Chapter 25
Kara - Present
“You need to change the dressing.” Andrews nods to the blood that has seeped through to the blue shirt I’m wearing.
I pause, holding the fork to my lips, and glance down at the bullet wound. I shrug and pop the piece of chicken in my mouth. The three of us sit round a large wooden table in the dining room of Andrews’ plush safehouse in Weybridge.
This was less a safe house, more luxurious mansion.
Owen is silent, and still raging.
He’s clenching his teeth, the flitter of his jaw as he grinds his molars together. He’s staring at his food, where it remains uneaten, his own fork pushing the meal around the plate.
“Eat,” I instruct. Our eyes meet briefly over the thick wood, and he makes a point of taking a huge bite of food from his fork.
Petulant arsehole.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Andrews says, standing. “I think you two need to have a conversation.” He walks towards me and kisses the top of my head. “Clear the air, little one. I fear he may stab you with that fork otherwise.”
“Or you,” I muse as he reaches down and squeezes my shoulder gently. I place my hand over the top.
“And change your dressing. I’m going to see whether there are any leads, then we need a plan.”
“Okay.” I nod and take another bite as Andrews retreats, and I’m left with a seething Owen.
Silence descends.
Awkward, fucking silence.
“Does he know about the hard drive?” Owen finally asks.
“No. Unless you have told him. But he can be trusted.”
“I’m not even sure I trust you at this moment,” he says, and I recoil back in my chair as though his words are a physical punch. They hurt, like being stabbed in the fucking chest.
“Wow. Okay.” I throw my fork onto the plate, the sound of metal on ceramic breaking the silence that builds between us. I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for the explosion that I know is about to come.
“What the fuck, Lucy!”
“And there it is,” I mutter to myself, a small smile tugging at my mouth at how predictable he is.
“Shut up.”
“I don’t know why you’re angry at me. I’m hardly responsible for this current predicament.”
His stare pins me in place, his nostrils flaring, but says nothing. Instead, he leaps out of his chair dramatically, which falls to the floor on a loud clatter, and storms out of the dining room.
“Well, that went well,” I say to myself as I stare at the fallen chair.
Alone again.
How I’m used to things.
I tut.
How can things change so rapidly? Two days ago, things were normal. Getting my assignments, making cracking shots. Now…it’s all gone to shit.
A heartbeat. A shot. An assignment. A confession. My confession.
It hangs in the air between us like a shit-covered elephant. I know it needs addressing, but I’m not exactly sure how best to do it. I lashed out, I said what I said, it’s out there now, and I can’t take it back.
Our foster father, James, raped me, and whether I’m ready to say the words out loud, let alone admit them to myself, I blame Owen. And I wanted him to blame himself, too. And doesn’t that little confession make me feel like the biggest piece of shit?
I fucked him this morning because I didn’t want him to push me into talking about it. I’ve pushed him away every time he’s asked me; because I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that I blame him.
Because fifteen years later, I wonder what if?
What if he hadn’t left? Would James have got to me? But it’s not his fault.
Not really, because a person like James would have found a way, whether Owen had been there or not. And that right there is the real reason for this. It’s nothing to do with Owen.
Sure, Owen wanted to know what happened to me, so he could beat himself up some more, because he feels shit about leaving. But the real reason I pushed him away, the real reason I’m reluctant to revisit the past, is that I don’t want to know why he left.
Because what if the reason he left was because of me?
That’s my real fear.
You don’t truly understand pain until the person you love more than anything in the world walks away and you have no idea why.
I blink myself back to the present, my eyes staring vacantly at the mashed potato on my plate as shouts from the hallway pull my attention from the squishy substance.
“Fuck you.” Owen’s deep voice carries through the air, followed by the deep, placating rumble of Andrews.
I leave the half-eaten plate of food, my appetite long gone, and find Owen standing off to Andrews.
“Calm down,” Andrews says, holding up his hands.
“That’s not going to work, is it?” I interrupt, hoping to dispel whatever war path Owen is on.
“You took advantage of her, took her off the streets, and turned her into a fucking weapon when she was just a child!”
“Teenager.” I correct.
“Yes, I did,” Andrews says unapologetically.
“You know he took advantage of you?” Owen asks, glancing across from his position at the bottom of the grand marble staircase.
“Maybe.” I shrug, leaning against the doorframe. I thought we’d moved past this.
“Maybe,” he mutters, tutting, and turns his attention back to Andrews. “You’re a piece of shit.”
“And I don’t pretend not to be,” Andrews replies calmly.
“I find people who are at their absolute lowest. I take them in, I support them, I give them an education, I train them. You may see that as taking advantage of them. But I see it as giving them a lifeline, a second chance. We’re not so different, you and I, Owen. ”
“I’m nothing like you,” he spits, hands balling into a fist at his sides.
“Let me ask you something. Why are you a politician?” Andrews, who is standing at the top of the stairs, takes a few steps down. When his knees are at Owen’s eye level, he takes a seat.
“Because I want to make a difference.”
“Exactly.” Andrews snaps his fingers. “You want to make a difference to the people like you and Lucy. Those children who suffer, those very children who fall through the gaps in our so-called system and find themselves in prison, or worse yet, on the street…starving. It’s noble, Owen.”
“Don’t belittle me.”
He holds his hands up again. “I’m not. I’m being genuine, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. Better to paint me as the enemy whilst the person you’re really pissed at is yourself.”
I kick off the door frame, knowing that Andrews has hit the nail on the head, and it will most likely cause Owen to blow a gasket.
Another one.
Owen recoils back, and if he had something to throw at Andrews, I think he would. “You don’t fucking know anything about me.”
“Really?” Andrews asks, meeting Owen’s furious gaze. “You really want to pull that thread?”
“Reading the information collated from your fucking analysts doesn’t mean you know me.”
“Maybe not, but I know people. I know what drives them, I know their fears, I know what makes them tick. And you, Owen King, you say that you’re different.
Aiming to create a better future for those the corrupt system has forgotten about.
But let’s not kid ourselves to how you found yourself in the position you are in. ”
“What’s he talking about?” I ask.
“Come on little one, don’t be na?ve,” Andrews says as I stand next to Owen, who glances quickly at me before turning his attention back to Andrews. “You know, people who climb as quickly as Owen must have someone rich backing them. What makes you think Owen would be any different?”
“Luca Knight?” I ask, putting two and two together.
“That’s why he sent it to you. Really, Owen?
” I snort disbelievingly. “We are standing in the middle of a government fucking conspiracy with enough evidence to bring down the full cabinet, and what, your plan was to replace it with another corrupt arsehole, you?”
“Lucy.”
I hold up my hand, as an emotion I’m all too familiar with washes over me.
Disappointment.
I press my lips together and glance away, stepping back.
“You have become the very thing I despise. You stand there, spouting how you’re different. You try to save me from Andrews, the person who fucking saved me. When you walked away.”
I shake my head and swallow against a huge lump that clogs my throat. My eyes widen in surprise at the strong reaction I’m having at hearing this titbit of information.
Of course he’s being backed by someone, he would have to be, but Luca Knight? The man who wanted to try to take back control of the UK’s cocaine industry. The man that was part of the Covenant, the man that is a dangerous criminal.
Why him? Why not someone…honest?
“I’m nothing like them.” He recoils. “If you saw what was on that hard drive, the things these people have done—”
“What hard drive?” Andrews asks, interrupting.
Blood whooshes through my ears, heat spreading up my neck like someone has lit a fire in the pit of my stomach. An acid fire.
Why do I care so much? Why do I care he got money from Luca Knight?
Of course, I know why.
Owen was right about Andrews; he did take advantage of me. He takes advantage of the broken system to line his pocket. But so do millions of others.
What other choice did I have? I was desperate, and desperate people do anything to survive. So, I got in that car with Andrews on that fateful night and my life changed. At least Andrews is honest about what he is.
But Owen.
I so wanted to believe that he was different. That he could be the change that the young Lucy and Owen needed.
That he could be the hope this country needs, that spark of change.
But he isn’t.
He’s just like the rest of them.
A liar being backed by some corrupt arsehole that can pull the strings.
There’s something mesmerising about fire.
The way the flames dance in the fireplace, the logs crackling softly in the silence of the room. The golden light casting shadows that leap on the walls in perfect synchronicity to the flickering flames.
You’d think with my history of the naked flame I’d hate fire more, but I don’t. How can you hate something so beautiful?
Andrews’ hand appears before me, lightly swirling a glass filled with whiskey. The deep, rich smell of the amber fills my nose.
“Fettercairn, twenty-eight-year-old single malt whiskey. This is ￡750 a bottle, so don’t be obtuse and take the darn thing. You look like shit.”
“Gee, Thanks.” But I don’t argue. I’m too drained to argue. I take the glass out of his hand and lean back against the wing-backed chair.
“For the record, this room is a fucking cliché. I’m half expecting you to pull out a cigar and be wearing a smoking jacket.”
Andrews sits in the deep red leather chair that sits next to mine, both facing the fireplace. A small lamp sits in the corner, but other than that, the only light source is the fire. Behind us is an enormous billiard table.
The walls dark and moody, with floor to ceiling bookcases wrapping one corner made in a dark wood.
His game/library room.
“You never said you had this place,” I comment.
“We all have our secrets,” he says, staring at me, the light of the flame dancing in his eyes. “You’re distracted.”
“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner.”
“And being petulant with it, I see.”
I level him with a flat, unimpressed glare.
“Don’t push me away because you’re having an internal fight with yourself. You’ve got to get your shit together and plan what’s next. You both do. He’s all over the news, trending on most social media platforms. We can’t keep him hidden here; he needs to go back to Westminster.”
“And put him in the firing line? Are you mad?”
“Think about it as Kara. Not Lucy. Work through the problem.”
I’m silent as I think it through, taking a sip of the rich liquid, the explosion of flavour hitting my tongue.
“Treacle, melon, pineapple,” I muse.
“And…”
I taste it again. “Banana.”
He smiles at me. “Good girl. Wait for the finish of warm walnuts and vanilla. It’s my favourite.”
“I can see why.”
“Do you remember when I took you to Edinburgh?” he asks, and I smile, remembering the whiskey tour. “Your first taste of the stuff.”
“I was so sick.” I smile fondly at him, and he chuckles. There’s a moment of silence between us. “Thanks for coming today. When I called for the extraction, I didn’t think you would do it personally.”
“This is a high priority case, little one. Of course I’d be there.”
“The case,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips. He’d never admit it was because he was worried about me. Or cared for that matter. “You’re growing soft, old man.”
“I’ll have your tongue.” His eyes twinkle.
“Any luck on finding who put the hit out on me?”
“Nothing.” We sit in silence for another moment, the crackle of the fire filling the otherwise silent room. “You said something earlier,” he says.
“I said many things earlier.”
“In the hallway. He has a hard drive. That’s what made him a target?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“He said he would inform whoever was going to be assigned to him. I’m assuming that he has filled you in.”
“In some aspects,” I reply, taking another sip, “but not everything.” I shift in my chair, leaning forward and popping the glass on the antique table. The condensation drips down the crystal glass. “All roads lead back to Luca Knight.”
“And the Covenant?”
“Unsure.” I admit. “Looks like our mutual friend sent something to Owen before he died. Something that will see the whole of the government implode.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“I’ve seen the hard drive, but not the contents. I’m assuming Owen has, otherwise he wouldn’t need the protection—and he wouldn’t be so hell bent about who he passes it onto.”
“And who’s he passing it onto?”
“I don’t know. He’s waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus, Kara.” Andrews leans forward and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have too many unanswered questions.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I mumble. So many unanswered questions, and it’s doing my head in. I’m doing my head in.
“Where is he?”
“Showering,” I reply, arms folded over my chest, watching the flickering fire. “I need to talk to him. I’m just hiding in here a bit longer first.”
Andrews forces a smile. “You can’t fight this; you can’t fight him.”
“I can.”
He rolls his eyes, his lips quirking. “Always so stubborn. It’s one of your biggest flaws and will be your downfall. Too stubborn to ask for help, too stubborn to admit when you’re wrong, too stubborn to face your demons.”
“I’m not,” I say defensively. He quirks one of his eyebrows at me. I take a gulp of whiskey. “Okay, fine, I’m stubborn. But I’m not too stubborn to face my demons.”
“So, what are you waiting for?”
“Dutch courage, it would seem.”
He chuckles lightly. “Sitting in here by the fire won’t give you the closure you need.”
“Who says I need closure?”
“Years, Kara. Years you have carried that man around with you. Don’t lose your present to your past.”
“Oh God, he’s getting sentimental.”
“Not at all. But you can never fully say goodbye to Lucy until you understand why he left. Until then, you’re still a prisoner. You’re still that little girl hiding in the wardrobe.”