Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (10 page)

And who would have done it, if
Riggers hadn't? Elaine couldn't drive. Half his neighbours had lost their
licences, or their cars, or both.

He had to get Riggers on the
other foot, and owing
Turner
something. Somehow.

His phone suddenly rang out in
his pocket, and everyone turned to look at him. He scrambled for it, anxious to
mute it, standing ready to take the call outside.

It was Riggers.

Was the little fucker psychic or
something? He cancelled the call, angrily. He hadn't heard from him since he'd
turned up that Saturday morning, nearly a week ago. It was Friday, now, and the
intervening days had been a depressing treadmill of failed job applications and
alcohol-fuelled introspection.

He turned his phone off
completely, and shoved it back into his pocket, before sitting back down. He flicked
through the magazine that his mum had left behind, and then cast it with a
growl onto a low table in front of him. Someone tutted. He folded his arms and
crossed his legs, sinking his chin onto his chest, trying to block out the
activity all around him. He couldn't escape from his own mind as easily.

* * * *

What a difference a week could
make! Emily rocked back and forth on her office chair, feeling a thrill of
superiority as she cast her eyes over the tidy, ordered workspace in front of
her. She yawned and stretched, then ran her hands through her hair. She couldn't
stop touching her new, shorter style. She'd shed the green bandana and
comfortable hippy clothes, replacing them with a sleeker and more professional
wardrobe.

New clothes, new you.

She'd called Nathan back, the
editor who'd offered her the job on the pretentious art installation, but the
work had gone to someone else. Undeterred, she ploughed on regardless, as if
she were fresh out of journalism school and making a name for herself.

She'd tidied the flat, had a free
makeover at the cosmetic counter of a department store, and blown her few
remaining pounds on some expensive foundation. It was all symbolic and she was
loving it.

She'd even, in a rash fit of new
maturity, phoned her brother's wife, Janey, and accepted a dinner invitation.
Matthew had been surprised to see her, and he didn't hide it. Emily didn't
care. This was the new her, and she was going to make it work.

With her contacts and her
experience, some work started to come in. Nothing totally definite - she had
some verbal agreements and some encouragements, but she was still waiting for
the commissioning orders in black and white. There were a lot of freelancers
chasing this work, and she was up against newly redundant staff writers. Still,
this was where her passion lay, and she was going to create her own future.

So she kept telling herself.

Just work harder.
It
stopped the doubts creeping back. She shook her hair, letting the
sticky-sprayed-tresses fall from her fingers. For all those people who believe
but never try…
I will try and I will do it.

Janey had been remarkably
supportive of her new look and new aims. After their dinner party, Matthew had
grumbled off to his study, claiming he had preparation to do for the next day's
caseload. Janey had helped Emily set up a dating profile online, and after a
few glasses of wine, it had seemed like the perfect solution.

A few more glasses, and Matthew
had had to drive her home.

There were now quite a few unread
messages in her inbox, offering to meet or trade more photos or, in one case, a
new life in Texas with someone claiming to be an oil baron.

Loads
of people met their
partners this way. It was like a modern arranged marriage.

Keep working.
Emily
noticed a new message pop up. To her delight, it wasn't another prospective
suitor, but from an editor at a magazine she'd never managed to break into.

Until now.

She couldn't help grinning.
Attached was an honest-to-goodness, real life, actual commission to examine
some of the cultural implications of a Polish filmmaker in Germany and his
latest film exploring the role of Nazi officers' wives in the second world war.
It was
exactly
the sort of thing she had imagined she'd do, when she
first went into journalism.

She grabbed the opportunity with
both hands, and a few clicks of the mouse later, she was deep in her research.

* * * *

The city centre bar was heaving
with bodies. It was early yet, not even nine o'clock, but Riggers was on his
third pint and Turner was sure he was snorting something every time he went off
to the gents. Which was frequently.

Other familiar faces from his
past swam around him in the crowd, and a few he recognised from his time in
prison. Everyone feigned delight at meeting each other, circling and assessing
like piranhas. Who was prey, tonight? Who would be the smallest fish? Who was
worth sacrificing?

Who was ready for a test?

Turner's head pounded already. He
had planned a different life for himself, during those long hours of bang-up.
Life, however, had other ideas. It seemed that the chains around a convict
remained for a lot longer than the nominal end of his sentence.

He watched Riggers with sober
eyes. Turner was drinking lager, but alternating alcohol-free with some
continental watery stuff. He didn't care what anyone thought of that. He was
old enough to not feel he had to prove he was a drinker.

He knew he had to prove he was a
fighter, though.

Riggers was playing him. As soon
as Turner had called him back, once he'd got home from the hospital with his
mum, Riggers had known he'd won. He hadn't even tried to hide his triumphant
glee, and he was still lording it even now. Now Riggers had Turner on board, he
was trying to make him sweat.

"Are you sure you're up to
this, mate? Cos you took some persuading, innit? I need to know you ain't gonna
pull out, have some sudden change of heart. Again."

Turner sneered down at Riggers
but he was oblivious to Turner's contempt. "Up to you," Turner said.
"I don't care either way."

"You need me," Riggers
said. "You fucking
need
me."

Turner did. When he'd dropped his
mum home, he'd seen how tired Elaine looked. How raucous the kids were. How
weary his mum was. They all needed a break. Just a few days away, somewhere
nice, somewhere warm. Elaine was doing all the work for her mum, and for the
kids. She was talking about finding a job once the kids were in school, but
where? How? And who would look after his mum then?

"You need me," Turner
told Riggers. "If you don't then I'll go home now."

Riggers shrugged. "Aww,
don't be like that, mate. Let's have another."

Another man lumbered over to
them, as wide as he was tall. His neck was thicker than Turner's upper arm, and
that was saying something. He was a classic sted-head, a steroid user, with all
the aggression and rage to match.

"Turner!" he bellowed
and enfolded him in a bear-hug. Any other man hugging in a public place would
have been laughed at. But not this man; not if you wanted to stay out of the
fracture clinic.

Turner let himself sink into the
repetitive and predictable banter of men on a night out, joining in the
insults, dancing carefully along the line between friendly chat and
knife-pulling comments.

A buzzing in his jeans pocket
dragged his attention away. He hauled the phone out and saw, to his surprise,
that it was Emily.

Emily, this late on a Friday
night? In fact, the fact of Emily calling him at all confused him. He hadn’t
expected to hear from her ever again, not since he cancelled that call the
morning after they'd slept together. It had made it very clear to both of them
that it had been a one-night stand.

He waved his hand at the
jabbering circle of men, and pushed his way to the corner of the club, fighting
out into the corridor towards the cloakrooms where the beat of the music didn't
penetrate as far. It was still loud, but at least he could hear.

She was bound to be drunk. It was
going to be one of
those
phone calls. The ones that made the case for
having a breathalyser fitted to your phone, to prevent these kinds of tearful,
accusatory and ultimately ill-advised conversations.

Nevertheless, he answered it.

Even filtered through the distant
pounding bass, she sounded remarkably perky. Sober, even. "Turner, hi. Can
you talk?"

"I - er, sure. Hi. Emily.
How are you?"

"Fine, actually. Really
good. Yourself? You sound like you're out on the town…"

"I am. Um, look. About last
week…"

"It was great, wasn't it? I
should thank you for a really nice night out. I needed it."

"Yeah, um…" He leaned
against the dark wall, letting a gaggle of girls teeter past on impossible
heels. "I enjoyed it." He genuinely had, but he was careful not to
sound too enthusiastic. He didn't want to lead her into suggesting they do it
again.

Luckily, she didn't seem to want
that. A pang of disappointment went through him when she said, "Don't
worry. I know it was a one-off, and I'm cool with that. And you were right,
about my article. Wasn't going anywhere. So sorry about that. I didn't phone
you again because… well, because I was a bit embarrassed, to be honest,
actually."

She sounded contrite and he
wanted to ruffle her hair, grin at her and tell her not to be a fool.

But she wasn't there. She was
just a voice on the phone. "It's okay," he said, lamely.

"So, anyway, something's
come up. Bit weird, this, but I thought I'd better let you know. I would have
rang earlier today but time ran away with me, you know? The thing is, you
remember that editor that I said was on holiday?"

He didn't, but he could hardly
admit that. "Umm, yeah…?"

"I thought he'd love the
article, and I was right. He rang me up today and said it was a goer. Thing is,
I've moved on."

Moved on?
What kind of
call was this? Turner shifted from foot to foot, concentrating on listening to
her words as another crowd of noisy people pushed past him.

"I'm not doing that kind of
story any more, and I told him so. He was okay with that, and he's got someone
else who's actually doing something similar anyway. I think he must have wanted
me to collaborate with him because papers don't - anyway, you don't need the
details. What I'm trying to say it, this other writer, he wants to interview
you."

"Right."

"And there is money in it
for you! Telling your story, I mean. This is a big newspaper. Honestly, it
would pay you pretty well. So can I pass your contact details on to him? Can I
give you his details? You can ring him, and sort something out."

"I'm in a bar. I don't have
a pen and paper to hand…"

"I'll text it over."
She sounded bubbly and excited and it just served to make Turner feel lower and
darker. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

"You all right?"

"Yeah…"
No, you're
supposed to be pining for me. Like…
"Yeah, just a bit noisy here. I'm
out with the lads. Look, got to go…"

"But Turner-" Finally,
she sounded pissed off, and it gave Turner a horrible sense of pleasure.
Briefly. He didn't really want her to be upset, but there was no point in
talking to her. It made things worse.

"Thanks, Emily.
Laters." He ended the call while she was still speaking, and kicked the
dented skirting boards at the bottom of the wall. The bouncer at the end of the
corridor was standing half-in, half-out of the door, lighting a cigarette, and
he looked up at Turner's fit of temper.

Turner spread his hands wide in
apology as he moved back towards the bar. "Sorry mate, sorry."

The bouncer glared. Turner took
the anger and added it to his own, balling it up into a fresh fire of
irritation deep within.

He was happy that Emily was
happy, truly he was.

It just wasn't fair that she was
happy without him.

Turner's attitude on the phone
had annoyed Emily more than she expected. Her sleep that night was fitful and
restless, but she refused to credit him with that. Instead, she rose early and
went for a walk, ambling through one of Manchester's parks with a notebook
ready in her handbag. She'd stopped at a coffee shop on the way home, feeling
smugly metropolitan. She then collected an armful of the weekend papers and
returned to her flat, ready to spend the rest of Saturday slobbing out and
relaxing.

It was always a temptation, as a
freelancer, to work all hours of the day and night when a big job came in. She
did intend to polish her article later that evening, but for now, she embraced
the free time and indulged herself.

When you didn't have any work,
you didn't get to appreciate relaxation either.

So when, mid-morning, Turner
called her mobile, she was almost annoyed. She'd put him out of her mind, and
she nearly didn't take the call. On the seventh ring, she answered, ready to be
cross with him.

"Hiya, Emily, how're
you?"

"Good thanks. Yourself?
Worse for wear this morning?"

"No, not too bad. I wasn't
really drinking last night."

"Did you have fun?"

There was a pause.
"Yeah," he said, flatly.

"Sounds it."

"Can we meet up?"

It took her by surprise, that,
and her pulse rate shot up. "No."

She had obviously surprised him,
too, and he sounded affronted. "I - oh. Look, I mean, about this guy you
want me to ring. I just want to talk about it with you first."

Oh really?
"What about?"
She loved the sound of Turner's voice. She wanted to see him. But she wasn't
going to be anyone's little game, and she wasn't going to fall for him. She'd
been so productive this last week - without him in her head. This was the new
Emily, and she wasn't anyone's plaything.