Black Widow (27 page)

‘No, I’m all right.’

Shattered, brokenhearted, devastated, but all right.

‘Good,’ he said, and bent his head and kissed her. Then he drew back.

Annie opened her eyes and looked at his face, very close to hers. He was frowning.

She swallowed nervously. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. It’s nothing,’ he said, and bent his head and kissed her again. Deeper this time, a proper, hot-blooded, tongues-and-everything kiss.

Oh Jesus
, thought Annie.

Then he stopped again.

She opened her eyes. He was still frowning, staring down at her.

Suddenly Constantine pulled back. He got off the couch, stood up and began yanking his clothes on.

‘What the…?’ Annie sat up, staring at him. He zipped up his trousers and turned to face her.

She took a gulp of air and tried again. ‘Did I do something wrong? Something you didn’t like?’

His face was closed, unreadable. ‘No. Nothing.’ He was putting on his shirt, buttoning it closed, tucking the tails in.

‘Wait!’

Now Annie jumped to her feet, running her hands through her hair in desperation, her eyes wild with alarm as she saw him withdrawing from her. Layla’s life depended on her doing this. She
had
to do this.

‘Tell me what I did,’ she babbled, trying to speak
calmly, but panic was making her voice come out all wrong. ‘Just tell me, I won’t do it again.’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ said Constantine, slipping on his jacket.

But he looked angry.
Furious.

She couldn’t afford to let him be furious.

‘Look, you said you wanted this,’ she said breathlessly, trying to sound reasonable, trying to coax him back to her somehow.

He stopped tying his tie and looked at her.

‘I did,’ he said, thinking that she was beautiful, that she was everything any man could want in a woman, that he’d wanted her fiercely ever since she’d first walked into his study. So fiercely that he’d lost all pretence of finesse and issued what amounted to a very indecent proposal indeed. So fiercely that he’d misjudged her and—worse—himself. He knew he’d blown his chances with her, right out of the water. He’d been a bloody fool.

And now here he was—feeling lower than a snake’s belly, knowing that he was the world’s biggest son of a bitch because in her despair she had agreed to this mad scheme, had agreed to fucking well
prostitute
herself, to save her child.

He knew he was no saint. He’d grown up fast the hard way, running numbers in Queens, dealing with scum, seeing what desperation could do to people. And now he could see what it was doing to her, and he didn’t like it one little bit.

‘So here it is,’ said Annie, her voice shaking with the effort of remaining calm. ‘You wanted this, you got it. Come on. Take what you want, take
anything
, I don’t care.’

Constantine just stood there, looking at her for long moments.
But I do
, he thought.

He’d believed he could handle this. Mentally and physically. But his mind, his
conscience
, was telling him otherwise, and now his body was telling him the same thing.
He just couldn’t do it.

He turned away from her, back towards the desk. ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Go home.’

Annie ran forward and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop, to look at her.

‘You can’t do this,’ she said furiously. ‘For fuck’s sake, listen to me! You
can’t.’

Constantine coolly removed her hand from his arm. ‘I can do anything I want, Mrs Carter. Now get the hell out of here.’

Annie stood there, defeated. It was no good. It was finished. Moving like a sleepwalker, she gathered up her clothes, dressed as fast as she could. He unlocked the door—still ignoring her. When she left, he said nothing.

When Constantine heard the front door close behind her, he picked up the phone, ran a hand through his hair, let out a heartfelt sigh.

Hey
, he thought angrily,
what’s the deal here? Am I finally going soft or some-fucking-thing?

When the phone was answered, his voice was calm, rock steady.

‘I want that girl back with her mother,’ he told the man on the other end of the phone. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

‘We’re doing everything we can, you know that,’ said Nico.

‘Do more. Break some heads. Do whatever it takes.’

‘Hey, you got it.’

‘I mean it, Nico. Step it up a gear.’

‘Will do, Boss.’

And in the meantime, he would get the cash together for Friday. Just in case Nico failed.

Annie got back to Dolly’s place an hour later, feeling like there was no hope left in the world, none whatsoever.

Now she had another thing to add to the list of things she didn’t have the bottle for. She was cursing herself for her stupidity. She had behaved more like a frightened virgin than an experienced woman of the world and she hated herself for it. She was sure that her stupid behaviour had put him off—after all, what normal man wanted to feel that he was having to
force
himself on a woman?

She should have behaved like an adult about the whole thing. It was a bit of business, that was all. She should have kept her nerve. But now look. Because of her, Layla had no hope of salvation at all. Her daughter would die because she still didn’t have the cash, and that was because she couldn’t bring herself to sleep with Constantine.

Disgusted with herself, she went into the kitchen after saying a curt goodnight to Tony. Darren, Ellie, Aretha and her husband, man-mountain Chris, were all around the table, laughing and joking and drinking tea being poured out by Dolly. They were all enjoying their weekend.

‘Hi, Annie, come on in, don’t stand there in the hall with your mouth open,’ said Dolly.

She reluctantly complied. She really wanted to crawl off into the hole that Dolly’s bedroom had become and be alone with her misery. But everyone was around the table making a huge effort, trying to cheer her up even though they knew it was damned near impossible, and she was standing there like Banquo’s bloody ghost at the feast.

Annie pasted a smile on her face and went in, closing the hall door behind her.

No Una, thank God. Una didn’t do friendly gatherings, she just did intimidation. Chris pulled out a chair for her and a slice of cake was placed in front of her. Annie nearly gagged at the thought of even taking a mouthful.

‘Long time no see, Annie,’ said Chris. ‘Aretha told me you’re having some trouble. If there’s anything…?’

‘No.’ Annie sat down and he sat too. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

Nothing anyone can do, except me. And like a
prize idiot I wouldn’t do it
, she berated herself furiously.
And now that option’s gone.

Christ, she’d made herself look like such a twat. It was her fault that Constantine had pulled back. All she’d had to do was be seductive. She was a woman, for Christ’s sake, how hard could it have been?

Everything
was her fault.

For Dolly’s sake she nibbled at the cake, although she really felt like throwing up, like screaming, like crying her fucking eyes out. The happy chatter was going on all around her, and there she was in the middle of it all, feeling that she was in a dark and terrible place, lonely and afraid.

Her friends were concerned, but they couldn’t help. There was no prospect of help coming from any quarter. It could only have come from herself, when she did something that seemed to her to be a betrayal of all that she had once held dear. But now that ship had sailed.

She tuned into the conversation, if only to distract herself from the horror story she was living in right now, and was immediately plunged back into it.

‘Told Chris about Billy,’ said Dolly.

‘Oh.’ Annie gulped. The thought of Billy lying in a bloodied heap was still so raw in her mind.

‘Some sick bastards around,’ said Chris solemnly.

Annie and Dolly exchanged a look. It wasn’t
the only horrendous thing that had happened here. Annie thought of the death of Max’s brother, and the night when Pat Delaney had come at her, intending murder.

‘The funeral’s Monday,’ said Dolly, her eyes still on Annie’s face. ‘I’m going, if you want to come along…?’

She didn’t want to go. The very last thing in the world Annie wanted was to stand at Billy’s graveside. But she knew she must pay her respects; say that final, awful goodbye.

Monday! Five days then until Friday, five days during which Layla’s fate would be decided once and for all.

Oh shit
, she thought.

‘Yeah. I’ll come,’ she said.

Dolly nodded her approval and raised her cup of tea. ‘Let’s give a toast to Billy Black,’ she said.

Everyone raised theirs too. ‘To Billy,’ they mumbled, and drank.

And then, thank God, Dolly dropped that subject and started talking to Chris about what a good doorman he’d been, and that he ought to go back to it.

‘You really think he should do that?’ Aretha asked hopefully. She hated Chris working the graveyard shift night in, night out.

‘Not a chance,’ said Chris. ‘I’d rather get back in the ring than be a doorman again.’

Chris had relished his time in the boxing ring, but you had to know when enough was enough or you’d end up punchy, fucked-up for life. Annie looked at him. He was no oil painting, even though he’d quit the ring a long time ago. Chris was bald, with a matching set of cauliflower ears and a nose to make a plastic surgeon weep. But it was his manner that appealed. He was hard but fair with men, kind and considerate with women. A regular gentleman. No wonder Aretha had married him before someone else snapped him up. No wonder Ellie still looked at him that way.

‘It’s easy money,’ said Ross, their current doorman, who had come to stand in the open kitchen doorway. He didn’t even look at Annie, and since Redmond’s visit had not addressed a single civil word to her.

Fuck him
, she thought.

‘Being a doorman’s a piece of piss,’ Ross said to Chris.

Dolly looked at Ross. ‘Oh yeah? Am I paying you too much?’

Ross grinned. ‘You know what I mean, Doll. Not much trouble.
Easy
money.’

Ellie was diving into the cake, shooting furtive glances at Chris.

Still got the hots for him
, thought Annie.
Poor cow.

Annie glanced at Aretha—stunning, black, not
a spare pound on her.
Stiff
competition. Ellie was well outgunned.

The doorbell rang and Ross went back into the hall, closing the kitchen door behind him.

‘Yeah, but you liked it here, didn’t you?’ said Darren to Chris. ‘We’ve always had a good bunch of girls here.’ He gave a coy smile and suddenly Darren was like he used to be, not the sickly-looking individual he had become. ‘And boys of course.’

Chris nodded. ‘It was good. But security work’s easier.’

‘Yeah, but permanent nights.’ Aretha pulled a face. ‘Girl gets lonely.’

‘Yeah, but good pay. No hassle.’

This sounded like a conversation the two of them had had many times before. Chris was happy in his job; Aretha was feeling bored and neglected and that was why she had come back to work at Dolly’s. Not that Chris seemed to mind too much. He knew the woman he was getting; he was clearly under no illusions about his exotic-looking wife.

‘Think I told you,’ said Dolly to Annie, ‘Chris does nights at the trading estate at Heathrow.’

Did you?
Annie couldn’t remember. Her brain was befuddled by all the shit being heaped on her day by day.

‘What, looking after stuff before it’s shipped abroad?’ asked Annie, trying to take an interest.

‘Yeah, that’s it. We get big consignments in.
Huge
amounts of stuff.’

‘And real good stuff too,’ Aretha looked across at Annie with eyes alight with simple girlish greed. ‘Gold sometimes. Real bars of gold. What they called? Ingots. Ingots of gold.’

There was a chorus of wows and sighs from around the table.

Chris was smiling and shaking his head. ‘That’s rare,’ he said, looking fondly across at Aretha. ‘They store it sometimes at Heathrow and then transport it to Gatwick; it’s usually headed for banks and businesses in Hong Kong. But mostly we just get the dosh coming through.’

‘Yeah, but it’s dosh by the
bucketload,’
said Aretha excitedly. ‘More money than you can count, I heard.’

‘Yeah, you heard,’ said Chris, smiling across at her.

Suddenly Annie felt as though she’d been punched in the chest. Her breathing had shut down. She looked at Chris. She worked some spittle into her mouth and managed to get the words out.

‘How much are we talking here? A few thousand? Half a mill?’

Chris shook his head. ‘Couple of million’s the usual amount. Sometimes more.’

Sometimes more.

But she only needed half a million pounds.
She thought of Constantine Barolli. She had nearly sold her soul to him, in order to get her hands on the cash to rescue Layla. But now maybe she wouldn’t have to. Maybe Chris had just given her the get-out clause she needed. A couple of million pounds, sitting in a depot at Heathrow Airport.

‘And that sort of amount’s there now? Right now?’ she asked.

Chris looked at her. Nodded.

‘We could take it,’ she said suddenly, surprising herself.

Everyone looked at her.

‘Oh sure,’ said Chris, thinking she was joking.

He turned away and chatted to Dolly, but his eyes kept whipping back to Annie’s, as if to say:
Did you mean that? Are you crazy?

Annie meant it all right.

She was a desperate woman.

Her eyes told him so.

It was impossible, of course. When she thought about it later, when she got Chris on his own and got the full details, when she really thought it through and tried to make sense of it, she knew it was madness. Talking about hitting a secure depot and running off with the cash—what a joke. She couldn’t risk a jail term. She’d stood in the dock once before and only Max pulling strings had got her out of a very sticky situation that time.

This time there was no Max to tug her arse out of the mire at the last minute.

This time, she would go down for sure.

If she got caught.

But maybe she wouldn’t.

On the other hand—maybe she would.

The idea of the heist kept plaguing her, even though she knew it was crazy. She had the boys, Max’s boys: they’d been out on the rob and on
the heavy game—their term for armed robbery—many times before, and Max with them. They were handy men, hard men, and they would know how to tackle a job like this; they would know where to get experts in to assist, what the snags would be, what could go wrong.

She had to face that.
Anything
could go wrong. But they had the advantage of an insider, and her years with Max had taught her that inside knowledge, inside help, was key to a good job. But would Chris co-operate? He’d looked at her dubiously when she had sounded him out. Chris liked a quiet, orderly life. And if he did the job with Max’s boys he would have to get out of the country afterwards, which he wasn’t keen on, or face a lengthy jail term, which he was even
less
keen on, and anyway, how would Aretha like any of
those
apples?

No. It was impossible.

Even though Chris had agreed—reluctantly—-to talk it through again, it was impossible.

There were so many things against them. For example, what if the money was marked in some way? What if for some reason the full amount wasn’t there, and she was left with all the shit from the heist but still without the huge amount of cash she’d need to pacify the kidnappers?

It bothered her all through the rest of the weekend and, when Monday dawned, she was no
further forward. Chris had said the cash came in on Wednesdays, which gave them about a day and a half to put the wheels in motion, and she knew that wasn’t time enough. Sometimes a job could take weeks, even months, of meticulous planning: she knew that. To go in hastily, without thinking everything through, without making precise plans, was suicide.

Madness.

And she was only considering it because she couldn’t face the alternative she was now thinking about. The alternative could start a gang war the like of which hadn’t been seen since Spot and Hill in the Fifties—she could hand the Carter manor and everything in it over to Redmond Delaney.

It had crossed her mind in the dead cold hours of early morning. To save Layla, she might be forced to do that.

But she didn’t want to. She resisted it with every iota of strength she had left. Because, if she did that, all that Max had worked for would be gone. And, besides, Redmond
fucking
Delaney was the reason she was going to Billy’s funeral today. He had ordered Billy’s death and she knew it. And how the fuck was she, a Carter to her bones, going to face doing business with the hated Delaneys?

Yeah, sure it was Redmond’s fault
, whispered that voice in her head.
No way it was yours, right?

She was still mulling it all over when Tony drove
Dolly and her over to the church for Billy’s funeral. Mulling it over—and getting precisely bloody nowhere.

‘I’m glad we’ve got a chance for a private word,’ said Dolly as the Jag glided through the grey streets of the East End.

‘Oh?’ Annie looked at her. Dolly was looking at the back of Tony’s head. She glanced back at Annie. ‘You can say anything in front of Tony,’ Annie told her. ‘He’s sound.’

Dolly let out a sigh. ‘Well, it’s not good news,’ she said.

‘Come on then, out with it.’ Annie gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m used to bad news by now, Doll, or ain’t you noticed?’

‘It’s Darren, Annie,’ said Dolly, and Annie was shocked to see tears start in Dolly’s eyes.

‘What is it?’ she asked, her heart sinking.

‘He ain’t been too good for quite a while,’ said Dolly, gulping and scrabbling around in her bag for a hankie. ‘Fuck, we ain’t even
got
to the funeral yet and I’m blubbing already.’

‘I could see he wasn’t right when I first came back,’ said Annie. ‘He said he’d lost his boyfriend. Well, more than a boyfriend. He was in love with the man, and he died.’

Dolly nodded and dabbed at her eyes. ‘That’s right. The fucker went and died and at first Darren was really upset, wouldn’t eat, went downhill…
but then, time passed, and I thought, he’ll perk up soon. Only he didn’t. He kept going down and finally I persuaded him to get off to the doc’s and find out what the hell was wrong. And he did.’

‘You told me about the blackouts. He said he was having some tests done,’ said Annie.

‘Yeah, and the results came back.’

Annie looked at her, wondering what the hell she was about to say.

‘Well, go on. Spit it out.’

‘It’s a wasting disease. Got a big long fancy name, but the specialist said in layman’s terms it’s MS. Basically he’s getting weaker and weaker and he’s going to end up in a fucking
wheelchair.’

Dolly choked on the last word and turned tear-filled blue eyes to her friend.

‘Oh shit, Doll.’ Annie stared at her in horror. Darren had been handed a slow, lingering death sentence.

‘I went to see the doc with him. Wanted to hear it for myself. We said I was his big sister and, you know what? I’ve always felt like that.’ Dolly paused and drew breath. ‘Poor bloody Darren. He’s going down and he’s not going to come back up again. The doctor said to expect serious organ damage, confusion, disability…death.’

And now the car was pulling in through the church gates, and they had Billy’s funeral to get through.

It was hellish, of course.

Tony stayed in the car. Annie had sent flowers, red roses: she thought Billy would have liked that. Doll sent pink lilies. Max’s boys were there to show their respect for one of their own. Billy’s Mum was there, hugely fat and hobbling on a stick, with a man in braces and a cheap jacket and baggy trousers. One of Billy’s ‘uncles’, Annie guessed. One of the succession of men who had passed through his mum’s life.

Because Billy was a well-known face around the Carter manor, a fair slice of the populace had turned out, despite the showery weather, to see him on his way. Annie felt guilt gnawing away at her all through the service.

Who was she kidding?

Redmond Delaney may have ordered Billy done, but it was her fault he’d gone that far. If she hadn’t come back here, Billy would still be alive today, walking around the Carter manor and going to Dolly’s Limehouse parlour on Delaney turf while Redmond and his mob cheerfully turned a blind eye.

There came the awful moment when they had to file past Billy’s nearest and dearest, his mum and the uncle, no brothers, no sisters. Poor bastard. Dolly was in front, shaking Hilda Black’s hand, patting it, saying what a lovely service it had been, the vicar had done Billy proud.

Then it was Annie’s turn.

She clasped Hilda’s podgy hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dry-mouthed, hating this. ‘He was a good friend to me.’

Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.

Hilda went bright red and drew her head back. Then, like a snake shooting venom, she spat full in Annie’s face.

Everyone stood frozen in shock.

‘You!’
she hissed. ‘If it wasn’t for you, my boy would still be alive today! I don’t know how you’ve got the fucking
nerve
to come here.’

Annie recoiled in horror and disgust.

‘Mrs Black…’ she began, groping in her bag for a hankie to wipe Hilda’s spittle from her face.

But Hilda was on a roll.

‘He was doing some jobs for you, you evil cow. He told me so. He was pleased as punch because you were back. He was always soft on you, the dopy little git. And now look where he’s ended up, look what’s happened! They dragged him through the streets and killed him, and it’s all because of you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Annie, riven with guilt.

Hilda was only telling the truth. But God, it hurt. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

Hilda spat again, hitting her straight in the face.

‘Now what you gonna do about
that?’
yelled
Hilda in fury. ‘You gonna get me done too, like poor little Billy? Ain’t that what you people do, when you’re answered back to?’

Annie looked along the silent line of watchers and her eye caught that of Jimmy Bond. He was standing there, and on his face was a faint look of satisfaction. The bastard. He should be rushing over here, telling Hilda what for, to watch her mouth and remember who she was talking to.

But no.

The fucker was
pleased
she was being slapped down.

She looked at the other boys. Ugly little Jackie Tulliver, lanky, evil-eyed Gary, and squat, powerful Steve. All spruced up in their Sunday best. They looked at Jimmy, then at her, then away, shuffling their feet awkwardly.

Annie got the message.

The boys looked to Jimmy for leadership, not her. Jimmy was doing nothing to defend her, so neither were they. It was loud and clear. She got the hankie out and wiped her face.

There was silence all around her. Avid faces, watching, waiting. This was
Mrs Max Carter
being disrespected, and no one was doing a fucking thing about it. It would be the talk of the manor within the hour.

‘Come on, we ought to go,’ said Dolly, looking uncomfortable as she tugged at Annie’s arm.

Then there was movement behind Annie. Suddenly Tony was there, pushing through the crowds. He stopped at the graveside and stared at Hilda Black as if she was shit on his shoe.

‘You want to watch your step,’ he told her roughly, and she shrank back. ‘This is Mrs Carter you’re talking to. You just remember that.’

The latest ‘uncle’ standing beside Hilda Black started puffing himself up and Tony gave him a look.

It was enough.

The man stepped back, looking at the ground.

Annie looked around at all the faces there. Jimmy Bond was gone. Everyone else seemed embarrassed by the scene being played out in front of them. The vicar had said his piece and was gone. Didn’t want to get involved.

Annie stepped back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Hilda Black. ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss.’

Hilda Black looked at her with bitter loathing.

Then Annie turned, with Dolly on one side of her and Tony on the other, and walked away.