again.
‘Concentrate,’ he urged her, touching her, caressing her, but she felt frighteningly blank.
This was the man she loved. But he had told her to kill their child.
Finally Mira gave Redmond what he wanted. She faked her orgasm. He was satisfied. That night she turned her face into the pillow for the first time and, when she knew he was asleep, she wept for the child that they had killed, and for their love, which had also died that very same night.
Chapter 13
At the Palermo, the builders got back from lunch at their usual time of one, ready to start work after a brew and a glance at the day’s papers. They had left the place as a work in progress, had started whitewashing the cellar, stripping the old flock paper off the walls upstairs, knocked down the old plaster, repainted the ceiling, refurbished the bar, dumped all those tired old velvet drapes and soft furnishings. The job was coming along pretty well and they were pleased.
Now it wasn’t. And they weren’t.
‘Fuck it,’ said the foreman as he went down the cellar steps and found himself standing in several inches of icy wetness. One of the pipes on the wall by his head was spurting water out on to the floor. It was soaking down here; the water level was rising even as he watched; it was a mess and a half.
‘What happened?’ asked his mate, clattering down the stairs behind him and peering down.
‘Damned pipe’s fucked,’ said the foreman.
He looked at the pipe. It was old. These buildings were Victorian, beautifully built—he appreciated that because he was a craftsman, a master builder; he had an eye for a lovely old place like this, wished he could own such a place; no sodding chance.
An old lead pipe like that could easily weaken over many years and eventually spring a leak. A miracle it hadn’t happened before, really. He frowned at the pipe. Touched a finger to the edge where the breach was. His frown deepened.
‘These old pipes, they can go at any time,’ said Gordy, his mate. ‘Jeez, we’re going to have to get a pump down here now.’
‘Yeah,’ said the foreman, and made a mental note that he was going to speak to the Carter boys right now. He didn’t want to carry the can for this. This wasn’t his doing and he hoped it wasn’t his mate Gordy’s doing either. He’d known Gordy a lot of years and he didn’t think he was a fool. Not fool enough to start arsing about for a wedge of cash-in-hand, because the Carter firm were very strong on loyalty, and the lack of it would upset them. You didn’t want to upset the Carter boys, ever.
‘You locked up behind us, didn’t you?’ he asked Gordy. Gordy had been last out, after all. Tel hadstrolled ahead to the pub, leaving his old trusted working mate to lock the door. But had he locked the door? That was the question.
‘Course I did. I always do, don’t I?’
And the lock hadn’t been breached. It had opened sweet as a nut when they’d come back from their pie and pint. Someone had a key, then—unless Gordy was lying through his yellow buck teeth. Either way, they were in the shit, and if this was Gordy’s doing, then he was going to beat the crap out of the stupid little git for landing him in it.
‘This pipe ain’t worn,’ he told Gordy, and he turned and grabbed Gordy by the front of his paint-stained boiler suit and shook him, hard. Gordy’s beery eyes were suddenly wild with alarm. He lost his footing, slipped down a step or two. Tel leaned over him, bigger and stronger than he was—his old mate, he’d always thought, his friend, but now he looked mad as a cut snake. ‘Did you do this, you silly bastard? Come on, own up.’
‘I didn’t do nothing, Tel,’ bleated Gordy, shocked at the change in his old pal and drinking mate. Fuck, what had got into the old fart? One minute he was normal, the next he’d gone berserk.
Tel shook him again. Gordy’s balding head clunked painfully against the cellar’s dank wall and he let out a holler of
‘Concentrate,’ he urged her, touching her, caressing her, but she felt frighteningly blank.
This was the man she loved. But he had told her to kill their child.
Finally Mira gave Redmond what he wanted. She faked her orgasm. He was satisfied. That night she turned her face into the pillow for the first time and, when she knew he was asleep, she wept for the child that they had killed, and for their love, which had also died that very same night.
Chapter 13
At the Palermo, the builders got back from lunch at their usual time of one, ready to start work after a brew and a glance at the day’s papers. They had left the place as a work in progress, had started whitewashing the cellar, stripping the old flock paper off the walls upstairs, knocked down the old plaster, repainted the ceiling, refurbished the bar, dumped all those tired old velvet drapes and soft furnishings. The job was coming along pretty well and they were pleased.
Now it wasn’t. And they weren’t.
‘Fuck it,’ said the foreman as he went down the cellar steps and found himself standing in several inches of icy wetness. One of the pipes on the wall by his head was spurting water out on to the floor. It was soaking down here; the water level was rising even as he watched; it was a mess and a half.
‘What happened?’ asked his mate, clattering down the stairs behind him and peering down.
‘Damned pipe’s fucked,’ said the foreman.
He looked at the pipe. It was old. These buildings were Victorian, beautifully built—he appreciated that because he was a craftsman, a master builder; he had an eye for a lovely old place like this, wished he could own such a place; no sodding chance.
An old lead pipe like that could easily weaken over many years and eventually spring a leak. A miracle it hadn’t happened before, really. He frowned at the pipe. Touched a finger to the edge where the breach was. His frown deepened.
‘These old pipes, they can go at any time,’ said Gordy, his mate. ‘Jeez, we’re going to have to get a pump down here now.’
‘Yeah,’ said the foreman, and made a mental note that he was going to speak to the Carter boys right now. He didn’t want to carry the can for this. This wasn’t his doing and he hoped it wasn’t his mate Gordy’s doing either. He’d known Gordy a lot of years and he didn’t think he was a fool. Not fool enough to start arsing about for a wedge of cash-in-hand, because the Carter firm were very strong on loyalty, and the lack of it would upset them. You didn’t want to upset the Carter boys, ever.
‘You locked up behind us, didn’t you?’ he asked Gordy. Gordy had been last out, after all. Tel hadstrolled ahead to the pub, leaving his old trusted working mate to lock the door. But had he locked the door? That was the question.
‘Course I did. I always do, don’t I?’
And the lock hadn’t been breached. It had opened sweet as a nut when they’d come back from their pie and pint. Someone had a key, then—unless Gordy was lying through his yellow buck teeth. Either way, they were in the shit, and if this was Gordy’s doing, then he was going to beat the crap out of the stupid little git for landing him in it.
‘This pipe ain’t worn,’ he told Gordy, and he turned and grabbed Gordy by the front of his paint-stained boiler suit and shook him, hard. Gordy’s beery eyes were suddenly wild with alarm. He lost his footing, slipped down a step or two. Tel leaned over him, bigger and stronger than he was—his old mate, he’d always thought, his friend, but now he looked mad as a cut snake. ‘Did you do this, you silly bastard? Come on, own up.’
‘I didn’t do nothing, Tel,’ bleated Gordy, shocked at the change in his old pal and drinking mate. Fuck, what had got into the old fart? One minute he was normal, the next he’d gone berserk.
Tel shook him again. Gordy’s balding head clunked painfully against the cellar’s dank wall and he let out a holler of
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