Chapter Eleven Razor #2
They cuffed me as a matter of course, then walked me down to the wall phone which was a concrete, bolted handset, and a guard standing close enough to hear me breathe. Thank fuck I hadn’t burnt my credit yet. Hadn’t called Keeley. Or Mum. Probably should’ve. But that meant I could do this.
I dialled the number I knew by heart.
I didn’t know what time it was. Nor if he’d even answer and accept the call once the automated voice told him a prick from Pentonville was calling.
The guard leant in. “Four minutes. Then it cuts.”
I nodded. My mouth was dry.
Then through the earpiece, “This call may be recorded…”
The line clicked.
Accepted.
Relief punched through me so hard it nearly took my knees out.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Rich!”
“Len.” I shut my eyes. “I’ve got four minutes. Cuss at me later, yeah?”
A beat. “If you’re asking for money—”
“No.” I dragged a hand down my face. “No. I ain’t.
Just…listen.” I turned, back half-angled to the guard.
Pointless, I knew. He could hear everything.
So could whoever was listening from wherever they listened from.
But it felt like something. “There’s a chance I could get bail.
A real one. I’ve got a new defence team.
Proper. They reckon they can get me out. ”
“New defence team, huh? Convenient.”
“Yeah.” I blew out a breath. “But I need somewhere to go. An address. Something to give the courts so they know I’m not running.
A guarantee. I can’t go back to my place.
It’s not mine anymore. I can’t go to Mum’s.
Or Keeley’s. Or Tyler’s. Or anyone tied to me.
” I tightened my grip on the edge of the phone. “I’ve got no one else, Len.”
The silence on the line was heavy. Huge.
“If I stay in here, it’s gonna get worse. For me. For people on the outside. I can’t fight this from in here. I can’t keep anyone safe from a fucking cell.”
The guard shifted beside me. Cleared his throat.
I didn’t look at him.
“Please.” I stripped it right back. No bravado.
No posture. “I know I’m a fuck-up. I know you hate Razor.
Hate what I turned into. But I need you.
Not him. Me. Rich. I need my best mate. The only one I trust. The only person who’s seen all this shit and still knows I can do better.
” I swallowed hard. “And I will. I’ve got a reason now.
Like you said you hoped I’d have. And I do.
A real one. Cause you were right. You’re always fucking right.
And I just need a chance to prove I can be better.
That I’m worth holding onto. That I can be someone… To someone.”
Silence.
The seconds stretched. I could almost hear the clock ticking down on the wall phone, each one another nail in it.
Then Lennon said, “I’ve got twins now, Rich.”
“I know.” My chest tightened. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t have anyone else.”
“I’ve also got your sister and Maisie here, too.”
That hit me square in the lungs. “You do?”
“Yeah. Funny thing is, she doesn’t feel safe in that house.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, breathing through it. “Yeah. She’s right.” My voice went rough. “Thank you. For taking her. How is she? And Maisie?”
“Scared. On edge. Misses her big brother.”
“I miss her too.” My throat burnt. “And I want to be there. For her. For Maisie. For you. For your boys. I want that, Len. I want it so fucking bad.” Tears slipped free. I wiped them away with my sleeve, furious at myself. “I want to get this right.”
A faint beep cut in. The warning tone.
“Please, Len.”
There was a breath on the line. A long one.
Then the beeps started their countdown.
“Len?”
The line clicked dead.
I slammed the receiver back into its cradle. Hard. “Fuck.” Then punched the wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I rounded on the guard before he could stop me. “I need another call.”
“No. You’re done.”
Fuck.
They marched me back to seg, cuffs biting, limbs heavy, every step echoing. And somewhere between the corridor and the steel door, the decision settled in me—solid, undeniable.
I had to get out.
Of here.
Of the firm.
Of everything that had shaped me, owned me, corrupted me from the inside out.
Nothing good ever came from poison.
Not even the pretty kind.
* * * *
Tristan
The twenty-four hours since I’d left the prison passed in a blur of discipline and denial.
I’d written the attendance note in the car before the image of Razor’s injuries had time to settle properly in my mind, documenting swelling and blood and the precise language of segregation as if accuracy alone could contain it.
I’d forwarded it to Mercer with a single word in the subject line—urgent—then gone straight back into court, standing on my feet through two procedural hearings as though nothing inside me was splintering.
That night I cross-checked the original bail refusal, annotated the CPS objections, and drafted a briefing note for Imogen, stripping the emotion out and leaving only the risk.
Risk created by the state, risk it had failed to manage.
And yet, even pared down to black-and-white argument, my heart beat hard behind my ribs.
It probably didn’t help that I’d done all of it wearing Razor’s black shirt again.
By morning, I was running on coffee, adrenaline, and the thin, dangerous line between professional detachment and something far more exposed as I walked back into chambers, ready to argue for a man I wasn’t supposed to care about at all.
The moment the door closed behind me, Imogen gestured to the chair opposite her desk without looking up from the papers she annotated. “Talk to me.”
Mercer was in there, too. Seated to my left, laptop open, glasses perched halfway down his nose. He gave me a brief nod.
I sat. “Richard Slade was moved to a different wing two days after our initial conference.” I began with the most concerning update. “Without explanation. The stated reason was ‘operational necessity.’”
Imogen paused her writing. “And?”
“He was placed in proximity to known adversaries.” I stuck to the facts. To procedure. Anything that might steady my heartbeat. “Including an individual connected to a rival organised crime group. Within twenty-four hours, he was involved in a violent incident.”
“Instigated by him?” She wasn’t writing any longer, but nor was she looking at me.
“No. He reacted. And crucially, he was put in a position where that reaction was foreseeable.”
That got her attention. She looked up. Properly. Cool, sharp eyes that had dismantled KCs twice her age. “Injured?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
I exhaled through my nose. “Significantly. Facial injuries. Rib damage. Shoulder trauma. Enough that he was then placed in segregation.”
Mercer cut in smoothly. “We’ve requested the incident logs and segregation authorisation. They haven’t been served yet.”
Imogen’s mouth thinned. “Of course they haven’t.” She glanced back to me. “And when you attended?”
“I was denied access initially. I had to insist. On record.”
A beat. “On what basis?”
“Article Six. Legal professional privilege. Active bail application.” I kept my voice level. “They relented once a supervisor was involved.”
Imogen leant back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “So the state places a remand prisoner in harm’s way, fails to prevent foreseeable violence, injures him in custody, isolates him, then attempts to restrict access to counsel and refuses to take photos of his injuries?”
“That’s the thick of it, yes.”
“And your view?”
“That continued remand now presents a demonstrable risk to his safety that the prison has shown it cannot adequately manage.”
Imogen nodded and pointed her pen at me. “That is the correct framing.”
Relief flared.
She then turned to Mercer. “We reapply.” She then reached for a fresh sheet of paper.
“And let’s be clear, this is not about Richard Slade in isolation.
I’ve done my research. You were right to bring this to me, Tristan.
This case sits at the intersection of organised crime, political proximity, and reputational insulation.
Names appear in places they shouldn’t. This entire operation is not subtle.
And when defendants are moved, isolated, and injured without adequate explanation, I stop believing in coincidence. ”
She fixed me with a stare.
“And I’m not here because I am sentimental. I am allowing this because this has all the hallmarks of a David-and-Goliath prosecution. And I have very little patience for Goliath.”
Mercer nodded. Grim. Confirming without adding.
“So when I say we do this properly,” Imogen’s gaze flicked back to me, “I mean it. We do not hand the court a defendant who looks unstable, unmoored, or conveniently disposable.” She wrote on her paper.
“We move him. Or we don’t move at all. So, as we have to assume the judge will focus heavily on where he is to reside pending trial, returning him to any environment connected to this investigation exposes him to further harm and creates the very conditions the prosecution will claim justify continued remand.
We neutralise that by moving him.” She looked at me directly.
“Did you talk about that when you were with him? Did he give you an address not tied to all of this?”
I glanced at Mercer. Him back at me.
Imogen’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. “That wasn’t rhetorical, Mr Hale-Fitzroy.”
“At the time of my visit,” I chose every word carefully to not outright relay that we had a problem, “the bail address was unresolved.”
“Unresolved,” she tapped her pen on the desk, “is not an address.”
“I’m aware.”
Mercer glanced between us. “We can’t file without a bail address.”
“I know.” I shifted in my seat.
Imogen set her pen down. “Then you have a problem. Because without a verified, stable address, this application does not leave chambers. Not on my authority.”
I waited. Too long. The silence pressed in, but I couldn’t let it end there. I’d come too far for that.
So I blurted, “I could put forward Henry.”