Chapter 54
Lucy - Present
“Stop pacing. Jesus Christ, the pair of you will ruin my floor,” Henry says, pulling up the TV.
“I can’t, I should be there. He’s in the fucking wolf’s den.”
“He’s at the BBC, Kara.”
“Lucy,” I correct.
“It’s not like he’s going to get murdered on national television.”
“Murder may be kinder. Those people are vultures.”
He snorts, but doesn’t reply.
I pull out my phone, looking at the last messages I received from him.
I'm in makeup, being glammed up.
Owen
You don't have all day.
Haha.
Owen
Any trouble?
Apart from an overly zealous security guard. All good.
Owen
Be safe.
Always
Owen
That was two hours ago. Henry has uploaded the content of the hard drive to his secure server, and is in the process of sending some key documents to each of the news outlets where they will release whilst Owen is live on TV.
We are hoping the BBC will react in the exact way we planned. For them to use the opportunity to grill Owen whilst he’s on air. Although, what they won’t realise is it’s from him, so they are giving him the ideal platform to speak his truth.
“Is he on yet?”
“Coming up next,” Roman answers from the doorway.
“What is it with you and lingering in doorways?” I mumble, looking over Henry’s shoulder. “Is that his NCA contact?” I point to one of the screens where he has an electronic file, a picture of a man displayed; middle aged, silvering hair, brown eyes.
Does he only know hot people?
“It is,” Henry replies. “He looks honest.”
“You can tell that from the picture?”
“No, I tell that by the fact that his record calls out multiple cases where he has gone against the grain and gone after those that no one would ever have tried to—including none other than John Weston.”
“Well, if that’s the case, he must have balls of steel to go after the Covenant. Shame the fat fuck is dead already.”
“We can also thank Nick Amory for the multiple hits on the Westons operations in Liverpool.”
“That fucker,” Roman says, joining us in Henry’s darkened study. “He cost us millions.”
“I like this guy already,” I say, grinning. Roman gives me the stink eye. “Come on, Roman, you know how hard it would have been to coordinate those hits?”
“How do you know?”
“Know what?”
“About the hits at the docks.”
“I’m not exactly in the same line of business, but Apex hears things. Anyway, shut up. I think this is it.”
We all turn our attention to one of the screens, and Henry mutters, “Showtime,” before clicking away. “Okay, done.”
He leans back, his hands going behind his head, his bulging muscles hugging his t-shirt.
“Let’s watch in the living room,” Roman suggests as Henry grabs the laptop, nodding.
I walk quickly and take my seat on the sofa, the men joining a moment later. The screen flicks to the BBC where Owen has now joined them in the studio.
My leg bounces up and down, my hands constantly fidgeting as nervous energy flows through me, along with a dose of anxiety.
I glance across at Henry, his features illuminated by his laptop.
Roman sits on the large red sofa, and I lean forward and watch.
“Owen Cooper, thank you so much for joining us this morning. I must admit, you’ve been creating quite the storm.”
“Nice to see you both,” Owen replies. He looks at ease, smartly dressed and oozing confidence. I don’t know how he makes it look so easy.
“We were honestly surprised that you took the interview based on some of the stories that have been circulating.”
I frown, and glance across at Henry. “What stories?”
Henry ignores me.
“I think people deserve the truth. Regardless of how uncomfortable it is for me. I will start though by saying not everything they publish is true, and I hope people are intelligent enough to know that the whole point of these stories is to create noise and click bait.”
“And that’s what this was? Click bait?” one of the interviewers asks.
“Yes and no,” he admits. “Everyone has a past and I am no different. But bringing my loved ones into it, is not okay. I appreciate that me being in the position I am in will put a target on my back, I signed up for this. But my family, they didn’t, and that has got to stop.
The complete disregard by the tabloids that at the end of every story is a person who has feelings, that their words hold power, that they could use it for so much better. ”
“So, Owen Cooper, or should we call you King? What is your truth?”
Holy shit!
“How the fuck did they get his name? You said it was buried.”
“Come on, Kara,” Roman replies.
“Lucy,” I interrupt. “It’s Lucy.”
“Nothing is ever buried, you know the power he has.”
“They found out,” I say standing, pacing.
“There goes my carpet again,” Henry mutters.
I whip round quickly, pointing. “No one is going to trust him when they see his record.”
“He didn’t want you to know for a reason Ka—sorry, Lucy. It still feels weird calling you that,” Henry says. “He has a plan.”
“Of course he has a plan. He spent seven years with Luca, the man has clearly rubbed off on him,” Roman says.
“That’s why he didn’t want me to go with him,” I announce. “That’s why he was withdrawn last night. He’d seen the stories, why wasn’t I told?”
“There was nothing withdrawn based on the sounds coming from your room last night,” Roman says, and I want to punch him in the face again.
“Fuck off, Rook. Haven’t you got a prison to get back to?”
The fucker just smirks at me.
“He didn’t want to tell you, Lucy, because he is protecting you—”
“But how can I protect him if I don’t know?”
“What makes you think he needs protecting?”
“Have you forgotten why he is sitting on national TV?”
“You’re right, my name is Owen King. I was born in Fulham Hospital on the 18th of September 1990. I grew up in foster care. My foster mothe—my mother—is everything a person could want in a Mum. Caring, loving, supportive, but firm.” He smiles when talking of Maria, and my heart warms.
“And your father?” the interviewer probes.
“My foster father was abusive,” he answers tersely. “I may talk about my mother fondly, but my foster father.” His jaw clenches on a swallow, pausing. “Not everything about my childhood was a kind one. When I was twenty, I was arrested for his murder.”
The interviewer doesn’t say anything, just lets what Owen has admitted settle, and rather than ask more questions, Owen jumps in.
“But as you can see, the fact that I’m sitting here in front of you today says that it wasn’t true.
I was charged and spent seven years in His Majesty’s Wandsworth Prison.
You already know that, though, you ran the story yourselves.
What was the headline you chose? Corrupt Cooper.
” He smiles at them. “I was charged, I was serving time, I was released with a full pardon, yet I’m still corrupt.
Can you see why I would change my name? The press would grip hold of it, and any good I was trying to do, any change I was trying to bring.
You would ignore the good and pull through the bad.
Because that’s what the media in this country does. You do what you’re told.”
“I don’t think—”
“No, I’m talking. And you’re going to listen,” Owen says firmly. “I want change. I will answer all of your questions, and I will answer them honestly. But let me ask you, where did your story come from? Your source, did you trace it back?”
No answer.
The interviewers look at each other, then turn to Owen.
“So, you’re not guilty then?”
“The only thing I’m guilty of is trying to hide my past. I’m guilty for changing my name, and to that, I apologise. I lied to you, the British public.”
“You’re also launching a new political party. What was it you said, based on honesty and transparency—Not off to the best of starts is it…”
“I know it was wrong, but seeing the stories, surely you can see why. What hope would I have had?” Owen answers. There is nothing dishonest in how he is answering. He’s firm but fair.
“So, I’d like to re-introduce myself. My name is Owen King, a man who has come from nothing.
I was abandoned in a cupboard of a clothes store by my mother at the age of four.
I went through the foster system which is fundamentally broken, and was abused by my foster father.
I was convicted of a crime that I never committed.
” He pauses and looks to the interviewers.
“Yes, I’m starting a new political party, why?
Because this country is broken. And you, the media, the very independent BBC. You’re all part of the problem.”
The interviewer flushes, and he has them completely over the barrel.
“What would you do if you were in power?” the interviewer asks.
“What would I do? I’d change it all. The whole political system.”
“The political system that the very foundations of this country have been built on?”
“The political system that lets little boys get rehomed in abusive households. The system that allows people to block up hospital corridors because they can’t get the help they need.
The political system that has people being unable to heat their house and feed their children.
The political system that rapes the poor and rewards the rich.
The political system that’s fuelled by corruption. ”
“That’s a strong accusation,” the interviewer remarks—the interviewer who also happens to be on the payroll and received multiple back handers to ask the right questions at interviews.
To not probe where other interviewers would.
Who would enable whoever was being interviewed to misdirect and ignore the questions they were there to answer.
Owen looks at them, smiles, and tilts his head. “How is your bank account on the Cayman Islands?” he asks, and she hesitates for a moment. It’s there, it’s a flash, but it’s enough.
“Well, thank you so much for coming this morning,” the interviewer says, changing the subject.
Owen leans back and smiles at the other man on the sofa who’s frowning at the question, confusion wrinkling his forehead.
Obviously being spoken to over the earpiece.
“We will look forward to seeing what changes you bring in.”
“It’s starting right now, isn’t it?” Owen asks, looking at the second interviewer. The man looks pale, and he nods.
Small and single.
He smiles.
“Now for weather with Susanne,” the first interviewer says.
And the picture cuts to the weather.
We’re now blind and waiting for Owen to message.