13

      Orla Delaney bent down and laid a fresh bouquet of blood-red roses on her brother Tory’s grave. Dead brown leaves whirled in the cold wind. Months now since he’d been gone. Kieron stood back and watched as his sister replaced the old, dead blooms with the new ones. She was a lovely girl, he thought. Her red hair shone like flames in the sunlight. Her skin was alabaster-pale, like the marble of Tory’s headstone. Her hands were long and moved with elegant precision. He’d drawn and painted her often as they grew up, much to her annoyance. Orla never wanted to be still. Time enough for that in the coffin, she said.

      All of a fidget, that was Orla, thought Kieron. She had the nervy energy of a thoroughbred racehorse. He knew she didn’t sleep well. Dreams, she’d told him more than once. Disturbing dreams. But she hadn’t elaborated on that. Actually she didn’t need to. Kieron understood, better than Orla could ever suspect.

      ‘Hard to believe he’s gone,’ he said.

      ‘Very hard,’ she agreed.

      ‘I’ve often thought it must be nice to have a twin. I envy you and Redmond that closeness.’

      Orla turned and stared at him.

      ‘I’ve always felt a bit of an outsider,’ shrugged Kieron.

      ‘You’re too sensitive.’

      ‘Goes with the artistic temperament, I’m told.’

      ‘You’re not an outsider.’

      ‘Sure I am.’ He smiled at her as she stood up, and took the rubbish bag from her to dispose of later. ‘I don’t have anything to do with the firm, for one thing.’

      ‘You’ve never been here long enough to do that,’ said Orla as they left the graveside. Petey, her minder, joined them at a discreet distance as they moved back to the car.

      ‘It feels bloody odd, having heavies tagging along at every turn,’ said Kieron, glancing back at the big man.

      ‘It’s necessary,’ said Orla.

      Their brother Pat was waiting for them in the car.

      ‘You could at least have come to the grave,’ said Orla coldly as they got in.

      ‘No point,’ said Pat. ‘Dead’s dead, there’s nothing there but a pile of bones.’

      ‘Even so. As a mark of respect. Redmond would appreciate it.’

      ‘Feck Redmond,’ said Pat, and Petey got in and drove them away.

      ‘I’ll tell him you said that,’ said Orla.

      ‘Do. And feck you too, Orla Delaney.’

      ‘Hey!’ objected Kieron.

      There was silence as the car wove its way through the London traffic.

      ‘I’m not kowtowing to a precious shite like Redmond, much as he enjoys all the world kissing his arse,’ said Pat finally.

      ‘He’s the head of the family now,’ said Orla.

      ‘Our father’s still alive, unless you’ve forgotten,’ snapped Pat, glaring out of the window at the rows of terraced houses and the shops with their brightly lit windows.

      ‘Dad isn’t involved any more, you know that,’ said Orla after a pause.

      ‘Clubs and fecking parlours,’ grumbled Pat. ‘There are other trades, you know. Trades that pay a damned sight better.’

      ‘We’re not having that old conversation again, are we Pat?’ asked Orla tiredly.

      ‘You know it’s true.’

      Orla did know it. Drugs were the new thing, there was an endless market for pills and smokes. But the firm was doing all right. Why fix what wasn’t broke? Pat was like a bloody stuck record, she thought, going on and on when they’d already decided no. When they got to Brompton Road she tapped Petey on the shoulder

      ‘Let us out here, Petey, there’s a love,’ she said. ‘Pat’ll take the car, you come with me. You too, Kieron.’

      ‘Yeah, you bugger off the pair of you,’ said Pat, as Petey pulled in to the kerb and his brother and sister hopped out. ‘I can take a hint.’

      Pat replaced Petey in the driving seat.

      ‘You’re a sour bastard sometimes, Pat,’ said Orla. ‘I don’t think you can take a hint at all. And you’d be wise to.’

      Pat made a face and didn’t reply. They stood on the pavement and watched him speed away, burning rubber.

      ‘He doesn’t improve with age,’ said Kieron.

      ‘He’s all hot air,’ said Orla, making for the huge building and dark green canopied doors of Harrods.

      Inside it was a treasure trove into which Orla always loved to dip. Kieron wandered along with her, indulgent, exclaiming over this and that, having a nice time with her. Then Orla fetched up short at seeing a familiar face.

      ‘Hello Celia,’ said Orla.

      Celia straightened up. Annie, standing alongside her, saw her aunt’s face change. Suddenly Celia looked cautious and deferential.

      ‘Hello, Miss Delaney,’ said Celia. ‘How very