Chapter Five Out Field #2
Jude took the papers from him, fingers brushing long enough to spike Warren’s pulse. The faint sting of dry-erase ink clung to Jude’s skin, layered over the sweetness of his aftershave, and threaded through it all came the tang of sea air drifting from the open corridor windows.
It hit Warren like a contrast he’d forgotten how to breathe in. No sweat-soaked gyms. No coke-buzzed bravado. None of the smoke-stained, testosterone-choked worlds he usually walked through. Jude wasn’t part of that. He was too clean for it.
Too sweet.
But Warren could see it in the way he moved, the quickness in his eyes, the quiet guard never fully dropping.
He’d been though hardship. He carried it, quietly, beneath the humour and the charm.
And that was the hook. That was what lodged deep in Warren’s chest. The strength paired with something breakable underneath.
The exact kind of man he should’ve been smart enough not to want.
“Trade welcomed.” Jude clutched the papers to his chest. “Need these to get the GCSE History field trip signed off.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand. “If I can find another teacher willing to give up a weekend to trail round another boring castle, that is.”
“Another boring castle?” Warren tilted his head. “Those your words?”
“Obviously not.” Jude’s mouth quirked. “I find castles fascinating. As we all should. They can teach us a lot.”
“Yeah?” Warren leaned in a fraction, more instinct than choice. And because he wanted to smell more of that subtle, spicy cologne radiating off Jude’s skin. “Like what?”
“That people don’t change much.” Jude’s voice softened, almost thoughtful. “Power. Fear. Control. It’s all carved into the stone. Same patterns, different century.” He caught himself then, gave a quick laugh, and shook his head. “Sorry. You didn’t sign up for a lecture.”
“Didn’t say I minded.”
Jude looked at him properly then, eyes narrowing behind the glasses as though weighing the truth of it. Testing if Warren was taking the piss.
He wasn’t. Not even close.
And for the first time all day, he wasn’t sure he was playing a role either.
The corridor hummed faintly with the muffled clatter of classrooms reawakening after lunch, but here it felt suspended.
Just the two of them. Jude, clutching the papers tight to his chest as if they were armour.
Warren, still dangling the crisp packet between his fingers like a peace offering.
He told himself he was trying to read the man—properly read him—past the surface level attraction he had no business entertaining.
That was what he should be doing. The job. The target. The cover.
But before he could, a thunder of Year Tens crashed down the corridor, half-tucked shirts, booming voices, barging shoulders, no sense of space. The spell broke in an instant.
Jude stepped aside, sliding into teacher mode with ease. “Shirt in, George, please.”
The group barely acknowledged him. Muttering. Laughing. Not breaking stride. And before Warren could even think about what he was doing, he barked, “Oi! Lads!” Voice cutting like a whip through the corridor.
Five boys halted mid-step, turning as one. Eyes wide, postures snapping straight as if they’d been barked at by a drill sergeant.
“Mr Ellison gave you an instruction.” Warren folded his arms, crisp packet dangling from his fingers and muscle pulling beneath the polo in a way he knew landed without him needing to say more.
The lads noticed. Of course they did. He did it for them. But it was Jude’s gaze, lingering a beat too long, making the heat creep under Warren’s collar.
Christ. He fancies me.
Normally, Warren would’ve marked that as a win.
Leverage. An easy in. But he wasn’t meant to be playing the honey trap game here.
And the reaction hitting him was something else entirely.
Not tactical. Not useful. It stirred low and deep, in places he hadn’t dared imagine, desires he’d buried under years of discipline.
And suddenly, standing there in a bloody school corridor, Warren felt the ground shift beneath him.
The tallest lad, already sprouting a patchy beard with trousers hanging halfway to his knees, grumbled and tucked his shirt in.
“Good lad.” Warren got himself back in check. “Now do everyone a favour and invest in a belt. We don’t all need a front-row seat to your Tesco boxers.”
Mumbled replies and laughter went off down the corridor.
Jude raised his eyebrows. “Nice delivery.”
Warren shrugged, suppressing a smirk. “Keeping the Worthbridge standards high.”
“And the waistbands, I see.”
That pulled a laugh out of him before he could stop it. And Jude smiled back. Unguarded. Striking in a way Warren hadn’t prepared for. He caught it. Filed it. And told himself, again, this was part of the job. Befriend him. Build trust. Ease him in gently.
Even if that smile landed harder than it should have.
But his training reminded him of the more important detail, though.
The Year Tens hadn’t listened to Jude. Not until Warren stepped in.
That didn’t sit with the idea of Jude as someone grooming for Reid’s benefit.
He was liked, maybe. But not feared. Not obeyed.
Not a ringleader. See-through, in some ways. That could make him perfect cover.
Or maybe Jude Ellison wasn’t here to recruit at all.
“I’d better…” Jude waved vaguely towards the Humanities block.
“Sure.” Warren stepped back a pace. Then he pivoted, unwilling to let it end there. “So… this quiz team you’re on?”
“Captain of.” Jude rolled his eyes, nodding to the crisp packet in Warren’s hand. “Unless you’re here to strip me of that too.”
“Wouldn’t dream of stripping you.”
Jude’s gaze dropped quickly and unguarded, before snapping back up as another group of kids thundered through the corridor giving him the chance to slip back into teacher mode. “Where’s your tie, Melissa?”
Deflection. Clear as day. Warren clocked it, and the chuckle slipped out before he could stop it. He liked Jude’s flustering around him. How his throwaway lines landed hard enough to paint colour across his cheeks.
Liked it far too much.
Melissa tutted. “In my bag, sir.”
“Then put it on, please.”
“Yes, sir. Just had netball.” The girl ruffled in her bag, then flicked her tie around her neck.
When the corridor cleared, Jude looked back up, meeting Warren’s eyes again as if nothing had happened. “So. The quiz team?”
“How do I get in?”
“By proving your general knowledge.”
Warren spread his arms. “Sports buff.”
“That’s one round. There are ten.”
He leaned in, dropping his voice enough to filter into Jude’s space. “I binge reality TV. The tackier, the better.”
Something glimmered in Jude’s eyes. Surprise. Amusement. Maybe more. And then a small laugh escaped him. “Alright. You’re in. We’ve been lacking a specialist in trash TV.” He then scribbled something on the edge of a worksheet and slid it across. Dog and Duck. Seven tonight.
Warren tucked the paper into his pocket. “See you there, History.”
Jude turned, and Warren found himself watching him walk away with his smile fixed.
And that was concerning. He blinked out of it, forcing himself back into the moment, and pulled out his phone.
Not the regular one. The sterile, encrypted one reserved for personal observation.
He needed to log this before the ease of it took root.
Data Point One: Jude Ellison.
Observation: Accepted social invitation (Dog and Duck, 7 PM).
Subject demonstrated unexpected ease and genuine humour when engaging with the Mr Bailey persona.
Connection established under false pretence of “trash TV specialist.” Risk Assessment: High.
Unnecessary social contact. Deviation from surveillance-only protocol.
Must maintain distance. Objective remains: assess ties to Callum Reid, not initiate personal relationship.
He pocketed the phone. The slip of paper was still warm in his hand. Dog and Duck, seven tonight. He forced a professional chill back into his spine. No. It was an operational meet. Nothing more. If he let the amusement, maybe more in Jude’s eyes take hold, he wouldn’t be DS Beckford anymore.
He’d be a man in a town where he didn’t belong.
And that was the quickest way to end up dead.
* * * *
He repeated that lie again later that night, standing before the bathroom mirror, smoothing a thin layer of moisturiser into the stubble along his jaw. This was an opportunity to observe Ellison in a social setting. Professional. Operational.
Not personal.
He gathered his locs into a high band, then released half of them, letting a few strands fall loose.
Casual, but not careless. The kind of effort that looked effortless.
Then from the counter, he picked up the aftershave he’d bought at the local Boots.
A cheap, citrus-heavy stand-in for the one he’d left behind in London.
The scent clung too bright, too sharp, not him.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe he needed to smell like someone else tonight.
Too much of himself was in this op already.
Stepping back from the mirror, he straightened his shirt, checking the fit where the fabric stretched across his chest. Enough to suggest, not to show.
Blending. Playing the part. PE teacher. Quiet.
Confident. Trustworthy. He leaned closer again, searching his reflection for cracks.
Anything that might give him away. The mission. The conflict.
The other thing.
Behind him, the bathroom door creaked open.
“Didn’t hear you come in.” He didn’t take his eyes off his reflection.
“Not like you to miss someone creeping up.” Naomi stepped into frame, folding herself onto the toilet lid as if it were her office chair. She crossed her legs, giving him a leisurely once-over.
Warren kept still. Allowed it.
“Who’re we impressing?” she asked.
“Just fitting in with the staff.”