Ruthless - [12]

She looked up at her husband. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.

‘Get the boy better,’ said Rory. ‘What else can we do?’

Rufus was feverish for days, and Rory was worried sick about him. It was lucky the wound hadn’t needed stitching and that the bullet had passed through his bulk unhampered. It must have been a small-bore gun, maybe a lady’s weapon, easy to conceal, and it had spared Rufus too much damage.

It took a couple of weeks before he was able to sit up a little and take some soup instead of water. After that, he healed quickly. He was strong, he’d always been fit. It helped.

Megan kept her distance from him. His presence threatened her composure, made her fearful for her own safety and that of the child she carried. Before Rufus arrived, her only concern had been whether Rory would keep on the straight and narrow with a baby on the way. Now Rufus had pitched up, she knew there’d be trouble and Rory would get dragged into it.

‘Will we go for Diarmuid if it’s a boy, what do you think?’ she asked, trying to get Rory’s mind back to where it should be.

‘Huh?’

He wasn’t even listening to her. His whole concern was for his friend.

‘Diarmuid for a boy. Or Siobhan for a girl. Do you like those?’

‘Ah, whatever makes you happy.’

If Rufus Malone dropped dead, that would make her happy.

She went down the shops, and Mrs Simmonds asked her if she had people staying.

‘You what?’ asked Megan, heart galloping in her chest.

‘You got visitors? I’ve seen the light on in your box room, every evening. Is it your ma, come to stay to help with the baby on the way? I haven’t seen her down in the shop, so. She taken up smoking, has she? She never used to smoke.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve seen smoke coming over the fence in the garden.’

‘Oh! No, that’ll be Rory, having a fag.’

‘Is he doing the box room out for a nursery?’

‘Yes, that’s it, we’re decorating. I have to go, I’ve been having twinges…’ she said, picking up her shopping and rushing out of the shop.

When Rory came in that evening, his navy-blue overalls dirty and his hands caked black from being under engines all day, she was waiting for him.

‘He’ll have to go,’ she said, straight out.

‘What?’ Rory was dipping his fingers into the Swarfega tin at the sink.

‘Rufus. That old bat Simmonds says she’s seen the box-room light on every night, she knows someone’s in there. And he’s been smoking in the garden. She’s seen someone puffing up smoke out there. I had to tell her it was you. Thank God for the high fences. If she knows something’s going on, then others do too.’

Rory looked at her in concern. ‘You didn’t tell her anything…?’

‘I told her we were decorating the room as a nursery, and that I was cramping and had to go.’

‘Well then.’

‘Well nothing. You know what she’s like. Next thing she’ll have baked a cake and she’ll be banging on the door, wanting to see for herself who’s in here.’

‘You’re fretting over nothing.’

‘If Don Callaghan finds out we’re hiding him here, he’ll kill us both. And our baby.’

‘But he don’t know. And he won’t.’

‘If he-’

‘He won’t. He can’t. All we have to do is hold our nerve, OK?’

Rory went off upstairs to see how the invalid was doing, leaving Megan on the sofa with the news blaring on the radio. But she wasn’t taking in a single word as she clutched her arms around her swollen abdomen, shielding the child within.

12

London, 1983

‘Good trip?’ asked Annie as Layla, brown as a berry, piled into the hallway wafting Hawaiian Tropic and dropping bags and suitcases on to the floor.

Layla was seventeen now, and just back from Christmas in Barbados with Max. Annie had spent Christmas pretty much alone. As usual.

‘It was OK,’ said Layla, looking at her mother with no appearance of affection. ‘Um, the taxi…?’

Annie forced a smile and went out and paid the driver. Then she returned to find Rosa, their housekeeper, gabbling happily in Spanish and enfolding Layla in a welcome-home hug. She knew she didn’t dare do the same. Layla would only push her away.

Rosa hurried off to the kitchen and silence settled between mother and daughter.

‘All spent out then?’ said Annie.

Layla shrugged. ‘Just a few Barbadian dollars and a couple of cents left,’ she said.

‘So! How’s your dad?’ asked Annie, although it hurt.

‘He’s fine,’ said Layla, her face a blank mask as she stared at Annie.

‘You had a good time?’ Annie was still smiling, smiling so hard her cheeks were starting to ache. Layla looked tanned and fit. Her hair was scrunched back in a ponytail, and she was wearing old frayed jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked pretty – and totally hostile.

‘Yeah. It’s fabulous out there.’ Layla gazed around at the marbled hall, the chandeliers, as if this, her mother’s home, was a dosshouse by comparison.

‘Great tan,’ said Annie, longing to hug her.

‘Mm.’ Layla glanced towards the stairs. ‘Well, think I’ll go on up…’

‘Sure! Of course.’ Annie stood there, still smiling that brilliant artificial smile, as Layla grabbed her bag and trudged up the stairs.

Annie turned and walked across to the study. She went inside and shut the door, the smile dropping from her face. She closed her eyes and groaned. Then she went over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled a number she knew off by heart.