in the room for long moments was Gina’s laboured breathing. She was slumped further over in her chair now, holding her chest. All at once, huge globs of sweat were popping
out on her face.
Christ
,
she’s not faking it
.
Max ran to her chair and pulled her upright.
‘Gina? Miss Barolli? Come on, you old fuck, don’t bloody die on me now!’ He patted her thin cheeks, looked at the blue-tinged lips and thought,
Shit, that looks bad
.
Her eyes were flickering closed and her brow was soaking wet and creased with pain. Then the eyes, dark and hate-filled, fastened on his and she spat at him. He pulled his head away sharply, as
if drawing back from a striking snake, and now she was
smiling
although he could see she was in agony.
‘She’s not your wife at all,’ she gasped out, having to pause between each word to catch her faltering breath. ‘She’s his. She has always been . . . she will always
be . . .
his.
’
Max put a hand to her chest. He could hardly feel a heartbeat and suddenly he thought of mummies, ancient mouldering Egyptian mummies, coming to life after thousands of years. He’d always
laughed at horror films, but he was living one now.
‘Constantine Barolli is dead,’ he said between gritted teeth. This mad old
bitch
, what the hell was she saying?
Now she really was smiling, although the smile became a twisted grimace of pain.
‘He’s not dead,’ she said, so low that Max had to strain to hear it. ‘He’s
alive.
’
‘He died in the explosion at Montauk,’ said Max.
She was shaking her head, laughing at him, crying out in pain, but still mocking him, jeering at him.
‘He didn’t die. You can’t
kill
a great don like Constantine . . . oh . . .’
She was wincing, clawing harder at her chest, kneading frantically at her left arm.
‘He died,’ said Max.
‘He didn’t die,’ she gasped out. ‘And she knows it.’
‘She?’ Max stared at the contorted face.
‘Annie Carter.
Her
. The puttana. The bitch. She’s . . . always known.’
With those final, damning words, Gina Barolli took one last halting breath and her eyes closed. She slumped, lifeless, in the chair.
And Max knew at last.
Gary Tooley had been telling the truth.
Annie
had
betrayed him.
18
Limehouse
,
1958
Turned out, Dolly was wrong about the safety thing. While Mum sat like a vegetable in the rocking chair up in the bedroom and the younger kids were at school or out playing, things would
happen. Mum was becoming more and more cut off from reality. Dad would come in from his job and while usually he just had a wash-down with a flannel, occasionally he would bathe in the tin bath in
front of the fire. Dolly would fill the bath for him with endless heavy kettles of water off the stove while he sat at the kitchen table watching her. More and more he was doing this, taking a full
bath – and she knew why. She always went off into the sitting room and let him get on with it.
‘Dolly girl!’ he’d call out.
It was the shout that filled her with fear. She would creep to the closed door and say: ‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Come and scrub my back, there’s a good girl,’ he called back to her.
‘I’m doing my homework, Dad!’ she shouted back, although that was a bald lie, she never did homework. If they put her in detention for it – and they did, often –
she was pleased, because that meant she wouldn’t have to come home until later. She never wanted to come home, not now.
‘That can wait! Come on.
What else could she do? This was Dad.
Trembling, she opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. In front of the fire, there was Dad sitting naked in the tin bath. He was bulky, hairy. She stood there, undecided, until he
looked back at her over his meaty shoulder and said: ‘Come on then, girl. Soap my back for me.’
Dolly thought she might be sick, and if she was sick then she hoped it would choke her and end all this weird, claustrophobic misery and torment. But she went over and took the
out on her face.
Christ
,
she’s not faking it
.
Max ran to her chair and pulled her upright.
‘Gina? Miss Barolli? Come on, you old fuck, don’t bloody die on me now!’ He patted her thin cheeks, looked at the blue-tinged lips and thought,
Shit, that looks bad
.
Her eyes were flickering closed and her brow was soaking wet and creased with pain. Then the eyes, dark and hate-filled, fastened on his and she spat at him. He pulled his head away sharply, as
if drawing back from a striking snake, and now she was
smiling
although he could see she was in agony.
‘She’s not your wife at all,’ she gasped out, having to pause between each word to catch her faltering breath. ‘She’s his. She has always been . . . she will always
be . . .
his.
’
Max put a hand to her chest. He could hardly feel a heartbeat and suddenly he thought of mummies, ancient mouldering Egyptian mummies, coming to life after thousands of years. He’d always
laughed at horror films, but he was living one now.
‘Constantine Barolli is dead,’ he said between gritted teeth. This mad old
bitch
, what the hell was she saying?
Now she really was smiling, although the smile became a twisted grimace of pain.
‘He’s not dead,’ she said, so low that Max had to strain to hear it. ‘He’s
alive.
’
‘He died in the explosion at Montauk,’ said Max.
She was shaking her head, laughing at him, crying out in pain, but still mocking him, jeering at him.
‘He didn’t die. You can’t
kill
a great don like Constantine . . . oh . . .’
She was wincing, clawing harder at her chest, kneading frantically at her left arm.
‘He died,’ said Max.
‘He didn’t die,’ she gasped out. ‘And she knows it.’
‘She?’ Max stared at the contorted face.
‘Annie Carter.
Her
. The puttana. The bitch. She’s . . . always known.’
With those final, damning words, Gina Barolli took one last halting breath and her eyes closed. She slumped, lifeless, in the chair.
And Max knew at last.
Gary Tooley had been telling the truth.
Annie
had
betrayed him.
18
Limehouse
,
1958
Turned out, Dolly was wrong about the safety thing. While Mum sat like a vegetable in the rocking chair up in the bedroom and the younger kids were at school or out playing, things would
happen. Mum was becoming more and more cut off from reality. Dad would come in from his job and while usually he just had a wash-down with a flannel, occasionally he would bathe in the tin bath in
front of the fire. Dolly would fill the bath for him with endless heavy kettles of water off the stove while he sat at the kitchen table watching her. More and more he was doing this, taking a full
bath – and she knew why. She always went off into the sitting room and let him get on with it.
‘Dolly girl!’ he’d call out.
It was the shout that filled her with fear. She would creep to the closed door and say: ‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Come and scrub my back, there’s a good girl,’ he called back to her.
‘I’m doing my homework, Dad!’ she shouted back, although that was a bald lie, she never did homework. If they put her in detention for it – and they did, often –
she was pleased, because that meant she wouldn’t have to come home until later. She never wanted to come home, not now.
‘That can wait! Come on.
What else could she do? This was Dad.
Trembling, she opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. In front of the fire, there was Dad sitting naked in the tin bath. He was bulky, hairy. She stood there, undecided, until he
looked back at her over his meaty shoulder and said: ‘Come on then, girl. Soap my back for me.’
Dolly thought she might be sick, and if she was sick then she hoped it would choke her and end all this weird, claustrophobic misery and torment. But she went over and took the
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