Starlight on the Palace Pier

by Tracy Corbett

  ‘Said with such sincerity.’

  ‘Don’t push it. I’ve agreed, haven’t I? Now, will you please help me up?’ He elbowed the side of the trunk. ‘Ouch.’

  She wasn’t done. ‘One last request.’

  He swore again. ‘These are not requests. They’re demands being agreed to under duress.’

  ‘And being recorded.’

  That shut him up. Ha! Not so clever now, was he.

  ‘Not a smart move, Becca.’

  ‘I think it’s very smart.’ She failed to hide the gloat in her voice. ‘I’m not having you retract your consent at a later date.’

  ‘I meant using your torchlight and video function at the same time. How much battery life do you have left?’

  Oh. He had a point. She needed to hurry up. ‘My last request is that we agree to stop battling over every decision and work together with Jodi to run the playhouse in your mother’s absence. We might not always agree, but we need to stop butting heads. Whether you want to admit it or not, you need us.’

  She could tell he was fighting the urge to tell her where to stick it. Tough. He didn’t think twice about taking advantage of a situation, why should she?

  She tried again. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Could he sound any sulkier?

  ‘Thank you.’ She was glad…relieved too. He was starting to wheeze and she hadn’t wanted to leave him lying there any longer.

  She tried moving one of the trunks, but it was too heavy. She shoved the other one, but that wouldn’t shift either. A plan was needed.

  ‘Careful with your knee,’ he said.

  Like she needed reminding.

  ‘Make yourself useful and hold the torch,’ she said, handing him her phone. She climbed over the trunk and moved the smaller cases out of the way. ‘How did you know about my knee?’

  He aimed the light in her direction. ‘My mother told me. How did you injure it?’

  She picked up a case. ‘I tripped over a goat.’

  His sudden laughter caught her off-guard. ‘Is that a dance move or a euphemism?’

  ‘Neither.’ She shoved the cases onto a shelf. ‘I was working at London Zoo. One of my tasks was to clean out the goats’ enclosure. When a little blighter started peeing on my boot I jumped backwards, not realising another goat was behind me and I fell over him.’

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘It was.’ She’d made enough space to access the back of the trunks. ‘I needed surgery to reattach my patellar tendon and spent eight weeks on crutches, followed by eight weeks of intensive therapy.’ She sat down, shying away from the cobwebs catching in her ponytail. ‘I’ve only recently started dancing again.’

  ‘Why were you working at London Zoo?’

  She tucked her feet under the shelving and pushed against the wall. ‘Let’s just say, my career never quite hit the dizzying heights I’d hoped for.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But there’s still time, you’re only twenty-eight.’

  She pushed hard, using her quads. ‘Unfortunately not, it’s game over. Professionally, anyway.’ The trunk shifted a fraction.

  ‘I thought recovery from tendon surgery was achievable these days?’

  ‘It is, but I ruptured my Achilles a few years back, so I was already compromised.’ She pushed again. The trunk shifted a bit further.

  ‘Another goat?’

  She laughed. ‘Nope, dancing this time. I landed badly. I thought I’d been shot, it made such a bang.’ She adjusted her position and pushed again. The trunk moved another few inches. ‘It took me two years to recover and I only regained around eighty per cent of my ability. So when the second injury occurred eighteen months later, the surgeon warned me my career was probably over.’ The trunk finally shifted.

  ‘I’m sorry, Becca. I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Such is life. Some dreams we have to let go of.’ She got up, brushing dirt and cobwebs from her clothes. It hurt a lot more than she was letting on. They’d agreed a fragile truce. She wasn’t about to divulge all her weaknesses. He had enough power as it was. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What’s it like being a barrister?’

  He squeezed himself out from between the trunks. ‘It has its moments. It’s not how I imagined it would be.’ Even lit by the feeble torchlight, she could see he was filthy. His suit jacket was covered in dust and there was a tear in his trousers. He ran his hand through his hair, creating another flashback from their youth.

  She pictured them sitting in his bedroom, legs entwined, holding hands and watching his mum’s old portable TV. ‘Do you remember we used to watch Kavanagh QC?’ she said, resisting the urge to brush cobwebs from his jacket. Touching him wouldn’t be a good idea. ‘You wanted to be like John Thaw. The gruff barrister who always won his cases.’

  Tom climbed over the trunks, using her shoulder to lean on. So much for not touching. ‘Yeah, but that’s only because he was never expected to defend an idiot who’d beaten his former business partner around the head with a child’s scooter.’

  His disgruntled expression made her laugh. ‘Are you serious? That was your case today?’

  ‘It was.’ He shone the light against the wall. ‘Now, where’s the fuse board?’

  ‘In the cupboard on the left-hand wall.’ She squinted, trying to find it in the darkness. ‘Eddie left me instructions.’ She eased her way over to the wall. It was cold and sticky. Not the most pleasant of tasks. ‘Was the man found guilty?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom’s hand brushed hers as they searched for the cupboard. ‘Here it is.’

  The cupboard housed an array of jumbled cables. ‘There should be a master switch next to the fuse box.’ She took the phone from him. ‘You flick the switch and I’ll hold the light. I don’t want to get electrocuted.’

  He gave her a loaded look. ‘But you don’t mind if I do?’

  ‘It’s your house.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Ignoring his almost-smile, she aimed the light in the cupboard. Her phone started to dim. ‘How do you defend someone you know is guilty?’

  He lifted the cables and looked underneath. ‘It’s not my job to decide if someone’s guilty or innocent. I only do what the client tells me to. And if they tell me they didn’t mean to knock someone out with a plastic scooter and they were trying to disperse a swarm of attacking bees, then that’s the defence I present to the jury. Even if it’s a load of crap.’

  ‘Over there.’ She spotted the fuse box. ‘The switch should be next to it.’ She pointed to the lever. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. And if my client tells me they’re not guilty, I have to take them at their word. Even if the evidence against them is strong and things will be far worse for them if the case goes to trial. What I think is irrelevant. It’s up to others to decide about guilt or innocence.’ He pulled the lever. There was a delay before faint light filtered through from the stairwell. ‘Bingo.’

  She turned away. She didn’t want him to see the tears threatening to escape.

  It was those ‘others’ who’d decided her guilt back in 2006.

  And what hurt the most…was that he’d believed them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday 20th October

  Tom wasn’t having the best of days. He’d spent most of the morning enduring a wet and miserable four-hour drive to Lincoln to take part in a prison adjudication, where he’d had to undergo a full body search, including an x-ray and a springer spaniel sniffing around his crotch. He’d then been escorted across the miserable yard area in the pouring rain and through several locked gates before arriving at C wing, where he’d met his client who’d got into a fight with another prisoner in the canteen. Tom was required to defend him in front of a district judge. If found guilty, he’d receive an extra forty-five days in prison.

  It wasn’t the most exciting way to spend a day, and for very little financial reward. It didn’t help that he was still preoccupied with the events of yesterday. />
  Izzy couldn’t seem to grasp that she was no longer the legal owner of their apartment and was required by law to move out. When he’d arrived at the flat, he’d found her still asleep with no removal van booked and showing no signs of leaving. She was smart enough to realise he was there to ‘kick her out’ and had resorted to trying to seduce him, inviting him to join her in bed. When that failed, she’d switched to crying, reminding him she had nowhere else to go.

  He’d resisted caving in and continued packing up her things. This had resulted in her yelling abuse while he’d loaded her belongings into his car, and continuing to yell as he’d deposited her at a Travelodge. He’d tried to assuage his guilt by paying for a week’s stay – which had cost him more than he’d earnt today in representation fees. Such was life.

  His day had deteriorated further when he’d received a call from an unknown number. Assuming it was Izzy calling from the Travelodge, his resignation had been replaced by annoyance when his father’s voice had come on the line. His mother had given Harvey his number. Thanks, Mum.

  The conversation started out in its usual stilted fashion. His father reiterated his desire to be in his son’s life, and Tom refused to forgive and forget. The subject had then switched to his mother and her stint in rehab.

  Tom’s annoyance had increased when his father had ‘expressed concern’ over Tom’s involvement in the running of the playhouse and whether this ‘distraction’ would be detrimental to his son’s career. Tom wasn’t sure what had angered him most. His father’s interference, or the man’s willingness to see his ex-wife’s business fail while she sought help for her addiction. His father’s counter-argument had been to point out that Carolyn had appointed two deputies to run the playhouse in her absence and Tom’s presence had never been requested or needed. Like his dad had ever cared about his mum! Flaming hypocrite.

  Tom was just glad his father had no idea who the deputies were. Otherwise, all hell would break loose. He’d ended the call at that point. He’d been in danger of crashing his car and it was already damaged where he’d run into a recycling bin thanks to Becca chucking paint at him.

  An image of Becca covered in paint briefly eased the tightness in his chest as he endured an equally miserable four-hour journey back to Brighton. He’d forgotten to pick up his inhaler this morning and the need for relief had been building all day. There used to be a time in his life when he would have been okay surviving for a day without drugs. Now it seemed he couldn’t go twenty minutes without artificial stimulants.

  Why he kept thinking about Becca, he had no idea. He supposed it was the realisation that her intentions regarding the playhouse came from a genuine desire to save the place. He’d been too hard on her.

  But she’d inflicted her revenge, refusing to help him when he’d got stuck between two travel trunks on Wednesday night. It should have annoyed him. Instead, it had demonstrated her determination not to let his mother down. And that had endeared her to him – much as he hated to admit it. Over the past two weeks, he’d been reminded of the girl he’d fallen in love with. Becca Roberts was funny, energetic, clumsy and cute. Her endless playfulness was both an irritation and strangely infectious.

  He’d agreed to the showcase, not only because it was a great idea, but he was also confident that along with Jodi, she could make it work. What he hadn’t vocalised was his concern about his mother’s ability to cope. If the playhouse became more successful with more hirers and users, would that put extra pressure on her? She’d be fragile when she left rehab and she’d need a stress-free environment, not additional responsibility.

  But he hadn’t felt ready to share his concerns with Becca. He might have moved past wanting to throttle her, but trusting her with his worries and insecurities wasn’t something he was ready to risk. Being betrayed once was enough.

  He pulled into the playhouse car park, relieved to be home. The tickling sensation in his chest was a warning sign. He planned to shower, drink beer and eat curry. But first, he needed his inhaler.

  His plan to head upstairs and change out of his damp suit was scuppered when he heard raised voices coming from the office. Would his conscience allow him to ignore it? Probably not. Sighing, he marched across the foyer.

  On reaching the office, his hand stilled on the handle. He could hear Vivienne shouting. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she didn’t sound happy. Taking a ragged breath, he opened the door and discovered Vivienne almost levitating over Jodi.

  Under such an onslaught, Jodi might have appeared the underdog, but anyone who thought Jodi would be intimidated by the older woman’s ferocity would soon learn otherwise. She had her hands on her hips, refusing to back down.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Is there a problem…?’

  The sound of his voice momentarily broke the locking of horns. A beat followed before they advanced on him, both screaming words of accusation, both intent on relaying their version of events first.

  He raised his hand, a feeble attempt to still them. When it didn’t work, he took an involuntary step back. ‘Will you both quit shouting?’ They paused, not quite content to shut up, but enough so he could intervene. ‘One at a time.’ He looked at Vivienne. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘She is the problem. I caught her stealing.’

  ‘You did no such thing!’ Jodi looked close to tears.

  ‘Quiet. Both of you.’ God, his chest hurt. ‘Accusing someone of stealing is a serious matter.’

  Vivienne recoiled. ‘Are you accusing me of lying, Master Thomas?’

  ‘I didn’t say that—’

  ‘But you immediately doubt my word.’ Vivienne looked affronted. ‘Of all the hurtful, insulting—’

  ‘Just tell me what happened, Vivienne.’ Christ, she could be dramatic.

  ‘I walked into the office to find that woman…’ Jodi was subjected to one of Vivienne’s glares ‘…with her hands in the safe.’ She folded her arms, no doubt for dramatic effect. ‘And now the money has disappeared. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who took it.’

  A rush of cold hit Tom in the chest. His breathing tightened even further. ‘The money for the showcase?’

  ‘All five thousand pounds. I came in here and there she was, her grubby little hands in the safe. She can’t deny it. Jumped away like a scalded cat. Guilt written all over her thieving face. She knew she’d been caught—’

  ‘Enough!’ Tom turned to Jodi. He didn’t think for a second she’d stolen the money. Why, he wasn’t sure. She had a history of lying and theft. But Becca was right: Jodi had changed. She also wasn’t stupid. He’d only withdrawn the money yesterday. Only a real idiot would take it so soon. ‘I’m assuming there’s an explanation?’ She’d probably moved the money, like with the bank accounts. ‘Where’s the money?’

  Her face radiated hurt. ‘You think I took it?’

  He felt himself frown. ‘You mean, you didn’t?’

  ‘No, of course I bloody well didn’t.’

  ‘Then where is it?’ Air seemed to be stuck in his chest. He was struggling to exhale.

  ‘I don’t know. When I came into the office and went to put the cheque book back in the safe, I realised the bank bag was missing. That’s when Vivienne came in.’

  Vivienne pointed a finger at Jodi. ‘I caught you red-handed.’

  ‘Then where’s the money?’ Jodi opened her arms. ‘I haven’t left the office, so if I took it I’d have it, wouldn’t I? Search me. Look in my bag. You won’t find anything.’

  ‘Who’s to say you didn’t take it earlier? Maybe you were covering your tracks. You’ve probably stashed it somewhere.’ The black of Vivienne’s floaty dress blurred Tom’s vision. ‘Shall I call the police, Master Thomas?’

  Jodi looked stricken. ‘Please don’t do that.’

  ‘You see? Guilty.’ Vivienne was judge, jury and accuser all rolled into one. He was surprised she didn’t fist-bump the air.

  Jodi started to cry. ‘I didn’t take the money, I swear.’ />
  Tom sagged against the door. He needed to lean on something.

  ‘Then why shouldn’t we call the police? Surely you want the culprit caught?’ Vivienne’s tone had switched to sarcastic. ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, you needn’t be worried.’

  Tom knew exactly why Jodi didn’t want the police involved. She had a criminal record. She’d been jailed for theft. They were hardly going to believe her word over Vivienne’s.

  Jodi shook her head. ‘Please, Tom. I didn’t take the money. I need you to believe me.’

  And he needed his inhaler.

  ‘Go home, the pair of you.’ He turned to leave. ‘I’ll deal with this tomorrow.’

  ‘But Master Thomas…?’

  ‘Go home, Vivienne.’

  He hadn’t meant to snap, but walking had become difficult. Hell, breathing had become difficult. His vision had blurred. His chest felt tighter with every step.

  How he made it up the staircase, he didn’t know. He gripped the banister, using all his strength to pull himself up. He was wheezing badly. His whole chest rattled. It was so loud it felt like it was coming from outside his body.

  The faces of his ancestors on the walls seemed to be scolding him. Their stern expressions loomed down on him as he climbed the stairs. He barely made it to the top before the coughing began. It was official – he was having an asthma attack. Drugs awaited. Relief in the form of Ventolin. He just needed to get upstairs.

  The galley corridor felt longer than usual. He staggered diagonally, pushing himself from one wall to another, unable to support his own body weight. He knocked over a chair, dislodging a painting on the wall. He could barely breathe. He was sweating. Shivering. Drowning.

  He reached the stairwell for the east tower. One last push.

  Every step slowed. Every step required more effort. Was he going to make it? He was near the top. The coughing became worse, rendering him unable to move. He was within a few feet of the table. His inhaler was just out of arm’s reach.

  Black spots appeared before his eyes. He slumped to the ground. Pain stabbed at his chest. The pressure building in his lungs pinned him to the floor.