Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘And don’t shake your bloody head at me! I told you, this is non-negotiable.’

‘I’d like something more solid than that.’ Hunter watched his boss curiously. ‘What is this, the secret bloody service or something?’

‘Or something, yes,’ said Cyril.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Does this face say “kidding”?’ Cyril sat back in his chair, letting out a sharp sigh. ‘Look. I’m telling you this because you’re a good bloke. I’ve had orders to leave this alone or it could compromise an ongoing investigation.’

‘A British investigation?’

‘Why do you ask?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘Annie Carter’s living in a house that she came by through marriage to an Italian-American “businessman”. And that businessman’s son is over here at the moment, staying with her.’

‘You know, you’d make a fucking great detective,’ smiled Cyril.

‘Is it something to do with that?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘Christ, is it FBI?’

‘You didn’t hear that from me.’

‘They’re closing in on the son, I suppose – Alberto Barolli.’

‘He’s the main man now. The godfather. They’ve got a good case together and they reckon they could put him away for good.’

‘Shit.’

‘And they don’t want you arsing it up,’ said Cyril, nodding.

When Layla got back to the hospital next morning with two heavies dogging her every move, she found that she was not the only visitor waiting to see Precious.

A middle-aged and very ordinary-looking couple were waiting at the nurses’ station outside the Intensive Care Unit. As Layla approached, the nurse behind the desk was filling them in on the progress of someone called Amelia who had come out of surgery a few hours earlier.

‘The surgeon set her wrist, nose and jaw, taped up her three broken ribs. The laceration on her scalp was just a flesh wound, but there was mild concussion. The surgeon was concerned about internal bleeding, and there was some, but that’s been stopped. Four broken fingers…’

The woman started to cry. Her husband patted her arm.

‘She’s very bruised and sore, and groggy,’ said the nurse more gently.

‘Excuse me,’ said Layla. ‘Are you talking about Precious?’

‘I’m talking about Amelia Westover. I’m sorry, are you a relative?’ asked the nurse.

The woman turned and looked at Layla with Precious’s light grey eyes. ‘Precious? That’s my daughter’s nickname, I always called her that when she was little,’ she said. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes, she’s my friend,’ said Layla. She felt tears start in her eyes. Amelia, she thought. Precious suited her so much better.

‘You’re Layla? She mentioned you on the phone. Said she met you at the accountancy firm where she’s been temping. You’re one of the trainee accountants, isn’t that right?’

Layla could only nod. There was no way she could tell these people the truth.

‘We got the call from the hospital and came down on the train.’

‘From where?’ asked Layla.

‘Durham. We’re going in to see her,’ said Precious’s mother, reaching out to squeeze Layla’s hand with thin cold fingers. ‘You can come in with us, if you’d like to?’

‘Thanks,’ said Layla.

‘How did this happen?’ asked Precious’s father.

He looked shattered, but there was anger in his eyes, as if he wanted to lash out, pay the world back for what had happened to his daughter. Layla didn’t blame him.

‘I don’t know,’ she lied, feeling like shit. These were good, decent people – what did they know of the sort of scum her daughter had been mixing with? They didn’t know that Precious was paying her way through college by private dancing. They thought she worked in an office. Well, let them go on thinking that. She wasn’t about to enlighten them.

‘We don’t generally allow more than two people at the bedside,’ said the nurse.

‘I won’t stay long,’ promised Layla, and they were buzzed through.

It was worse than Layla had expected. All the bruising was coming out now, so that the semi-mummified creature in the hospital gown on the bed bore no resemblance to Precious. A drip and an IV were attached to her arm. A bank of monitors was positioned beside her bed, machines bleeping, reporting vital signs. Her nose was packed and taped up. Bandages encircled her head. Her jaw was twice its normal size. Her eyes were slits in two blackened swellings. Both hands were splinted.

‘Oh, Amelia!’ cried her mother.

‘Can she hear us?’ her father asked the nurse.

‘Yes, she can. Talk to her.’

Precious’s eyes flickered open, briefly, then closed again. Could she hear them, did she even know they were there? Layla drew back from the bed, feeling that she was intruding on a private family moment. She wanted to talk to Precious, but with her parents there, she knew she couldn’t.

‘Look, I’ll come back a bit later,’ she said, but they weren’t listening, they were too busy focusing on the wreckage of their daughter.

Layla crept from the room. She sat outside in the waiting area, her father’s two goons on either side of her, too shaky to move. It felt as if she was either going to throw up or sob her heart out.

Later she felt strong enough to go back in. The nurse was saying relatives only again.

‘I’m her friend,’ protested Layla. ‘Come on.’

But the nurse wasn’t having it. Layla sat back down in the waiting room with the goons, and waited for another hour until Precious’s parents returned.

‘Hello,’ she said, standing up. ‘They won’t let me in to see her. They’re saying relatives only.’

‘Come in with us,’ said Precious’s – Amelia’s – mother. Catching sight of the two big men looming on either side of Layla, both of whom had stood up with her, she looked puzzled. ‘And these are your brothers…?’ she guessed.

‘Yeah,’ said Layla, because there was no way she could explain what her two-man escort really was.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ said Precious’s father. ‘There was something we wanted to ask you.’

‘Oh?’

‘The police were saying she had a job in a nightclub of some sort.’ He was frowning. ‘She never mentioned anything about that to us. Did she say anything to you about it?’

Layla thought quickly. ‘She did a couple of nights a week behind the bar at the Shalimar,’ she said. ‘You know, just to make a bit of pin money to pay for textbooks and stuff.’

Dad’s brow cleared at this. Mum visibly relaxed. Layla could feel the relief seeping from both of them. She felt ashamed, lying to them this way.

‘They’re saying that’s where this happened,’ said Precious’s father.

‘She’s going to be a psychotherapist,’ said her mother.

‘I know, she’s so bright.’

‘Why would anyone want to hurt her this way? I just can’t…’ Her voice faltered and she struggled to blink away the tears.

Layla felt sick. If not for her, this would never have happened.

The nurse hurried across to them. ‘You can go in now,’ she said.

This time, Precious was conscious. Her parents hogged the bedside, and Layla stood to the side, waiting for her moment. Precious’s bloodshot eyes fastened on hers now and again, while she talked in a painful mumble to her folks.

After half an hour – it felt even longer to Layla – the Westovers said they were going down to the coffee shop to get a drink and something to eat, because Dad had to take his pills. Promising to hurry right back, they finally left the room.

As soon as they were alone, Layla drew closer to the bed. Precious’s eyes were shut. Just the act of conversation had exhausted her.