"Hey, hello. How did you get in? It's way past visiting time."
"Charm, bare faced cheek, and subterfuge. How are you?"
"I'm okay. I shouldn't be here but they want to keep me overnight for the doctor to check me in the morning. It's just cuts from the glass. Stupid, really. Someone else could have this bed who really needs it."
"You need it."
He leaned forward, his bulk just a dark shape in the subdued gloom of the quietening ward. Emily kept her hands on her lap, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. God, but she wanted a hug.
"Thank you," she said, keeping her voice low. "For coming. For being there. For… everything. What about Kyle and Liam? Where are they?"
"Children's ward, being kept overnight like you. Elaine and Riggers are with them. Kyle is fine, but Liam has a fractured wrist where I was a bit too heavy handed dropping him out of the window."
"It could have been so much worse. Turner, what exactly happened?"
He ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes, and cleared his throat as quietly as he could. Emily suddenly realised that the rasp in his words wasn't just because he was trying to speak low; it was smoke inhalation damage.
"I don't really know, Emily. Riggers and I were out the back, talking. He's a prick, he really is, but I kind of see where he's coming from with some things. I mean, I can't doubt his intentions."
"He's a racist fuck," she hissed.
"I know. I know that. Anyway I was all ready to punch his face in but we talked and I just thought, maybe there's another way here. Another way to deal with things. And then he decided, while you and I were both at his place, that he'd go and meet Elaine and walk her home. So he went off down the back alley and I stayed, in the back garden."
"What were you doing?"
"Nothing. Thinking, looking at the stars, wondering about things. Things I've got wrong and things I want to put right. I dunno. I heard a noise but didn't think anything of it. I just thought someone had broken a bottle in the street at the front."
"That was the front room window being put through."
"Yup, so it seems. When I heard another crash, I decided to go and have a look, so I went around the house to see if there was a fight going on. I went down the side and out to the front, looked up and down the street. Nothing. God, if I hadn't wasted time…"
"You didn't!"
"I did, because then I turned around and saw the whole fucking house blazing. I couldn't get in the front door so I legged it back around, but the fire had gone right through the lower half, and I couldn't get in to get through to the stairs. All the cheapo shitty stuff in the living room - the sofa and the chair - were just an inferno."
"Oh god."
"Yeah. So, well, I went up onto the flat roof of the kitchen and found you all."
Just like that, Emily thought. A brave act, a huge decision, just a few words of explanation. Matter of fact.
"Thank you, again. Who the hell did it? Could Riggers have done it?"
"Why would he? He's in bits, Emily. When Elaine and him came down the road, saw all the ambulances and the fire engine and the police, they cried. God, they both cried, they wailed, there was no way he did it. No one's an actor like that. And I don't think he had time to meet Elaine where he did, anyway."
"Then who?"
"I don't know. I haven't spoken to Riggers about it yet. I think it's a bit raw, a bit soon. I'm sure he's got enemies from the past and enemies from in prison. Though this isn't the style of a gangland guy. Targeting the family? That's a low move. It's not done. Kids involved? Even criminals have some standards."
"Not when they're off their tits on drugs."
"Perhaps. Thing is, why have they taken so long to strike? It doesn't feel like a historic grudge." Turner sighed and stilled, freezing into position as a nurse wafted past. Emily held her breath but the woman was intent on some far destination and didn't even look to the sides as she passed by.
"I don't really see it as being from the past," Turner continued once the ward was peaceful again. "Maybe it was mistaken identity - the wrong house, the wrong target. Maybe it was a stupid dare or gang initiation. I dunno. I wonder if Riggers has upset anyone recently?"
"He'd have to have properly upset someone for them to do what they did," Emily remarked, a small suspicion forming in her mind.
"Add in drugs, as you say… people do incredible things when they're out of their minds."
"They do."
"I should go," Turner said. "They're going to find me and throw me out at any minute. Look. Um. Give me a ring when you're home, yeah?"
"Wait." Emily put out a hand, reaching towards him, not touching. "I think… I might know who it was."
Turner sank back on the chair again and moved even closer to her. She could smell him, his reassuring spice and soap smell. "Who, and how?"
"I think I mentioned Joel once to you. Back before…"
"Before I went to prison?" Turner shook his head. "I don't recall."
"The homeless boy who I wrote about, that got me my big break. The boy I just used for a story, the one I thought was now dead."
"Ah, yes, vaguely. It bugged you. I remember you felt like you'd somehow let him down."
The confusing welter of feelings surged up and Emily had to lick her dry lips. "That's an understatement. It was like I'd let myself down, too, as I realised all my dreams of what journalism was, were false. It was just about money and sensationalism and I knew I could never be any different. But anyway. So, he's not dead."
"Well, that's good."
"I suppose. He turned up at the charity. He volunteers, and he's got some casual work with them, and he's got a flat and everything."
"Fantastic! But I don't understand what you're getting at."
"Joel was there when I was on the soup kitchen. He resents me. He's got a lot of anger, generally, and I don't blame him for that. His innocence has been lost, too. And while we were there… Riggers came along."
"Okay. I kinda picked up the fact he'd seen you there."
Emily could tell that Turner was still confused. "Riggers started going on about the homeless, how helping them was a waste of time, they should just sort themselves out. They argued. I tried to stop it."
"Was that really enough to make you think this lad, Joel, would come and set fire to his house, though?"
"I didn't think so. I didn't think any more about it. But Joel started harassing me at work, too. He was convinced I was lying about Riggers. He has these ideas in his head and he's so… well, he's different. Alone, upset, angry, obsessed."
"Dangerous."
She shook her head, but whispered, "Yes, perhaps."
"You didn't tell me any of this before. Oh god, Emily."
"I didn't lie…"
"You haven't been honest." He huffed out a low, dry laugh. "What a fucking stereotype of a journo, hey?"
His words bit her, as she knew they were intended to. She didn't argue back. "Yes."
Footsteps approached again, another nurse or night porter making the rounds. A few beds away, someone groaned. A phone rang, distantly. "I really should go," he said again, and rose to his feet. He hovered there, as if he were thinking of something to say or to do. "Okay. Joel. Thank you for telling me. What's his surname?"
"Don't do anything stupid!"
"What's his name?"
She knew she had no choice. "Becker. Joel Becker."
"Thank you. Sleep well. Phone me."
She waited, tense, waiting and wanting and dreading his parting movements - would he kiss her? Or walk away without a backward glance?
He did neither. He paused one more moment, then crept to the curtain and peeked out. She watched him as his head darted left and right, and once the coast was clear he turned back and raised one hand in farewell, before slipping away into the hushed-noise-night.
* * * *
Turner did not sleep well. His throat was raw and his muscles ached. At the time of the fire, his body had respon
ded with the adrenaline of need and panic, but now he was paying the price. He woke early and lay for a long time in bed, listening to the sound of another working day as it unfurled outside his window.
He tried to keep his thoughts away from Emily. Her lack of trust in him was like a knife to his heart. He knew he cared too much. If he didn't bother, he wouldn't be hurting like this. Her honesty was too late, far too late for him.
Each time he was apart from her, he thought they could maybe make it work. Then he'd see her again, and he'd learn something new, and it would begin again. When he'd asked her over to Riggers' house, he could have been swayed into starting the relationship again, but still there had been things unsaid between them.
That's what he had been pondering, out in the back garden, once Riggers had left. He'd gazed up at the Milky Way and thought about a future with her - a future where he was always second-guessing, always pushed to the edges.
No.
Then, the fire, and all he could do was plunge into the flames - for Kyle, for Liam, for Emily.
Seeing her in the hospital had awoken his feelings again. And then she'd laid more revelations on him, and he had been reminded, once more, that there was so much she had never shared with him.
Damn! He was trying to not think about her!
He rolled out of bed and worked through the rituals of a morning like an automaton, concentrating on the everyday issues of food and cleanliness.
He needed to talk to Riggers, and find out how the twins were doing. But first of all, once he was fed and dressed, he wanted to see his mum.
* * * *
Pearl was still in her dressing gown, sitting on the sofa in the living room, a gathering of friends and well-wishers and busybodies all around her, clutching mismatched mugs of tea and wearing concerned expressions. The faces were familiar to Turner and he nodded in a general greeting to the whole room. There was no point asking for privacy here, so he said straight out, "How are they all doing? The twins? And Elaine?"
All eyes swivelled to Pearl, the matriarch of the moment. She inflated in pride. "They came home about an hour ago and went upstairs for a bath. They're shattered. I think Elaine was going to put them to bed here for a bit."
"Aye, aye, they'll not have slept well in the hospital," intoned a neighbour.
"Right. And the house?" Turner asked.
"Andy is there at the moment. I don't know what state it's in."
Various people began to pronounce with confidence about the weeks and months it would take to bring the fire-damaged house back to a habitable state. No-one had any direct experience themselves, of course, but they all seemed to know someone who knew someone who had. Turner smiled wryly and took his leave of them.
He wanted to speak to Riggers.
He walked briskly through the bright morning. It was starting to look more like spring and he decided to take it as a good omen. He rounded the corner and slowed his pace, scanning the pavement and the general area as if he expected to see clues to the arsonist's identity.
He knew it was ridiculous but he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy anyway, lingering and taking his time as he approached the house.
There was a police van parked outside, but the only figure he could see was Riggers, who was standing by the neighbour's wheelie bins and staring up at the house.
Turner joined him and for a moment, they stood side by side, inspecting the damage. There were large pieces of plywood standing against the wall, ready to be lifted over the broken windows. Black smears outlined the frames, and the garden was soggy with the aftermath of the fire hoses and endless tramping feet.
"Shit," Turner said at last. He loathed Riggers, even now, but he found he couldn't wish this situation on him, or anyone. "I assume you're not allowed in at the moment?"
"No." Riggers spoke dully, with a weariness that tugged Turner's sympathy. "They're still investigating. I don't have a right lot of faith in them."
Turner took a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders. "Have you upset anyone recently?"
"No."
"Sure?"
"Yeah." Riggers snorted a humourless laugh. "I don't get it. I've turned my life around. Like you. Fuck knows, you reckon me and you are so different, but whatever. We've both changed. And now look at that. They tell me it'll be weeks before we're allowed back in."
Basic human decency propelled Turner to say, "If there's anything I can do… just say, just ask. I mean that. Not just for Kyle and Liam and Elaine, but for you."
There was a silence as Riggers digested the offer. "Thanks," he said at last. "Appreciate that. We're gonna be bedding down at your mum's for a while, but thanks. It's all the stuff we've lost that pisses me off, you know. We didn't have much but it was all legit. I'd actually worked for it, not stolen it."
"Insured?"
"Fuck off."
Turner took that as a no. He didn't know many people who bothered with insurance; he himself had got some quotes that made him think he'd be better off just paying into a savings account than paying out for insurance. So he didn't berate or judge Riggers. Instead, he finally tackled the topic he had come out here to talk about.
"I saw Emily last night."
"Up the hospital? She all right?" He sounded genuinely concerned.
"Yeah. She's probably out today. She told me that you have upset someone lately."
"Her?"
"No. A homeless man, well an ex-homeless man, name of Joel Becker."
Turner waited, looking up at the house but sliding his gaze sideways, trying to study Riggers from his peripheral vision. Riggers shook his head. "Nah. I had a debate with him, yeah. That was all."
"Debate?"
"Yeah. I spoke my mind, which is my right in a free country, and he took offence to it, but we didn't even come to blows."
Turner smiled inwardly. In Riggers' world, if blood wasn't shed or bones broken, it wasn't a real argument. "I didn't think it was likely to be him, either, when she told me."
They stood in silence for a little while longer, both deep in thought.
"Becker, you say?" Riggers asked, shifting from one foot to another. "Okay then. I suppose it's worth paying him a visit. Bugger all I can do standing out here."
"I don't know where he lives."
"We know his name, his area, his history and where he works. And I have seen him so I'll recognise him again. Let's pay this little shit a call."
Riggers turned but Turner put out a hand. "No, hang on. After all, how would he know where you lived? We can't go around to his place."
"What? I ain't gonna threaten him or anything. Just ask some questions. May as well rule him out of enquiries, right?"
"That makes you sound like the police," Turner said. "And perhaps this is something we ought to leave to the police, you know?"
Riggers looked incredulous. "You are joking me, right? Pass it on to the feds who can't find their arse with both hands and a map?"
"It's their job."
"I don't talk to the police. You don't talk to the police. Christ, Turner, what are you?"
"A reformed man. Like you."
"Fuck off."
Turner spread his hands wide to the open air, trying to deflect Riggers' rising anger. "Listen, listen to me, Riggers. You've just told me you've changed, yeah? And look. I believe you. If I didn't, I wouldn't even suggest we go to the authorities, would I?"
"You just want me to prove to you that I've changed."
Turner bit back his retort. He wanted to say no, prove it to Elaine, to the boys. But he swallowed it down. It was below the belt. Instead he just maintained eye contact and waited for Riggers to see sense.
Riggers tipped his head back and blew out a long sigh into the air.
"Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck," he said to Turner, and Turner knew he'd won.
"Come on, then."
Riggers nodded to his car. "Get in."
They didn't speak another word until they pulled up in a car park a little way from the police stati
on, and Riggers switched the engine off, but remained hanging on tightly to the steering wheel.
"I know," Turner said, almost laughing. "I know. I've never walked into one of these places voluntarily, either."
* * * *
Emily slammed her flat door closed and leaned back against it, finally able to relax now she was at home once more. Nothing was different - except everything. Except herself and her world and her life.
She put her right hand out and placed it on the cool magnolia-coloured wall, for a moment indulging in sentimental imaginings of psychic phenomena. As if she could communicate with her flat, her building, her peace.
Then she laughed at herself and pushed forwards through the hallway and into the familiar messy living room. Discarded shoes lurked around the sofa. A pile of books made a tower, topped off by an old cup of tea, teetering by the desk. She dropped her bag and moved through to the kitchen. The milk in the fridge was fine, and she put the kettle on. While it came to the boil, she went back through and saw that there was a missed call on the landline.
It wasn't Turner, and she huffed in disappointment and relief, all at the same time. Then she felt guilty. It was Kayleigh, once her closest friend, and ex-flatmate. Now she lived and worked in Belgium, and Emily had not put any effort into maintaining their friendship.
In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off in a cloud of steam that curled out into the main room. Emily stood frozen by the phone, holding the handset, hesitating before lifting it to her ear and replaying the message.
Kayleigh was perky and friendly, but there was an undercurrent of something - uncertainty, perhaps, and sadness.
"Hi Ems, long time no… speak. Just wondering how you were. If you were okay. We haven't been in touch for so long. I did email but perhaps you didn't get it. You've been quiet online, not that I'm stalking you on social media aha ha ha. Anyway. Look. We should catch up. Give me a call when you're free." A pause. "Please." And she hung up.
Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) Page 12