by Emmy Ellis
“You’re not bothered that he might not be put in a regular prison?” Burgess asked.
“He’s already in prison.” Shaw swiped a hand down his face. “Has been all his life by the sound of it. And where he ends up next will still be a prison. Shit, it’s like I’m excusing what he’s done, but I’m not. It was awful, him taking those lives, but at the same time, the things that were done to him, which broke him somewhere along the line, they were awful, too.”
“You’re a decent bloke, Shaw.” Will I ever be as decent?
“Yeah, well…” Shaw smiled. Swung his feet to the floor. Put his cup on his desk. Tugged at his suit lapels. “It’s a tough job being so brilliant, but someone has to do it.”
Burgess laughed—and fuck, it felt good, if a bit wrong. Then he sobered. “Come on.” He slid his feet to the floor then put on his shoes. “I need to get this done.”
He walked to the door and glanced behind him. Shaw stood there straightening his tie. Smoothing down his suit front.
“Um, you might want to put shoes on?” Burgess opened the door.
“Oh yeah.”
Burgess waited outside his office, leaning against the wall. Shaw joined him, and together they walked in silence down to the holding cells. Outside Gordon’s—must think of him as Gordon for this, not the impersonal Varley—he took a deep breath. Nodded at an officer striding down the corridor, silently asking him to get out his keys. The uniform peered through the hatch first then swung the door wide, and Burgess stepped in.
The door clanging shut then locking behind him brought on a shiver. As did the sight of a man he never thought he’d want to speak to. In all his time as a police officer, he’d thought of criminals as the lowest of the low, but this one? Fucked if he could compartmentalise and not allow emotions to surface. He didn’t like what was happening inside him, couldn’t understand it. Another thing to discuss with Shaw as his therapist.
Gordon looked up. Smiled. Teeth bright inside that beard that was so much like their father’s.
“Hello, Detective Varley.” That childish voice.
Another shiver.
“Hello, Gordon,” Burgess said. “Mind if I sit beside you?”
“Why would you want to sit by me?” Gordon frowned, did that bird thing with his head.
“Thought maybe you needed someone to talk to. Gets a bit lonely in here, I should think. Would you like to talk to me?” Burgess asked.
Gordon shrugged. “Maybe.”
Burgess took a chance and sat beside him. Glanced at the camera in the top corner. Then at the hatch in the door. Shaw was there, the tip of his nose visible, a side view, where he was obviously giving Gordon the illusion no one stood there at all.
“So tell me,” Burgess said. “Tell me everything. Right from the beginning. The truth, Gordon. I know you like to tell the truth.”
He hadn’t expected the words to come, but by fuck they did, Gordon’s voice changing from childlike to adult with each different subject. Burgess stared at the hatch throughout, holding it together as Gordon described the depth of the abuse he’d suffered. How, when Burgess had been crying for the father he’d lost, Gordon had been longing for that same father to come and rescue him, even though he’d known he was dead. How, when Burgess had run to his mother for advice, love, and hugs, Gordon had run away from his—from her smacks, her wicked words, and the mind games she’d played.
And as for the men—and The Man, Thomas Hornton… Christ, what they’d done to him all but ripped a hole in Burgess’ heart.
Gran—thank Heaven for Gordon’s gran. But fuck Social Services up the backside for not following up on her call for help. The school, who must have known he came from a rough mother, must also have known Gordon hadn’t been treated right. Fuck them, too. And, if he were honest, fuck Gran to some degree. Although she’d done her best, she could have saved Gordon. Picked him up from school one day and taken him away somewhere.
The furniture in Gordon’s flat had been explained. It had belonged to Gran, and after she’d died, Gordon had taken all of her things to the flat above Letty’s, thankful he had more than the bed from his childhood to fill it.
“What will happen to Gran’s things now?” Gordon asked.
“I’ll make sure they’re put into storage for you. Where they’ll be safe. All your things will be safe,” Burgess said. I’ll pay for it.
“What about my notebooks?”
Oh, they’re safe already. Safe inside evidence bags. “Your books will be fine, too.” Used as evidence against you.
“Could I have a new notebook? Her and The Man keep speaking to me, and I need the books to help me.”
“Yes, I’ll arrange for you to have a new book.”
The lump in Burgess’ throat hurt. For Gordon, Gran, Anita, the unknown male victims, their families. But not for Emily or Thomas Hornton. He couldn’t find a speck of sympathy in him for them. Or those other men. Those…those paedophiles.
Bastards, the lot of them. And I’ll try to find them for you, Gordon, I swear to fucking God I will. I’ll put them away, every last one of them.
Burgess turned his head to look at Gordon. His half-brother’s face was dry. Why the hell hadn’t he cried while reliving all this? How had he managed to keep it all together?
The same way I did? The same way I cope with life? Are we similar in that we shove it all away and pretend it isn’t happening?
Their parallels chilled him.
“What do you want most out of life, Gordon?” he asked. Do I want to know the answer to that?
Gordon hung his head. Laced his fingers. Squeezed, knuckles going white. “I want to be happy. I want a wife and children and a dog. I don’t want to hear her or The Man anymore.”
“There are doctors who will help you with that. The voices. There are tablets that will make them go away, and maybe then you can be happy once you’ve stayed at a secure hospital for a bit.” Years.
“That would be nice.” Gordon nodded. “A cuddle would be nice, too. I always wanted cuddles. Only got them from Gran. Will you cuddle me?”
Dear fucking God.
Burgess didn’t hesitate. How could he? Such a simple request. He rested his arm across Gordon’s back, and Gordon turned into him, pressing himself close and wrapping his arms around Burgess. Lifting his other arm, Burgess linked his fingers behind Gordon, who finally, finally sobbed.
And despite the cameras, despite Shaw being on the other side of that door, despite the whole station possibly hearing that Detective Burgess Varley wasn’t such a hard-hearted, bull-headed bastard after all, Burgess let his own tears come. Hot on his face, cold once they reached his chin. A release of so much tension, anguish, rage, and sorrow.
A new beginning. A new him. A man who’d look at both sides of every coin that came his way. A man who’d see colour, not just black and white. A man who, without a doubt, would visit Gordon Varley from time to time, and bring justice to this half-brother of his who’d been so badly treated.
Empathy for a killer.
Now there was a turn up for the books.
Epilogue
The Pig was a busy bastard tonight, customers not only filling most of the chairs and barstools but the floor space as well. Burgess briefly wondered whether there was some kind of ‘do’ going on then decided he didn’t give much of a shit if there was. He needed a pint, ice-cold, the burn of the fizz as it went down, scorching away all the cloying emotions that roiled inside him.
Marla sat in her usual spot, and somehow, despite the pub being full, she’d managed to keep the other two seats at the table free of strangers’ bums. She looked nice this evening, her normally casual clothing replaced with something a bit posher, like she was going out for a meal or dancing later. Marla in a little black dress and high heels—he couldn’t get over it.
He headed towards her while Shaw went to the bar to get their drinks. Sat beside her and, before she’d had the chance to pop her Kindle into her bag or even realise he was there,
he hugged her to him—hard.
“What the hell, Burge?” she said, voice muffled against his chest. “If my puppy walks in and sees us like this…”
“Fuck your puppy.” He squeezed her harder.
“Oh, I intend to later. Um, let me go, there’s a dear. Can’t breathe. And you know how much I like to breathe. It tends to keep one alive.”
He released her, cupped her face with his hands, and kissed her forehead. “I love you. Just had the urge to tell you.” Then he backed off, hands in his lap, and watched Shaw patiently waiting for someone to serve him. “Been a bitch of a day.”
“I can tell. You don’t usually try to squash me to death. And to think it would be King doing my postmortem.”
He chuckled. Then laughed properly, tipping his head back, thankful he could still do something as simple as bloody laugh. He turned to face her. She’d spot his red-rimmed eyes, the puffiness beneath—and not mention it. Marla was good like that.
“I heard you got him,” she said, eyes full of that unspoken sympathy she always managed to give him no matter what she was going through herself. Such a decent, good-hearted friend. She held her breath, clutched her Kindle, probably to prevent herself from reaching out to touch him.
“We did.”
She blew out through red-painted lips. “And I heard you finally thawed.”
“I did.”
Marla smiled. “Good. About time other people know you like I do.”
“Things will change from now on, Mar,” he said. “Got to. Can’t keep living my life locking everything away. That doesn’t include criminals. They can still be locked away.”
And there are so many more I need to find now. And I will.
“Sometimes it just takes one thing to make you see differently. And a puppy to make everything all right, don’t you think?” she asked and raised one eyebrow.
He’d never worked out how to do that, raise only one.
“A woman would be good for me, I’ll give you that.”
“Shame it took you so long to see it, but hey, you have now, and that’s what matters.” She slid her Kindle into her bag. “I think my puppy is good for me, too.”
“I’m glad, although I still can’t get the image out of my head of him with a red garter across his face.”
Marla bounced a little in her seat. “Oh, I never did get to tell you that story, did I? Let me do it now, quickly, before Shaw comes over.”
“It had better be quick, because he’s being served now.”
Hot-faced by the time she’d waffled three-quarters of her tale, Burgess cleared his throat. She rushed to the conclusion, and Burgess couldn’t help but smile.
Shaw gathered their two pint glasses and Marla’s glass of red together in both hands and managed to wend through the crowd without spilling a drop or losing his hold. He reached their table and carefully put the glasses down.
“…and there you have it.” Marla patted Burgess’ hand then picked up her fresh drink. “I’ll tell you another sometime. Shaw might want to hear one, too.”
“Hear what?” Shaw sat opposite Burgess, drew his chair closer, the scrape of the legs on the floor all but lost amid the chatter, and sipped some of his pint.
“You don’t want to know.” Burgess reached over to pat Shaw’s shoulder.
“Oh God. Watch it, Shaw. He’s emotional tonight,” Marla said.
Burgess didn’t kiss Shaw’s forehead, though. “I appreciate you.”
Shaw stared at him. “What the hell’s brought that on?”
Burgess lifted his pint. “Realising I’m the luckiest bastard on the planet, that’s what.” He glanced from Shaw to Marla then back to Shaw. “Don’t leave me, you two. Ever.”
He was with the two people who’d stood by him over the years, knowing and loving him for everything he was, not just the good parts. Now it was time to give them the same kind of love back. He swallowed, balanced his elbows on the edge of the table. “Right, now that’s that out of the way, where are you going tonight to be all dolled up like that, Mar?”
“Out with You Know Who. What are you doing? Off to find a woman?” She gave him a shoulder nudge that send him sideways.
“Nah, we’re going to my place. Gaming’s on the cards.”
“Blimey,” Shaw said. “You must be emotional if you’re letting me kip on your sofa again.”
“Got to be,” Marla said.
“Yeah, but if you make any mess, I’ll have you.” Burgess winked.
Many of his personal burdens had been eased with this case. Now, if he could bring himself to fully open up and banish them for good, life would be perfect.
He was looking forward to that.