Ruthless Read Online Free Page B

Limehouse.
    Life in the teeming dog-eat-dog city suited the brutal aspects of his nature. And the family thrived too. While in London, the wife dropped him some children: Tory first, then Patrick, then the twins – Orla and Redmond – then the baby of the family, Kieron. But they never forgot their roots. The proceeds of gambling, robbery and vice paid for a grand farmhouse a stone’s throw from the Shannon, and his wife was always nipping across, checking on the renovations and furnishing the place.
    Eventually the old man admitted to his age, decided it was time to retire, let the boys take over. They leapt at the chance. And all went well, until the apple of his eye – Tory, his eldest, his most beloved son – was cut down in his prime.
    Davey was never the same after Tory’s death. He withdrew to the farm, leaving the business to Pat, to Redmond and Orla. Kieron wasn’t interested, he fancied himself an artist. When the family came to visit, Davey would sit staring at the wall, making no attempt to join the conversation. Suspecting a nervous breakdown, his anxious wife steered him to the doctors. Within a year, they came back with a diagnosis: dementia. There was no question of Davey moving into a nursing home; he stayed on at the farm, the dream home declining with each year in fading grandeur, Davey losing his mind, his wife nursing him.
    Now, Orla approached the farm. She paused outside to gaze around her. It was exactly as she remembered. Dad had been so proud of the place when he’d bought it, giving out about the thirty acres of land that came with it, and how old the place was.
    Orla let her eyes drift over the stonework. It looked tired in places. But the house was still a fine big place, with panoramic views across open country towards the great grey sprawl of the river.
    This was home, and she did have a few good memories of it. But oh, everything had happened here. For every good memory, there were ten bad ones.
    She went to the big oak brass-studded door and pulled the bell chain. Far away in the house, she heard the thing echo and jangle.
    She waited. And waited. Finally she rang the bell again.
    At last, there was the sound of movement, and then her mother was standing in front of her, white hair awry, a blue-sprigged cream pinafore tied around her dumpy waist, a querying expression in her eyes and a vague smile on her lips. When she saw her daughter standing there, the smile dropped away in shock.
    ‘Orla! God in heaven, what are you doing here?’
    ‘Ma!’ said Orla, overcome with a mixture of relief at seeing her mother standing there, so familiar, and the realization that nothing would ever be the same again. She had survived the tempest, but she had come through it alone. Every moment since had been a living hell, trying to hold it together, focusing on getting home. Now she was finally here, she lost all control.
    ‘Oh, Ma,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s gone. I’ve lost Redmond.’

8
    London, 1980
    ‘I am here to tell you that this. Just. Won’t. Fucking. Do,’ said a stern female voice.
    Annie pulled the covers further over her head, trying to block out the world. She recognized the voice. And right now, she hated the damned voice too.
    ‘Go away,’ she moaned. ‘Leave me the hell alone.’
    ‘No can do,’ said Dolly.
    ‘Yes, you bloody can do,’ snapped Annie, her head emerging from the covers.
    Through gritty eyes she could see Dolly, turned out in her usual sharp-fitting skirt suit – powder blue this time – standing by the windows in the dimness of the master suite. Dolly threw back the curtains and Annie winced as light flooded in.
    ‘Jesus ,’ she complained.
    ‘It’s eleven thirty, nearly lunchtime. You intending to just lie there in your ruddy pit all day?’
    ‘That’s the plan,’ said Annie.
    Dolly came over to the bed and looked down in disgust at her old mate.
    ‘That ain’t a plan,’ she pointed out. ‘That’s a waste of a day.’
    ‘So fucking well shoot