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‘My little girl, getting married,’ gloated Connie.
Kath and Annie stepped in behind Ruthie and the vicar, and then the Wedding March sounded loud and clear from inside the church.
Annie followed her sister up the aisle to join Max at the altar. Her throat was closed and she was choking with hatred and misery. She saw Max there looking impossibly handsome and his brother Jonjo as best man standing by his side. She saw the expression in Max’s eyes as he looked back and saw Ruthie.
He’d never looked at her like that.
The bastard.
But at least she’d had her revenge for the way he’d so casually dismissed her. Ruthie knew. There was no going back from that.
Ruthie knew.
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They sat outside in the car and looked at the shop. They were Max’s boys, and they were following orders. One of his most trusted lieutenants had told them to do the shop late on the Saturday afternoon when the information was that there would be upward of three thousand quid in the till.
They knew that they were on the Delaney patch. They knew the shop-owner was paying protection to the Delaneys, and this had caused them some concern.
‘Just do the fucking job, leave the thinking to those that can,’ came the orders when they questioned this action.
There were four of them, all of them handy but still worried. If the Carters were looking to take a pop at the Delaney manor, there was going to be seven kinds of shit flying about, and they weren’t happy.
Some things were set in stone. The Richardsons and the Frasers had the South, the Regans the West, the Nashes had The Angel, the Delaneys held Battersea – and a small pocket in Limehouse down by the docks, often disputed over – the Krays had Bethnal Green and the Carters had Bow. You never argued with that. But the boys were loyal, and there was a bonus in it for them. When they had asked what their cut was to be, the answer had come swiftly back from Jonjo Carter.
‘Take the fucking lot. Piss it all up against a wall if you want to, just take it.’
Which was very unusual. The Carters were notoriously keen on taking their pound of flesh. The boys took this to mean that this job was intended as an insult to the Delaneys, a message to say, look you cunts, we can take you any time you like, no worries.
They were worried all right. There had been rumours that Tory Delaney was out of circulation, maybe ill, maybe God knew what.
But orders were orders, and Max Carter was the guvnor. He knew what he was doing, and he didn’t like people questioning his judgement.
‘Right then, here we go,’ said the driver when the last of the punters departed at five to five, then one of Max’s boys pulled on his mask and gloves and ran into the shop.
The owner was there, mopping up after the day’s trading. He froze like a deer in headlights, which was good. The till was one of those big heavy efforts, but Max’s boy was tasty and could lift it easily, he’d already taken care to look it over.
He leaned over and grabbed the thing.
Or he tried to.
‘Shit!’
It was screwed down.
The shop owner started gabbling away in a foreign language. Christ knows what he was saying. Fuck you, probably. The man started slapping at Max’s boy with the wet mop. It was a bit funny but Max’s boy was getting steamed up.
Two of the others had seen there was a problem and came running in to help, while the driver stayed put. The mop attack and the slopping of water all over the place and the shouting was getting worse and worse. Then the shop-owner chucked the remains of the bucket of water over the lot of them and suddenly they were skidding and sliding all over the fucking place. Then he reached for the phone.
One of the boys yanked the cord out of the wall and gave him a cautionary slap.
Another went back out to the car and grabbed a pickaxe from the boot. With it he demolished the counter and then they had it away with the till, no problem.
They took the till, with bits of broken counter clinging to it, outside and got it into the car. They piled back in and the driver gunned away. They pulled off their masks and gloves and roared with laughter in the aftermath of the excitement. They were drenched to the skin.
‘Jesus, it was like being slapped in the face with a cod,’ said one, trying to dry himself on a rag from the dashboard. ‘Good job Jonjo wasn’t there, he’d have wrung his fucking neck.’
Two of them were in the back with the till.
They opened it.
Plenty of notes.
They sat back, smiling.
‘That’s what I call a good day’s work,’ said one.
‘Yeah,’ agreed his companion.
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Ruthie was very quiet, thought Max.
He knew she was never one to gabble on, but this was quiet even by her standards. Because there was heavy business going on they had to forgo a foreign honeymoon, but he knew she would be impressed with his Surrey place and he took her straight there after the reception, his Jag rattling with tin cans until he stopped round the corner and took them off.
During the rest of the drive she was silent. Then they got home to Surrey and she was still too quiet. Maybe she was just overawed.
She was mistress of this grand manor house now, she would live among the fancy furnishings and crystal chandeliers and would step on to deep-pile carpets when she emerged from her bath or from the big bed they would share tonight.
There were grounds instead of gardens, huge stretches of green to do as they liked with. There were garages and outbuildings. There was an annexe, for Christ’s sake. It was a far cry from the East End, a very long way away from what she was used to.
That was it, he thought. She was probably just overcome with it all. Max could see that she was tired, and suggested they go straight up. It was after two in the morning. It had been an exhausting day for them both.
He opened a bottle of the best champagne that had been laid out ready by the bed. His housekeeper Miss Arnott had turned back the sheets, stoked up the fire, made everything comfortable for the newlyweds. His mum would have done it had she been here and, as always when he thought of Queenie, he felt the wrench of grief at her loss and the gut-deep anger at those who had taken her from him.
He poured the bubbly while Ruthie hovered uncertainly by the bed. She looked almost pretty today in her going-away suit of soft cream wool. Her hair, always her best feature, was swept up in an elegant chignon, throwing the clean lines of her face into sharper focus.
‘You look lovely today,’ he said, pouring the champagne into expensive crystal flutes and holding one out to her.
Poor kid, she looked more lost than lovely. But there were three things that never failed with women. Talk to them gently, tell them they look good even if they didn’t, please them sexually.
Ruthie came around the bed and took the glass and drank from it.
‘Hungry?’ he asked. ‘I’ll get something sent up.’
She shook her head and gulped down more champagne.
‘Steady with that,’ said Max with a smile. ‘It goes to your head.’
Ruthie drained the glass. She still felt numb after what Annie had said.
Annie and Max.
She’d been so happy to be marrying him, she’d loved him so much, worshipped him almost. She’d felt that he was too good for her from day one. But somehow he’d convinced her that it would all work out okay. That she was what he wanted.
But now she knew the truth.
Annie and Max.
How long had that been going on? And – oh God – would it still go on now that Max was married to her?
How could she stand that?
She felt anger thaw the numbness until she flushed with heat. They’d made a fool of her. All the time she’d been misty-eyed with love, they’d been at it, screwing like animals. Like dogs in the street.
Max took the glass from her and placed it on a side table. All the furniture in here looked costly to Ruthie’s eyes. The whole place was full of lovely antique pieces, things she had never even been close to before. Connie’s furniture was charmless Utility stuff from the war and a few modern bits that had come off the back of a lorry, no questions asked.
This was a whole new world, a world that she had felt so excited to be entering. But now it was all ruined, and she hated Max and Annie for doing this to her, for killing her dream.
‘I’ll get ready for bed,’ she said coldly.
Then she looked around. He’d brought her small suitcase upstairs with them and she was so tired, she just wanted to change into her nightdress and go to sleep. But Max was here. He was here, and things were expected of her. But she couldn’t undress in front of him.
She just couldn’t.
Max saw her sudden confusion and took pity on her.
‘You get yourself settled in,’ he said, swigging champagne then putting the flute aside. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’
He went into the adjoining bathroom and relieved himself, then shucked off his suit and washed, shaved and splashed on cologne. He felt excited at what was to come, every part of him seemed to pulsate with anticipation.
His wedding night.
Christ, married at last.
Well, it had to happen. He wanted to pass all this on to someone, and Jonjo was still the crazy bachelor, showing every sign of staying a fucking playboy for the rest of his natural, while Eddie was a bum-bandit and unlikely ever to father a kid. Some fucker had to carry on the Carter family line, to build the family back up into the force it should be, and it was going to have to be him.
He put on his dressing gown and went back out to the bedroom. Ruthie was sitting up in bed looking like she was about to be shot. Her hands were gripping the bedcovers so tightly the knuckles were white.
Her nightie was one of those cotton floral things, nothing seductive but somehow sweet and showing her purity, he thought. He knew he’d made a good choice in Ruthie. She would do very nicely. He was pleased.
He faced the bed and took off the dressing gown. He saw her eyes widen as she clocked the size of his erection, but he didn’t hesitate, he got into bed and cuddled right up to her.
She was cold to his touch.
Poor kid, he thought. She’d never had it before and probably had never even felt the urge for it, this was bound to be a shock.
‘It’s all right,’ he said softly, hugging her. ‘We’ll take this slowly, okay?’
Ruthie was trembling with rage and disappointment. Max Carter, the man of her dreams, was naked in bed with her, his hands working their way under her nightie, and all she could see was her treacherous sister’s face.
‘Lie back,’ he said, kissing her neck and touching her between the legs. A spasm of pleasure shot through her as he touched the little button there, but she was unresponsive and so upset that she just couldn’t let go.
Bitterness welled up in her, smothering all prospect of enjoyment, but Max was shoving the nightie up under her armpits and cupping her small breasts in his hands. Ruthie knew they weren’t as lush or as pert and big as Annie’s, and she imagined him doing this to Annie, and she knew that Annie would be up for it, far more so than she was.
Max moved between her legs, panting now, and she felt that big stiff thing nudging her sex open.
‘No,’ she said, pushing at his chest, furious, gasping with pent-up rage.
‘Come on sweetie,’ cooed Max, pushing at her.
‘I know about you,’ spat Ruthie.
‘We’ll talk afterwards,’ said Max, nudging harder. She was as tight as a duck’s arse, he thought. Tight and dry.
‘About you and Annie!’
He burst through her hymen and thrust in deep. Ruthie screamed. Max froze, not believing what he’d just heard, but he was in now and too excited to stop. He thrust quickly, ten, twenty times, while Ruthie groaned and shoved helplessly against him, then he came. He rolled off her. Ruthie curled up into a foetal ball, aware only of the pain between her legs and the bitter hurt in her chest. She started to sob.
Max lay there and looked up at the ceiling in a daze.
Shit, that little bitch Annie.
Her and her fat gob, she’d ruined this. He’d told her to keep it buttoned, but she couldn’t resist rubbing Ruthie’s nose in it. The fucking little cow. He touched Ruthie’s shuddering back, but she twitched away from him.
After a while he got up, put on his dressing gown, and went to the adjoining bedroom. He got into the cold bed and lay there cursing Annie Bailey and swearing to himself that she would pay for not keeping her trap shut.
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Kieron Delaney stood shivering at the side of his brother Tory’s grave. Summer had given up for the day and was drenching the funeral party in cold rain. The weather suited their business here. His mum and dad were standing like statues beside him.
He stole a glance at them.
His mother was devastated, her white curls and floods of tears hidden by a thick black veil. His father seemed to be swaying on his feet, as if he would fall at any moment. Kieron was appalled to see how much weight his father Davey had lost. Suddenly, big strapping Davey Delaney, founder of the family firm, looked his age. Kieron saw his older brother Pat clutch at their dad’s arm to steady him.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest, dropping dirt on to the coffin in the hole.
He held the box out to Redmond, who took a handful and slung it in. Then Pat. Then Orla, who was tearless and composed. Then Kieron. Then their mum and dad.
Kieron tuned out the rest of it. He thought of Tory Delaney, his big brother, carrying him on his shoulders when he’d been tiny. He remembered the soft feel of Tory’s curly golden hair beneath his little fingers, remembered the booming Irish laugh of this man who was now nothing more than a corpse being buried in the dirt.
They’d drifted far apart over the years. Kieron was the youngest of Davey and Molly Delaney’s five children, and he had benefited from the family firm’s wealth without ever having to get involved in it.
He’d stuck his head in the sand and refused to acknowledge the sort of dodgy business his siblings were engaged in. He’d gone to art college and then had a year travelling. Ignorance was bliss. But in his guts he’d known that his dad had been into all sorts in his time, including a spell in Strangeways, and that Tory, Pat and Redmond had built the firm up from that base into what it was today.
He knew damned well his brothers were racketeers, thugs, criminals; he knew they ran girls and were into the ‘heavy game’, their term for armed robbery.
Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought.
