Amy Devereux left the Metropolitan Police immediately and was given a significant payout for what had happened. She had thanked Pearce personally, meeting him for lunch before she and her husband moved out of the city. She had sent him a business card in the post, having opened her own practice in Lowestoft in Norfolk. An open invitation was there for Pearce to visit whenever, but he was sure that she would rather put the whole ordeal behind her.
She had asked after Sam, who Pearce hadn’t seen since he had hobbled from the war that night. She couldn’t believe what he had done for her, the lengths he had gone to just to keep her and her husband alive.
Pearce couldn’t answer, except to relay what Sam had told him.
It was the right thing to do.
Her smile was genuine when he had said that, and she had spoken of how she truly hoped Sam would find peace.
Pearce hadn’t heard from her since.
As he looked out the window of his car at the building, he thought of Theo Walker. The man had lived a hero and died one too. Pearce had attended his funeral, watching as a packed room of friends and family mourned painfully at the untimely death of their beloved. Pearce had stood respectfully at the back of the crowd as the coffin was lowered slowly into the ground. Theo’s mum, a large Nigerian lady, cried as she scattered dirt across the top, then stood proudly as the soldiers Theo had served with stood to attention, saluting as their comrade was laid to rest.
Pearce found himself crying as they did.
The rumours had swirled that Sam’s ex-wife Lucy was in attendance, but Pearce didn’t think it was the time or place to make an introduction or to try and find out any further information. As he had watched them grieve, he thought he could see a man across the cemetery and wondered if it was Sam, watching from afar as his best friend was enveloped by the ground.
Pearce didn’t pursue it.
Theo Walker deserved more respect than that.
Which is what Pearce thought as he stepped out of his car and headed towards the Bethnal Green Community Centre. The derelict building had been given a makeover, the mayor deciding to honour Theo’s hard work with the children and his bravery in death by renovating the centre. It equated to a lick of paint and new windows. But it was a start.
Pearce walked towards the doors, pushing them open and stepping into the large hallway. Three months before, Theo had patched up Amy’s husband in that very room.
Now, a table was set against the far room, with ice-cold jugs of water, canteens of hot water, and small baskets of tea and coffee sachets.
A plate of non-brand biscuits sat, half attacked by the other volunteers who had already arrived.
Pearce had taken it upon himself to volunteer twice a week, helping the centre run its new ‘Childhood Watch’ programme, a new scheme which encouraged the older teenagers who attended to look out for bullying and how to address the problems inherent with being a child on the streets. It had felt good to give something back, especially when he had seen how selflessly Sam and Theo had sacrificed themselves for the good of others.
With his senior officers badgering him to take a higher position, more from the fear of more corruption coming to light than to reward him, Pearce had found solace in his charity work. Whatever the future held for him, he knew that what had happened three months before had changed him irrevocably.
Despite the bloodshed, the carnage, and the sheer terror of how far the corruption of the city had spread, Pearce knew it had changed him for the better.
Sam Pope was still out there, and sooner or later the criminals of the city would know about it.
Until then, as he was warmly greeted by the teenagers, who thought his detective badge was the coolest ‘bling’ they could hold, he would do his best to make the world better any way he could.
Sam had watched as they had lowered Theo’s body into the ground. From over two hundred yards away, the group of people were indistinguishable and he knew he was unlikely to be spotted. Sam felt the same fury he had felt when he had dug up his rainy-day fund as the dirt was dropped onto his friend’s casket.
The ground was soon full and Theo was locked away like a secret. Sam had joined in with the salute, his fellow soldiers showing the respect a hero like Theo deserved. As the small crowd dispersed, the sun cut through the clouds and bathed the cemetery in a bright glow. The gravestones cast shadows across the grass, most of them faded with age.
Tributes to the long gone.
At the back of the group, Sam could see Pearce—the unmistakable authority that the man held himself by.
He was a good man. Sam respected him greatly and would be forever grateful for his intervention at the High-Rise. Pearce had given him the chance to escape, to begin a new life and embrace the newfound purpose that had begun to beat within him like a drum.
As he stood under the tree, cast in its shade, he adjusted his tie, cursing the formalwear he had forced himself into. He watched as a petite figure walked towards him, stepping respectfully around the gravestones, not wanting to walk over anyone’s resting place. Her arms were folded across her body for extra warmth, her black cardigan pulled tight over her black dress.
Lucy.
Sam felt his heart begin to race as she approached, the love of his life who he knew had built a new one. Her bump was showing, the family life she had always dreamed of becoming a reality, and he remembered how radiant she had been when they were expecting Jamie.
Her beautiful face cracked into a loving grin as she approached him, her eyes moist from crying. She stepped into the shade a few feet from him. Despite her heart and love belonging to her new husband, she was happy to see him.
Silence sat between them, a gentle breeze carrying the smell of spring with it. Finally, after taking all of her features in, Sam spoke.
‘Thank you for meeting me.’
‘It’s good to see you, Sam.’ Lucy shrugged nervously. ‘You look well.’
‘You do, too.’
She stepped towards him as he spoke and wrapped her arms around him. He returned in kind, his muscular arms encasing her petite body, holding her close to him. He could smell her hair, remembering all the mornings he had woken up next to her. ‘God, I miss you.’
‘Look, Sam, I know it’s been a while, but you know where things are now.’
‘I know,’ Sam said, nodding away the pain. ‘I just needed to see you. I needed to see you.’
‘Look, I’m really sorry about Theo. He was a great guy.’
‘He was,’ Sam agreed. ‘A hero.’
‘But Sam, I can’t be a support net for you this time. I mean, I’ve got a family now and…’
‘That’s what I wanted to say,’ Sam said, cutting her off. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I am so happy for you, Lucy. I really am. I know that what happened to our baby boy was cruel and ripped us apart. But I also know that I didn’t help. I left as soon as he did, and you needed me just as much as I needed you. I abandoned you, and for that I am truly sorry.’
Lucy shook her head and swallowed the lump in her throat. She dabbed at her watering eyes with a tissue. ‘Goddamn you, Samuel Pope. I thought I’d done crying for today.’
They both smiled warmly and Sam stepped forward again, dabbing at her eye lovingly.
‘I’ve finally found a way to make peace with what happened. A way to use the pain and anger I feel every day to turn it into something good. A way in which I can honour our son, and know that other people will never have to feel the same pain and torture that we did.’
‘That’s…great.’ Lucy said, slightly astounded. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re probably going to hear some things, and whatever happens, just know that I have loved you from the moment I met you. From then until now, and further still. But I have to go and I don’t think I’ll be coming back.’
Lucy looked at him, confused and teary-eyed. He offered her a warm smile and then took her in his arms once more. He squeezed, every fibre of his being reaching out to tell her how mu
ch he adored her. Finally he let go, holding her at arm’s length and composing himself; the promise not to cry in front of her was getting harder to keep.
‘Goodbye, Lucy,’ he finally said.
‘Goodbye, Sam.’ She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Just remember, you are a good man.’
He smiled once more and Lucy took a deep breath. The finality in their parting was dawning on her and she nodded and turned on her heel. Just as she was about to exit the shade, she turned back.
‘Just promise me you’ll keep reading. For our boy.’
‘I am. I just finished To Kill a Mockingbird.’
‘How did you find it?’ she asked, smiling warmly.
Sam held his hand out and waved it slightly, insinuating it was okay.
She chuckled and then gave him one last look, her eyes piercing into his own and telling him that despite everything, there was a piece of her that would always love him.
It was completely requited.
She turned and left, carefully plotting her way back to the cemetery car park and then off to the world, to bring a life into it with her new husband. Despite his heart breaking, Sam was happy for her and watched her until she became a small dot that turned past a large tree and out of his vision.
For the last time.
Stood, surrounded by the monuments to those they had lost, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone one last time.
As soon as he left he would need to disappear, to go off the grid forever.
Sam thumbed the screen to the voicemail option and clicked play.
You have no new messages and one saved message. Saved messages.
Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes, imagining the beautiful smile of his son, the locks of blond hair that fell across his angelic face as he read from one of his books.
‘Hey, Dad. I miss you. Mum says you are going to be away for a while. I understand, but I wanted to see you. I have some new books to read with you. I’ll speak to you soon, Dad. I love you.’
Sam wiped a single tear from his eye.
‘I love you too, son. I love you too.’
Sam clicked delete, finally accepting his son’s absence in his life, and tossed the phone into the nearby bin. With one final look back towards his friend’s grave, Sam marched down the gravel path, heading towards London and the dark underbelly he was about to be consumed by.
The sun cut through in delicate slices, lighting the pathway as he headed to the exit and disappeared, ready to begin his new life.
EPILOGUE
Colin Mayer hadn’t shaved in over two weeks; his scraggly beard was itching constantly. His hair was the same, the thinning top made even more blatant by the contrast of the unruly curls that were sprouting from the bottom of his cap.
His appearance was the least of his problems, but as the sea air caught in his lungs and filled him with fresh hope, he thought back to that horrifying moment when he had thought he was about to die.
He had been strung up like a pig, stripped nude and beaten mercilessly. The ribs that were cracked were still trying to merge themselves back together. His entire rib cage was a dark brown, the bruises just beginning to fade.
Two fingers had been severed with secateurs; the cruel smile across Mark Connor’s face as he had snipped them from his hand still haunted his dreams.
Mayer looked down at his hand. The cruel stitching across the two stumps was something he still hadn’t gotten used to. He had made it to an A&E, the young nurse stitching up his fingers and then foolishly letting him go to the bathroom.
He had fled.
Left everything behind.
Colin Mayer had gone dark.
He took the cap from his head and wiped the sweat away. His new job working on the pier by Dawlish, a sleepy seaside town in Devon, was enough for now. He knew his photo would have been circulated, meaning almost every legal route out of the country was off the menu.
He had stolen a car and driven until the fuel gauge had hit empty and then stolen another. Eventually he had gotten to the coast, and after three nights of sleeping rough he had approached a local fishing hut, asking the trawler man if he could work for some food.
The man, sporting a thick beard and an even thicker waistline, was called Martin, and he not only opened his kitchen to Mayer, he offered him a shower and some accommodation. Clearly taking pity on the mutilated man, Martin was setting sail to Portugal in a few weeks to do three weeks’ worth of fishing around the Algarve. Mayer had offered to help prepare everything in exchange for passage to Portugal.
When he couldn’t answer Martin’s questions regarding a passport, Mayer was relieved when his new saviour had shrugged and said a man’s business was his own.
Now, as he heaved another large wooden crate across the storage cabin, he was eager to get back onto the deck and have a cigarette, and maybe even help himself to one of Martin’s beers.
Then tomorrow they would hit the sea, and Mayer would have raised his missing finger at the country as he vowed never to come back.
With a feeling of undeserved smugness, he clambered back up the stairs of the fishing boat, hoping for the rays of the Dawlish sun to wash off his face in a warm greeting.
A shadow was cast across the entrance to the cabin as Mayer emerged, following it back to its creator. A muscular man stood against the railing of boat, his arms folded, and the sun directly behind him, encasing his features in shadow. Mayer held up a hand to block the glare from above.
‘Mayer. It’s been a while.’
‘Pope?’ Mayer said, in a panic. ‘Is that you?’
Sam stepped forward, marching across the ship and grabbing the feeble Mayer by the scruff of his checked shirt and slamming him back against the cabin door before hurtling him down the stairs.
Mayer crashed against the thick wooden steps, cracking his forearm and separating his shoulder. He collided hard with the floor, two teeth shooting from his mouth like Tic Tacs. He moaned in pain, and Sam, taking a quick glance over his shoulder, hurried down after him. Mayer, with both arms out of action, was struggling to drag himself across the dusty, dark cabin, weeping feebly.
Sam walked calmly behind him before reaching down and pulling him from the ground and slamming him into the large wooden crate. Mayer turned slowly, shaking with fear and ready to beg for his life.
Before he could even begin, he felt the thick, serrated blade burrow deep into his stomach, blood shooting up his throat like a burst fire hydrant, which he spat out onto the floor. The pain was excruciating, and he shook in agony as Sam slid the knife across his stomach, the warm blood crashing out like a waterfall as he dropped to his knees.
Sam stared at him coldly, watching Mayer feebly try to hold the contents of his stomach together with his broken arm. Spluttering through his final breaths, he looked up at Sam, who stared at him coldly.
‘Help. Me.’
Mayer crashed backwards into the crate, slumped like a drunk on the side of the street. The huge gash across his stomach looked like an evil grin, the blood gently sliding to the floor and building a large puddle around him. Mayer had been the instigator in everything, which had seen innocent people killed, including Sam’s best friend.
As the life left Mayer’s body, Sam felt not one iota of sympathy.
A loose end.
With that tied up, Sam tossed the knife onto the crate and headed back up the steps, appreciating the fresh sea air which greeted him before stuffing his hands into his pockets and walking off into whatever direction would take him off the grid.
The waves crashed against the side of the ship and the cries of three seagulls overhead echoed loudly.
Moments later, Sam was gone.
THE END
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The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 24
