Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1)

by Isabella Brooke

  She knocked hard at the door before she could stop and think about what she was doing. The yellowing net curtain in the window beside the door bunched up at the bottom, and a small face peered out. Kyle, or Liam, she couldn't tell. She impulsively stuck her tongue out at the boy, and he disappeared instantly.

  Turner opened the door. He seemed dishevelled, his tee shirt rucked up at one side, and there appeared to be marker pen or paint or something on his hands. A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

  "You came," he said stupidly.

  She bit back a defensive sarcastic comment. "I did."

  "Ahh, you had better come in." Suddenly he seemed reluctant to open the door any further. "Oh. I'm sorry about the house…"

  She waited, patiently, until he had to relent and step back. The door opened straight into the main room, a long, narrow space crowded with an oversized faux-leather suite, and a television the size of a small English town. A yellow toaster was burbling gibberish on the television screen, but the two boys were sitting on the sofa, staring at her with big eyes.

  "Thank you." Emily let him close the door behind her, uncomfortably aware of the heat of him as he reached past her. She didn't move away. She wanted to linger in his presence, be absorbed into his body; and she wanted to store away the memories for the future, when it would be less painful to look back on this time.

  "Uh, can I get you a brew?"

  She was going to refuse, but the presence of the two lads made her unwilling to start a potentially awkward conversation in front of them. "Yes, please." It gave her a chance to follow him into the kitchen.

  "Oh, this looks nice. Smells freshly done. You've been busy," she commented as Turner began the old ritual of kettle and cup.

  He glowered at her. "It wasn't me. It was Riggers."

  "What?"

  They stared at each other for a moment in confusion, Turner clutching a large mug in his hand as the kettle began to hiss. Then he shook his head and almost smiled. "This isn't my house. It's my mum's. I'm babysitting while she's in bed. She's… ill."

  "Oh."

  Emily waited, not speaking, letting a silence form that he had to fill. Eventually, he did. As he turned away to pour the boiling water into the cups, he muttered, almost defiantly, "She has cancer."

  "Ahh. I see. I'm sorry. I did wonder."

  Turner sloshed the teabags around for a few seconds before dumping them on the drainer by the sink. "Elaine's out having her nails done or something, I think. God knows where, on a Sunday. Riggers was supposed to have the boys all day. I was here, checking on my mum, and he turned up and dumped Kyle and Liam on me. And ran. After telling me that he'd seen you, and he'd organised for us to go round to your place tomorrow night."

  Emily folded her arms and pursed her lips. She still didn't really trust herself to speak, and she wanted to see how much of a hole he'd dig himself into, if she let him go on and on.

  And he did continue. "I want to kill him. How did he get in touch with you, though? How the hell did he find you? Did he follow you? I will kill him."

  Emily snorted, a humourless laugh. "He stole my purse, as it happens. I've got my number taped in it because I can never remember it, so he rang me up and told me he'd found my purse, and arranged to meet me. He was waiting outside."

  Turner's eyes were blazing and Emily hugged her arms tighter around her body. He looked dangerous. "He was supposed to be babysitting the kids."

  "They were with him."

  "He must have come here after he'd seen us in town, at that café, and picked them up, then come to meet you. Why?"

  "To ensure I didn't make a scene." Emily was still feeling angry, but it was as much at Riggers as it was at Turner. "He's a git."

  Turner sighed. "I don't understand what he's playing at. He honestly thinks that we can use you as some kind of alibi. No court in the land would believe that. Why would a nice girl like you hang around with two bits of scum like us? It's just nonsense."

  "Well, he had his mate taking photos, as some kind of insurance."

  "It's just bullshit, it really is." Turner looked up at the ceiling in exasperation, his adam's apple bobbing sharply as he swallowed. "He's getting cocky and stupid and he's heading for some jail time before long."

  "And what about you?"

  Turner looked down and met her gaze, his eyes sad. He shrugged and licked his lips, saved from answering by the sudden appearance of a woman in a dressing gown.

  "Mum…"

  Emily smiled warmly at the thin woman. She had Turner's eyes but dry skin, and a face that was red and round, in contrast to her bony body. "Hello, Mrs Turner."

  "Ahh, mum, this is Emily. Emily, this is my mum."

  "Call me Pearl."

  "What a lovely name!"

  "Thank you. It's a bit old fashioned but at least people remember me." She turned to Turner. "Is this the journalist you've been telling me about?"

  Emily raised her eyebrow at Turner's discomfort. "Uh, yeah. Sorry, did we wake you?"

  "I can't sleep. I'm going to sit downstairs for a bit and watch telly with the boys. Why don't you get off, Turner? Take Emily somewhere nice, perhaps."

  They stared at each other, awkward rabbits caught in headlights. Emily nodded ever so slightly. We may as well take this conversation outside, because pretty soon it's going to get messy.

  Turner nodded back. "Okay, if you're sure. I've got my mobile on me. Call if you need me."

  "Go on, go on. Elaine will be home soon."

  "How bloody long does it take to get her nails done?" he joked.

  Mrs Turner blinked. "She had about five people booked in to see."

  "What?"

  "At college. She's not having her nails done, Turner. She's training to be a nail technician. The college runs these weekend sessions as part of her course, where people can go and have cheap beauty stuff done by the students. Students, like she is."

  Emily was amused to see that Turner looked embarrassed. "God, I didn't even realise."

  He was still muttering as they left the house and walked out into the drab street, leaving the cups of tea undrunk on the countertop. "She was talking about getting a job," he said, almost to himself. "Well, damn me."

  "Good for her." Emily walked briskly to a small grassy area, fenced off and plastered with signs forbidding ball games, dog walking, golf and horse riding. There was a small set of swings, and she tentatively sat on a twisted plastic seat, wrapping her arms around the rusty chains. Turner stood by the supporting frame, watching her.

  She swung slowly back and forth, letting the rhythm keep her calm. "So what about you, Turner? All that shit about jobs and stuff? About going straight? The only reason I came over was to see if you had the balls to tell me the truth."

  "I lied."

  His words hung in the air. They were a challenge, not a confession. Emily pushed higher on the swing, feeling the lurch of her stomach take her back to childhood moments in her memory. "Why?" she asked, asking the unanswerable.

  "My family needs me. You know about my mum, now. You've seen the boys, and you've met their waste of space father, Riggers. The boys start school soon and they need things that the benefits Elaine gets won't cover. My mum's on benefits, too, and it's not enough. I want her to have nice food, nice things, especially if she… doesn't have long. Instead, they are scraping by from day to day."

  She opened her mouth to say something, but he interrupted her straight away. "Don't tell me I should have got a job. Fuck knows, I have tried, and there are things happening. Labouring work, anything. I am not proud. But Riggers caught me at a low time and I found myself agreeing to do this one last thing. One last thing. That's why I walked away from your flat that night, because I knew then that I had this final thing to do, and it wasn't right on you. But I couldn't stay away from you. Anyway, it should bring in enough money to sort the lads out for school and treat my mum. I want to give her and Elaine a holiday. And I want Elaine to have some money so that she doesn't have to be at th
e beck and call of that shithead."

  "For a start, I know I've never met Elaine but you need to understand she can make her own decisions."

  Turner flexed his hands. "You don't understand. She feels beholden to him. He's the father of her kids, and she needs his maintenance money."

  "That's between her and him. You can't force her into anything and however much of a dick Riggers is, you can't interfere."

  "She's family. She's my sister. Of course I can interfere if it's for her own good."

  Emily stared at him, open-mouthed, the swing coming to a slow stop. "I cannot believe you have just said that. In this day and age! Christ, Turner, take a look at yourself. Family loyalty is all well and good, but you sound like some kind of control freak from Victorian times."

  "Your brother would do the same for you."

  "I don't think so."

  Turner drew his lips back in a smile that lacked any humour. "Does my solicitor know that his sister has been consorting with a known and convicted criminal?"

  "Jeez." Emily looked down at the grass, knowing that Turner was right. Matthew would be furious. Furious, and disappointed, and that disappointment would be the hardest to bear.

  She also wouldn't put it past him to send Turner right back to jail, somehow, to get him away from her.

  Of course, jail was where Turner was heading, if his plan went through. She pushed off with her legs again, sending the swing soaring. "Turner, don't do it. Don't go, tomorrow. Leave it, walk away."

  He walked out in front of her, and she gasped as she thought she was going to cannon straight into him, but he reached out and grabbed the chains of the swing as she rose up towards him. The swing lurched and she hung on to keep her balance as he held her suspended in the air, her legs either side of his body.

  "I can't."

  "Why not? Does he have something on you? Blackmail? What?"

  "No, nothing. But I gave my word, and that means something."

  "It means bullshit because you told me you were going straight." Her voice rose in indignant anger. "You think telling the truth to some toad like Riggers is more honourable than telling the truth to…" but she began to crack, and she coughed, fighting the tears. His nearness unsettled her. "Telling the truth to me."

  He started to look as unsettled as she felt. "Oh, Emily. No, I suppose not."

  "We need to get him locked up. He's committed other crimes. Can't we just go to the police about him?"

  "What about Elaine, and Kyle, and Liam?"

  "Well it seems to me that they'd be better off without him."

  "Was your dad around when you grew up?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Well, mine wasn't, and I miss him and I hate him and I resent him and I probably still love him, every minute of the day, and I don't want to do that to Kyle and Liam. I can't get their dad sent down."

  "Elaine is getting herself training, and a job. They've got a good male role model - you. Or at least, you could be…"

  "I'm as bad as Riggers."

  "Only if you go through with it tomorrow."

  He shook his head, and she thought he was going to let go of the swing. Instead, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her down, skipping to one side, still holding her, to avoid the swing hitting them as it swung back and forth. She had to cling on for safety, and the bulk of his body made her want to relax into his arms. She fought her weakness, stiffening her back.

  "Go to the police about him," she urged.

  "I can't. Nothing will stick. But he's got enough on me to send me down."

  "Lies?"

  "No," he said sadly. "Other stuff I did, that I've never paid the price for."

  Emily cocked her head back, pulling against the barrier of his arms around her shoulders. She looked him deep in the eyes. "You know what you have to do, Turner."

  * * * *

  Emily walked home without looking left or right. She kept her eyes fixed on a blurry middle distance, ignoring everything around her. If she focused on anything, she felt she would crumble.

  It wasn't until she let her flat door lock behind her that she allowed herself to fall onto her bed, drag the covers up around her, and the tears finally come.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily forced herself to look Riggers in the face, and even managed a small, polite smile. He shifted the four-pack of lager from one hand to the other, pressing forward into her flat as if he was intending to greet her with a kiss. She stepped back, but Turner had already inserted a thick arm in front of Riggers with a warning growl.

  Turner pushed past Riggers, staking his claim to Emily's living space, and Riggers had to follow. Emily led them both into her living room, where she'd tidied away all her work papers and documents. Even so, Riggers prowled the perimeter, his eyes taking everything in.

  "Sit the fuck down."

  A chill went down Emily's spine at the undercurrent of menace in Turner's voice. Riggers stopped by the window, and turned to face them. Emily and Turner stood side by side. Turner was large and looming, dressed in black from head to foot. Emily dithered at his side. I wish this wasn't happening. I wish I could stop this.

  "Nice place you got here," Riggers said lightly, glancing back out of the window. It was already dark outside. Emily would have been curled up in front of the television, perhaps in her pyjamas, were it not for the two would-be robbers in her flat.

  "Thanks." She flapped her hands nervously. "Er, can I get anyone a drink?" She took a step towards the kitchen, but Riggers held up the four-pack.

  "Naw, babe, I'm easy, ta."

  She clenched her teeth at the silly endearment. "Turner?"

  "Black coffee please, Emily."

  She caught his eye and knew that he had found "babe" as grating as she did. She fled to the kitchen, grateful to be out of the way for a brief moment. She didn't want Riggers in her flat, and the sooner they were both gone, the better.

  But it was an interminable forty minutes that followed. Riggers worked his way through two cans, and insisted on taking photos as part of his nonsensical plan to have "insurance." Emily didn't bother protesting, but Turner's face was set and angry. He couldn't hide his displeasure.

  "You're quiet, babe," Riggers said as he slurped up the last dregs from his second can of lager, and crumpled the thin metal in his hand in a sad effort to look hard. "Thought you'd be plaguing us with questions, you know, like a typical woman."

  Emily studied his scrawny neck and wondered how hard a typical woman would have to squeeze until he passed out. "I didn't think it was worth asking anything. I don't want to know."

  "Fair do, fair do. It's not like I'd tell you anything, anyway, innit." He laughed at his own cunning wit. Emily glanced at her watch, and then back up at him.

  He got the hint. "Don't worry, babe, we'll be off soon. You feeling ready, Turner?"

  "Yes. Let's get this over with."

  Riggers stood slowly, and made a great show of stretching and limbering up. Finally, he moved towards the door. Turner followed.

  She stared at his broad back, willing him to say something, but he didn't even turn around and look at her before he left.

  The door clicked closed, and she let out the breath she had been holding. Her fingers were tingling and she sat down carefully, gathering her thoughts, before pulling herself upright again and going through to the kitchen to open a bottle of cheap, spicy Shiraz.

  * * * *

  Turner strode ahead of Riggers, forcing the spindly man to scurry to keep up. He could feel the old, familiar thrill begin to course through his body. It was tempered with something new; a curious emotion he was struggling to identify.

  Reluctance, perhaps? Certainly. Or was it fear?

  Turner pushed it aside. Now was not the time for fear. He shoved his hand into his pocket to press the hired BMW's key fob, and the orange lights winked as it unlocked.

  "Get in." Turner slung himself into the driver's seat. "And buckle up."

  "For god's sake."

  "
We don't want extra attention. Throw those cans on the back seat, and get yourself sorted. Let's get this over with."

  Riggers made a whiney show of clipping the seatbelt firmly home, and felt around under the front seat.

  "It's there," Turner assured him as he fired up the smooth, almost silent engine. "Leave it out of sight."

  "Come on, man, where's your sense of adventure? Jeez, I think you're going to burst, you're that far up your own arse."

  "Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Or I will get that fucking gun and shoot you in the fucking head."

  Riggers lapsed into a sullen silence as the sleek car cruised through the dark streets, carefully at the speed limit, no more and no less.

  It was a few minutes to eleven when they pulled up at the chosen site. The off-licence was in a busy area, but things were tailing off. Mondays were quiet, except for hardened drinkers. Just a few drunks were standing in the doorway, counting their change to scrape together enough for a bottle of something cheap and vaguely cidery. Turner parked a little way past the shop, with the driver's side against the pavement.

  Riggers reached down and drew out the package wrapped in a bin-bag. Turner watched out of the corner of his eye as Riggers' initial look of glee was replaced by confusion as he weighed the package in his hands, and ran his fingers over the shape.

  "What the hell is this?"

  "Have a look."

  Tentatively, he peeled back the plastic. "It's a fucking baseball bat. What are you playing at?"

  "Baseball."

  "Ha ha. Seriously, man, where's the gun?"

  "We're not using a gun, because if we're sent down, I don't want a fucking firearms charge adding to the rap sheet. Do you know how many extra years we'd get for that kind of shit?"

  Riggers shrugged. "You worry too much. Prison's changed you."

  Turner lashed out and grabbed Riggers by the collar of his black hoody. He drew the struggling man close to his face and hissed, "Of course prison has changed me, you little prick." He let go, pushing Riggers back over the gearstick, and leapt out of the car. He slammed the door closed and leaned against it, waiting for Riggers to come crawling around.