Ruthless - [39]

‘Oh no,’ said Layla, staring down at him. ‘My God, I shot him,’ she wailed.

Annie was coming to her feet, half-supporting herself against the wall. She felt horribly unsteady. She too was staring at the fallen man, wondering what to do next.

Not a man, she thought. More like a boy.

The body was tall, but now she could see it was slender, too.

Her eyes were caught by the wicked-looking knife lying on the floor near one of the man’s gloved hands.

She swallowed hard, feeling the dry heaves start at the back of her throat. Shakily, she kicked the knife away, in case he should reach out, get hold of it again. He’d come here to kill one or both of them. Her, of course. Layla hadn’t done a thing wrong in her entire life. Whereas she… well, she…

‘Wait,’ she said suddenly.

She was staring at the man.

‘Wait? What do you mean, wait?’ Layla was babbling in panic. ‘For God’s sake, Mum – I’ve shot him.’ Her eyes went down to the gun, still in her hand, and she dropped it with a grimace of disgust.

Annie snatched the gun up and approached the fallen boy. She glanced at Layla, who was deathly pale, her skin coated with a sheen of sweat. She wanted to embrace her daughter, hug her, reassure her, but she stopped herself. Even now she was afraid Layla would only shrug her off, the way she always did.

She knelt at the boy’s shoulder and pressed the muzzle of the gun firmly against the side of his head. Then she reached down with trembling fingers and felt his neck, searching for a pulse.

‘Is he…?’ asked Layla, looking like a ghost, she was so white.

‘No pulse,’ said Annie, feeling her stomach clench and churn.

A stranger had come in the night, armed for murder. That stranger was now dead. But even in her current state of shock she knew there was something about this intruder, something wrong…

Setting the gun carefully aside, Annie started tugging at the woollen hood.

‘What are you doing?’ shrieked Layla. ‘I can’t believe this…’

‘Quiet,’ said Annie sharply. ‘Give me a moment.’

‘Mum, I’ve killed him.’

‘Well, at least he hasn’t killed us,’ snapped Annie, giving the hood a final tug. It came loose, revealing a thick heavy fall of red hair.

Annie Carter slumped to her haunches and stared at the corpse. ‘Holy shit,’ she murmured.

The face of their attacker was revealed. Milk-pale, with green eyes still half-open, frozen in death. Not a man’s face at all.

Layla had shot a woman.

Annie stared at the woman’s face.

Stunned, Layla turned to Annie. ‘Who is it? Mum?’

‘I know her,’ said Annie, dazed with shock. ‘No, this isn’t possible, this isn’t possible.’ Annie was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be.’

‘For God’s sake, who is it?’ asked Layla desperately.

Annie took a breath.

‘That’s Orla Delaney,’ she said.

35

‘Who… who’s Orla Delaney… Oh shit, I’m going to be sick,’ said Layla, turning to dash into the bathroom.

Annie moved away from the body and stood staring, arms wrapped around herself, trying to stop the shaking. Every muscle in her body was trembling with the aftershock. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from that face – a face she’d hoped never to see again: the hated face of Orla Delaney.

There had been a time when a gangland map of London would have shown the Richardsons and the Frasers in control of the South, the Regans the West, the Krays ruled Bethnal Green, the Nashes the Angel, while the Carters had Bow and the Delaney mob ran Battersea, with a foothold in Limehouse down by the docks.

The Delaneys made the mistake of trying to expand their Limehouse territory, which meant stepping on Carter toes. One by one the Delaneys had paid for it, too. Until all that was left were the twins, Orla and Redmond. They had targeted her, made it personal. She’d known she would never be safe while they were alive. And then finally, finally, she’d thought they were gone forever. She had believed that Constantine had finished them. A plane crash. It was in the papers. Their plane had gone down in the Irish Sea. No survivors. That was back in 1970, a year she would never forget. Constantine had told her it was done. The nightmare was over. And she’d believed him.

But… this was Orla. There was no mistaking that face.

She could hear Layla retching weakly in the bathroom. A chilling bolt of horror shot through her as she thought of what could have happened tonight. If she hadn’t woken, Orla would have slit her throat. And then she would have moved on and done Layla too.

Annie gave a violent shudder and thrust the images of bloody mayhem from her mind.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Layla at her shoulder.

Annie half-turned. Layla’s face was white and tear-stained with shock. Her eyes were darting everywhere, she was trying not to look at the corpse but her eyes seemed to be pulled back to it, time and again.

‘Oh God, I did it, I shot her,’ she said, starting to cry in earnest.

Annie hesitated for a moment. Then she put an arm around her daughter’s trembling shoulders. ‘You saved my life,’ she said simply.

Layla nodded, glancing uneasily at Annie. Tonight, they were united – if only in fear and desperation. Layla stepped away, shrugging off her mother’s embrace.