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 really is.’
‘Some aunt.’
Annie shrugged.
‘You a working girl too?’
Annie slapped her magazine shut. ‘No,’ she said, and got up and shut the door in Aretha’s face.
Aretha knocked on the door.
Annie flung it open. ‘Okay, what?’
‘Don’t go shuttin’ the door in my face, baby doll. Or you’ll be sorry.’
‘I want some privacy. Is that a crime?’
‘Ain’t no need to go puttin’ on airs just because you’re related to Madam down there, always sippin’ her tea with her little finger stuck out and paintin’ her nails and smoking that friggin’ fancy cigarette thing and tellin’ us to be sure to get ’em to wash their winkles before we get started on any little extras.’
‘You got something against Celia? Take it up with Celia,’ said Annie.
‘I got no beef with her. But she makin’ a good chunk o’ money out of us eager beavers.’
‘Oh really,’ said Annie.
‘Yeah, really. So how come you not gettin’ a little of the action? Plenty of money to be made, I tell you.’
‘I’m not a brass,’ said Annie.
‘Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a brass,’ said Aretha. ‘You get to charge for it instead of givin’ it away for free, that’s all.’
‘That’s very interesting. Thanks for the information,’ said Annie, and shut the door again.
Or she would have, if Aretha hadn’t stuck a large boot in the gap.
‘I’m sure I know you.’ Aretha gave her the once- over. ‘You’re a looker all right. Sometimes a client like a little man sandwich, know what I mean?’
‘No,’ said Annie, which was true.
‘Hell, you naïve.’ Aretha was tickled by this. She grinned hugely. ‘Man in the middle, girl either side, got that? You and me, we could be good in a threesome. You so pale, I so dark, they’d love it. Top dollar.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Annie, and kicked Aretha’s boot out of her doorway. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. She heard Aretha stroll off along the landing to her own room. She was roaring with laughter.
‘Cheap bitch,’ muttered Annie, and threw herself back on to the bed. God, she was fed up. And she wouldn’t admit it to a living soul, but she missed having Ruthie to talk to.
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
