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‘What about the Delaneys?’ she asked.
‘They don’t bother Billy,’ said Celia, her gaze pointed as she looked at Annie. ‘I cleared it with Redmond Delaney, and none of his boys are going to argue with him. I lived next door to Billy’s mum years ago, he nearly grew up in my house and he’s been visiting ever since. We’re old pals – ain’t that right, Billy?’
Billy nodded shyly. He had coloured up at sight of Annie.
But Annie was still worried. Would Billy tell Max where she was? She didn’t know what went on in that funny brain of his. She knew Max had been good to him, and he was probably loyal to Max before all else, which could put her at risk.
‘Put the kettle on, Dolly, will you?’ Celia said, collapsing into a chair and kicking off her heels. Groaning with relief, she rubbed at her feet. ‘God, that’s bliss. We must have walked fucking miles.’
Dolly was one of Celia’s girls. She was a small, curvy and ill-tempered blonde who now slapped the kettle on the stove and slammed the doors open to get the tea caddy and the cups.
‘Four cups, Doll,’ said Celia, seeing that Dolly had only got out three. ‘Billy’s stopping for tea, and Annie’s parched, and you’ll join us, won’t you?’
Billy, his bulging briefcase perched on his lap, his raincoat buttoned to the neck, was scribbling in his notebook with a black Biro. He often did this. Annie had peeked once or twice, interested to see what he was writing. But all she ever saw was a dense, dark scrawl across the paper, meaning nothing. The poor sod wasn’t right in the head.
Dolly put four brimming mugs of tea on the kitchen table.
‘Biscuits?’ asked Celia, and the biscuit barrel was slapped down in front of her. ‘Thanks, Doll,’ said Celia, pulling out her cigarette holder and lighting up. ‘Everything been quiet here?’ she asked as she took her first luxurious pull.
‘Dead as a morgue,’ sniffed Dolly. ‘Aretha’s got a client in, but me and Ellie and Darren are at a loose end.’
They could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Andy Williams through the ceiling. Darren would be in there with her, having a girly chat. Annie thought Darren was sweet. She never thought she’d take to a shirt-lifter, but Darren was more like a girl than most girls she knew. And some of the male clients – particularly those who’d had a rough time with Nanny and learned bad habits at expensive boarding schools – preferred a pretty boy to a girl any day of the week, so he did good business.
‘It’ll pick up this evening,’ said Celia confidently. ‘Have a biscuit, Billy,’ she said.
‘I’m going on up,’ said Dolly, and took her tea upstairs.
‘So how are you, Billy love?’ asked Celia.
‘I’m v-very well,’ said Billy, and fell silent again.
Talk about witty banter, thought Annie. Poor bastard. Maybe he wouldn’t tell Max she was here. She thought – she hoped – that Billy liked her enough to keep quiet. And maybe Max didn’t care about her whereabouts any more. The thought was somehow not as cheering as it should have been. It might have been a quick fuck to Max, but she’d had real feelings for him. She still did, she realized miserably. The rotten handsome sod.
After a while, just trying to have a normal conversation with Billy, Annie felt tired. She admired Celia for her ability to wring a sentence or two out of him, but she hadn’t the knack or the patience.
‘I’m off up to get washed up, Celia,’ she said, and made her escape.
She took the remains of her tea and her bags upstairs. Up on the landing she could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Cliff Richard. Ellie and Darren were carolling away, horribly out of tune. Annie felt herself smiling. Overlying Cliff and Ellie and Darren and the Shadows was the sound of groans and the headboard hitting the wall in Aretha’s room. Annie dumped everything on her bed, kicked off her white PVC boots and was about to shut the door when Dolly appeared looking pleased with herself.
‘I know you,’ said Dolly. ‘Aretha thought she’d seen you somewhere, and she was right. And you know that loony Billy, don’t you, and he’s on the Carter payroll. You’re Ruthie Carter’s sister. Which makes you Max Carter’s sister-in-law.’
‘So what if I am?’ shrugged Annie.
‘You fell out with her and your mother,’ said Dolly.
‘So?’
‘Word was you’d stepped on Ruth’s toes, if you get my meaning.’ Dolly was smirking.
Whatever she’d said or done, there was no way she wanted to be standing here discussing it with this cheap little tart.
‘That’s my business,’ said Annie. ‘Not yours.’
‘No need to get all uppity with me,’ grinned Dolly. She was enjoying this. Annie had been queening it around here, Madam’s niece, too posh to pull punters. ‘Word is you fucked her bridegroom the night before the wedding.’
‘Whatever the “word” is,’ said Annie, ‘I’ve got nothing to say about it.’
‘Oh go on,’ crowed Dolly. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Annie.
‘That isn’t very nice, now is it? I’m only taking an interest.’
‘Who asked you to?’
Dolly’s smug smile dropped from her face. She came and stood directly in front of Annie. Annie was close enough to see enlarged pores clogged with too much make-up, and black roots in Dolly’s blonde frizzy hair. She smelt Dolly’s smoker’s breath and grimaced. Jesus! She pitied the punters. Imagine having to kiss a tart like this – and pay for the privilege!
‘I could tell you things I’ve heard,’ said Dolly.
‘Such as?’ asked Annie.
‘Word is your sister’s not well.’
Annie felt a tug of anxiety but she was careful to keep her face blank. ‘Says who?’
‘Says everyone. You know, you ought to be nicer to me,’ said Dolly. ‘I could get word to Ruth that you’re living in a knocking shop, how would that go down? You wouldn’t be so fancy then, would you, with your sister thinking you were making your living flat on your back.’
Annie slapped that fat, smirking mouth. Dolly stood a moment transfixed with shock and then she launched herself at Annie, knocking her back on to the bed, clawing at her hair. Annie hit her again, harder, and Dolly started screeching and trying to get her nails hooked into Annie’s face. Annie grabbed her wrists and pushed her back. Dolly was small and flabby – Annie was taller and stronger, and mad enough to bite this slapper’s head off and beat her with the soggy end. But all at once Darren and Ellie were pulling Dolly off her. Dolly was still shrieking and spitting. Between them they dragged Dolly back out on to the landing.
‘You’ll be sorry you did that,’ screamed Dolly.
‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ asked Aretha, joining the gathering on the landing wearing a very small white towel.
‘They were fighting,’ said Darren, who looked shocked and excited at the same time.
‘Well pack it in,’ hissed Aretha. ‘I’ve got a solid- gold punter in there and he’s getting nervous. He thought the sodding Old Bill were out here raiding the place.’
Darren tossed his blond head and took a step back. Through the half-open door he could see a man tied to the bed, face-down. There was a whip on the floor. The man’s naked buttocks were striped with pink.
‘Nice arse,’ commented Darren, who was a fine judge of such things.
‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back to her room. ‘Keep it down, okay?’
‘Come on love, shake hands and make up,’ said Ellie, a plump little brunette with a sweet face. She gave Dolly an encouraging smile.
Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.
‘That’s a no, then?’ asked Darren.
‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ promised Dolly, and went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
‘Come in and listen to Cliff with us,’ said Ellie to Annie. ‘She’s always getting her knickers in a twist, she’ll calm down.’
‘No, I’ve had enough excitement for one day,’ said Annie. She went back into her room, closed the door and fell on to the bed.
What the hell, she thought. Max didn’t care where she was. So long as she kept out of his way things would be fine, she told herself. She wondered if it was true that Ruthie was ill, or was that little tart Dolly just enjoying winding her up? She didn’t like to think of Ruthie being ill. Maybe Ruthie was pregnant. That thought cut into her like a knife. Ruthie, pregnant with Max’s child? Too restless and unhappy to settle, Annie went downstairs and got the Delaneys’ phone number from Celia.
15 (#u32b84b9c-0be0-5914-83e0-92552a530974)
Eddie Carter often wondered about the night he’d buried the gun for Max. His gut feeling was that Max had shot Tory Delaney dead, but something about the way Max had denied it niggled at him. He knew the police had been round asking questions, but Ruthie had provided an alibi, as any good wife would. It was best not to speculate. Tory was dead and that was an end to it.
Or was it? Because there was still Redmond and Pat Delaney.
Best not to think about that, either.
Eddie was enjoying his life, going round the clubs and pubs with his friends tonight, calling in on the Shalimar and The Grapes and finishing up at the Palermo Lounge. Max and Jonjo were in, the place was buzzing. They had their heavies with them, standing a discreet distance away. Eddie didn’t want a minder and had refused one more than once, even when Max tried to insist. He hated the idea of someone sneering at his sexual tastes, and he knew a lot of Max’s macho hard men did. Then one of the boys whispered that there was the most exquisite boy in a house not too far away, Eddie would adore him, why didn’t they go on over and visit?
‘Really?’ Eddie was intrigued but unsure.
His taste for pretty boys had got him into trouble a couple of times. He knew that Max disapproved. Jonjo despised Eddie for the fact that he liked to bed men instead of women, he knew that too. But Eddie did feel the urge, he was drunk but not incapable, so why not?
‘Is he blond?’ Eddie asked, his words only a little slurred. Max would disapprove of that, too. Drunks annoyed his sainted older brother. Drunks and loose women and men who liked shagging pretty boys … the list just went on and on. Eddie laughed at the thought of it. And there he was, the great Max Carter, sleeping in a separate room from his wife, a fact that must never ever be revealed to the wider world. Eddie liked Ruthie. The poor cow. Ruthie fussed over him like an older sister, and he liked that. He’d never had a sister, only a domineering mother who had frightened the arse off him most of the time, cuffing him around the ear or whopping his backside for stepping out of line.
Ruthie was different, gentler. She never nagged, never screamed like a tart in the street or hit people. He and Ruthie enjoyed their long chats and shopping trips. Despite the fact that he could see how unhappy she was, she never bad-mouthed Max to him or to anyone else. He liked that about her, too. Loyalty to the family was imperative. His mum had drummed that into them when they were growing up, and it had stuck. The Carters fought the world; never each other.
‘Yeah,’ said Deaf Derek, queer as a yellow duster with his earrings glinting in the light of the big revolving mirrored ball in the centre of the club. It winked like fairy dust over the dancers on the small dance floor, highlighted the boys in the four-piece band. It was late in the evening, everyone was feeling mellow and grabbing a last excuse to waltz up tight with their ladies. Jonjo was up on the floor hugging a curvaceous blonde in a bear grip. Max sat at his table alone, watching the dancers.
‘Is he slim?’ Eddie watched his own weight religiously, and dressed to flatter his elegant frame. His idea of a living nightmare was to find himself closeted with a fat, ugly old queen. Deaf Derek was sweating in the heat of the club. He wore a hearing aid, he’d been born deaf in one ear.
‘Slim. And young. He’s gorgeous,’ Derek told Eddie.
‘Well,’ said Eddie, ‘why not?’
A taxi took them to an address in Limehouse. Eddie stumbled into the house with Deaf Derek, only vaguely seeing the clean, cosy, red-flocked hallway, a clock on the wall shaped like a guitar, a wooden plaque showing a bull and bullfighter, red cape whirling. They climbed the stairs, Derek first, Eddie giggling because Derek stumbled and nearly fell.
‘You’re pissed,’ laughed Eddie, but Derek was up ahead and a bit mutton so he didn’t respond. Up on the landing they were met by a pretty young man. Yes, he was slim. Almost skinny. But a lovely face, a shiny mop of blond hair, friendly blue eyes, nicely turned out.
‘How much for the night?’ asked Deaf Derek brusquely.
‘For you?’ The guy looked Derek up and down and sniffed. ‘You couldn’t afford me, darling.’
‘Not for me. For my mate Eddie.’ He pulled Eddie forward and suddenly Eddie wished he hadn’t agreed to this. He was wishing he’d just gone back to Queenie’s old place and crashed. He felt tired. And having to pay for it yet again felt demeaning. But the boy was smiling at him. And he was pretty.
‘To you,’ said the boy, smiling seductively into Eddie’s dazzled eyes, ‘twenty.’
‘Twenty?’ Deaf Derek echoed. ‘This ain’t fucking Mayfair, girly.’
‘Okay,’ said Eddie. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Darren,’ said the boy.
‘Really?’
‘No, really it’s Horace,’ said Darren with a laugh. ‘But I’ve been Darren since I was sixteen and left home.’
Eddie turned to say that Derek could go now, but Derek was already halfway down the stairs. He was alone on the landing with a male tart.
‘Come on in,’ said Darren, and they went into his room. It was neat and clean as a new pin, which was what Eddie would have expected. There was a small sink in the corner. ‘Wash your dick, there’s a love. Towel’s on the rail.’
Again Eddie felt that stab of mortified disgust at his own behaviour, but he was already excited. He was closeted with a beautiful queen and he couldn’t wait to get down to business. He went to the sink, pulled down his trousers and pants, and washed his genitals carefully. He dried himself on the towel, and when he turned around Darren was on the bed, naked.
Eddie felt a crushing disappointment. He’d wanted to talk, to get to know Darren a bit before they got down to it. This felt so cold, so businesslike. He hated being a queer. He didn’t have to hide it away like some people did because he was a Carter, and no one poked fun at a Carter. But he missed the easy closeness that men and women could enjoy. You went out, saw a woman you fancied, took her home to meet Mum, and lived happily ever after – in theory anyway. But Eddie always had to struggle to get past the ‘are they or are they not queer?’ question, sometimes offending people without meaning to, and it slowed things down, ruined the mood.
Sometimes he found it was easier being alone than going to the bother of finding a partner who wanted the same things out of life. Which was why he often resorted to paying for sex. Because it was a transaction – a bit of business, and that was all. Soulless, yes; but at least no hassle. He looked down, dismayed to feel his hard-on dissolving.
‘Don’t worry about that, deary,’ said Darren casually. He patted the bed. ‘Come and lie down here with me, I’ll give you a bit of a rub down and he’ll soon be in the mood.’
God, he’d noticed. How embarrassing. Rigid with self-consciousness, Eddie stripped off his clothes and clutched the towel in front of himself as he went to the bed. He laid down.
‘That’s it,’ said Darren with breezy professionalism. ‘Face down now. I’ll do you a nice back rub with some lavender and baby oil.’
It was a long time since he’d been touched. Under Darren’s skilful hands Eddie relaxed. He hadn’t realized quite how tense he’d been, but Darren had the hands of an angel. Eddie closed his eyes and drifted away, and the first he knew something was wrong was when there were heavy footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the door crashing back on its hinges.
He heard Darren say: ‘Who the hell are you?’ and then there was the sound of a blow being struck and Darren screamed. Eddie tried to scramble up, but a heavy hand caught his arm and twisted it up behind his back. He felt his shoulder pop out of its socket and shrieked with pain.
‘Just stay right where you are, fairy,’ snarled a voice in his ear, ‘or I’ll break your other cunting arm, got that?’
Eddie felt cold pointed steel touch his anus. ‘I heard you like it up the arse, shit-stabber,’ said the voice over Darren’s sobs. Then there was agony. An agony so severe that Eddie couldn’t even cry out. The knife went in deep, then was jerked brutally out. Hot liquid gushed over Eddie’s thighs. Blood. His blood. Sickness and horror welled in his throat. Oh Jesus please stop, he thought, but he couldn’t say it, his words were stuck at his lips.
‘Say hello to Max for me,’ said the voice by his ear, and then the knifeman was thundering back down the stairs and out.
He felt himself slipping away. He knew he was losing a lot of blood and tried to ask Darren for help. Then he heard a voice. Female and concerned.
Alerted by Darren’s scream, Annie had run out of her room to see what the hell was going on.
‘Darren, what’s been … oh Jesus,’ said Annie. She saw Darren naked and clutching his bleeding face, crouched on the floor. And on the bed … someone covered in blood. Drenched in it.
‘Get Celia,’ moaned Darren.
‘She’s out,’ said Annie, feeling suddenly sick and giddy. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. She grabbed a towel. ‘Darren, get up here. Come on. Press this to the wound, hard as you can. I’ll phone for an ambulance.’
‘It’s Eddie Carter, Max Carter’s brother,’ wailed Darren.
‘What?’ Annie stared in disbelief.
‘He’s one of the Carters.’ Darren crawled over to the bed and pressed the towel to Eddie’s bleeding anus.
‘Stay there with him,’ said Annie. ‘And get some trousers on, Darren, for Christ’s sake.’
