys left.

Rufus was starting to wonder what had happened to Dickon. A couple of days ago he’d vanished; no one had seen him in any of the crappy pubs he usually hung around in. But no matter. He’d seen all the men heading out and he’d got word that Partyland had been smashed up. Good job he’d fed that lie to Benny, thrown them off the scent. All those years of ducking and diving and dodging Big Don Callaghan had taught him everything there was to know about covering his tracks.

Thankfully, Big Don seemed to have given up trying to find him. Not because he’d finally accepted that Rufus hadn’t intended that Pikey should fry that way. No, according to Rufus’s contacts back in Ireland, the old man had forgotten about trying to avenge his nephew because he had bigger troubles to contend with. The big C – pancreatic, terminal. So instead of hounding Rufus to death he was preparing for his own demise. Too bad the bastard hadn’t kicked the bucket years ago, before he dragged Rory into all this.

He thought of that night at the farm, Orla pulling the knife out of Rory’s throat. He’d never have dreamed she was capable of such violence, but after the things she’d been through, who could blame her? She’d never have survived otherwise. There had been the same wild look in her eyes that night she left the Islington flat to deal with Annie Carter. When she got that way there was no stopping her…

But something had stopped her, because the hit had failed: Annie Carter was still alive. Whereas Orla…

No, she wasn’t dead. She’d gone back to Ireland, as planned. She still wasn’t answering his calls – he’d phoned the farm every day since she left, but no one answered. Most likely she was angry with him for not sticking to the plan, for hanging around in London. All the more reason not to show up at the farm empty-handed. She’d soon forgive him when he showed up with a little souvenir for her, a little token to remember Annie Carter by.

Meanwhile, he had a girl or two on the go here: just for sex, though there was one who was proving useful in other ways too. But it was Orla he loved.

He phoned the farm again.

No answer.

But she was there, waiting for him. He was convinced of it.