by Neil White
‘That’s twisted,’ Charlie said. ‘You can’t justify what you have done by self-pity.’
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We’re all our own prison. We’ve each got our own guards and we do our own time.’ He moved closer to Gemma, to Donia next to him, who recoiled. ‘We get stuck in our own trips, act as our own judges – because I can’t be a judge for anyone else, and so I try and be a judge for myself. I can do that and live with myself. Can you do that, Mr Barker?’
Henry came at him in a blur. His hands went around his throat, and then they were falling backwards, Henry on top of him, the ground rushing to meet him once more.
Henry’s grip stayed around his throat, his weight bearing down.
‘Get her!’ Henry shouted at Gemma, looking towards Donia. ‘Get rid of the witnesses. It’s your only chance.’
Charlie’s face was covered in Henry’s spittle as he gripped and snarled. Charlie threw a punch, expected Henry to flinch or more, but he didn’t. He just kept on squeezing, pushing down. Charlie started to flail. Henry was cut, Charlie’s fist splitting one of his eyebrows, but it didn’t stop him.
‘Gemma, get her,’ Henry shouted, teeth bared, panting with exertion.
Charlie couldn’t see what was going on, and as he struggled to breathe, he thought of Donia, hoped that she was safe, that she was running across the field, Gemma nowhere near her. There was desperation in Henry’s voice, that Gemma wasn’t doing as she was told, but Henry’s voice was getting fainter. Charlie’s chest became tight as he tried to pull in air, but he couldn’t find any, so that his body strained. His vision started to fade, and the stars started to swirl once more, the sky spinning.
Then he heard a scream, loud in his ear, the pound of rushing footsteps, and then some movement in his vision. There was the swing of something yellow, a jolt, then a crack, like an axe through kindling. Henry stiffened on him, but his hands relaxed around Charlie’s neck.
Charlie sucked in some air and grimaced. His throat hurt. He pushed at Henry, who groaned, sounding in pain, then gasping for air.
Charlie pushed him again, and this time Henry fell back onto the floor. As he looked, Charlie saw Donia standing there, a pickaxe in her hand, the pointed end wet and glistening. And as Charlie looked over to Henry, he saw a growing patch of red under his shirt. Henry’s hand was on the wound, and his fingers looked sticky and wet.
‘Thank you,’ he said to Donia, taking in deep lungfuls of air.
Henry started to shuffle backwards, one hand on the ground, the other on his body. Donia had got him between the ribs and pierced his side. He was groaning in pain.
‘Don’t let him get away,’ Donia said, moving towards Henry, the pickaxe raised again.
Charlie pointed to the gnarled old tree at the edge of the field, the one he had hidden behind before. ‘Tie him to that,’ he said. ‘He can watch his commune burn as we wait for the police.’
‘What with?’
Charlie grabbed Henry’s collar to pull him along the ground towards the tree. ‘Look around, find something,’ he shouted.
Henry wheezed and then gasped in pain. His eyes were closed.
Donia ran towards the house, her arm over her head as she got near to the flames spewing out of the windows, the metal grilles now glowing orange. She went to the outbuildings at the side, using the flames for light. Gemma hung back, her arms across her chest, hugging herself. Charlie carried on dragging Henry, who wasn’t offering much resistance, just his feet kicking against the ground. Charlie gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg, and as he got to the dead tree, gripped Henry by the shirt collar and hoisted him to his feet.
Henry slumped back against the tree, his head back. His eyes were getting glassy. Blood was running from the wound in his side and soaking his jeans. Charlie held him there, his arm outstretched.
‘The police are coming, Henry,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’
Henry tried to grin, but it turned into a groan and a grimace.
There were footsteps behind him. It was Donia. She was holding a length of barbed wire. The look in her eyes was pure hatred.
‘Tie him up with this,’ she said.
Charlie was about to say no, that it would be cruel, but then he thought of how close they had come to dying. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Wrap it tight.’
Henry shook his head, moaning, but Charlie just pushed him harder against the tree.
Donia grabbed a piece of the wire that had no barbs on it, and bent it back and forth until it snapped. Then she did it again, until she had two long pieces.
Charlie let go of Henry’s shirt and grabbed his arms instead, stretched them both along the two dead branches. ‘Put the wire around his wrists. Make it tight, so he can’t move.’
He held Henry up as Donia did that, moans escaping from him as his weight made the barbed wire dig into his wrists, one loose end trailing towards the floor, the other curling upwards, so that it caught in Henry’s hair. When both wrists were bound, Charlie hobbled backwards.
Henry’s outstretched arms made his head slump forward, his bearded chin touching his chest, blood pumping out of the wound in his side, the barbs on the wire in his hair standing out as a silhouette against the moon.
Charlie slumped to the ground. As Donia went to him, her arms around him, he rested his head. Gemma joined them, but she was looking at Henry, transfixed.
The night sky began to flicker with blue lights. Charlie closed his eyes. It was over.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Charlie stepped back into the road to admire the window. He winced as his knee twisted on the cobbles, sending a jab of pain up his body. It had been a month since the confrontation at the farmhouse and his knee was still strapped up. He had twisted it badly, damaged some ligaments, but it would mend, he knew that.
It wasn’t the pain in his knee that kept him awake though. It was the image of Amelia, dead in her living room. And Donia, tied up in that cottage. He had worked in criminal law for many years, but he realised now that he had only ever skirted the fringes of criminality. The true horror of the human psyche had visited him now, and it was raw and ugly.
Henry Mason was safe from everyone now, locked up in prison waiting for his trial. He didn’t have a lawyer, and was fighting against judges who wanted him to have one. He knew his fate would be prison for life, and so he was settling for what he liked best: notoriety. He still had supporters, those who had become hooked on his message, spread along the internet, on forums and blogs, just looking for excuses for their lives. They peddled Henry’s flawed logic and gave him the fame he had always craved.
He felt an arm come around him. It was Donia.
‘I like it,’ she said.
Charlie smiled. ‘Yes, me too.’
Barker and Diaz was written in gold leaf across his office window. Henry Mason might have murdered his business partner, but that didn’t mean that he had to forget her. It was only a name, he knew that, but he wanted to keep it going, just his way of saying thank you.
It had been a tough month, Amelia’s funeral the most painful part. Her English relatives had cried and mourned, but they had tried to hold in their grief to maintain something they thought of as dignity. Her Spanish relatives had been much different. It was as raw to them as it was to the English, but they had let it out, sobbing loudly, wailing sometimes, words coming out that he couldn’t understand. Charlie had felt himself crack a little.
Donia had been there for him, holding his hand, both of them still bearing the scars of what they had been through. Charlie had hobbled his way into church, with Donia’s face bruised and scratched. Amelia had been murdered, but the scars on Donia were living reminders of how brutal her death had been. The hug Charlie had received from Amelia’s father had been tight and long. He had helped to catch her killer. That was enough.
It was at that moment that Charlie had decided to keep Amelia’s name alive, which meant that whatever thoughts he’d had of giving up on the law ended then. To keep Amel
ia’s memory alive, he had to keep the practice going.
‘Are you going to keep your promise?’ Donia said.
He smiled. ‘For as long as I’m working with you, will I have a choice?’
Donia returned the smile. ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’
‘You’ll leave, when you get a better offer.’
‘Is there a better offer than working with your father?’
Charlie couldn’t answer that one, although he was going to keep his promise.
It had been Donia’s idea. Act for the innocent. She thought he had become jaded because he had become sick of peddling lies and excuses. It was time to get a conscience. He would represent only the people who were telling the truth. If they wanted to admit their guilt, he would help them, but the spin would stop. No more of the ‘his life is at a crossroads’ speech, the mitigation-by-numbers bullshit that most lawyers use. If Charlie had to say that the client wants to change, the client would have to show it. Get a job, apply for rehab, go to college.
The not guilty cases would be the tough ones, he knew that. It would make him judge and jury even before the cases started, because unless he was convinced by their innocence, he wouldn’t be interested. No more ‘no comment, you prove it’. That just acquits the guilty. No, this was the new way. Take a moral stance. Let people like Henry Mason squirm around with someone else’s help.
Charlie had liked the idea as soon as Donia said it. It had a certain innocence, like youthful hope, where everything is painted in stark colours, and nothing has been smudged into dull grey by cynicism and experience.
‘So when do we open for business?’ Donia said. ‘My student bills will need paying soon.’
Charlie laughed. ‘I’ll work you hard, you know that?’
‘Work me all you want. This is my route to qualification. My fees are expensive. I need this job to fund my studies.’
‘It beats serving pints and pizzas, I suppose.’
Donia grinned.
Sheldon Brown came out of the doorway, holding a piece of red ribbon and a pair of scissors.
‘So have we decided which will be my room?’ Sheldon said.
‘Amelia’s old room,’ Charlie said. ‘I still want to keep some of my old ways.’
Sheldon nodded that he understood and then joined Charlie in the road, to take in the new lettering on the window.
Sheldon had taken early retirement from the police. They had decided on it pretty quickly, unsure about what he might do if they let him stay. Chief Inspector Dixon hadn’t been quite so lucky. She had interfered too much to keep her daughter out of trouble, and so she was heading for a court appearance of her own soon.
Charlie felt some remorse for her, because he knew that she had done what she had to protect her daughter, that her motherly instincts had overridden everything else. Charlie could understand a fraction of that, because of the protective feelings he had for Donia, and he knew his emotions must be a long way short of what Dixon must have felt. She had given birth to Gemma, nurtured her. She wasn’t some absent father trying to take up the reins too late, when all the hard work had been done.
At least Dixon still had her daughter though, although it would be a few decades before Gemma would be free from prison. Family visits would be done in communal rooms, with Gemma wearing a sweatshirt and a red bib. She had promised to give evidence against Henry, which would help her get an earlier release date. Marie Cuffy hadn’t been so lucky, and now her parents knew that she hadn’t been on the run, but had died at Billy Privett’s house, bleeding out onto his floor after Arni had slashed her throat and then buried in a field, just a stone to mark her grave.
Of course, Marie’s wasn’t the only body they found at the house, and Gemma had done her best to tell the police who had been buried there, along with providing names for the charred corpses they found inside the house, John Abbott included.
Charlie watched as Sheldon went to the door to the office, between the tattooist and the kebab shop. He held out the ribbon for Donia, who skipped across.
Charlie smiled. He had offered Sheldon the job as his legal clerk, a non-qualified helper. He hadn’t been interested at first, but the thoughts of the empty days ahead made him change his mind.
Donia took the ribbon from Sheldon and stretched it across the doorway. She was grinning, jumping up and down excitedly.
‘Cut the ribbon,’ she said.
Charlie stepped up and took the scissors from Sheldon.
‘Are you going to make a speech?’ Sheldon said.
Charlie thought about that. ‘How about “this will be interesting”?’
Donia laughed. Sheldon pursed his lips, he had expected more than that, but then a smile broke across his face.
‘That will do,’ Sheldon said. ‘This will be interesting.’
‘It certainly will,’ Charlie said, and he snipped the ribbon.
They were open for business.
Acknowledgements
My name appears on the cover of this book, but that doesn’t go anywhere close to telling the full story.
My editors at Avon have been fantastic, as always, pointing out the flaws without being too brutal, and so I will always be grateful to Caroline Hogg and Helen Bolton for their input and help. My thanks also go to Keshini Naidoo, an editor with whom I have enjoyed a great relationship from the very beginning. Of course, I would never have had the opportunity to work with the people at Avon had it not been for my wonderful agent, Sonia Land at Sheil Land Associates Ltd, and so I thank her once again for working so hard on my behalf.
Away from my publisher, I would like to thank Angela Melhuish for setting up my Facebook fanpage, and Luca Veste for maintaining it with such enthusiasm.
To everyone else, thank you for the emails and for attending the author events. It’s been great to hear from you.
Neil White’s Writing Tips
I have been writing crime fiction for eighteen years now, although only as a published author for the last six of them. The twelve years before then were all about trial and error, submission and rejection, along with the occasional fallow year when I just got on with living my life.
I do not pretend to be any kind of an expert on the craft of writing. All I do is give it my best shot and hope for the best. With that in mind, I have been asked to give my top five writing tips, and so here goes.
I’m not going to tell you anything about how to write your prose. If you have got this far you are a reader, and so you know what you like to read and this should be reflected in what you want to write. Neither am I going to talk of environment, and how you should find your special writing space, like there is some kind of literary feng shui. I write on an oak desk with the stereo playing BBC Radio 6 Music, in a room where the Playstation 3 tempts me to be distracted, but that is only because I’ve been able to negotiate a private space in my house, like a nerdy version of a garden shed. My writing space has been all sorts of things: a cupboard under the stairs, the dining room table, a table on a train. I’ve written on holiday and in my car during the lunch break in my day job. The environment has never affected my writing, provided I had some peace and quiet.
I’m not saying I would like to write a whole book on a laptop in the front seat of my car, but the important thing is the ability to think, not the quality of the space in which you think.
My writing tips relate to the discipline of being a writer. These hints and tips might not work for everyone, as writers work differently, but these are the guidelines I set for myself.
Accept it won’t be good at the beginning and keep going
Like a morning jog, the hardest part of writing is setting off. All that stands before you is 100,000 words and you do not know what they will be. So you can turn off the computer and do something else, or else you can plant that first word on the page and keep going.
One of the problems I have, whenever I start a book, is that the last piece of writing I have seen of mine was a completed manuscript that had been
rewritten and reshaped countless times, and so it represented my very best effort. When I start something new, it is back to unpolished, and so it is too easy to think that it just isn’t good enough. It is the same for new writers, where you set out with grand designs of the next great novel of our time, but then stall through lack of confidence after a read-through of the first couple of chapters.
Break through that and keep going. The later parts of the book will be easier to write than the opening chapters, where you will find your style and your rhythm. I rewrite my opening few chapters more than any other part. Just accept that and keep going.
Write it how you like it
I set out with one goal whenever I start a book, and that is to write something I like. It might be that your ambition is to write for fun, not to be published, but whatever your motivation, there is no point if you don’t like what you have written. Write what you want to read, not what you think other people want to read.
So don’t follow trends or piggyback other ideas. Don’t write about a boy wizard who goes to wizard school just because Harry Potter was very popular. Write it only if you like it. A story written by someone whose heart wasn’t in it will be just a book without heart.
If you write what you like, all you can hope for is that other people like it too, and even if they don’t, at least you can be happy that you think it is a worthy piece of work. You can hardly expect other people to like it if you don’t like it either.
Be prepared to cut out things you like
One of the hardest things about rewriting is editing out passages or phrases you like, because they sound good or convey a certain message. To put it bluntly, if something doesn’t add to the story or character, get rid of it.
Not one reviewer will say, ‘Poor story, but it was worth reading the whole book for that second paragraph on page thirty-seven.’ If it is a good story, the removal of irrelevant passages, however well written, will enhance it, rather than detract from it. On the other hand, if you can only write one good paragraph, stick to the day job.
