Maps of Hell

Ruthie drained the glass. She still felt numb after what Annie had said.

Annie and Max.

She’d been so happy to be marrying him, she’d loved him so much, worshipped him almost. She’d felt that he was too good for her from day one. But somehow he’d convinced her that it would all work out okay. That she was what he wanted.

But now she knew the truth.

Annie and Max.

How long had that been going on? And – oh God – would it still go on now that Max was married to her?

How could she stand that?

She felt anger thaw the numbness until she flushed with heat. They’d made a fool of her. All the time she’d been misty-eyed with love, they’d been at it, screwing like animals. Like dogs in the street.

Max took the glass from her and placed it on a side table. All the furniture in here looked costly to Ruthie’s eyes. The whole place was full of lovely antique pieces, things she had never even been close to before. Connie’s furniture was charmless Utility stuff from the war and a few modern bits that had come off the back of a lorry, no questions asked.

This was a whole new world, a world that she had felt so excited to be entering. But now it was all ruined, and she hated Max and Annie for doing this to her, for killing her dream.

‘I’ll get ready for bed,’ she said coldly.

Then she looked around. He’d brought her small suitcase upstairs with them and she was so tired, she just wanted to change into her nightdress and go to sleep. But Max was here. He was here, and things were expected of her. But she couldn’t undress in front of him.

She just couldn’t.

Max saw her sudden confusion and took pity on her.

‘You get yourself settled in,’ he said, swigging champagne then putting the flute aside. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

He went into the adjoining bathroom and relieved himself, then shucked off his suit and washed, shaved and splashed on cologne. He felt excited at what was to come, every part of him seemed to pulsate with anticipation.

His wedding night.

Christ, married at last.

Well, it had to happen. He wanted to pass all this on to someone, and Jonjo was still the crazy bachelor, showing every sign of staying a fucking playboy for the rest of his natural, while Eddie was a bum-bandit and unlikely ever to father a kid. Some fucker had to carry on the Carter family line, to build the family back up into the force it should be, and it was going to have to be him.

He put on his dressing gown and went back out to the bedroom. Ruthie was sitting up in bed looking like she was about to be shot. Her hands were gripping the bedcovers so tightly the knuckles were white.

Her nightie was one of those cotton floral things, nothing seductive but somehow sweet and showing her purity, he thought. He knew he’d made a good choice in Ruthie. She would do very nicely. He was pleased.

He faced the bed and took off the dressing gown. He saw her eyes widen as she clocked the size of his erection, but he didn’t hesitate, he got into bed and cuddled right up to her.

She was cold to his touch.

Poor kid, he thought. She’d never had it before and probably had never even felt the urge for it, this was bound to be a shock.

‘It’s all right,’ he said softly, hugging her. ‘We’ll take this slowly, okay?’

Ruthie was trembling with rage and disappointment. Max Carter, the man of her dreams, was naked in bed with her, his hands working their way under her nightie, and all she could see was her treacherous sister’s face.

‘Lie back,’ he said, kissing her neck and touching her between the legs. A spasm of pleasure shot through her as he touched the little button there, but she was unresponsive and so upset that she just couldn’t let go.

Bitterness welled up in her, smothering all prospect of enjoyment, but Max was shoving the nightie up under her armpits and cupping her small breasts in his hands. Ruthie knew they weren’t as lush or as pert and big as Annie’s, and she imagined him doing this to Annie, and she knew that Annie would be up for it, far more so than she was.

Max moved between her legs, panting now, and she felt that big stiff thing nudging her sex open.

‘No,’ she said, pushing at his chest, furious, gasping with pent-up rage.

‘Come on sweetie,’ cooed Max, pushing at her.

‘I know about you,’ spat Ruthie.

‘We’ll talk afterwards,’ said Max, nudging harder. She was as tight as a duck’s arse, he thought. Tight and dry.

‘About you and Annie!’

He burst through her hymen and thrust in deep. Ruthie screamed. Max froze, not believing what he’d just heard, but he was in now and too excited to stop. He thrust quickly, ten, twenty times, while Ruthie groaned and shoved helplessly against him, then he came. He rolled off her. Ruthie curled up into a foetal ball, aware only of the pain between her legs and the bitter hurt in her chest. She started to sob.

Max lay there and looked up at the ceiling in a daze.

Shit, that little bitch Annie.

Her and her fat gob, she’d ruined this. He’d told her to keep it buttoned, but she couldn’t resist rubbing Ruthie’s nose in it. The fucking little cow. He touched Ruthie’s shuddering back, but she twitched away from him.

After a while he got up, put on his dressing gown, and went to the adjoining bedroom. He got into the cold bed and lay there cursing Annie Bailey and swearing to himself that she would pay for not keeping her trap shut.

7 (#u32b84b9c-0be0-5914-83e0-92552a530974)

Kieron Delaney stood shivering at the side of his brother Tory’s grave. Summer had given up for the day and was drenching the funeral party in cold rain. The weather suited their business here. His mum and dad were standing like statues beside him.

He stole a glance at them.

His mother was devastated, her white curls and floods of tears hidden by a thick black veil. His father seemed to be swaying on his feet, as if he would fall at any moment. Kieron was appalled to see how much weight his father Davey had lost. Suddenly, big strapping Davey Delaney, founder of the family firm, looked his age. Kieron saw his older brother Pat clutch at their dad’s arm to steady him.

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest, dropping dirt on to the coffin in the hole.

He held the box out to Redmond, who took a handful and slung it in. Then Pat. Then Orla, who was tearless and composed. Then Kieron. Then their mum and dad.

Kieron tuned out the rest of it. He thought of Tory Delaney, his big brother, carrying him on his shoulders when he’d been tiny. He remembered the soft feel of Tory’s curly golden hair beneath his little fingers, remembered the booming Irish laugh of this man who was now nothing more than a corpse being buried in the dirt.

They’d drifted far apart over the years. Kieron was the youngest of Davey and Molly Delaney’s five children, and he had benefited from the family firm’s wealth without ever having to get involved in it.

He’d stuck his head in the sand and refused to acknowledge the sort of dodgy business his siblings were engaged in. He’d gone to art college and then had a year travelling. Ignorance was bliss. But in his guts he’d known that his dad had been into all sorts in his time, including a spell in Strangeways, and that Tory, Pat and Redmond had built the firm up from that base into what it was today.

He knew damned well his brothers were racketeers, thugs, criminals; he knew they ran girls and were into the ‘heavy game’, their term for armed robbery.

Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought.