Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1)

by Isabella Brooke

  Turner came back out, carrying two brimming coffee cups with ease, not a single drop spilt. "And so then," he said, as if he hadn't been away, "I carried on committing crime."

  * * * *

  The following day dawned misty, and Turner knew it was going to become bright and clear. It was a day to be out of Manchester and away from the smog and exhaust fumes. While he'd been in prison, he'd found a number of escapes, working on the principle that though they had his body, his mind was still free. When he wasn't in the library or the gym, he'd spend long hours in the chapel. He wasn't religious but he liked the calm of the room, and the fact that the various chaplains would bring decent biscuits in just added to the appeal. He learned how to meditate from a Buddhist convert, and found he could lose himself in building visualisations from memories, creating fantasy inner worlds that mirrored the reality he'd left behind.

  His favourite mental exercises would recreate places he'd gone camping, both as a kid, and while on leave from the Army. But now he could go up to the hills once more, for real, and he was compelled to rediscover his old haunts.

  He threw his solo tent into a battered old rucksack, with a light sleeping bag, a mat and some food. He used to take the earliest train out to the Peak District or the Pennines, but his Range Rover Sport was sitting, unused and unloved, in the lane at the back of the row of terraces. It smelled of car polish and fake leather; he'd bought it just before he'd been sent down, and it was like a shining testament to his pursuit of money. He pushed aside the sudden sick feeling.

  The money had been the impetus, but what had kept him on that course of crime? His mind flicked back to the rest of the conversation with Emily. He still couldn't believe quite how honest he'd been with her. It was those big eyes of hers, and the way she listened.

  Who was he kidding? She was trained to listen. Probably did it at journalism college. How to interrogate someone without them even knowing. It would all be body language and subconscious manipulation and shit like that.

  He drove out of Manchester, against the flow of commuter traffic that was battling their way in to their sad little grey jobs. He didn't envy them. That was half the problem, as he'd ended up confessing to Emily: the thrill of the chase had infected him. Crime for crime's sake, perhaps. The thought that it was all a game. After all, his were victimless crimes, weren't they?

  He'd been on courses in prison which had demonstrated to him that nothing was a victimless crime. He felt shame, deep shame, now. And yet it did nothing to get away from the fact that he craved adventure. The Army had given him adventure, but civilian life had been a wet and empty wasteland - until he'd taken part in that first raid, and he'd experienced the thrill of real danger once again.

  He drove faster as he hit the motorway, overtaking with violent swerves, trying to reach that buzz, that thrill that made him feel alive. Only when he cut up a red Audi did he get a grip and slow down; he caught sight of the driver's terrified face in his rear view mirror, and it caught in his throat. The woman had hair like Emily's, and he was struck by his laddish irresponsibility.

  Turner was soon off the main roads and onto a minor route, where he knew there would be lay-bys to leave his car. Walking briskly helped him. The meditation in the chapel had shown him how to calm down, but he still found it easier if his body was engaged in some activity. Striding over the hills with his backpack brought him a quiet peace. The chatter in his mind receded and he walked, just walked, no aim, no purpose and no demands upon him.

  It was almost with regret that the walking had to end, and he found an ideal place to camp for the night, a sheltered hollow with a view of the rising sun. It was cool now, and he quickly pitched his tent. He'd brought no cooking equipment, preferring instead to camp light.

  He sat with his back against a rock, his fleece zipped up tight against the darkening air, and ate cold beans straight from the can.

  I'm free. Slowly it was sinking in. Prison had been hard, but only at first. After the first few weeks, he'd adapted. Everyone did. Some sank into depression or bursts of anger; mental illness was rife. But you survived. It didn't kill you. Once you realised that, it was just a waiting game. Waiting for freedom.

  Now I'm free.

  Now what?

  The beans were cloying in their tedious monotony and he put the can aside, half-finished, to reach for a tin of lager and some chocolate chip cookies. It wasn't the best drink in the world but it was far better than the one experience of hooch he'd had inside. Brewed from oranges, bread and water, and hidden in tubs around someone's cell, prison homebrew had made him vomit. After that, any cheap booze was like ambrosia.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the wind on the dry grass. Faintly, he thought he could detect the rumble of traffic, even here. He sniffed, but his nose was clogged with the scent of beans and lager, and there was no hint of nature to be had. He opened his eyes and saw the trail of an aeroplane as it dipped towards East Midlands Airport; there was no real wilderness to be found here.

  His thoughts turned to jobs. He had to do something. Not just for the money - a need that was pressing - but to give him purpose. He had to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  What did ex-soldiers do? There was door security, of course. He had never fancied being a bouncer, but it was a possibility. Could he get the SIA licence with his record? Maybe. What else?

  Close protection officer. He'd heard about others like him who left the country and work for agencies in war torn places, offering protection or security to businessmen or governments. Although he had no urge to return to Afghanistan or Iraq, at least he knew the areas and he knew some of the customs. And he'd be important; he'd be someone.

  For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of imagining himself at the centre of a fire fight, being a hero and saving the day. But the fantasy was replaced by the image of his mother, ill, maybe dying. Would she be proud of him? And was that pride enough to make up for his absence in her hour of need?

  Fuck. He knew he couldn't leave Manchester, never mind the country.

  Think. Think logically.

  Was he the same man that had gone into prison? No, he was cleverer now, that was for sure. He knew more about crime and he knew more about conviction. Would he have still committed the crimes he did? If he could go back?

  No. And yet… what else would he have done?

  Turner felt uncomfortable. He hadn't come out here for a bout of introspection. He downed the rest of the can, and finished off the beans. Classy bit of dining, he thought, letting a half-grin creep over his face. I wonder what Emily would make of this?

  And what do I care what she might think of it?

  Ahh, come on lad, he admonished himself. She's… nice. Horrible word. But she is. Nice.

  The sort of woman worth going straight for.

  The thought, once had, could not be unthought. He crushed the can in his hand, not caring that the jagged edges bit the flesh of his palm. Would I?

  I'd go straight for her, if I could. But this magazine or newspaper bullshit really isn't going anywhere, is it?

  He'd done some research, asked around, spent a bit of time searching the internet on his smartphone. Even if the mythical commission did appear, it wouldn't pay as much as he'd hoped. And it wouldn't pay for months. He hadn't realised that at first. But depending on when it was published, there could be up to two or three months before the cheque fell into Emily's lap.

  Too late - way too late - he had to get his finances sorted now.

  He began to work his way through the cookies. Something flitted through the air above him - a bat, perhaps, hunting for the moths that were creeping out into the dark. Predator and prey.

  That led him to thoughts of Riggers. The odious little twat had turned up on his doorstep last night, all wide grins and baggy grey sweat pants. Somehow the shithead had managed to escape a custodial sentence. All the blame from the bank job had fell onto Turner, as he'd been made out to be much more than a mere getaway driver. So
me of his other crimes - the stuff that Riggers had led him into after that - had added up on to his sentence as well. Stuff that miraculously didn't seem to stick to Riggers at all. And Riggers still had dirt on him for other crimes, and he wasn't going to let Riggers use any of that against him if he could help it.

  Older and wiser, Turner kept his mouth shut, and had let Riggers in. He wanted to hear what he had to say, and he kept his itching fists close and hidden behind his back. Punching the rat's teeth out would have been satisfying, but he'd also be depriving his nephews of a dad. And he couldn't do that. Turner's own dad had never been around. At least Riggers took the twins to the park once or twice.

  Probably to look at pretty girls in short skirts, or make drugs deals, but whatever.

  Riggers had been sniffing around to see if Turner was still up for a "bit of this, a bit of that" as he called it, trying to sound like he was some international man of fucking mystery.

  "Robbing?" Turner had said, sneering at the cocky young man.

  Riggers had a dangerous edge to him, always had, and his breezy smile had faded. "Yeah. But you don't have a problem with that, do you?"

  Turner folded his arms. "That's in the past for me."

  "What did they pin on you in the end? Not the Post Office at Little Jobling, and what about those lock-ups on the eastern Industrial Estate? No-one ever found out who did them. Unsolved crimes. What was that Crimestoppers' phone number again?"

  Turner had sworn at him. Riggers had dropped a few more unsavoury hints about needing money to buy "his lads" some shoes, and needed Turner's "particular skills" and other such bullshit. Eventually Turner had thrown him out.

  But it lingered. Knowing what he knew now… he'd do things differently.

  This time, he wouldn't get caught.

  Chapter Three

  Jerky Marmalade was the band's name but they were much better than the awkward moniker suggested. Emily had genuinely loved them ever since she first met the folk-pop-punk fourpiece at a grassroots festival in Liverpool. She'd been writing for an underground Socialist magazine, and was covering the infiltration of big business money and advertising into supposedly "by the people, for the people" events. She'd spent as much time chatting with the long-haired singer as she had in her efforts to expose the corporations' influences on retailers at the festival.

  She hadn't heard of them, or from them, for over a year now. She had the CD on loud, and it took her right back to those days on the alternative scene. Even this time last year, she could claim to know every hippy, every drop out, every agitator and protester and tub thumper in the north-west.

  And now?

  She sighed and slid down in the bath, ducking her head under water so that the singer's wail was momentarily drowned. It was eleven in the morning and normal, decent people were at work. She'd always loved the freedom of freelancing but what was the point when people didn't know how edgy and different she was being? Facebook updates boasting about her casual lifestyle soon lost her friends.

  She laughed at her own vanity, sending bubbles through the water, and resurfaced to a great gulp of air. Kayleigh might be right. Time for a nine-to-five, safe and secure staff writers' position?

  Some kind of change was needed. Kayleigh had shown the way, in that. When she'd left for her new life in Belgium, five months ago, Emily had been devastated. She couldn't tell Kayleigh that, and spoil her friend's enthusiasm, but she couldn't deny her feelings of abandonment.

  Or was it jealousy that Kayleigh had had the guts to make a huge life change?

  She leaned over the bath, her skin sticking to the plastic rim, and rested her chin on her forearm. Scattered over the floor were newspapers and magazines, open at inspiring articles. Articles that had once inspired her.

  Perhaps she ought to try for a position in editorial. Entertainment, gossip, film, literature - return to her original plan. How had she got so off-track?

  The image of the homeless boy flashed into her mind once more. The boy that had sparked it all off, and had haunted her from the face of every down and out she'd ever seen since then. Joel, with his young-boy face and old-man weariness.

  She hadn't fallen for Joel. It wasn't like the disasters that had plagued her recently. No, her attachment to Joel had been so much purer and so much more meaningful.

  That had meant her betrayal had been so much more painful.

  Her first big break, and it had come out of nowhere, and catapulted her into the investigative journalism world. She'd been so idealistic.

  Remembering her innocence and naivety now just made her wince. How stupid she'd been! She'd promised Joel his life would change once his story was exposed but it was a brief spike in the internet hits, and nothing more. One week later, all the talk was of a minor royal and his exploits with a jar of ghee and a Bollywood dancer.

  Fuck, fuckity fuckity fuck fuck. Every single news story and exclusive and exposé on the bathroom floor was just fire-lighting material within hours of its publication. It was all as shallow as entertainment writing - it just pretended to be meaningful. All of it was hollow.

  What did have meaning, then?

  Her bills, for one thing. There were a few payments due in to her over the next month or so, but her outgoings would exceed all that. The last story she'd been working on had died a catastrophic death, and she still couldn't quite face up to how badly she'd messed up on it. The repercussions were wider than the damage to her heart. Her current account was sinking fast and she'd never got around to starting any savings.

  So what was it to be? Temping agency, staff writer, what?

  God damn women's lib. If she lived a hundred years ago, she wouldn't have these kind of decisions to make. Her eye caught an article featuring a woman in some repressed country where everything was decided by her husband and she had a brief pang of politically incorrect envy.

  Then she put herself in that position more fully, and felt the old anger unfurl in her belly. No, it wasn't right. There were still injustices in the world. She still got emails from people who had been touched by her stories. Maybe her reports and her articles didn't change the world but taken as part of a whole, perhaps they could. Perhaps they would.

  One voice couldn't do anything, but as part of the collective…

  The water was cooling around her but she ignored it, scanning the periodicals that littered the room. Faces jumped out at her. Headlines. Pull quotes. Things that she'd grown passionate about were now reigniting her fire. She remembered how she'd covered a story about abuses in a care home, and how the relatives had thanked her, crying as they shook her hand. Yes, the care home was still running but under new management. Was it any better? She hoped so. She had made a difference.

  She might have let Joel down but since then, she had tried to change things, and perhaps she really had. She remembered how fiercely Turner had spoken of the prison system and how he now felt trapped in a cycle of crime and punishment. There was work to be done. Could she really walk away now, and start writing about novels and indie bands?

  Her thoughts went in circles. This, that, this, that. It was exhausting. Adult life was a pain in the arse.

  The shrill scream of her mobile phone made Emily jump. She launched herself out of the bath, patting her hands dry on a towel as she wrapped it around her body and splashed through to the living room where her phone danced across the table. It was the editor of a newspaper she'd worked for in the past, and her heart leapt. Yes! Let's make some ripples in the world of social justice once more.

  God, she was easily swayed.

  "Emily!"

  "Nathan! How are you?"

  "Good, good. And you? Good. Smashing. Right. Working much?"

  Ahh. That question. Unanswerable, really. Yes meant she might be too busy for him, and no meant she might have lost her touch. He would have heard some rumours about her last job, no doubt. "This and that. Doing all right."

  He knew she was keen. But what he said next just stunned her.

  "Look,
this isn't your usual thing but we're a bit short on people. Made a load of staffers redundant. You know what it's like. Now we're got a story coming up and every other ink-stain is on holiday or something. August. Crap."

  Emily immediately felt like the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel, but she knew not to interrupt the editor in mid-flow. After all, she currently was the scrapings.

  He continued, his squeaky voice irritating her more and more with each high-pitched sentence. "So anyway, we need two thousand words on the Baileys who are doing that husband-and-wife arthouse funky multimedia collaboration in the city centre. I know it's totally not your thing but…"

  Emily squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. It was pretentious claptrap of the very lowest order. When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw were her notebooks scattered before the computer. Turner's name was circled in heavy black pen, and spidery lines radiated out, the results of a late-night brainstorm. Chances. Rehab. Perceptions. Opportunities.

  And she found herself saying, "Ahh, sorry. You're right, Nathan. It really isn't my thing…"

  * * * *

  Emily had stood in the centre of her flat, clutching the now-silent phone, while her bath-foam flecked skin dried and her brain caught up with what her mouth had said.

  Oh shit.

  This has to work, now.

  She groaned and flung the phone to the desk, where it slid right off the edge and dropped to the floor, the case pinging free from the battery. Yup. Seemed appropriate.

  Once she was dressed and had a fresh coffee in her hands, she sat down on her sagging sofa and clipped her phone back together. She sent a quick text to Kayleigh. God, she missed having her friend around. They'd shared a flat until when Kayleigh's job had taken her to Belgium. It was great to have the space to herself but Kayleigh had also talked her out of lots of mistakes.

  It was telling that the debacle with the last story had happened after Kayleigh left the country.

  I'm having one last go at social commentary, her message read. I've got to make this work.