The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

       17

      ‘How is he?’ asked Max from the shadows as Ruthie came out of Eddie’s room, pulling the door gently closed behind her.

      Ruthie put a hand to her chest. ‘Not good,’ she said. Funny how her husband always made her jump. They should be easy with each other, like any other married couple, but they tiptoed around one another like strangers. Eight months they’d been married, and they barely knew each other.

      Max stepped forward so that she could see his face.

      ‘The nurse is just changing the dressings,’ she told him.

      ‘He’s had the best care,’ said Max.

      ‘I don’t know. I think he should be in hospital.’ Ruthie looked at Max. She knew Max had pet doctors, the very best, who owed him or were afraid of him. So Eddie had received the best possible care. But his condition didn’t seem to be improving. His wounds hadn’t healed. The nurse and now the doctors were looking nervous and talking about possible blood poisoning. The knife could have been dirty, but then Eddie had been stabbed in the dirtiest possible place. Faecal matter could have added to the risk of infection, that was what the doctors had told them, looking at her with nervous eyes. She’d shaken their hands, wet with fear of what would happen if they failed to get Eddie Carter well again.

      ‘He’s staying here, at home,’ said Max.

      ‘Max …’

      ‘I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

      ‘He’s unconscious. Feverish.’

      ‘That’ll pass. He’s a tough little bastard.’

      ‘I hope so.’

      ‘For fuck’s sake, go and pour us both a brandy, will you?’ Max was irritated with her. She’d lost what little looks she’d had. She was skinny, her hipbones stuck out and her tits were gone. Her hair looked like straw. Her face was thin, like she’d been sucking bloody lemons. Her clothes had cost him a fortune, but she looked like shit in them. On the rare – almost non-existent – occasions that he attempted to fuck her, she reacted like he was a filthy rapist fresh from the sewers. There was no sign of a kid on the way. And now she was nagging him about Eddie, trying to get him to send him to some fucking clinical hell-hole to die.

      ‘You ought to go in and see him in a minute,’ said Ruthie.

      ‘I will, when she’s finished in there.’ In fact, he hated going into his brother’s sickroom now. The stench in there was horrible – the smell of mortal sickness. But he had a duty to Eddie. He had to go through it, because Eddie was going through it. Jonjo was no fucking use. If anyone was sick, Jonjo was nowhere to be seen. He just kept ranting about getting the bastard who’d done Eddie, and he’d given Deaf Derek the pasting of his life for taking Eddie to the parlour where it had happened. All of which was no use anyway. Ruthie was right. Eddie was in a very bad way.

      They went downstairs to the drawing room and drank brandy. Max hadn’t the heart for Mozart at the moment. Only the Requiem would be appropriate anyway.

      ‘Gordon said he saw you in the annexe last week,’ said Max, sitting down heavily on the sofa.

      Ruthie started guiltily. ‘I just had a look in,’ she said, hugging herself in front of the fire.

      ‘Don’t.’

      ‘What do you mean, “don’t”? I had a look inside. It’s a lovely little place, I could decorate it out and make some use of it.’

      ‘Decorate this house,’ said Max flatly, downing the brandy. ‘Leave that one alone.’

      ‘What, leave it as a shrine to the sainted Queenie?’ Ruthie snapped, smarting from his rebuke.

      ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Max lobbed his glass at the fireplace. It shattered loudly, and spatters of brandy made the fire crackle and roar. ‘Don’t give me bloody earache, Ruthie, don’t you think I’ve got enough to be going on with? My brother’s upstairs at death’s door, and you want to cunting-well redecorate?’

      Ruthie went pale. ‘I’m just saying.’

      ‘Well don’t fucking-well say.’ Max jumped to his feet and grabbed her arms and shook her. Her brandy glass dropped with a splatter on to the carpeted floor. ‘Leave the fucking annexe alone. Keep out of there. Make yourself busy. Other women do. Why not you?’

      ‘Maybe because other women are happy with their husbands,’ flung Ruthie.

      ‘Jesus, not this again.’

      ‘Maybe because their husbands don’t fuck their bride’s sister on the night before their wedding,’ shrieked Ruthie.

      ‘Um.’ The nurse tapped awkwardly on the half-open door. She had coloured up on walking into the middle of a row. She radiated agitation. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr and Mrs Carter. I think we should have the doctor over, quickly.’

      Max was halfway up the stairs before she had even finished speaking. He burst into Eddie’s room and ran over to the bed. Eddie was tossing about on the pillows. His face was flushed, he was wet through with sweat. His eyes were open and he saw Max there. God, thought Max with revulsion – the stink in here.

      ‘Max,’ croaked Eddie.

      ‘I don’t think he should be speaking too much,’ said the nurse, wringing her hands. ‘He’s very weak.’

      ‘Phone the doctor, Ruthie,’ said Max, dismissing her. Ruthie left the room. ‘Give us a moment,’ said Max to the nurse.

      ‘I don’t think I should …’

      ‘Fuck off out of it,’ said Max fiercely.

      The nurse went.

      ‘I’ve been thinking about things, Max,’ said Eddie.

      ‘What things?’ asked Max, holding Eddie’s hand in both of his.

      ‘I think the Delaneys done me because of Tory Delaney dying like he did,’ said Eddie.

      ‘No, Eddie. That’s not true.’

      ‘Yes it is. It’s poetic bloody justice.’

      Max stared at the wreckage of his brother, his hair slick with grease and sweat, his skin erupting. The weight falling off him. The stench.

      ‘That night I buried the gun for you … did you do it? Did you shoot Tory Delaney? Everyone thinks you did.’

      Max took a breath. ‘No,’ he said.

      ‘You’re lying.’

      ‘I’m not lying, you berk. Why would I lie to you?’

      ‘You let me think you shot Tory Delaney, because of Mum,’ panted Eddie.

      ‘Maybe I did. But as God’s my witness, on Mum’s grave, I didn’t shoot Tory Delaney.’

      ‘Then