Maps of Hell

‘Well you must be pleased now. She’s in fucking bits.’

Yeah, I should be pleased, thought Annie. But somehow I’m not. There were all these confusing images in her mind. Ruthie at ten, giving Annie a lick of her ice cream when she’d dropped her own on the mucky pavement. Ruthie picking her up and dusting her down when she fell over and scraped her knee. Ruthie defending her when she committed the indefensible and was down for a hiding from Mum. Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie. She hated her and loved her in equal measures. After the relief of hurting her had come the remorse. A sick, soul-eating remorse that had been gnawing at her ever since.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Annie. ‘All right?’

‘No, it ain’t all right.’ Max released her with a derisory flick that sent her reeling back against the car door. The expression on his face was one of complete disgust. ‘What a selfish little tart you are,’ he said.

Annie rubbed her jaw. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said bitterly. ‘That’s me.’

‘Go on, bugger off.’

Annie stared at him.

‘Bugger off!’ yelled Max. ‘And keep the fuck out of my way in future, or you’ll be sorry.’

Annie hardly knew she had opened the door, but she tumbled out on to the pavement. Tony, the driver, was there in an instant, plonking her suitcase down at her side as she scrambled to her feet. He stepped into the driver’s seat, and the car pulled away. Annie was left there, the rain beating down on her head. With nowhere else to turn, she started walking up the road towards Limehouse, towards her only possible place of refuge.

9

‘She told me you’d be coming,’ said Aunt Celia when she opened the door and found Annie there, wet, bedraggled, and clutching a suitcase.

Annie was irritated to be so obvious. But where else could she have gone? Connie would have lost no time in spreading the word about her tryst with Max, and all the relations would side with little angel Ruthie against her; they always had. Annie’s best friend was Kath, her cousin, but she was on Mum’s side of the family, and her mother would kick up bloody hell if she knew Annie had been in touch and got a good response. Bailey family bonds were strong. Max’s influence was even stronger.

But Connie detested her husband’s sister, Celia. Annie didn’t know why. She said ‘that family’ were all the same; wasters and thieves. Annie hadn’t seen Celia for years. She hadn’t even been sure that she still lived in the same place. Celia and Connie had had a major falling-out when Dad left and all contact had been lost. But here she was, still in the same large Edwardian semi. Still pretty – although slightly faded. Still with that same wry smile on her face, still wearing her neat two-piece suits, still with a fag in her hand. The fag was still stuck in an ivory holder, too.

‘Tarty bloody piece,’ Connie had always said of Celia with a sneer. ‘Poncing around all affected with that thing in her mouth, thinks she’s the fucking Empress of India.’

But Annie had always liked her chic aunt.

‘I had nowhere else to go,’ said Annie.

‘She’s fucking mad at you,’ said Celia.

‘I did a stupid thing.’

‘We all do stupid things, Annie. She said I wasn’t to take you in under any circumstances.’

‘Oh.’ Annie’s shoulders dropped. Her feet were killing her, she was worn out; now Celia was going to turn her away.

‘She didn’t tell me why, though.’ Celia opened the door wider. ‘Come on in, then, and spill the beans. Put the wood in the hole after you.’

‘I slept with Max Carter,’ said Annie as they sat at the kitchen table. Celia’s dark, glittering eyes lit up.

‘You never did,’ she said breathlessly.

‘The night before the wedding.’ Annie sipped her tea. Nice and warm. The kitchen was cosy. She’d been frozen to the bone out there in the rain. This was lovely.

Celia let out a plume of smoke. ‘Never!’

‘And I told Ruth I’d done it. On her wedding day.’

Her aunt clicked her tongue in disbelief. ‘Fucking hell. What did you want to go and do that for?’

‘I told you it was stupid.’

‘You must have had a reason.’

‘Nothing that matters.’ Annie looked at Celia in anguish. ‘I loved him before Ruthie did. She gets everything! And I saw him first.’

Celia stubbed out her cigarette. ‘This ain’t the bloody playground, Annie. You really in love with him?’

‘Can I have a fag, Auntie?’ Annie had never smoked in her life, but now seemed like a good time to start.

‘No you bloody can’t. It’s a disgusting habit, don’t ever start doing stuff like that. And don’t call me Auntie, it makes me feel a bloody hundred. Call me Celia, you’re old enough. Drink your tea. Were you careful, Annie?’

Annie felt herself colouring up. She nodded.

‘Well thank God for that.’ Celia started tapping on the tabletop with her long, red-painted nails. Tart’s nails, Connie would call them. Annie thought they looked incredibly elegant. Her mother’s were stained yellow from nicotine, broken, ridged. Hideous. Celia was the same age as Connie, but she had looked after herself, that was obvious. Her dark hair was teased into a stylish bouffant. Her figure was still trim. Her tailored suit was a flattering powder-blue wool. It looked expensive. Annie remembered what else Connie had said about Celia, and wondered if it could be true.

‘So Connie knows all about it because Ruthie told her?’ asked Celia.

Annie nodded.

‘And what about Max – does he know what you’ve done?’

She nodded again.

‘Blood and sand,’ breathed Celia, and lit another cigarette from the packet of Player’s with an air of urgency. She stuck it in the holder, took a deep draw and regarded her niece with disfavour. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘Yeah, I did.’ It hurt Annie afresh to think of the words they’d exchanged in the back of his car.

‘Did you tell him you were coming here?’

‘No,’ said Annie.

‘Keep it that way. I don’t want to upset the Carters. What did he say to you?’

‘To get out of his sight and stay out,’ said Annie bleakly.

‘Well just make sure you do. It’s good that he doesn’t know you’re here, although how long we can keep it that way is anyone’s guess. Connie needn’t know, either, in case you were thinking of letting your mother know where you’ve got to.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Annie bluntly. ‘She doesn’t care about me. Do you mean I can stay?’

‘Of course you bloody can. But here’s the house rules, Annie. You don’t go poking around outside your room. You can use the lavvy and this kitchen, but I don’t want you wandering about in the other rooms, got that?’

Annie nodded. She looked around the kitchen. It was clean and neat, nothing fancy. She put her cup down and bit her lip.

‘Whatever you’re thinking, you might as well say it,’ said Celia, tapping ash on to a saucer. ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ said Annie. She didn’t want Celia getting the hump and changing her mind about letting her stay.

‘Come on,’ prompted Celia. ‘Out with it.’

‘You won’t like it.’

Celia looked her niece square in the eye. ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’

‘Mum said you ran a massage parlour,’ blurted Annie. ‘And that you were all pally with the Delaneys.’

Celia looked momentarily startled. Then she threw back her head and roared with laughter.

‘Is it true?’ asked Annie.

Celia’s laughter subsided. She took another drag. ‘What do you think, Annie?’ she asked, watching the younger woman keenly.

Annie looked at Celia’s neat turnout and made-up face, at her shrewd button-bright eyes.

‘I think she’s probably right,’ said Annie.

‘And I think we’re going to get on fine,’ said Celia, standing up and stubbing out her fag. ‘Come on up, doll-face, let’s get you settled in.’

10

Jonjo Carter was getting seriously annoyed. Not that this was anything new – anyone who knew Jonjo also knew that he had a short fuse. He was on his way out to the Shalimar. Nothing like having your own club to impress your latest lady, and this one was sweet. Blonde and cute with a rosebud mouth and big black-lashed blue eyes. A little scoop-necked white top and tight leopard skin trousers showing an ass you could stand a pint on. All bubbly and chatty, the sort he went for big-time. He’d picked her up when she was working in one of the new clip joints not far from the Starlight Club on the Richardson manor; there was never any trouble between the Richardsons and the Carters, they had a mutual respect and were always pleased to welcome each other.

Julie – or was it Julia? – was a hostess there, and she never tired of rattling off at the mouth about her working life, which was a drawback but with an ass like that, was he bothered?

‘The johns like me,’ she prattled on to him when they were in bed together and had just concluded a pleasurable session. He’d worn a French letter, of course. If he had his way he’d wear three, tart like this. Women always wanted to get you tied down with a baby, either that or they’d give you a dose of something nasty. Like the Boy Scouts, Jonjo was always Prepared.

‘They’re such mugs,’ she went on. ‘They buy me drinks all night and think I’m going to come across for them. Not that I ever would, Jonjo sweetheart, I’ve only got eyes for you,’ she added quickly when his brows drew together.

Jonjo was handsome, but not so handsome as Max. Jonjo was bulkier and she guessed he’d go to seed as he aged. His dark hair was curly, his eyes were dark too. He had a bullish look to him. But he was a Carter, and she was pleased and proud to be seen with him.

‘What else do they do?’ Jonjo grunted, not that he gave a shit or wanted to know, but he never did like the idea of dirty old men drooling over his current girl. What was his was his, no argument.

Julie or Julia shrugged and her breasts – not her best feature, he thought, too small for his taste really – jiggled nicely.

‘I arrange to meet them up the road,’ she giggled. ‘Not that I ever do.’

Which was a lie, Jonjo suspected. If a good-looking punter gave her the eye and spent enough, he reckoned she’d come across in the blink of an eye. Women were no good. They loved whoever they were with, he knew that. Hadn’t Ma told him so often enough? And she was right. The conversation was starting to irritate. He rolled over on her and she squealed with delight.

‘You talk too much,’ he said, and kissed her into silence.

So things were good. She fucked like a weasel and she fucked only him. Well, that was the case since he’d been going out with her, he knew that because he’d had his contacts watching her to make sure. Everything was nice and neat.

So a drink in The Grapes to do a bit of business on the way to the Shalimar had not seemed too big a deal. Julie, or possibly Julia, who gave a shit, was pleased to be on his arm as they strolled up to the bar. Eric, the landlord, started grovelling around, fetching her a Babycham and Jonjo a pint of his usual, waving away Jonjo’s offer of payment like he always did. Eric paid protection to the Carters, and respect was due.

‘Go and put something nice on the jukebox,’ said Jonjo, handing her some change and giving her ass (wow, that ass) an encouraging pat when he saw Kyle Fox, the man he had the meet with, come up to the bar alongside him. The place was quiet tonight, it was early. Just a couple of punters down the other end of the bar.

‘Put on some Orbison or some Frank Ifield,’ he told her.

Julie – he had decided he was going to call her Julie, what the hell – pouted at being dismissed but did as she was told, teetering off on her high heels, drink in hand.

‘Hiya Kyle,’ said Jonjo and offered his hand. ‘Let me get you a drink.’

Kyle Fox was a weedy-looking type of man, thin hair, bad teeth, a look of malnourishment about him and the pale complexion of the indoor-worker. Which was about right for a forger, really. The hand that shook Jonjo’s was limp and damp. Being polite, Jonjo didn’t wipe his hand afterwards. A tasty-looking bloke in a dark coat had come in with Kyle and was now sitting by the door, watching.

‘Hello Mr Carter,’ said Kyle, and swallowed nervously. ‘Half a shandy, please.’

Christ, what sort of man drinks halves? wondered Jonjo. ‘My brother hears you have some plates. We’d like to make an offer for them.’

‘I’ve had several offers already,’ said Kyle, starting to sweat. ‘They’re good quality, you’ll get the best possible print runs from them.’

‘Just tenners?’

‘Fivers too.’

‘How much then, Kyle?’

Kyle shrugged, trying to look indifferent, sorry bastard.

‘Make me an offer,’ he said.

Jonjo took a pull at his pint. In the mirrors behind the bar he could see Julie over at the jukebox, looking down the list of records. The men at the other end of the bar were drinking Guinness. They looked like dockers, they weren’t regulars. Big men built like brick shithouses, and talking with marked Irish accents. Probably Delaney men, he thought. Fuckers. They had some front, coming in here.

‘I dunno.’ Jonjo pretended he was thinking. He’d had a word with Max and they already knew how much they were prepared to pay. ‘Five grand?’

‘I’ve had offers of six.’

Jonjo smiled. ‘Six grand then.’

‘That just meets the offer I’ve already got on the table.’

‘So it does. That’s the offer, Kyle, and it comes with a promise.’

‘What’s that?’ Kyle’s eyes flicked sideways to where his backup sat. Some backup, thought Jonjo. I could slit Foxy here open like a pear before that twat got halfway across the floor.

‘We do the deal at six grand and you don’t get any trouble.’

Eric was keeping well out of the way polishing glasses. He didn’t want to accidentally overhear anything. The jukebox suddenly erupted into life and Kyle jumped. Ned Miller started singing. Jonjo hated it and felt annoyed. Orbison was the business, now that was class. That Australian chap Ifield was okay, too. He saw one of the Irishmen at the end of the bar turn and say something to Julie. She smiled.

‘Six grand,’ he reiterated to Kyle. ‘And nothing happens.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle. Nervous sweat was rolling down his face now. He stank of fear.

Jonjo shrugged. ‘Well, let’s say for instance you don’t fall under a bus, you don’t get your legs accidentally broke, you don’t unexpectedly wake up one morning fucking dead, do you see what I mean, Kyle?’ Jonjo’s voice had lowered and now it was a growl. Kyle’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down like a marble on a string. ‘It could be very inconvenient, that, don’t you think?’

Kyle’s fingers were clutching the bar top so hard they were white.

‘So what do you say, Kyle? Six and we shake on it?’

‘Six,’ said Kyle. He’d anticipated a better offer. Up to ten, he’d thought. But fuck upsetting this geezer. This one had crazy eyes. Kyle had seen eyes like that when he was inside. Killer’s eyes. You didn’t push your luck with a man with eyes like that. ‘Six then.’ He held out a shaking hand.

Jonjo shook it. ‘I’ll arrange for collection and payment tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘We know where you live, don’t we.’

‘Yeah.’ Kyle gave a horrible grimace of a smile.

‘We’ll give you a bell, Kyle. Drink up. It’s been nice doing business.’

He left Kyle and went down the other end of the bar. One of the Irish was putting a coin in the juke and saying to Julie: ‘Go on, pick out another.’ And she was giggling and sipping the drink he’d bought her and making cow eyes at the fucker.

She turned as Jonjo came up, and the Irish bloke gave him the once over.

‘You’re talking to my woman,’ said Jonjo.

‘What’s it to you?’ asked the Irish.

Jonjo snatched a glass off the bar just as the Irish started to throw a right-hander. The red mist descended and he let him have it in the face with the glass. Blood spurted and Julie screamed. The Irishman’s eye was hanging out on his cheek and he was yelling blue murder. His pal came at Jonjo and Eric came round the bar with the ice pick, but Jonjo didn’t need any help. He dropped the glass and decked the pal then grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. The Irish turned red and then blue. Eric was pounding at Jonjo’s back without effect. The landlord bent down and looked urgently into Jonjo’s eyes.

‘That’s enough, Mr Carter,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, that’s enough now. Don’t kill the bastard, not in my pub, that’s enough.’

And Jonjo heard him at last. He came to with both Irishmen on the floor, one with his face in tatters and one unconscious. He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, tidied his coat. There was a speck of blood on the lapel and he looked at it with distaste. He looked around for Kyle and his minder, but they were gone. Julie was still howling her stupid head off.

‘You get off, Mr Carter. I’ll sort this out,’ said Eric.

‘Thanks, Eric. We’ll pay for any damage.’ Jonjo grabbed Julie’s arm and marched her out the door. She still had the Babycham in her hand, and Ned Miller was still warbling on. Fucking women, thought Jonjo. They always caused trouble.

11

Ruthie sent Dave, her minder, to fetch Kath, her cousin, down to the big Surrey house on Miss Arnott’s day off. It was just a month since the wedding and she should have been on cloud nine but she was bitter to the bone, knowing how completely she had been betrayed. She was miserable and she was bored too, to tell the truth.

Max had said to her, redecorate, do whatever you like, but she hadn’t the heart.

He’d had clothes sent down from posh West End boutiques for her to try, saying that he liked this one, and that one, but never the one that Ruthie liked herself in best, so that one was always sent back.

Max didn’t come home very often. Most nights he slept at Queenie’s old place in the East End, or was out working or having a meet with the boys upstairs at Queenie’s, so he phoned her and told her he’d be back tomorrow, or the day after. Sometimes a whole week went by without her seeing him. Down here there was only Miss Arnott the prune-faced housekeeper and Dave who was on the door. Her minder, she supposed. Built like a tank, he was. He never said a word.

Kath’s reaction to Ruthie’s new home did cheer her up a bit, briefly. Kath came in the front door and stopped dead in the centre of the huge hall with her mouth hanging open in amazement.

‘Bloody hell, Ruthie,’ she gasped, then laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Only in pictures. Those stately homes, you know? It’s a fucking stately home.’

Ruthie looked around her and knew that what Kath said was true. The place was beautiful. She took Kath’s coat and led her all over it, enjoying playing lady of the manor for a brief time while Kath marvelled over the lovely furnishings, the thick velvet drapes, the expensive flock wallpaper, the carpet which was so deep you sank into it, the huge soft beds.

‘Jesus wept!’ Kath was bouncing up and down on one of the beds, laughing like a delighted child. ‘How many bedrooms did you say, Ruthie?’

‘Seven,’ said Ruthie.

The feelings of emptiness, of coldness, washed over her again.

And nothing happening in any of them, she thought.

‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ she said.

Kath watched her cousin covertly as they tramped down the huge staircase and went into the drawing room.

A fucking drawing room! thought Kath. There was a roaring log fire, big couches on either side of it. A massive gilt mirror above the mantel. Drapes and carpets and … God, it was a fabulous place. Kath was pea-green with envy.

At least, she was until she looked at Ruthie’s face.

Because this wasn’t the Ruthie she knew of old.

This was a pale, drawn stranger.

Kath thought that Ruthie didn’t look well. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. She was wearing an olive-green dress and jacket with a lovely silky sheen to it. Her hair was pulled back into one of those classic French chignon things. She was nicely made-up. Ruthie looked elegant, and skinny, and … well, rich. Which of course she was. But she didn’t look well. She didn’t even look happy. There was a sort of bleakness about her and once she’d been so warm, so full of laughter.

‘It’s so lovely to see you, Kath,’ said Ruthie as they stood warming themselves before the fire.

Kath saw that there were tears in her eyes.

‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ Kath rushed forward and hugged her. Ruthie felt frail, as if she might snap in two if you hugged her too hard. Christ, she even smelled different now. Kath inhaled a sweet expensive perfume when she pulled Ruthie into her arms. Whatever scent she was wearing, it wasn’t cheap and cheerful four seven fucking eleven. It was exotic. It matched her look.

Ruthie pulled herself free, wiping away a tear.

Kath saw that her nails were bitten down to the quick.

‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ said Ruthie.

She went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured out what looked like a large sherry for them both. She brought the brimming glasses over and plonked herself down on the couch, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her birdlike legs up under her.

Kath had expected a cup of tea, not bloody sherry in the middle of the day. Still, she took a sip just to be sociable. She didn’t like alcohol much and she was appalled to see that Ruthie knocked half of hers back straight away.

‘So,’ Kath said briskly, ‘what’s it like, being Mrs Max Carter?’

Ruthie pulled a face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and dipped into the sherry again.

‘He’s ever so good-looking,’ said Kath. ‘You always sort of fancied him, didn’t you? When we were thirteen or fourteen you used to stop over with me at night. Remember? We used to lie in the dark and talk about Max Carter and Jonjo and the rest of the boys, and wonder what it would be like to be married. To be in charge of our own household.’

Ruthie nodded, her heart like lead in her chest. She wasn’t in charge of this household. It was in charge of her. Or Miss Arnott was. She thought back to those carefree teenage years, of all the dreams they’d had, her and Kath; how exciting and full of promise the future had seemed.

‘Yeah, I remember.’ She emptied her glass and went to fill it again.

‘We used to wonder what it would be like to actually do it,’ laughed Kath, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Ruthie seemed preoccupied. She was sitting down again, taking quick sips of the sherry. Fuck, she’s really putting it away, thought Kath.

‘It’s not so great,’ said Ruthie.

‘What?’ Kath spluttered. ‘With Max Carter? You kidding?’

‘It’s like being poked with a stick, if you want the truth,’ said Ruthie, and emptied her glass again. She stared moodily into the fire. Max and her hadn’t done ‘it’ since the night of the wedding.

‘Right,’ said Kath, her smile fading. She could see there was something horribly wrong here. ‘Has your mum been down yet?’

Ruthie shrugged. ‘A couple of times.’

‘She must be made up.’

‘She is.’ Ruthie thought about her mother, poncing around down here like she owned the place. Visiting her daughter, Mrs Max Carter. She enjoyed chucking her weight about with snooty Miss Arnott, lapped up being chauffeur-driven by Dave.

Silence fell.

‘What about Annie?’ asked Kath a bit desperately, then wondered if she wouldn’t have been better to keep her fat mouth shut on that subject.

She knew there’d been some sort of a falling-out with Ruthie and Connie and Annie, but even Kath’s mum Maureen didn’t know what had gone on. Connie wouldn’t tell her. All they knew was that Annie had moved out. No one was saying where to.