Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1)

by Isabella Brooke

  "Don't even try. I will kill you."

  "Kill me? Your sister's fella? Your nephews' dad? I don't think so. I can take care of them, I know I can. I just gotta get some cash together, yeah. And that's where you come in, innit."

  "Fuck off." Turner stood straight, pushing away from the table and unfolding his arms. He towered over Riggers but the drugged-up rat wasn't easily intimidated. He laughed in Turner's face, a laugh with no humour in it. Just malice.

  "Well, best of luck with job-hunting, mate. You know where I am. I'll be in Elaine's bed. Speak soon."

  He sauntered backwards, taunting Turner with his grin, sidling back out of the door and away down the alley. Turner balled his fists but there was nothing to punch, and no way of letting the tension out.

  God, he could kill Riggers. But then what? More jail time.

  Perhaps he could just assault him. A little light Actual Bodily Harm. But knowing Riggers, he'd manage to twist it to send Turner right back into prison once more.

  He couldn't leave Manchester, and abandon his mum and his sister to that man. He couldn't kill him and he couldn't hurt him.

  It looked like his only option left was to work with him. At least that way, he kept some control.

  And you never knew. Turner was wiser now. Perhaps he could get enough dirt on him to turn the tables.

  In his pocket, his phone vibrated with an incoming message. He knew who it would be, and he knew it was over between them before it even started.

  * * * *

  "It's happening again, Kayleigh." Emily curled on her sofa, cradling the phone with one hand and hugging a cushion to her chest with the other. "And I just tried to call him but he cut me off."

  "Wait, what, start again. Hang on." There was some clattering from the other end of the line, then Kayleigh spoke again. "Okay, that's better, I can talk now. What's happening, and who is he?"

  Emily took a deep breath. "He is Turner."

  "Turner?"

  "The man I went to interview about crime, for a shitty article that is never going to happen because it's….shitty. We kind of saw each other last night, and he, um, stayed over but he disappeared in the middle of the night, and when I tried to ring, he didn't answer."

  "And you're how old?" Kayleigh sounded tired.

  "I know, I know. And that's what's so pathetic. It was just a one night stand, and you know, I think I can cope with that, actually. What is really pissing me off is what it means. I mean, about me. The fact that I keep making the same stupid mistakes over and over again."

  "Falling for the people you interview? Getting jiggy with the subjects of your articles?"

  "Yeah."

  Kayleigh sighed, long and low. "What are you doing with your life, petal?"

  "I was kinda hoping you'd tell me."

  "Yeah, like how? What do you want out of life?"

  "I dunno. That's the problem, isn't it?"

  "Nope. Try and see yourself in ten years' time - build a picture of your ideal future - now work out how to get to it. It's that simple. I don't get all your navel-gazing."

  Emily tried it, and saw a house and a family, and winced at the tedious stereotype. Shouldn't she want something more? "I still don't know," she lied.

  "You want a man, and that's why you keep falling for the wrong ones." Kayleigh spoke with flat authority.

  Damn. She knew her too well. But then, that's why Emily had called her, wasn't it? "I suppose," she allowed grudgingly.

  "Look, you are allowed to admit that you want to settle down, you know. The whole edifice of feminism isn't going to crumble just because you're honest about your needs. And while we're being honest, let's talk about this journalism bullshit."

  "Err…"

  "You need to take a step back and really look at what you want to be doing, not what you think you should be doing. Remember. Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."

  "Well…"

  "Have a clean break. Come and visit me! Do nothing for a few days. Drop everything - home, work, him. Make a new future because this one is going nowhere, my dear."

  "Um."

  Silence. Kayleigh let her words settle into Emily's brain. Emily said, at last, "well, thank you for your honesty. And, er, tact."

  "You're welcome. You think you're being sarcastic but believe me, that was me being tactful."

  "Jeez."

  "Yup."

  "Right."

  "Anything else I can help you with?"

  "No, thanks. Not right now. I think I'd better go. I want to put in a call to the UN, suggest they send you down to the Middle East to bang some heads together there, too, and bring about world peace."

  "Ahaha." Kayleigh laughed but it seemed without humour. Her voice was hard as she said, "Look, Emily. We've had this conversation too many times and you're just going round in circles and you know what…"

  "What?"

  "You are doing my fucking nut in."

  Emily squeezed her eyes shut. A simple sentence like that hurt like hell when it came from her friend. "Kayleigh…"

  "No, listen. You ring me up and you ask for advice and I give it to you, like I always do. And you just ignore it, and it all goes wrong, and then you ring me up again for more advice. You know, one of the things that helped me decide to leave England and start up here was that I was beginning to feel like I was being dragged down by you."

  "You - what? I was doing what?"

  "You complain about being stuck but you haven't made any effort to start afresh, not really. How many different ways can I tell you to get a grip?"

  "It's not… Kayleigh, are you okay? Is something going on with you that I don't know about?"

  "Thanks for asking. Finally. As it happens, no, I'm perfectly fine, but it struck me recently that you wouldn't know if there was, because you never ask. You ring when it's about you. You want to make a change but you don't seem to believe that you can."

  "I can…"

  "Do it then. Look. There's nothing more I can say."

  "I… well, thank you."

  Kayleigh sighed again. When she spoke, her voice was a little softer. "Sorry, petal. There was stuff I needed to get off my chest. I'm going to go now. Think about it. Stay in touch, yeah…?"

  "Yeah. Okay. See you."

  The flat felt hollow and empty and Emily's throat was raw. Kayleigh's words had hit deep and she pushed them out of her mind.

  She curled on the sofa, and hugged the cushion for another ten minutes, thinking about her future and what shape it held.

  The shape was temptingly broad-shouldered.

  * * * *

  The waiting area for the cancer outpatients was muted yet full of people. Unlike Accident and Emergency, which could be a place of rush and noise, this area was one of reflection and suppressed fear. Turner hated it, but he sat with as much casual nonchalance as he could muster. His mum was beside him, a trashy mag open but unread on her knees.

  "How long does this go on for?"

  "Depends on whether they're running late."

  "No, I mean… the treatment overall."

  She sighed. "I wish I knew, Turner. It just depends on my results, week to week. Not much longer, I hope. Sometimes I think the side effects are worse… but no, I know they're not. But it's hard to keep it all lined up, sensible-like, in your head, you know?"

  He didn't know, and he didn't want to know. "Yeah."

  She laughed. "No, you don't. It's okay." She turned her attention to the magazine. "Look at this! My husband's having an affair with a ghost. Who writes this crap? Hey, is this the sort of thing that journalist does?"

  "What?"

  "That article you were talking about. Someone who wanted to interview you."

  Turner looked at the lurid headlines and model-posed photographs, with little passport-photo insets of the actual interviewees. "No, she doesn't write that kind of stuff. She does social justice things." Does she? He hadn't ever seen any evidence of that.

  Can the conman be conned? It was a new
thought.

  "Looks like money for old rope, this. Find a nutter, get them to talk rubbish, write it up and sell it to fools that believe it."

  "Like you?"

  "I don't believe it."

  "Does anyone?"

  "They must. So what happened to her?"

  "The article didn't work out."

  "Shame. Was she nice?"

  "She was posh."

  "Ahh." His mum left the topic at that. Posh. Not his sort. Too good for him.

  A small girl with a shaven head, painfully pretty with huge dark eyes, toddled past. Her arm was purple with the marks of blood tests and a small plastic tube peeped out from the neckband of her princess-pink dress, the end taped down to her alabaster skin. Turner had to look away. How could anyone bear to have kids when they were so easily snatched away?

  If not taken by illness, then by their own stupidity and prison. A sense of himself as a son flashed into his mind and he pushed it aside, locking it in the box of guilty memories. "Mum, do you want anything to drink?"

  "No, dear."

  A short, plump nurse with dark bobbed hair materialised in front of them, clutching a clipboard, smiling a tired but genuine smile. "Mrs Black. How are you today?"

  His mum's face lit up. "I'm very well, thank you! How are you?"

  The nurse nodded at Turner. "Busy as usual. Is this another son?"

  Turner sat up straight, horror clutching his throat. "I'm her only son…"

  His mum patted his leg as if he were still nine years old. "It's okay. Everyone thought Andrew was my son when he brought me to my other appointments."

  Andy bloody Rigby. Turner gritted his teeth. He felt he had to explain himself to the nurse. "I've been away." That was code for anyone who cared to understand it.

  The nurse seemed unconcerned. "That's nice, dear. But I bet your mum is glad to have you back! We're ready for you now, so if you'd like to come this way…"

  Turner stood up alongside his mum, but the nurse put out a warning hand. "No, you can wait here."

  Turner slumped back down onto the chair, watching with simmering resentment as the nurse took his frail mum beyond the curtains into the bowels of the hospital. Did Riggers have to wait out here? How long would she be? How many times had he come with her?

  And who would have done it, if Riggers hadn't? Elaine couldn't drive. Half his neighbours had lost their licences, or their cars, or both.

  He had to get Riggers on the other foot, and owing Turner something. Somehow.

  His phone suddenly rang out in his pocket, and everyone turned to look at him. He scrambled for it, anxious to mute it, standing ready to take the call outside.

  It was Riggers.

  Was the little fucker psychic or something? He cancelled the call, angrily. He hadn't heard from him since he'd turned up that Saturday morning, nearly a week ago. It was Friday, now, and the intervening days had been a depressing treadmill of failed job applications and alcohol-fuelled introspection.

  He turned his phone off completely, and shoved it back into his pocket, before sitting back down. He flicked through the magazine that his mum had left behind, and then cast it with a growl onto a low table in front of him. Someone tutted. He folded his arms and crossed his legs, sinking his chin onto his chest, trying to block out the activity all around him. He couldn't escape from his own mind as easily.

  * * * *

  What a difference a week could make! Emily rocked back and forth on her office chair, feeling a thrill of superiority as she cast her eyes over the tidy, ordered workspace in front of her. She yawned and stretched, then ran her hands through her hair. She couldn't stop touching her new, shorter style. She'd shed the green bandana and comfortable hippy clothes, replacing them with a sleeker and more professional wardrobe.

  New clothes, new you.

  She'd called Nathan back, the editor who'd offered her the job on the pretentious art installation, but the work had gone to someone else. Undeterred, she ploughed on regardless, as if she were fresh out of journalism school and making a name for herself.

  She'd tidied the flat, had a free makeover at the cosmetic counter of a department store, and blown her few remaining pounds on some expensive foundation. It was all symbolic and she was loving it.

  She'd even, in a rash fit of new maturity, phoned her brother's wife, Janey, and accepted a dinner invitation. Matthew had been surprised to see her, and he didn't hide it. Emily didn't care. This was the new her, and she was going to make it work.

  With her contacts and her experience, some work started to come in. Nothing totally definite - she had some verbal agreements and some encouragements, but she was still waiting for the commissioning orders in black and white. There were a lot of freelancers chasing this work, and she was up against newly redundant staff writers. Still, this was where her passion lay, and she was going to create her own future.

  So she kept telling herself.

  Just work harder. It stopped the doubts creeping back. She shook her hair, letting the sticky-sprayed-tresses fall from her fingers. For all those people who believe but never try… I will try and I will do it.

  Janey had been remarkably supportive of her new look and new aims. After their dinner party, Matthew had grumbled off to his study, claiming he had preparation to do for the next day's caseload. Janey had helped Emily set up a dating profile online, and after a few glasses of wine, it had seemed like the perfect solution.

  A few more glasses, and Matthew had had to drive her home.

  There were now quite a few unread messages in her inbox, offering to meet or trade more photos or, in one case, a new life in Texas with someone claiming to be an oil baron.

  Loads of people met their partners this way. It was like a modern arranged marriage.

  Keep working. Emily noticed a new message pop up. To her delight, it wasn't another prospective suitor, but from an editor at a magazine she'd never managed to break into.

  Until now.

  She couldn't help grinning. Attached was an honest-to-goodness, real life, actual commission to examine some of the cultural implications of a Polish filmmaker in Germany and his latest film exploring the role of Nazi officers' wives in the second world war. It was exactly the sort of thing she had imagined she'd do, when she first went into journalism.

  She grabbed the opportunity with both hands, and a few clicks of the mouse later, she was deep in her research.

  * * * *

  The city centre bar was heaving with bodies. It was early yet, not even nine o'clock, but Riggers was on his third pint and Turner was sure he was snorting something every time he went off to the gents. Which was frequently.

  Other familiar faces from his past swam around him in the crowd, and a few he recognised from his time in prison. Everyone feigned delight at meeting each other, circling and assessing like piranhas. Who was prey, tonight? Who would be the smallest fish? Who was worth sacrificing?

  Who was ready for a test?

  Turner's head pounded already. He had planned a different life for himself, during those long hours of bang-up. Life, however, had other ideas. It seemed that the chains around a convict remained for a lot longer than the nominal end of his sentence.

  He watched Riggers with sober eyes. Turner was drinking lager, but alternating alcohol-free with some continental watery stuff. He didn't care what anyone thought of that. He was old enough to not feel he had to prove he was a drinker.

  He knew he had to prove he was a fighter, though.

  Riggers was playing him. As soon as Turner had called him back, once he'd got home from the hospital with his mum, Riggers had known he'd won. He hadn't even tried to hide his triumphant glee, and he was still lording it even now. Now Riggers had Turner on board, he was trying to make him sweat.

  "Are you sure you're up to this, mate? Cos you took some persuading, innit? I need to know you ain't gonna pull out, have some sudden change of heart. Again."

  Turner sneered down at Riggers but he was oblivious to Turner's con
tempt. "Up to you," Turner said. "I don't care either way."

  "You need me," Riggers said. "You fucking need me."

  Turner did. When he'd dropped his mum home, he'd seen how tired Elaine looked. How raucous the kids were. How weary his mum was. They all needed a break. Just a few days away, somewhere nice, somewhere warm. Elaine was doing all the work for her mum, and for the kids. She was talking about finding a job once the kids were in school, but where? How? And who would look after his mum then?

  "You need me," Turner told Riggers. "If you don't then I'll go home now."

  Riggers shrugged. "Aww, don't be like that, mate. Let's have another."

  Another man lumbered over to them, as wide as he was tall. His neck was thicker than Turner's upper arm, and that was saying something. He was a classic sted-head, a steroid user, with all the aggression and rage to match.

  "Turner!" he bellowed and enfolded him in a bear-hug. Any other man hugging in a public place would have been laughed at. But not this man; not if you wanted to stay out of the fracture clinic.

  Turner let himself sink into the repetitive and predictable banter of men on a night out, joining in the insults, dancing carefully along the line between friendly chat and knife-pulling comments.

  A buzzing in his jeans pocket dragged his attention away. He hauled the phone out and saw, to his surprise, that it was Emily.

  Emily, this late on a Friday night? In fact, the fact of Emily calling him at all confused him. He hadn’t expected to hear from her ever again, not since he cancelled that call the morning after they'd slept together. It had made it very clear to both of them that it had been a one-night stand.

  He waved his hand at the jabbering circle of men, and pushed his way to the corner of the club, fighting out into the corridor towards the cloakrooms where the beat of the music didn't penetrate as far. It was still loud, but at least he could hear.

  She was bound to be drunk. It was going to be one of those phone calls. The ones that made the case for having a breathalyser fitted to your phone, to prevent these kinds of tearful, accusatory and ultimately ill-advised conversations.