Ruthless by Jessie Keane Page A

Dolly excitedly.
    ‘It was horrible. He’s a prick.’
    ‘Damn. That’s a shame.’
    ‘He tried to French me.’
    There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.
    ‘Annie, love,’ said Dolly, ‘you used to run a knocking shop. You were a gangster’s moll, pardon me for pointing out the flipping obvious. And you married into the Mafia. And you’re shocked that some guy French kissed you?’
    ‘Oh fuck the men. Who cares? I’m happy enough without them.’
    ‘You can’t give up yet.’
    Annie stared at the phone. This from a woman who, as far as she knew, had never so much as given any man a second glance.
    ‘Tea tomorrow? The Ritz? Don’t forget.’
    ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
    ‘And listen, Ellie was telling me about this fantastic bloke . . .’
    Annie let out a groan. ‘Don’t. I’ll see you there tomorrow, OK?’
    ‘Chin up,’ said Dolly.
    ‘Oh fuck off,’ said Annie, and hung up to the sound of Dolly laughing merrily in her ear.

21
    There was no mention of the locked door. After that first night, Rufus had tried twice more, then given up. Orla, though obviously pleased to have him around, continued to be restrained in her affection. Their lives settled into a routine, dull but not unpleasant, and gradually the months passed into years. Then one day, while the old folks had their breakfast, she asked him to chop some wood for the stove.
    ‘Of course,’ he said, and went outside into the brisk morning breeze. It was a bright clear day and he felt his spirits lift.
    This old place was like home to him now, and he was glad to be here, glad to have stopped running at last. He found the axe in the shed and set to the job with enthusiasm, chopping the logs in two and piling them up in the store, ready for the coming autumn. It was hot work. Rufus stripped off his shirt and worked bare-chested in the sun. He’d been at it for an hour or so when Orla appeared with a cold lemonade for him.
    ‘Thanks,’ he said.
    ‘You’ve done well,’ she said, her eyes skimming over the pile of wood before returning to rest on him. Her gaze dipped to his chest, to the rivulets of sweat running down there. She thought he looked like some Norse giant from a fable, golden and muscular and strong.
    Rufus watched her watching him. For God’s sake, he thought in frustration. What was going on with her? She was clearly interested. He knew she was. Yet there had been that locked door, the cold shoulder.
    ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, draining the glass and handing it back to her.
    ‘Sure you can.’
    ‘That first night I came here – and the two times I tried after that – didn’t you hear me at your door?’
    Orla’s smile slipped. She stared at the ground. Didn’t answer.
    ‘Why d’you have to lock your door anyway?’ asked Rufus.
    She shrugged, looked up. ‘I can’t sleep without it locked.’
    ‘Really?’ This sounded strange. ‘But you heard me at the door, didn’t you?’
    Her eyes met his. ‘Yes. I heard you.’
    ‘Orla . . . why don’t you leave it unlocked , tonight.’
    Orla stared, said nothing.
    ‘Don’t you want to?’ asked Rufus gently.
    Orla started to shake her head, then slowly she nodded. Her fingers were clenched so hard around the empty glass that he thought she might break it.
    ‘Leave it unlocked,’ said Rufus, and his eyes held hers. ‘I’ll take care of you, I promise. You know I will.’
    ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I know that.’
    She walked away, back indoors. He watched her go. Then he started chopping more wood, with a smile on his face. He couldn’t wait for the day to go, for night to come.
    And now here he was, outside her bedroom door again. He knocked lightly – he didn’t want to disturb the old folks – and then tried the handle. This time, it opened. He went in. The bedside light was on. Orla was sitting up in the bed, wearing a pink winceyette nightdress, the kind a granny would wear, her hair loose around her shoulders, the soft light