Jessie Keane: Jail Bird

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

A Paperback Original 2010

first edition

Copyright © Jessie Keane 2010

Jessie Keane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Source ISBN: 9780007349401

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007332892

Version: 2018-12-06

To Cliff, who still has a lot to put up with…

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Jessie Keane

About the Publisher

The death woman was coming. Winston Collins’s senses were befuddled with ganja weed, but he knew that. He thought he had done a bad thing, but he wasn’t too sure what the bad thing had been. His mama had told him he shouldn’t be bad, and he had always done his best to walk a good path. But now…he wasn’t sure what was going on. Only that they would pay.

He was hyped on ganja and grief. But he could still smell blood and cheap nylon carpet, could still feel the heat of the sun being magnified by the big plate-glass window as he stood there, sweat-sodden back pressed tight to the wall. And he could still see. He could see the crimson-soaked horror in the chair. And he could see…oh yes, he could see her, just passing by the window, all unknowing, her blonde hair catching the sun like a bright banner, her walk quick, urgent, as she approached the door of Jack Rackland’s office.

It was her. The death woman.

Praise God and don’t worry, be happy…now how did it go? He was so upset that he had forgotten the words of his favourite Bobby McFerrin song. Suki would know.

But Suki was gone.

There it was, nibbling away at the edge of his brain like a rat chewing on rotten meat. Suki was gone, and Bev was hovering between life and death; he might lose her too and he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear any of it; it was all her fault. Lily King had brought death into their happy home. Winston had always been peaceful, easy-going; but not now, not any more. Lily King and her sidekick had ruined his life, and they had to pay for it.

He saw it all again: Suki turning over the cards and her troubled gaze coming up to meet his, her sweet lips saying, look, this is Lily King’s card; it’s death. And him laughing, oh yeah, sure hon, and do you want this dinner edible or ruined? He didn’t give all that tarot crap a second thought. Give Bev a shout, the dinner’ll get cold, he’d said to her, brushing it aside, brushing that look in her eyes aside, that look of purest fear. God how he wished that he had taken her more seriously.

But Suki was gone.

He relived it. Suki turning away, saying yeah sure, but there was something in her eyes, a darkness, a terror. Because in her gut Suki knew about Lily King, she knew there was big trouble coming, and he shouldn’t have laughed at her all those times when he did, he should have given her more attention, taken more notice.

Too late now.

Suki was gone.

The pain of it hit him all over again.

All that was left was the death woman. Dealing out vengeance, dealing out a world of hurt to Bev, who might even now be going about the hard business of dying, and Suki…Jesus, he’d loved that woman. Loved her to bits.

Now she was gone.

And all because of this woman, and her lust for revenge.

The fire. Oh Jesus, the fire.

Somehow he’d got Bev out, and he’d been going back for Suki, all the while heaving and choking, the smoke – the horrible, rolling black smoke – snatching the air from his lungs; but the flames had been too much for him. The flames had driven him back.

Well, now he was here, and so was she. Lily King was opening the door, pushing through fast, and then pausing, freezing as she saw what was sitting in the chair. Winston’s hand tightened on the bloody machete in his strong right hand. Now he was going to put an end to her evil ways. She moved in further, breathed out ‘Jack…’ and Winston was so close he could hear how fast and panicky her breathing was, and he thought, Yeah. Now I’ve got you.

He surged forward, raising his hand to strike her dead.

She heard the movement as he pulled away from the wall. Turned, her eyes widening.

Here it comes for you, bitch, thought Winston.

She liked revenge? Well, so did he.

Revenge was sweet.

1996

LEO

Leo King could never resist blondes. Ash, golden, strawberry, Nordic – he loved them all. Hell, he had even married one. Of course he loved his old lady, Lily. Of course he did. She was the mother of his children, he loved the bones of those two girls of his and he loved Lily too, but sometimes…well, he guessed it was a weakness, but sometimes he just got the urge to stick it in something new.

Like he was doing now. And it was being appreciated, too.

‘Oh, honey, ’ the blonde he was humping doggy-fashion in the hotel bed was crouching on all fours, moaning and gasping, clutching the French headboard with long, elegantly manicured nails.

She’s going to scratch the damned thing, thought Leo.

Which was okay, fuck it. But if this had been at home, in his own bed – and sometimes, oh yes, sometimes he did that, and he felt bad about it but he did it anyway – then scratching the furniture was a no-no. Because he’d felt just lately that Lily wasn’t entirely in the dark about his little extracurricular bits of bedroom activity. Marks on the headboard would blow the whole thing wide open, and he didn’t want that.