Free Dirty Game by Jessie Keane Page B

brightly lit windows.
    ‘Dad isn’t involved any more, you know that,’ said Orla after a pause.
    ‘Clubs and fecking parlours,’ grumbled Pat. ‘There are other trades, you know. Trades that pay a damned sight better.’
    ‘We’re not having that old conversation again, are we Pat?’ asked Orla tiredly.
    ‘You know it’s true.’
    Orla did know it. Drugs were the new thing, there was an endless market for pills and smokes. But the firm was doing all right. Why fix what wasn’t broke? Pat was like a bloody stuck record, she thought, going on and on when they’d already decided no. When they got to Brompton Road she tapped Petey on the shoulder
    ‘Let us out here, Petey, there’s a love,’ she said. ‘Pat’ll take the car, you come with me. You too, Kieron.’
    ‘Yeah, you bugger off the pair of you,’ said Pat, as Petey pulled in to the kerb and his brother and sister hopped out. ‘I can take a hint.’
    Pat replaced Petey in the driving seat.
    ‘You’re a sour bastard sometimes, Pat,’ said Orla. ‘I don’t think you can take a hint at all. And you’d be wise to.’
    Pat made a face and didn’t reply. They stood on the pavement and watched him speed away, burning rubber.
    ‘He doesn’t improve with age,’ said Kieron.
    ‘He’s all hot air,’ said Orla, making for the huge building and dark green canopied doors of Harrods.
    Inside it was a treasure trove into which Orla always loved to dip. Kieron wandered along with her, indulgent, exclaiming over this and that, having a nice time with her. Then Orla fetched up short at seeing a familiar face.
    ‘Hello Celia,’ said Orla.
    Celia straightened up. Annie, standing alongside her, saw her aunt’s face change. Suddenly Celia looked cautious and deferential.
    ‘Hello, Miss Delaney,’ said Celia. ‘How very nice to see you.’
    Orla inclined her head. It was a regal gesture. Annie stared at her. One of the famous Delaneys. And such red hair!
    ‘I don’t think you’ll have met my brother Kieron?’ said Orla politely. ‘He’s been away, he’s a painter.’
    Celia nodded and shook Kieron’s hand.
    Annie knew that if you were a Delaney you could be whatever the fuck you wanted to be. Everyone knew that. So he wanted to call himself a painter? Delaney contacts would ensure exhibitions and plentiful sales. Who, after all, was likely to turn the man away? Annie looked at him with jaded eyes. The gangs ran these streets and she’d already had a brush with the Carters, she didn’t want to get into conversation with another lot.
    ‘This is Annie,’ said Celia, not elaborating further.
    Annie shook Kieron’s hand. Actually he was good-looking. Blond floppy hair and a long thoughtful face, brown eyes that seemed on the point of laughter. His hands were long, but strong. His grip was dry.
    ‘Hello,’ she said.
    ‘Hello.’ Kieron was staring at Annie and thinking how gorgeous she was. That long dark hair, those depthless dark green eyes, that delicious   figure. His mouth was dry with sudden excitement. ‘Have you ever had your portrait painted?’
    Annie laughed.
    Celia nudged her sharply.
    Annie stopped laughing. ‘Oh. Sorry. Are you being serious?’
    ‘Deadly,’ said Kieron, then, thinking that this might worry her, he added: ‘Very serious.’
    ‘No. I’m not into all that. Standing on pedestals and stuff.’ Annie wrinkled her nose.
    ‘Ah, you’re like me,’ said Orla. ‘You like to keep on the move.’
    ‘I’d pay the going rate,’ said Kieron.
    Annie’s interest was perked. She had no job. Celia was being kind and letting her stay for nothing, putting aside all Annie’s protestations, saying that she was family and to say no more about it. But she felt bad, like she was sponging off her. Some money coming in would be very welcome.
    ‘What is the going rate?’ asked Annie awkwardly.
    ‘Five pounds.’
    ‘Oh.’ Well, it was something. ‘Well that would be okay, a fiver for the whole thing.’
    ‘No. That’s