Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘Who?’

‘Precious’s dad.’ Annie took a breath. ‘He said… she died an hour ago.’

Layla’s face was a frozen mask.

Annie swallowed hard. ‘I’m so sorry. He said the internal bleeding had started up again. That it was bad. Really bad. They did everything they could, but they lost her on the operating table.’

‘But she can’t have died ,’ said Layla, letting out a wild laugh of disbelief. She was holding Precious’s present in her hands. She had been speaking to Precious only a few hours ago. Sure, she was a mess, but she was talking, she…

And now here was her mother, saying that she was dead.

‘This can’t be,’ said Layla, the cardigan falling from her hands. She stood up, shaking her head. ‘He must have got it wrong, he must have misunderstood…’

Annie stood up too. She grabbed hold of Layla’s shoulders and looked her in the eye.

‘Layla,’ she said, and her voice was full of compassion. ‘He didn’t misunderstand. She’s gone. I’m sorry.’

Layla looked blankly around. She was silent, taking it in. Then her eyes fastened on to her mother’s face. ‘Dad’s going to get him, isn’t he? He’s going to get Rufus Malone?’

‘He is. He will,’ said Annie, watching her anxiously. ‘I know what a terrible shock this is for you. Is there anything I can do, honey? Anything I can get for you?’

Layla shook her head. ‘No, I… think I’ll go up and take a shower, I want to be on my own for a bit.’

‘Sure. Of course.’

Annie watched her daughter go. Her heart ached for Layla. She’d lost friends herself, dear friends, she knew how it hurt. She looked at the fuchsia cardigan, left there on the couch. Then she picked it up and put it away, out of sight. She knew her daughter would always hate the thing now. That it would forever symbolize the loss of her friend.

Layla showered, tied her hair up in a knot, and dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, hardly noticing what she was putting on. Then she sat on the bed. She didn’t feel she could face going downstairs again, seeing the pity in Annie’s eyes. But she was restless, grief-stricken, trying to take in what seemed like some sick joke: Precious is dead.

Thoughts of Precious kept popping into her head. The incisive, intelligent Precious she’d got to know. She could picture her now, laughing and smiling and doing her fantastic private dance. And then it hit her: she would never see her laugh or smile or dance again. Precious is dead.

Barely knowing what she was doing or where she was going, she snatched up her bag and headed downstairs, stopping off in the kitchen. Rosa was saying Hola, Layla, can I help you? But no one could help with this. Shaking her head, Layla returned to the hall and crossed to the front door. She wanted to walk, to feel the air on her face with no fucking minders to tell her where to be, what to do. She wanted to flee this whole terrible situation, run away from her own torment. She slipped outside, but Bri was barring her way.

Shit, why can’t they leave me alone?

‘It’s OK, I’m just going out.’

‘Going where? With who?’ asked Bri.

‘Um…’ Please go away, please leave me alone, can’t I just be alone for five minutes? ‘Mr Barolli’s car’s picking me up at the end of the square,’ she said.

‘Nobody told me.’

‘I’m telling you now, OK?’ she snapped.

He nodded, but still looked unsure. She went outside and down the steps, aware that he was following her. As she walked off along the pavement, she could feel Bri’s eyes on her, tracking her movements. But she was out, free, alone.

Except her mind was still full of turmoil, rage, disbelief.

Precious is dead.

It couldn’t be. Not just like that. It couldn’t.

She walked fast, aware of watchers parked in cars, her father’s people. She hurried along, head down.

Precious, dead.

No. Please no.

She walked, faster, faster, out of the square and away. She half-wondered if Bri would come after her, check that she really was being picked up. Her breath came in ragged gulps. She was aware that she was crying, but only vaguely, and she was alone.

Would he come now, would he try to snatch her again? Rufus Malone, the bogey-man, the one who was always hidden, the one who’d tried to blow up her mother, to kill Alberto. He would have hurt her if he’d caught her, maybe as bad as he’d hurt Precious. All this bastard knew was death and destruction.

‘Bring it on, you scum,’ she muttered furiously under her breath. She could outrun anyone, she was fit and she was strong and she would kill him, kill him, avenge Precious, she would do it, yes she would.

She stopped walking. People were passing her on the pavement, casting curious glances at this tear-stained girl. Cars were driving by, taxis, vans. She felt her heart pounding thickly in her chest, felt consumed by the need to lash out, find him, hurt him.

Come on, you fucker. Here I am. Come and get me. It’s me you want. Not Precious. Me. So bring it on.

She stood there, and looked around. Traffic. People. Cars. Vans. And… oh. One long black car with tinted windows pulling in, swerving to the pavement, blocking her progress.

Was this him?

She was out in the open and she was alone.

Easy meat.

Only not so easy. Her detour to the kitchen had netted her a fourteen-inch knife and it was in her bag right now, so let him try it, let him just try.

She looked at the car, at the blank black windows. Clutched her bag tighter against her.

Here it came.

This was it.

An electric window at the back of the car hissed down and a man’s face was there.

‘Layla? What the fuck?’ said Alberto.

Layla stared at him. For a moment, so great was her grief and distraction, she didn’t even know him.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked.

Layla felt herself dissolve, standing on the pavement holding her bag with the knife in it. ‘Precious is dead,’ she said helplessly, and then the tears came, great wracking sobs that shook her entire body. Suddenly she was bent double, howling with grief.

Alberto was out of the car in an instant, holding her, stopping her from falling to the pavement. He pulled her in tight against him.

‘Shh, baby,’ he murmured, kissing her hair. ‘Come on. Get in the car. Everything’s going to be all right.’

She was safe, bundled into the car, enfolded in luxury, leather, and Alberto’s arms.

‘Drive,’ he said to Sandor.

Everything was going to be all right, Alberto kept telling her over and over, kissing her eyes, her flushed, tear-stained cheeks, her hair, while he hugged her tight.

But it wasn’t.

Layla knew it was never going to be all right, not ever again.

Sandor drove them to Claridge’s in Brook Street. Layla, dazed and bedraggled, crossed the reception area with Alberto and stood silent as they got into the lift. Only when they were upstairs and the butler was leading them through a pair of huge rosewood and brass doors did she look around her and think What am I doing here?

They went on into a drawing room with sofas grouped around an original fireplace in which a real fire crackled and burned with a rosy glow. There were thick rugs, polished wooden floors, sunflower yellow on the walls, mirrors, big glossy plants, oil paintings. She gazed up at the barrel-vaulted ceiling, then out of the big French doors at the terrace laid out with chairs, table, everything one could possibly need or want. Beyond, there was a rooftop view of the heart of Mayfair.