The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

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      ‘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 who the fuck did?’

      ‘He had a lot of enemies.’

      ‘Yeah, mostly you.’

      ‘I didn’t do it, Eddie. I’ll tell you what I did, shall I?’

      ‘I know you fired the gun. I took it out and smelled it. It had been fired.’

      ‘You remember there was a break-in in the annexe, and Mum was there and her heart gave out with the fright of it.’

      ‘I’ll never forget it.’

      ‘Well I found the ones who did it. They were two nobodies from the sticks, the Bowes brothers. They’d been paid by the Delaneys.’

      ‘They confessed?’

      ‘Yes, Bruv. Before they died.’ Max’s eyes blazed with the memory. ‘I traced their uncle who ran the pub where they drank. My boy down at Smithfield made the uncle talk, and he fingered his nephews. Not that he had many fucking fingers left at the end of it. So the night Tory Delaney died, the night before I married Ruthie, I was busy. I was conducting a bit of business with the Bowes scum.’

      ‘You shot them?’ gasped Eddie.

      Max nodded.

      Eddie gave a weird little laugh. ‘Then … oh fuck me, this is almost funny … I’m dying for nothing.’

      ‘You’re not dying,’ said Max. ‘Put that right out of your head.’

      ‘Sure.’ Eddie gave a faint smile and lay back. Max stared at Eddie’s face and felt the tightness in his throat, the ache in his belly. He’d never cried in his life, but seeing Eddie like this really hurt him. If this was the Delaneys, he’d rip their fucking heads off one by one.

      Then suddenly pus was coming out of Eddie, out of every orifice it seemed. Pouring from his nose, ears, mouth, even – Jesus – from his eyes. Max sprang off the bed with a cry of disgust and roared for the nurse to come. She did, and shooed him away. Ruthie stood in the doorway biting her knuckle to stop herself from screaming at the sight before her. Eddie was convulsing, it seemed to go on for hours but it was seconds, just seconds. Then he was still. The nurse was pounding at his chest, but it was too late for that, Max knew it was too late for anything.

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