Chapter Four Tristan #3
My stomach lurched. “What? No.” I assumed he meant Razor, because what else would he mean?
For one awful beat, I wondered if he thought Razor had sent me, or worse, that Billy was here because of something tied to Razor’s world and I was the one he used as clean-up.
“I’m a barrister,” I said through gritted teeth, forcing steadiness into my voice. “This is me. At work.”
Lennon narrowed his eyes. “Rich know?”
A flare of heat shot up my spine at the implication. “Can we…” I glanced towards the courtroom, the usher waiting. “Can we talk later?”
Lennon released me, stepping back with a tight, reluctant nod.
“Go do your job,” he said.
And I walked into Youth Court with my pulse thundering in my throat.
It was half full when we stepped inside. Magistrates weren’t in yet, but the atmosphere carried a low, nervous hum clinging to first appearances. Billy and his mum slid onto the defence bench; I took the seat beside them, opening my file. Lennon stayed outside as he must.
The magistrates swept in. Everyone rose. We sat.
“Case of Billy Amos,” the chair announced.
The prosecutor rattled through the summary. Camden. Twelve wraps. No previous. Cooperative. No evidence of gain. No violence. Typical youth-case monotone.
I stood. “Your worships, Billy is thirteen. This is his first offence, and the circumstances strongly suggest exploitation rather than purposeful offending. He lives at home with his mother, attends school, and is well-engaged in positive community activities—most notably a youth boxing programme, from which his coach is present today. Removing him from the home environment at this age would be disproportionately damaging. Bail with Youth Offending Team support is appropriate.”
The magistrates conferred.
“Unconditional bail granted. Engage with the Youth Offending Team within seventy-two hours. Return in four weeks.”
Billy sagged. His mum cried, whispering thanks to anyone who’d listen.
“You’re going home.” I closed the file. “Stay there.”
The usher called the next name. We rose, filed out with the rest of the crowd, and spilt back into the corridor’s muggy heat.
Billy’s mum hugged Lennon, grabbed her son, thanked me and hurried off towards the exit.
Suddenly the corridor thinned, the crowd peeling away until it was just me and Lennon caught in the stale, muggy heat.
He jerked his chin towards the doors. “Got two minutes?”
“I’ve got a small gap before my next case.”
I followed him outside onto the concrete steps, warm air kissing my cheeks and making me sweat beneath the blazer. There was the weather and whatever Lennon wanted to talk about. Highbury Corner blurred into a distant hum of buses, traffic, the city grinding on while my insides tightened.
Lennon stood a step below me, arms folded, gaze sharp enough to cut. “You’re a barrister?”
“I am.”
“Convenient.”
“For whom?”
He tilted his head. “You know exactly who.”
I glanced away because meeting his stare felt too much like stepping into Razor’s.
“Do you know why Billy Amos had wraps in his pocket?” Lennon seethed in front of me. I could tell he hated this, and I knew the exact reason.
“Because someone gave them to him.”
His laugh was a razor slice. “Wanna guess who the someone is? Same fucker you came to me about a few months back.”
My throat closed. Nothing I could say wouldn’t drag me into something I shouldn’t be anywhere near. Something I’d already let drag me under once.
Lennon watched my silence as if it confirmed every suspicion he’d been nursing. “You seen him?”
I stared at the concrete between us. “I hadn’t. Not until yesterday.”
Lennon snorted. “Yeah? Doing alright, is he? Or are you his defence counsel now, too?”
“No.” My voice frayed at the edges. “I’m not. And he’s not awaiting a hearing, and he’s not dead. That’s all I know.”
“His fucking sister’s got a new gaff down the Wick,” Lennon fired back. “His mum too. Brand new flat. Bought outright. They only get that if he’s doing alright, or he’s deeper in than before. And you’re here getting kids off possession charges—”
“I’m not getting kids off possession charges,” I cut in, heat rising under my collar. “I’m here to make sure they’re heard. That they’re not exploited. That a magistrate doesn’t stamp a criminal record on a thirteen-year-old just to make an example.”
“Yeah?” Lennon stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And what about Rich? You get him off his charges?”
“I—” Whatever my protest might have been died on my tongue as a familiar cloud of smoke set my pulse racing.
I turned towards the bottom of the steps, my heart kicking hard.
Because there he was. The man in question.
The guilty party. Phone at his ear, other hand clutching a cigarette.
In a charcoal-grey suit, sharp enough to slice a man open.
No tie, but he didn’t need one, because his rough edges were polished enough to blend into this world, but not enough to hide what lived under his skin. He looked devastating.
And absolutely, unequivocally stunning.
“Yeah, I’m sortin’ it. Now,” Razor barked into the phone, then he glanced up and his eyes moved from me to Lennon, back to me. Silent: What the fuck.
“Well, well, well.” Lennon squared his shoulders. “Bit early for the dead, eh?”
And at that, the space among the three of us tightened like a fist.