Mason: A Manchester Bad Boys Romance

by Foxworth, Lena

  Every morning, I would remind myself of who I was, what I was doing - my job. Mason was certainly connected to, if not part of, Terry English's gang of criminals. I was taking it slowly, building the trust, and one day it would pay off – I would have the evidence that we needed to take Terry off the streets.

  And for a while, the pep-talk would work. I would feel focused, professional, ruthless. I’m getting the job done, I told myself. I’m only sleeping with Mason to insert myself into his life.

  But then I would see him, and everything fell away. If I was brutally honest, I hardly even thought about work while I was with him. He never spoke about his work, either, and I never asked. I knew deep down that I was prolonging it, pushing back the inevitable moment when the whole thing had to end.

  I was parking up outside his place, when I saw her. A woman, leaving his flat. It was the first time I'd seen him have contact with anybody since the night I met him. Instinctively, I grabbed my phone, snapping a few pictures of her.

  As she walked away, I studied the photographs. She was my age, maybe a little older. And she was rough, I thought bitchily. She was thin, but in that malnourished way that junkies have – not the slender limbs of a model. Her clothes were cheap and nasty, and her peroxide blonde hair had a good two inches of dark roots.

  Who was she? And what was she doing in his flat?

  I couldn’t go inside yet, not until I knew more. If I knew who she was, then I would know how to act, what to ask him, what to look for. It was basic training - always know the answers before you ask the questions.

  But that wasn’t the reason my heart was pounding. We'd only been seeing each other a week, and it was a fake relationship anyway, so I shouldn't care if he'd been sleeping with someone else. But I do. That was why I didn't want to go in – if I did, I wouldn't be able to help myself. I would look for evidence of the blonde woman's presence. Rumpled bedding, signs of sex, of intimacy. And if I saw them, I knew I couldn't carry on doing what I was doing. The thought of him in bed with someone else made me feel sick.

  But supposing it was innocent? She could be a sister, a cousin, anyone. On impulse, I decided to reach out to the one person who might know – Thompson. When I called him, he was in a pub on the other side of the city. I restarted my engine and drove away.

  "Well? How's it going?" he asked jovially, as I walked in. Clearly, the whiskey in front of him wasn't the first one of the day.

  "Slow," I said. "I've made a contact, but nothing more."

  I showed him the pictures.

  "Can you do anything with these? I don't know who she is, so she might not be relevant to the investigation, but I'd like to know. I'll email them over to you."

  "No need," he slurred. "I know exactly who that tart is – Sharon O’Donnell. She got nicked last night for solicitation. Waste of bloody time! She’ll be turning twice as many tricks tonight, one lot to pay the fine and one lot to fill her arm with smack."

  O’Donnell? She was a relative of Mason's, then. And a heroin addict, too.

  "Does she have a brother? My contact’s surname is O’Donnell," I said.

  "She might do, I don't know," he said. "She's not from round here. O’Donnell is her married name."

  My blood ran cold. Mason was married to this junkie.

  "What's her husband's name?" I said, trying to keep my voice neutral and steady.

  "I don't know," he said. “We didn’t sit chatting over tea and crumpets. I could find out, though. Do you think that your contact is the husband, then? You've been slumming it."

  I was stung. "He's not like that. He's not like, I don't know, someone that would be with her." I knew that my tone was too defensive, and hoped that he was too drunk to notice. But Thompson was always drunk, these days. He'd learned to function when he was loaded.

  "What is he like then?" he said, mockingly. "The prostitute’s husband?"

  "We don’t know that he’s the husband," I said, annoyed. "He's just a guy. Nice, friendly, clean. He used to be in the Army, and he’s possibly one of Terry's boys now."

  "You're fucking him, aren't you?"

  "How I conduct my investigation is my business. All you need to do is read the reports," I snapped.

  He held his hands up defensively. "I'm not judging. I told you – do whatever it takes to get the job done. But don't forget what these people are. Criminal scum."

  "I haven't forgotten," I said. Although maybe I had been forgetting in the past, seeing Mason's wife had brought me back down to earth with a bang.

  "Are you sure?" he said quietly. "Because to me, it sounds like you're defending this guy."

  "Does it really?" I hissed, angry now. "Because to me it sounds like you're jealous!"

  I got up to leave, ignoring his protestations.

  "Don't forget, Gary, you dumped me. So what I do and who I sleep with is none of your damn business!"

  I stormed out of the pub, leaving him behind. As I got into the car, I could feel the tears threatening. Because he was right. I had been defending Mason, forgetting who he was, what he was.

  I only had two options, now.

  I could report back to the station, tell them that my undercover mission had failed, and be shamed. The copper that fell for the criminal. There would be an enquiry, and I’d lose my job.

  Or, I could continue. Use Mason to root out Terry English, just like I was supposed to. The choice was easy. Either way, I lost Mason, so the only thing hanging in the balance was my career. And if I wasn’t a police officer, who would I be?

  Nobody, nobody at all.

  Mason

  My wife. Well, my ex-wife. Seeing her sitting there was surreal, almost like seeing the Queen on a bus - so out of place. And out of time, too. It must have been six years since I last saw her, and I could honestly say I hadn't given her a single thought in all that time. And now here she was.

  "Karen," I said, neutrally.

  She laughed nervously. "Bet you didn't expect to see me here."

  "I didn't, no," I said, although what I really wanted to say was - What do you want? Because I could absolutely fucking guarantee that she wanted something. Karen was that kind of woman. People only existed in her sphere to give her what she wanted. She used them up and spat them out.

  I was too young and stupid to realise this until after I put a ring on her finger, or maybe she was too cunning and conniving to show her true colours until it was too late. Whatever. It was all ancient history now. Or so I had thought…

  "Aren’t you going to invite me in?" she asked.

  It was the last thing I wanted, especially with Nicole due to turn up at some point, but even after all these years I knew how to handle Karen. The quickest way to get rid of her was to go along with whatever she wanted. My heart was heavy as I unlocked the door.

  I studied her as she settled into the kitchen chair, lighting a cigarette without asking if I minded. She looked rough – really rough. Rougher than I remembered, in any case. She'd always lived wildly - drinking, smoking weed, partying, but none of it had ever showed on her face. Under the fluorescent lights, though, she looked to have aged twenty years in the last six. As I watched, she scratched the inside of her arm with a grubby fingernail, the polish chipped and peeling, and I could see the track marks. Some faded, some fresh. Heroin. That explained a lot.

  "So, how have you been? I heard you were working for Terry English," she said.

  "Did you?"

  I wasn't giving anything away about that side of my life. If she was on the scag, then she was even more of a liability now than ever. I couldn't carry on the charade of politeness any longer, though.

  "What you want, Karen? You turn up here after all this time, and I'm not blind. I can see the track marks on your arm. I'm not giving you any money, if that’s what you’re angling after. So get to the point, or get out."

  A million different expressions flickered across her face at my outburst. Rage, anger, and then something else. Shame.

  "Yeah, I'm on the ge
ar. I suppose you glad about that – the bitch finally gets her comeuppance."

  She paused, staring at me defiantly, hoping I would comment. Instead I waited, letting the silence stretch out until she continued.

  "I don't want no money. I make my own money, the only way I know how."

  She looked up at me, to see if I understood. I did. She was earning like most female smack heads did – on her back.

  "The thing is," she continued, her tone becoming whining and self-pitying, "I got nicked again. I was in the cells overnight, and it can't go on. I've tried to give up the drugs, and I can't. But I can't be a junkie and mother…"

  I looked at her in disgust.

  "You have a kid?"

  I couldn't imagine a worse mother, even before the drugs. She was a selfish, narcissistic bitch who used everybody in her vicinity.

  "No, Mason. We have a kid."

  "What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

  This was just ridiculous. We'd never had children, never even talked about. We were only married for six months, for God’s sake. Why was she saying this?

  "I never told you. I didn't even find out I was pregnant until after we split. I was too far along for an abortion, so I decided to keep it. Him. I decided to keep him."

  "And it never occurred to you to mention it to me? That I had a son?" I was reeling.

  "I didn't want you involved. Telling me what to do, how to raise the kid," she said.

  "Well, you got that right!" I hissed. "I wouldn't have stood by while you shot that shit into your arm!"

  I took a deep breath, trying to control my anger, trying to process my thoughts. A son!

  "So why are you telling me now? What's changed?"

  "I can't look after him any more. He’s starting school in September, and it’s too…"

  I slammed my fist down on the table.

  "Too much work? Too much effort? Too much money, that could be spent on drugs? Too many eyes, and questions, and investigations?"

  She nodded, her head bowed.

  "You piece of fucking shit," I said. "So what are you suggesting, exactly?"

  "You take him. I've done my share – I've looked after him for five years. It's time you stepped up."

  I could tell she had rehearsed that – it had the trademark Karen manipulation stamped all over it.

  "And if I don't?"

  "He’ll end up in care."

  My temper was fading into confusion. I needed to be alone.

  "I need to think about this. Five minutes ago, I didn't even know the little lad existed. I need to process it all."

  "So, what now then?" she asked, stubbing out her cigarette.

  "Just… Just go. Get out."

  "I'll bring him round tomorrow – just so you can meet him, nothing more."

  "What's his name?"

  "Damon," she said.

  I didn't even look up from their table as she let herself out. Damon. My son. I could barely take it in. How could I take care of the kid? My life was chaotic enough as it was. But then I thought of him – a small boy, huddled in the dark, waiting fruitlessly for his mother to come home from her night of junk and whoring, and my heart broke for him. I didn’t need to know the details to know that his life with Karen would be appalling. He was my boy – my flesh and blood, and I had to do something. But what?

  Nicole

  Once more, I was headed round to Mason's, but this time, everything had changed. I knew now, knew that he was married, knew that I had checked myself just in time - before I fell for him completely. Yes, I had feelings for him, but I had managed to stop myself just in time. All I had to do now was squash them down, bury them under the protective layer of clinical detachment, and I would be free.

  I took a deep breath as I rang the doorbell, collecting myself. Every other time I'd seen him, I had been genuine. No front, no agenda. But I was wrong to do that. Now, I had to be the professional – one thing on the outside, another on the inside. A girlfriend on the surface, an investigator underneath. I could do this.

  He opened the door and smiled when he saw it was me. Almost immediately, I could feel my resolve flagging. I could see that he looked tires as he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me in for a long, tight hug. I allowed myself a minute to enjoy it, feeling his strong arms around me, breathing in the smell of clean skin and maleness. I could stay like this forever. The hug wasn't a come on, a prelude to sex – instead he seemed to cling to me, as if he was trying to draw strength from me. Something had happened.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Come in and sit down. We need to talk," he said. His expression was grim and tense.

  I followed him through to the living room, my mind racing. We need to talk. I knew what that meant, everybody did. Surely it was no coincidence that first his wife had turned up, and now we were having the talk. He had chosen her over me. I shouldn't care, not on an emotional level. All I should feel, I told myself, is frustration at my contact becoming a dead end. But I did care. Suddenly all I could feel was panic – wild, fluttering panic. I didn't want this to end.

  "Before you say anything," I said. "Just let me say this. I'm not good at this – talking about my feelings – but I like you. I really, really like you. I think we have something different, something special."

  I could feel tears brimming in my eyes. It wasn't just a line, something to keep the communication open. My heart was breaking.

  "I really like you too," he said softly. "I didn't want to. I didn't want any of this – but it happened anyway. And because I like you, there's some stuff I need to tell you."

  I braced myself for the end.

  "I used to be married. It was a long time ago – I was young and stupid and thought that it was a good idea at the time. I never mentioned it before, because it's just not part of my life now. But she turned up here yesterday, my ex, Karen. She's gone downhill since I last saw her. She's hooked on smack, and selling herself to pay for it."

  He looked so sad.

  "So, you're going to be with her?" I said. "Try and get her off the junk?"

  "What? Jesus Christ, Nicole, not in a million years!" He looked at me closely. "Is that what you thought I wanted to tell you? That I was dumping you for my junkie ex?"

  He laughed, and the sadness in his eyes was chased away for a moment before it returned.

  "It's not that. I'm not dumping you."

  My heart soared. Whatever he had to say, I felt like I could take it.

  "She told me that she has a kid. My kid. I'm the father. I didn't know – I had no idea. All the this time…"

  "Wow," I said. "I don’t really know what to say. ‘Congratulations on becoming a father’ seems a bit inappropriate…"

  He smiled thinly at my attempt to lighten the mood. It was obvious that there was more to come.

  "It's not just that. She said that she can't look after him any more. She wants me to take him, to raise him."

  "That's a big change," I said. "Do you want to?"

  "I've been back and forth over it – I don't know. He'll have a dogs life with her, but what's to say I'd be any better at it? My life…" He gestured helplessly, "I don't have my shit together. I don't know anything about kids. I don't earn… legally. Nothing that bad, but not the kind of job a kid can be proud of. I'm not the kind of man a kid could be proud of."

  I could see the pain on his handsome face. He was so full of self-doubt.

  "That's bullshit," I said. "Any kid would be proud to call you father. You can do this, you know you can."

  I leaned in and kissed him, softly at first, but then harder, our passion catching fire as it always did.

  What are you doing? He's just admitted that he's a criminal, and you're encouraging him to take a child, an innocent child, into his care. What kind of police officer are you?

  But I couldn't help myself. I couldn't sit there, and watch him torture himself with thoughts of his child. I knew he could do it, and I wanted to help him. I was crossing a line, and I wasn'
t sure if I could ever get back, but I didn't care. I had thought that I had lost him, but I hadn't. And now, I couldn't let him go…

  Mason

  The back room of the pub was thick with cigarette smoke. There were more men in here than in the main bar - this place was a dingy little hole way off the beaten path, not the kind of pub to see and be seen in. Which, of course, was the point. Any stranger walking in here would stand out a mile, which is why Terry English conducted most of his business meetings here.

  We sat around the table, Terry’s collection of hard men, and listened to him speak. There was a new threat in town - a motorcycle club, the Sons Of Erin. They’d been around the north west for years, but it appeared that lately they’d been eyeing up Terry’s turf, trying to move in on his business ventures. Terry was fuming.

  “Those Irish pricks can go fuck themselves,” he seethed. “I want eyes and ears everywhere. Any of get a sniff - one sniff! - of those dickheads doing business in my town, you get straight on the phone and tell me. Fucking Callaghan!”

  That was the guy who ran the Sons, Donal Callaghan. I knew him, kind of. He’d been a friend of my father’s, back in the day. It was probably best not to mention it to Terry at this point, though. I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. My dad had never been involved in the club - motorbikes weren’t really his thing. It was merely an Irish connection.

  “Mason!” Terry roared, snapping me out of the past. “These are for you. Keep one in the house, and one on you at all times. Nobody goes around unprotected until this thing is settled. Dismissed!”

  He slid a sports bag across the table to me, as the others got up from their seats.

  “Have a look, son.”

  I didn’t need to, not really. I knew what was in the bag. I opened it anyway. Two handguns - black, deadly, and completely illegal. Just to be found in possession of one was a guaranteed prison sentence. I pulled one out, testing the weight of it. I hadn’t held a gun since Iraq, and I was surprised to find it felt good. Safe.