Exhausted but not wanting to go home, Grace ambled along the Thames in the gentle evening sunlight. The barges on the water had been emptied of their commercial cargo and were collecting refuse instead.
She’d made progress at the clinic but not enough to convince Conrad yet. Remy’s words on the phone echoed in her mind. You know where to find me.
Disappointment mingled with tiredness. It would be better if she could go to Remy with a definite plan, tell him that she had an agreement with Conrad that she would fix the therapy in return for his freedom. But she couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to see him.
She turned swiftly on her heels and took a left down a side road, a sudden spring in her step. She didn’t notice a shadowy figure behind her who also changed direction rapidly.
The Tube train was already at the station, doors open, as if waiting for her to step on board. It was past rush hour. She’d lost track of time. On the train she texted Dan to tell him she was working late – no kiss or kind words.
No reply.
Arriving at the familiar East End station, she felt as though she was split into two – Grace and Gracie – at once feeling at home and alien. On the surface, things appeared very different from the last time she’d been here. Coming out of the station, she moved along the pavement and looked more closely. There was so much hidden beneath the veneer of the new, and she started to recognise things, as if they were markers on a map drawing her back to her old life: a wall where she and Remy had once scrawled their names, the lamp post under which Lottie had claimed her patch, the local shop from which they’d nick the odd item when times were hard.
She turned down a street, past the old gasworks, which was now an air purifying station. Veering around the corner into the alleyway that led to Lottie’s, the small two-up two-down where Grace had spent much of her childhood, her knuckles caught on the rough wall, grazing the skin. Ghostly echoes seemed to bounce off the brickwork: the shouts of the kids they used to play with, a twelve-year-old Remy laughing as he ran to escape the police after shoplifting sweets, the grunts of a punter leaning up against Lottie, Gracie and Remy puking after drinking too much alcohol before it was made illegal. ‘Last round at the bar!’ Remy had said over and over as she’d splattered the pavement with bile.
At the end of the alleyway, Grace gasped. All the old terraces had been demolished, obliterated, and replaced with neat cream-coloured houses with solar panels on the roofs and rainwater butts in the front gardens.
Where would she find Remy now?
She stood for a moment looking up and down the street, uncertain where to go.
Mal felt a little sorry for Grace Gunnarsson. She wasn’t what he’d expected. She was petite and fair, not unlike his Layla in some ways. He still felt bad for hitting her in the street a few nights ago. Sarge had told him to frighten her off. Biz had goaded Mal before he left the office, full of adrenaline: You won’t hit her. You’re chickenshit! He’d tried to impress Sarge and prove Bizzy wrong, but he was overwhelmed with guilt. He hoped that the attack might have made her give up on Tier Three so that things wouldn’t have to get nasty.
Mal had lain awake that night, thinking of how disappointed in him Layla would be, hitting a woman. In his mind he could still see Grace’s terrified expression when he’d leaned over her on the pavement. Bizzy would have enjoyed that, but not Mal. They were chalk and cheese.
Looking at her now, he couldn’t understand why Sarge considered her so much of a threat to Diros. He thought back to Sarge’s words – Could bring our whole company down … stop us having any more projects … prevent our mission … No one, no one is going to spoil the work we’re doing, not that bitch from Janus, and certainly not that fucking Remy Wilson.
He watched her finally turn and move off down the street. Why couldn’t she have just taken the hint and left Janus? The other one hadn’t though, had she? Sarge had sent Biz to ‘deal with her’. Bizzy hadn’t told him what he’d done to her and Mal hadn’t asked.
He hadn’t wanted to know.
Something really bad would happen to Grace too if he didn’t try harder to warn her off. He knew what Sarge was like – he’d stop at nothing to protect Diros. If Mal couldn’t persuade her to give up interfering in Aversion Therapy, then Bizzy would be sent to deal with her. Mal wasn’t sure exactly what Biz would do to her, but he couldn’t bear to think about it.
Grace didn’t want to go home yet. She sat in a small, cheap and cheerful bar, with strings of coloured lights criss-crossing the ceiling and plastic tables and chairs that were moulded and painted to look like wood. A few customers sat around in pairs or small groups, but Grace remained alone on one of the stools at the bar. She stared at the AltCon menu then finally settled on a coffee. While she waited for it, she took out her phone and called Shannon.
Shannon was lying in bed. ‘What’s the emergency, doll?’ she asked, her eyes half-closed.
On the screen from this angle, Grace could see that her shoulders were naked and an arm rested across her, dark hairs and a military tattoo of a dagger and rose with words in Latin that she didn’t understand.
‘God, sorry, I’ve disturbed you!’
‘Don’t worry about him,’ she smiled. ‘He sleeps like the dead now that he takes the meds to get over the PTSD.’
‘Why didn’t you bloody tell me sooner!’ Grace whispered, as though the man in bed with Shannon might hear.
‘I was just waiting to see if it went anywhere. Got to have some good points about living on the compound.’
‘I’m so pleased for you,’ Grace said, and she meant it, but then anxiety reared. ‘Who else knows?’
‘The lads all know, but they won’t say anything, band of brothers and all that. And the kids love him. The youngest two don’t even remember their dad, so it’s a big novelty for them having a man around the place.’ Shannon rubbed her eyes, smudging her mascara. ‘What’s happened to your face?’
‘It’s a bruise. I’ll explain later. Are you sure you’re okay to talk?’
‘Of course.’
‘That job Conrad offered me at Tier Three. I’ve got to take it. I don’t want to, but it’s the only way I can…’ She heard a waver in her voice, felt her lip begin to tremble. A single teardrop splashed on the bar top.
Shannon didn’t reply but lifted the man’s arm gently from her. The image on the shell screen showed the ceiling for a moment, and when Shannon came back into view, she was in the bathroom leaning against the door, wearing a peach-coloured satin robe.
‘What’s this about, Grace? You and Dan are on good money aren’t you?’
‘It’s not about the money,’ she replied, sniffing and keeping her head down to prevent anyone in the bar seeing her cry.
‘Then what is it about? Any time we’ve ever talked about Tier Three you’ve never had a good word to say about it. “Brutal torture”, I think were the last words you used.’ The phrase emphasised Shannon’s rolling ‘r’s and the sound stuck in Grace’s mind.
Shannon pursed her lips and waited, but when Grace didn’t reply she said, ‘What’s going on, doll? It’s not just the job, is it? Your reaction the other day, in the car. That man, the one on the run. Is he something to do with all this? What’s his name, Remy Watson?’
‘Remy Wilson,’ Grace corrected her.
She recognised that Shannon had picked up on something but had given her time and space. There weren’t exactly secrets between them, but a trust that they would tell each other things in their own time.
‘You know the Tier Three clients that have reoffended? One of them… that man… Remy Wilson… he’s my friend, well, more than my friend.’
Shannon looked puzzled.
‘You’ve never said anything before.’
‘We haven’t been in touch for a while,’ Grace admitted.
‘Looks like I’ve not been the only one keeping secrets.’ Shannon smiled sympathetically.
‘Aversion Therapy, it’s not working properly. They’re using synthetic fear to try to stop criminals offending, but…’
‘They’re reoffending,’ said Shannon, her face serious again. ‘I saw the reports.’
‘Yeah, Dan and I have had a massive row because he thinks it’s too dangerous for me to work there, but it’s okay for him to splash it all over NewsFlex. He’s put me at risk and now he’s spooked because I was attacked in the street…’
‘The bruise! Oh my God, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. But they know I work there. What if they come for me again?’
‘Maybe Dan’s right, Grace. Come back to Tier Two.’
‘I want to! But you see, I have to stay working there, otherwise Remy will…’ She sniffed hard and wiped her face with her sleeve as the bartender placed her coffee in front of her.
‘God, you’ve got yourself into a right mess, doll,’ said Shannon, kindly.
‘I could really do with one of your hugs right now.’ Grace tried to smile.
‘This fella, Remy,’ Shannon said. ‘I mean, I’m not one to judge, but are you sure you’re not playing with fire? Don’t do anything to hurt Dan. He’s a good man. He loves you. I know there are things you have to work through, but…’
Did Dan love her? He’d put his work before her safety. She wasn’t convinced. Not like she once had been – only a few days ago. So much had changed.
‘It’s not like that, Shan. Remy’s like a brother to me. I owe him. He always looked after me when I was a kid. I can’t let him down now.’ She kept her voice low as she said, ‘He’s on the run and if they catch him they’re going to send him to Tier Four.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I can’t even begin to describe what it’s like in there. I can’t tell you… it’s awful… I had to sign a special confidentiality agreement. Conrad must have had one of his cronies in government give it the green light, because he got the money and the permission from somewhere. But it’s all experimental…’
She sobbed.
Shannon remained in silent solidarity until Grace’s anguish and frustration had calmed. Finally, she said, ‘Okay, so what’s your plan?’
That was what Grace needed to hear – an inkling of hope that there was a way forward. She sniffed hard and said, ‘I’ve told Conrad I’m going to fix his therapy in exchange for being able to use it on an offender of my choice.’
‘Is it even possible?’
Grace jumped as a man slammed an empty glass down onto the bar next to her. She stared at it. AltCon wouldn’t be strong enough to use for what she had in mind. She’d have to get something on the street if she was going to make this work. There wasn’t enough time to order anything from pharma without having to go through metres of red tape, and she didn’t want to face difficult questions.
‘Can you do it, doll? Can you fix the therapy?’ asked Shannon.
Could she? Her mind wandered back to the alleyway, the portal between her past and her present, and she remembered a friend of Lottie’s who was a small-time dealer. A plan began to form in her mind.
‘I’m not sure, but I’m going to give it a good go,’ she said, sounding suddenly brighter. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘I only hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Oh God, so do I.’
When they ended the call Grace drained her coffee and made her way out of the bar.
Mal stood at the bar, pretending to sip his drink. He couldn’t piece together the entire conversation, but he was beginning to understand why Sarge was worried.
The main thought going through his mind as he left the bar was that Grace knew Remy Wilson. Wait until Sarge hears this!