Chapter Eleven Tactical Surveillance #2
But this wasn’t about sex. This was about the way Jude made him feel like a bloke with nerves again.
As if every word might land wrong. As if touching someone could blow up in his face.
Warren had spent years training himself to walk into volatile rooms with a smile and walk out with a signed confession.
Sitting next to Jude on a school coach felt more dangerous than any surveillance op Warren had ever been on.
And he might’ve just shut a door without realising.
He stayed quiet. Even though everything in his training screamed at him to push. Gently. Subtly. He should pick up the thread. Ask about Jude’s weekend. Prod the edges. Wait for the lie, the tell, the trace of something hidden.
He should use the opening.
But he didn’t.
Because deep down, he didn’t want to force it. Didn’t want to risk spooking Jude. Didn’t want to watch him retreat again. Didn’t want to be the reason he did.
So he turned his head, looked out the window, and said nothing.
Beside him, Jude rifled through his bag, pulled out a stack of marking, and set to work as if nothing had been said at all. As if Warren hadn’t already failed the quietest test of trust.
The coach rumbled on.
And Warren sat in silence, berating himself. Not just for missing the moment, but for caring that he had.
Portchester Castle came into view after a few hours, a stone sentinel in the grey-blue sky, ancient walls weathered by salt and centuries. The grounds stretched wide and green, flanked by crumbling Roman fortifications and overlooking the still, silvery reach of Portsmouth Harbour.
The group spilled off the coach in a blur of zippers, backpacks, and teenage chatter fizzing with too much energy and not enough sleep.
Jude divided them into two groups of fifteen.
Warren took his half towards the old keep, trailing behind the castle guide and a trail of muddy trainers.
Jude led the rest along the curtain wall, already pointing out arrow loops and centuries-old stonework, his voice carrying with quiet confidence.
Warren watched him for a moment. How animated he was.
How history came alive in his hands and words.
He was sharp with dates, precise with detail, and somehow still made it sound like storytelling rather than lecture.
There was a light in him, something Warren hadn’t seen before. It was magnetic.
How did a man who used to sleep with a knife under his pillow, who used to be acquainted with a nasty bastard like Callum Reid, become a walking history nerd?
Warren couldn’t ask. Not when he was dragged into ghost tour trivia and stuck fielding questions from Lily and Lucas, who were now holding hands as if they’d invented the concept, poor Amelia trailing behind with a pout.
He didn’t see Jude again until lunch.
They regrouped on the grass in the main courtyard, the students scattering across the green to chat, lounge under the low trees, or wander as far as the staff’s supervision perimeter would allow.
A few headed towards the moat, clutching phones and whispering about ghost sightings; others climbed the grassy mound near the chapel ruins for a better view of the water.
Warren lowered himself onto the grass beside Jude as they handed out paper bag lunches, the trip pack-ups already going cold in their laps. Jude opened his, peeked inside, and grimaced.
Warren caught the look. “Tuna?”
Jude huffed a quiet laugh. “Should’ve claimed to be vegan. Swear they get better sandwiches.”
Warren dug into his own bag and pulled out a plain cheese. “Here. Swap.”
Jude glanced over, suspicious. “You’re trading cheese for tuna?”
“For you? Yeah.”
That earned Warren a look. Not quite a smile, but close. His cheeks flushed faintly pink, and Warren felt it land solidly in his chest.
So he grinned, waggled the wrapped sandwich at him. “Would it help if I said I really like tuna?”
Jude raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Warren shrugged. “Sure.”
Jude rolled his eyes but made the trade, the tiniest smirk tugging his lips as he unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Warren watched him chew, then forced himself to take a bite of the tuna. It was aggressively soggy. He swallowed with effort, trying not to show it.
Still, worth it.
Totally worth it.
After lunch, the group spilled back into the castle grounds for the afternoon’s activities.
The sky had darkened a little, low clouds pressing in from the harbour, casting a blue-grey hue over the ancient stone.
Seagulls circled overhead. The wind picked up near the high walls, carrying the scent of brine and age and something faintly metallic, like wet iron.
The students rotated between interactive stations set up by the castle’s education team.
Archery practice, a mini archaeology dig in a cordoned-off trench near the east wall, and a short interactive reenactment where volunteers were dressed in period garb and marched around the bailey like fourteenth-century foot soldiers.
Warren, to his horror and the kids’ absolute delight, was roped into a live demonstration of medieval justice and was dragged into the wooden stocks outside the old hall, handed a floppy felt hat doing nothing to protect him from the barrage of damp sponge balls hurled in his direction.
Jude’s laughter was louder than most.
Warren caught his grin before a suspiciously ripe tomato hit him square in the chest.
“Thought we were friends,” he called, voice muffled by mock indignation.
Jude smirked. “History favours the cruel.”
But later, when the group descended into the remains of the prisoner camp and its low, echoing stone corridors, the air colder and heavier with every step, everything changed. The chatter faded. The kids grew quiet.
There was something about the place. The walls whispered.
The ground seemed to hold onto suffering, the cold seeping into bones.
Shadows clung to the corners. The guide spoke in hushed tones about the prisoners who’d been kept there, some barely older than the students themselves.
And Warren stood at the back, watching the group move through the narrow space.
Jude stood near the front and wiped his cheek.
A tear? Or dust?
Warren wasn’t sure.
Because Reuben, right in front of Warren, belched, loud and grotesque, breaking the moment.
Warren shoved his shoulder. “Seriously? In here?”
“Ow, sir!” Reuben rubbed his head.
“Didn’t even touch you.”
Warren caught Jude’s gaze ahead. But it was short lived and they were back on the coach taking them to the hotel.
Check-in was a noisy mess of room keys and complaints about who got which room.
Each pair of students was assigned a room in a neat line along the second-floor corridor.
Jude and Warren placed at opposite ends by the stairwells, positioned like sentries at either side.
And they were granted ten minutes of reprieve before dinner.
Barely enough time for Warren to take a piss, swap his sweat-soaked shirt for something clean, and splash cold water on his face.
Fifteen years working for the Met in undercover gigs, gang units, surveillance on some of the worst London had to offer, yet somehow this felt like the hardest shift of his life.
Teenagers, hormones, damp socks, and crumbling castle walls.
Teachers didn’t get paid enough. Not by a long shot.
Downstairs, the hotel restaurant was a low hum of clattering cutlery, laughter, and overlapping conversations. The tables had been pushed together into long rows, the fixed menu laid out in front of groups of excitable Year Tens who hadn’t stopped buzzing since they’d stepped off the coach.
Jude sat further down with a cluster of boys, fielding questions about castle sieges, Roman engineering, and whether trebuchets could still technically be legal in a domestic dispute.
Warren spotted Alfie Carter among them. Quiet, withdrawn, but glued to every word Jude said.
Not just listening. Clinging. He made a mental note.
He’d have to log that later. The connection.
The dynamic. All of it. But for now, he slid into the spare seat at a nearby table with Lily and Amelia, who were halfway through their bread rolls and deep into a forensic dissection of who fancied who.
“You got a girlfriend, sir?” Lily asked, eyes wide with faux innocence.
Warren didn’t look up from unfolding his napkin. “That’s none of your business.”
“But you’re not married,” Amelia chimed in. “You don’t wear a ring.”
“Nope. Not married.”
“So… a boyfriend, then?” Lily grinned.
Warren huffed out a laugh. “Still no.”
“You’re fit, though,” Amelia added.
Warren folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Wildly inappropriate.”
“What?” Lily shrugged. “You’re a PE teacher. You teach fitness. We’re giving feedback.”
“Appreciate the professional assessment.” Warren shook his head.
“Amelia thinks Alfie Carter’s fit.” Lily nudged her mate under the table.
“Shut up.” Amelia glowed redder than Jude ever had.
Warren’s gaze drifted then, uninvited but inevitable, back towards Jude, seated at the table across the room.
Their food had arrived: chicken nuggets and chips, trip standard.
Jude was handing out ketchup sachets, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something one of the boys said.
Alfie Carter was next to him, more relaxed than Warren had seen him all day.
“Mr Ellison thinks you’re fit, too,” Lily said, smirking as if she’d won a bet.
Warren turned back to them, brow still arched. “Again, wildly inappropriate.”
Amelia grinned, mouth half-full of nuggets. “He keeps looking at you.”
“We’re colleagues. Teachers. Communicating. You know, to stop you lot walking into oncoming traffic.”
“No.” Lily popped a chip in her mouth. “It’s not that kind of look. It’s eyeing-you-up look.”
“Total crush energy.” Amelia nodded. “Same way he used to look at Alfie Carter’s new dad.”
That made Warren pause. “The mechanic?”