Chapter Five Razor #2
“We’re having a vigil for Levi at the church on Sunday.”
My pulse stuttered.
“You should come.”
That was the biggest olive branch he’d offered since everything between us burnt to ash. And even though it filled me with dread, guilt, grief, and memories, I nodded.
“I’d like that.” I bowed my head. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Lennon gave one sharp nod, then headed towards the Tube.
I scrubbed a hand down my neck, drew a breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of my lungs, so I could walk into the magistrates’ court.
Because Darren was next.
And I had business with him.
I moved fast through the building, scanning the court boards for his name.
Court Three. Adult side. Figures. He’d crossed that invisible line now, the one where they stop seeing kids and start seeing problems. On my way there, I passed one of the youth court doors.
I couldn’t help glancing in as I went. Cause there he was.
Tristan. On his feet, defending some terrified kid.
Suit perfect. Spine straight. Every inch the man he was meant to be.
And for a stupid second, I forgot to breathe.
All I could think about then was that he’d gone to Lennon.
He’d found him in the scraps of half-mumbled words I’d given him while out of it on meds, pain and post-coital delirium.
Then he’d found him. Asked about me. Checked on me.
That did things to me. Knowing he’d cared.
He shouldn’t. I wasn’t someone to care about.
I forced myself on, headed for Court Three, because this wasn’t the time or place to lose my fucking mind.
Darren’s hearing had already started. It wasn’t a full trial.
No jury. No evidence bags. All paperwork and pressure.
One of those pre-trial things where they’d be boxing him in before the real fight even started.
And I eased open the side door, sliding into the back row with only a handful of spectators.
Darren’s mum sat hunched forward, twisting tissues in her hands.
She clocked me instantly and gave this tight, shaky look.
Could be gratitude. More likely fear. Something messy between the two.
To be fair, she’d chucked him out when Keeley had the baby, so she was half to blame for this clusterfuck.
But I nodded back, then looked at the dock.
Darren was behind the glass, cuffed, shoulders curled in, looking scared out of his fucking skin.
Worse when he saw me. He froze. Eyes wide as coins.
But I gave him a single, hard nod. The old one that meant stand your ground and now meant do.
not. flip. He swallowed hard and snapped his gaze to the judge as if he couldn’t risk looking at me again.
I leant forward.
Listened.
Darren’s solicitor stood, rumpled, knackered, already defeated. “Your Honour, my client is eighteen now, but the offence occurred at seventeen. These are possession matters at the lower end of severity—”
The prosecutor rose sharply. “Your Honour, the Crown objects. Evidence suggests Mr Murphy was acting under direction in a wider organised crime investigation.”
Cold prickled up the back of my neck.
The prosecutor was silk-smooth. “Considering this, the Crown seeks a Ground Rules Hearing and requests Special Measures under Section 17. Should the defendant provide evidence in connected proceedings, he will require protections as an intimidated witness.”
Darren’s solicitor’s head snapped up. “My client has not agreed to give evidence—”
“Not yet,” the prosecutor cut in, crisp as a blade. “However, police intelligence identifies him as being at significant risk of reprisal. We request anonymity provisions and restricted reporting.”
My jaw clenched so hard it popped. Special measures. Anonymity. Intimidated witnesses. That was snitch-prep.
The judge cleared his throat. “Given the Crown’s position, special measures are granted. The defendant is to be assessed by a police liaison officer for a potential placement with appropriate safeguarding arrangements.”
Appropriate safeguarding arrangements? That meant protective custody, right? Or secure accommodation. Packing a kid away so he could talk in peace.
Darren’s solicitor tried again: “My client is not cooperating with police in any form—”
“That may change,” the prosecutor said. “We simply wish to manage risk.”
Then came the kicker. The line that turned my blood into ice.
“And Your Honour, the Crown also requests the court note the potential relevance of Section 73 and 74 agreements under SOCPA, should Mr Murphy choose to provide substantive assistance in ongoing operations.”
I didn’t know the words. Not properly. But I knew assistance agreements. Knew what they meant on the street. Deals. Leniency. Reduced sentences. Information traded for safety. Snitch-prep in legal fucking Latin.
Everything inside me snapped tighter than wire.
The judge nodded. “The application is noted.”
I heard the rest through a haze and watched Darren shaking in the dock, pale as death.
His mum sobbed, shoulders collapsing. Cause he wasn’t going home today.
I couldn’t get to him outside these walls and offer my own substantive assistance.
He was heading back inside where the only people to get to him were the fucking investigators and everything of mine could unravel.
Movement at the corner of my eye caught me.
Someone else got to their feet in the public gallery.
Neat. Polished. Expensive suit. And this bloke leant forward to speak with the prosecutor, but when he turned his head, I recognised him in an instant.
It was the same man I’d had thrown out of the Velvet Lounge last night so I could fuck his date.
His eyes caught mine.
My stomach dropped clean off its hinges, and I stood so fast the bench rattled. I kept my head down. And didn’t wait to see if Wolfe followed my movement or even knew who I was.
I left.
And stalked the corridor with a billion things burning through my skull.