The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane
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by the throat again, nearly choking her. She swigged back another drink and then took the glasses into the kitchen and washed them. Didn’t want Miss Arnott thinking she was hitting the bottle during the day and having the nosy old biddy pass on the glad news to Max, now did she?
As she stood at the sink, her eyes were caught by the keys hanging beside the back door. She’d looked at them many times – keys to unknown doors, unlocking secrets. She was fascinated by them. She knew what some of them were for, but there were a couple she didn’t. Emboldened by the drink, she grabbed the whole bunch and went out of the back door and across the courtyard to the annexe. It was locked, as usual. She tried a couple of the keys and one fitted. She pushed the door open, glancing behind her to check that she was unobserved.
Of course she was.
She felt a little woozy, sherry on an empty stomach was never a good idea. She knew she should cut back, but at the moment the booze was all she had. But did she really want to end up like her mother? Just look at Mum, the poor raddled old cow, that’s what the drink did to you. See and learn, see and learn, Ruthie.
Giggling to herself, she stepped into the hall. It was so small, compared with the big house. And cosy. A real little home, with nice floral carpets on the floor and up the stairs. She wandered into the silent place, feeling like an intruder. She opened a door and found a proper lounge, nothing like that big barn of a room in the main house, where she had to sit on her own day after day, night after night. This lounge had a fireplace and a sofa and lots of ornaments, pictures of Max and Eddie and Jonjo as babes in arms, kids at the seaside, teenagers wearing boxing gloves, hard-eyed men lounging against big black cars. Over the fireplace was a larger portrait. Ruthie froze.
It was Queenie Carter. Queenie with her imperious expression, her hard little mouth, her sharp blue eyes, her white hair billowing out around her face like a cloud. Queenie seemed to stare back at her and ask what the fuck Ruthie was doing, wandering around inside her home without permission. Ruthie left, closing the door firmly behind her. Her heart was racing and she felt light-headed, almost sick. She knew she shouldn’t be in here, Max had said she could go anywhere but not into the annexe, and now she could see why.
This was not an annexe. This was a shrine to Queenie Carter.
‘What’s going on?’ said a voice behind her.
She turned. Max was there, he’d found her. But no, it was okay. She blinked and clutched a hand to her hammering chest. It was only the gardener. She’d forgotten this was his day to come and do the lawns, trim the shrubs.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Carter,’ said the gardener. ‘I wondered what was going on. Sorry to make you jump like that. I haven’t seen anyone in the annexe since Mrs Carter died. Mr Carter’s mother, I mean.’
‘I know who you mean,’ said Ruthie, shoving past him and relocking the door. Suddenly she felt stone-cold sober. ‘She died, I didn’t. I’m still alive.’
But as she walked back to the main house, she wondered if that was really true.
‘Don’t I know you?’ asked Aretha, leaning her rangy black frame against Annie’s open door.
Annie was sprawled out on the bed flicking through a magazine. She wasn’t in the best of moods. She didn’t like being at Celia’s. All that bumping and grinding in the night, people coming and going at all hours. This morning, glad to get out of the place, she’d turned in for work as usual at the corner shop. Monday morning. Ruthie had been Mrs Max Carter for a month but for Annie it was just more of the same old shit.
But this Monday, things were different. Bert Tobey, the owner, looked uncomfortable as she started to shrug off her coat.
‘Better keep that on, Annie love,’ he said, his eyes avoiding hers. ‘Sorry, but your job’s gone.’
Annie stood there, half in and half out of her coat, and stared at him. ‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘We don’t need extra staff any more,’ Bert said. His big good-natured face looked unhappy. ‘Vi and me can manage on our own, we’ve decided. Sorry, but there it is.’
‘But I need this job,’ said Annie. ‘You’re happy with my work, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve had no complaints on that score,’ said Bert carefully.
‘Well then.’
‘Well nothing.’ Suddenly his eyes blazed with irritation. ‘I’ve told you, the job’s gone. You’re all paid up until last Saturday, so we’re square. Now piss off.’
Annie recoiled. Bert had never spoken to her like that before. Through the beaded curtain that led to the stock room she could see Vi, his wife, listening to what was going on. And then she understood and rage engulfed her.
‘Who are you telling to piss off, you old bastard?’ demanded Annie.
She knew what was going on. She knew damned well that Bert paid for protection. She’d seen Billy in here, collecting. Blushing when she spoke to him, the stupid git.
‘This is Max Carter, isn’t it,’ she said in bitter realization.
‘Look, I told you nicely, I don’t want to see you here again. Clear off,’ said Bert, and stormed off into the stock room.
So that was that. Annie left the shop and started walking back to Celia’s. Now her job was gone and she’d be lucky to get another one, she knew that. Certainly not on Max’s manor or in the areas controlled by most of the other gangs, gangs who were friendly with Max and would be only too pleased to do him a favour by making sure she stayed out in the cold. The bastard!
For the first time in her life she was on the Delaney patch. She’d lived all her life on Carter territory, seeing Max and Jonjo passing by in their big black cars, seeing them treated like royalty, people bowing and scraping. Consequently she’d grown up with the firm notion that the Delaneys were mad, dirty, red-haired Irish tinkers. The Delaneys were the enemy. But now it seemed that the Delaney manor was the only place she could breathe around here. Talk about a turnaround. But she’d brought all this on herself. She’d been a silly cow. She knew it.
And now here she was, dossing down in her disreputable aunt’s knocking shop, on dirty Delaney soil, with a brass wanting girly chats. She was not in the mood.
‘I said – don’t I know you?’ said Aretha, her dark brown eyes challenging.
‘I doubt it,’ said Annie, and got back to her mag.
‘Only you look kind of familiar.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
This was bad news. If this tart recognized her from somewhere as Ruthie Carter’s sister, then the shit would hit the fan and she would possibly have to move on. And where to? She hadn’t a clue. She was already jobless. She didn’t want to be homeless again. She comforted herself with the fact that the Carters and the Delaneys were at loggerheads. This was Delaney turf. But still she didn’t feel safe.
Annie took a look at the girl. Aretha was beautiful, tall, muscular in the way that black women often were, no spare padding at all. A big powder puff of black curls, big earrings. A tiny pink top pulled tight across small breasts. A black belted PVC miniskirt. Thigh-high black boots. How could anyone look that good and be a brass? Or a masseuse, Annie corrected herself. The girls here gave massages to a surprisingly diverse range of men. She’d spotted dockers and navvies coming and going, but she’d also seen one or two well-known actors, an MP, and a high-ranking police officer. All here to be ministered to by Celia’s three masseuses and one masseur, who by the way also gave blow jobs, hand jobs and a good shag at an additional fee, thank you, your honour.
‘She really your Aunt Celia?’ asked Aretha.
‘She