Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2)

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Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) Page 3

by Isabella Brooke


  Underwhelmed by his magnanimity, she nodded, unable to bring herself to politely say goodbye. Still ignoring the blatant spectators she trudged back up to her flat, and slammed the door as hard as she could.

  Fuck. Fuckity. She ran through a stream of profanity in her head but it didn't help at all. She dropped her coat on the floor like a defiant child, but there was nobody here to annoy, and that somehow made it worse.

  Half past seven. Half past seven in the morning and not a scrap of a commission to be had.

  She had an article in a regional magazine currently on the newsstands, and it irked her every time she saw the glossy cover. She'd invoiced them but they didn't pay out for forty days. She'd sold some very classy shoes on eBay and taken a heap of second-hand books to a shop which paid out a desultory amount, but enough for her to buy food.

  This is stupid, and this cannot go on. She padded through to her bedroom, and grabbed the duvet, before returning to the living room. She wrapped the duvet around her and sat on the sofa, thinking.

  I am so tired. She rested her chin on her knees and hugged her legs tightly, curled up like a cat amongst the bedding and cushions. The morning light was eking its way through the half-open blinds, revealing the piles of paper by her computer desk. She liked to kid herself that the mess reflected how much work she was doing.

  What a joke.

  She longed for Kayleigh. Her best friend and previous flat mate had moved away. Not just away - abroad. The move had changed their relationship. By phone, they'd argued about Turner, way back at his trial. Well, not so much about Turner, as about Emily's attitude. Things hadn't been the same since then.

  It was too hard to maintain a friendship by phone anyway, she told herself, looking at her mobile and deciding not to ring Kayleigh. But who else was there? Emily started to realise she'd let herself become almost a recluse. The freelance life wasn't just financial ruin - it was social ruin, too.

  Now what?

  Well, there's a bottle of cheap red wine in the kitchen that I've been saving for a special occasion. This is pretty damn special.

  Oh my god. Am I seriously considering drinking at this time in the morning? Today, acidic Cabernet Sauvignon - tomorrow, cut-price cider from a two-litre bottle as I sit on a park bench and shout at passers-by.

  She lost track of time as she sat there, gripped by inertia and gloom, until her phone buzzed her an incoming message and she nearly leapt off the sofa.

  Turner.

  Oh god, what would he think of her now? She could barely bring herself to read his message.

  Let's do lunch! Remember that café at the Quays? Midday?

  No, no, no. Not today. Part of her just wanted to be enfolded into his arms, safe and warm and protected. But the other part of her - the stronger part, she thought - needed to get herself out of this mess, first. She'd be damned if she turned into one of those women who moped around, waiting to be rescued.

  She would do her own rescuing.

  So she texted him back. Sorry. Deadline due today. Won't be free until late afternoon.

  She pressed send and that seemed to commit her to her new course of action. She didn't want to lie to him; not more than she had done already. He believed in her and her work; he said she was a woman worth going straight for.

  She made herself a deadline, to make her message about deadlines into truth. She'd find herself a job by this afternoon. Somehow.

  * * * *

  It's an oldie but a goldie. Turner air-guitared his way through his house while the Red Hot Chili Peppers made the windows throb. He was on a cleaning kick, determined to spray, scrub, polish and dance his house to a state of high shine.

  He'd taken great pride in keeping his cell pristine. A lot of the guys in prison did. When you don't have a lot, what you do have becomes very important. Some of the guys were padded up with another person, and in those cases, personal hygiene and living habits became even more important. There was more than one instance of new prisoners being forcibly taken to the shower block by the other men, and shoved under a jet of water with orders to clean themselves up.

  No-one had ever had to do that to Turner. Not that they'd even try. He'd kept his head down and stayed out of wing politics, but he was aware of the ripples and the gangs, the allegiances and the fights. He wanted no part of it.

  His house had been kept in a reasonable condition by his sister Elaine, and his mum. But he still felt the need to give everything a thorough spring clean. Like the fast-food stop, this was another symbol of renewal and change.

  He set his laptop up on the kitchen table. While he spiralled around with a mop and bucket, it was updating and downloading, getting back up to speed with the latest software. It piggybacked off his neighbour's Wi-Fi network for the moment, but he was getting connected soon. Now he knew what he knew, he was positive he could build a nice business.

  If Emily had time between her writing jobs, he could employ her to write him some good copy, too.

  I hope she isn't burning herself out. Deadlines, deadlines. But, I know, they've got to be met.

  He missed her already but he had other things to do, people to see. Once his house was in order, he decided he'd go to see his mum again, and hopefully catch his sister and get to the bottom of what she was doing with Riggers. He left the laptop still whirring away, and walked the short distance round the corner to his mum's.

  Mrs Black was sitting in the living room, watching a reality chat show. The host was goading a couple into confronting each other about various affairs, and his mum was frowning in disgust and glee.

  "Aw, mum, why do you watch such rubbish?"

  "It's that or cookery." Mrs Black's hands clutched at her cardigan in horror as the host let an audience member berate the couple under the spotlight. "Listen to that! Terrible!"

  "I'd go for the cookery." Turner tipped his head. "Mum, is Elaine about?"

  "She is. She's upstairs. The lads are at some kind of half-term play-scheme thing, thank god. After Kyle's little do last week, we didn't think they'd be allowed back." Mrs Black stood up and went to the door that opened to the stairway. "Ee-laine!"

  "Wait, what did Kyle do?"

  Mrs Black returned to her seat and grabbed the remote. She muted the television, to Turner's relief. "Oh, he's been kicking off a bit. Usual kid stuff really. I just think- Elaine! Your brother's back!"

  Elaine stood in the doorway, arms folded, making her face as set and firm as she could. She was the same old Elaine that he knew and loved. She'd visited him regularly but it shook him to see her in front of him, not in the vast and impersonal visiting hall.

  "Hey! No hug for your favourite brother?" He opened his arms and grinned at her, as winningly as he could.

  She tipped her head back and her enormous gold hoop earrings clattered. She had three or four in each lobe, now, and the way she kept her hair tightly back in a bun made them stand out. She was impeccably made-up, as always, and he noticed that she was finally wearing clothes that fitted, rather than one or two sizes too small.

  "C'mon!"

  "Oh for god's sake," she muttered, and stepped forward, hiding her grin as she was pulled firmly against his chest.

  "It's good to see you."

  "I know."

  "Same old Elaine."

  "Not quite." She pulled back and he assessed her.

  "How's the job?" he asked. She'd started training as a nail technician when he had started his prison sentence.

  "Really good. I'm doings loads more training. And I've got more hours at the salon. It's all working out really well now the boys are at school."

  "Good."

  There was an awkward pause, and Turner wasn't sure how to ask what was on his mind. Mostly, he didn't want to hear the answer. Elaine knew it.

  "So, yeah, sorry I missed you yesterday," she said.

  "I was hurt. Deeply hurt. I had brought you a massive box of chocolates and some flowers and everything, but as you weren't here, we had to eat them."

&nbs
p; "The flowers?"

  "The chocolates."

  "So where are the flowers?"

  "Uh. Yeah, so we ate them, too."

  "Liar."

  "Whatever. Where were you in my hour of need, my day of release?"

  Elaine threw herself into an armchair, and crossed her legs. Her pink fluffy mules looked incongruous, dangling from legs that were tightly clad in sequined denim. "You did say that Emily was collecting you."

  "I thought you might be here, at home, though." Turner was aware he'd been dragged into a long conversation that should have taken a few words. And he knew why. "So, then, it's that Riggers."

  Elaine was defiant. She kept her jaw tilted up and her black-rimmed eyes fixed on his. "Yeah."

  Turner stayed standing up and tried to keep his fists relaxed. "You gonna tell me he's a changed man?"

  "No, but he is. I just don't expect you to believe it. And I don't care."

  That did hurt, so he didn't mention it. "Just be careful."

  "I will. I can cope. I always have, you know. I'm not stupid, Turner. I know you think I'm just some cheap chavvy slapper but I know about real life."

  "I do not think that!" Turner was shocked but he had to fight the rising guilt. He did think that about her, sometimes. But she was his sister - it didn't mean he loved her any less. And he'd have killed anyone else who dared said it about her. "I'm really proud of you, Elaine. Bringing up Kyle and Liam, looking after mum, getting yourself back to college. You're amazing."

  She dropped her gaze at that. "Do you mean that?"

  "Hell, yes."

  She sucked in her breath and nodded to herself, but then raised her eyes to his once more. "Thanks. Means a lot. Doesn't change things, though, about me and Riggers. We're giving it another go."

  "Right." Turner pushed his hands into his pockets and tried to seem nonchalant.

  "There's more."

  Turner looked sideways to his mum but she was pretending to watch the soundless television. "Go on."

  "I'm moving in with him."

  "He lives in a poxy shitty little bedsit! What about Kyle and Liam? And mum?"

  "Leave me out of it," Mrs Black said, without taking her eyes away from the screen.

  Elaine folded her arms and snapped her chewing gum defiantly, acting for all the world like her fourteen-year-old self would have done. "He's got a house, now, actually. A semi, one of those social housing things on that estate round the corner. Got two bedrooms, and a fitted kitchen, and a garden. A garden, Turner! For the boys."

  Oh that's right, guilt-trip me. But it was true that these terraces had nothing but a bare concrete yard at the back, and the syringes in the alleyway meant it was no place for a kid to play. "When?"

  "I'm packing. At the moment. We've been spending a lot of time there. It's easy enough for me to get to college and to the salon. I'm part time at both. And it's close to the boys' school. You should come round."

  "I don't fucking think so."

  "Turner!"

  "Sorry, mum." He thought for a moment. "Okay, then. You want a hand with the packing? Bringing stuff down?"

  Elaine got to her feet. "Suppose you can be useful, yeah." She headed towards the door and he followed.

  There was a rap at the front door and it opened straight away. Turner's heart sank as a skinny young man with the chiselled features of a rat pushed his way in. It was Riggers, though with a new wispy goatee that contrasted oddly with his shaven head.

  Turner blinked. Before the prison sentence, Riggers had favoured the trying-too-hard-white-gangster look, with sports casual tracksuits and enormous running shoes. Now, he was in a plain, neatly pressed pair of black combat trousers and a plain dark blue tee-shirt. He still looked like a smack-rat, but a slightly more upmarket one. He didn't look as if he smelled of urine any more.

  "Hello, Turner."

  Turner couldn't help but stand on the defensive. He felt his chest inflate as he faced the man, and had a mental image of himself from the outside as a puffer fish or startled tom cat. "Riggers."

  "How you doing?"

  "Okay." He would be damned if he asked the scrote how he was.

  "Good. Good." Riggers slid his gaze to Elaine, who was curiously poised by the door to the stairs, as if she were waiting for something. "Elaine, babe. How's the packing coming along? I can't wait for you to be in my house properly."

  "I'm nearly done. Turner was just going to help bring some stuff downstairs."

  "Ah, right, thanks mate. No need, yeah? I'm here now."

  Turner felt as if he'd been dismissed. Riggers waved a cheery greeting to Mrs Black, and followed Elaine up the stairs and out of sight. Not out of earshot, Turner thought. I've got be careful.

  He sought his mum's face for clues as he asked, in a low voice, "How are you? With this?" He nodded in the direction that Riggers and Elaine had gone, trying to convey to her his meaning.

  Mrs Black's mouth pursed small but she said, very neutrally, "I'm delighted for everyone. I think it's really important for Elaine to move out and make her own life."

  Turner perched on the edge of the sofa next to her, and hissed, "With him?"

  Suddenly Riggers was at the doorway again, a box in his arms. He looked at Turner and Turner tensed, expecting a confrontation. Riggers would know they'd been talking about him, even though he couldn't have heard a thing.

  Instead, Riggers spoke with a calmness that Turner did not feel. "I just want to tell you that you are welcome in my house at any time, yeah?"

  "Right."

  "And it would be a shame for Kyle and Liam if you didn't come and see them, you know."

  "Right."

  "Good."

  Turner stood up. He didn't like being smaller than Riggers and he felt the need to loom over him, but Riggers, as always, was unbowed. "I suppose you want to tell me that you've changed," Turner said.

  "No," Riggers replied. "I could say anything but you wouldn't believe me, and you would be right to. A man is judged by his actions, not his words, Turner, and you will come to see that."

  Turner's mouth slackened and he could only stare as Riggers slid past him and out of the front door. Elaine followed behind, carrying a bag.

  "Elaine…" Turner started to say, his mouth dry and his tongue tumbling.

  "Hang on. Just putting this in his car."

  Turner turned to his mum, who was watching everything with a strangely blank expression. "Did I just hear him right? That wasn't Riggers. That wasn't how he talks. He sounds different. What the…?"

  Mrs Black shrugged and her focus shifted to over Turner's shoulder. Riggers and Elaine were back in the room.

  "One more load and I'll be off. I'll come around later to pick you up, babe."

  "Thanks."

  "Where are you going?" Turner made an effort to sound polite.

  "Just giving her a lift to college. Night class."

  Turner looked at Elaine. "Be as quick to get the tram."

  Riggers shook his head. "At night? You know the sort of people out on the streets of Manchester at night, Turner. People like we used to be."

  "You, maybe. Don't you dare tar me with that brush."

  "Whatever. But you know what it's like out there. Would you really have me let your own sister chance it?"

  Turner furrowed his brow. This wasn't right. Elaine could look after herself; hadn't she just told him that? And yet, Riggers had a point.

  Judge by actions, not words. No wonder Turner was feeling unsettled. Maybe Riggers was a changed man; it didn't sit right, and Turner made a humph noise. "Right then."

  "Right then." Not one flicker of triumph crossed Riggers' face. He led the way up the stairs to collect another box, and Turner took his leave of his mum. He walked back to his own house in a fog, barely even registering the people who greeted him on the street.

  Riggers. With a house and a sense of responsibility?

  Well, damn me. If that little toad can make a fresh start, I've got no fucking excuse.

 
* * * *

  Emily's intercom buzzed. She leapt to it, nearly flinging it across the hallway as she dropped it in her haste.

  "Hey."

  "Hey. Come on up."

  She released the door and waited, nervously, counting the seconds. Would he take the stairs or the lift? She always took the stairs, resolutely trying to stave off the increasing wobble around her belly. He was so fit and buff from the prison gym that he probably didn't need to take the stairs for extra exercise.

  He probably didn't need the lift, either. He could just scale the outside wall and dive in through her windows, hopefully clutching a purple box of chocolates.

  He must have taken the stairs. Right on cue, there was a rapping on her door, and she swung it open wide.

  "Emily!"

  "Wow."

  When she'd seen him yesterday, in his court-going suit, the prison aura had still clung to him. Now, he was like a new man. As he enfolded her sideways in a one-armed hug, keeping a massive bouquet of flowers safely out of the way, she realised he even smelled different.

  "Let's get these in water. I want to say hello properly," he muttered into her hair, and she led him through to the kitchen. She could hardly keep her eyes off him.

  In his black jacket, casual grey tee-shirt and smart dark jeans, he looked like a model from a perfume advert, except maybe the scars on his knuckles made him too real. They'd be photoshopped out, she supposed. She trimmed the stems of the roses and lilies while he didn't disguise the fact that he was looking all around her kitchen.

  "What are you hunting for?"

  "I'm just checking. I built up a really detailed picture in my head, of your whole flat. I was just comparing my memory to the reality."

  She ran a vase full of water. "You do know how creepy that sounds, don't you?"

  "Does it? Sorry. A lot of stuff that seems creepy is perfectly normal in prison."

  "Eww. I don't think I want to know."

  "Heh. Have you ever seen a bunch of flowers made from bread?"

  Emily held the vase of red and white blooms out at arm's length. "Nope, I definitely think these are flowers."

 

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