Gardner stopped the Christmas playlist.
Along with the mulled wine, it’d served its purpose in steering her through the laborious food preparation, but she’d now reached her limit on these pop classics.
She stood for a moment, enjoying the sound of her children in the other room constructing a train track. She’d invested in wooden toys, rather than plastic this year, and was glad to hear that she’d made the right call.
Then, she moved into the dining room, lit a few candles, so the room was bathed in the flickering lights, and thought of the house fire that had claimed the lives of retired architect, Nigel Beaumont, and James Sykes’ murderer, Elizabeth Sykes. Barnett had endured a raw deal with third-degree burns on his legs. Gardner had paid a smaller price with mild smoke inhalation and stitches in her palm.
Gardner sighed. She often thought of Elizabeth’s refusal to be saved, and those last words again:
It’s inside of me. Of us. Let it burn.
What was she referring to? Evil? Madness? Both, perhaps?
Who could ever know for sure?
One thing was certain, though. Elizabeth’s last act in trying to kill her biological daughter was not a sane one. Elizabeth had had her demons. And they’d driven her to the edge.
And yet, even in her insanity, she’d orchestrated the unearthing of the truth so meticulously for the world. But then, didn’t they say that sometimes genius and insanity often came hand in hand?
Gardner had kept a keen eye on Jess Beaumont. She’d struggled at first and couldn’t make peace with her parents for what they’d done. That they’d bought her, or rather stolen her, from another was unforgiveable. Imagine discovering that about the people you’d spent your whole life adoring?
Where could you go from there?
However, she’d forgiven Elizabeth for what she’d tried to do.
Gardner had been helping Jess find a new place. Nigel’s money would ensure there’d be no problems financially. Emotionally, would be a whole different ballpark. Especially considering she was already vulnerable. Gardner had wanted her to come to Christmas dinner today, but she’d refused. Still, she’d check in on her later all the same.
She took a deep breath and turned to the Christmas table. She moved her eyes over the bronzed turkey at the centrepiece, the plates and the crackers.
Then, one glance at her watch told her that her guest was due any moment.
She moved to the seat her guest would occupy, ensuring that the cutlery was straight.
Gardner was so desperate to make this a day to remember.
Maybe, if she did so, then it’d herald in a brighter year. One marked with less trauma and tragedy.
The doorbell rang.
Excitedly, she ran to get Rose and Ana, who weren’t too keen to leave the train set, but did so after a stern motherly stare, and they assembled at the front door.
Gardner opened the door to her younger colleague, who was in a festive red dress and holding tinfoil topped ‘O’Brien World Famous Christmas Pudding’. It looked massive!
Her children screeched, ‘Merry Christmas, Lucy,’ loud enough to wake the dead, leaving O’Brien and Gardner to laugh in a fitting introduction to the day’s celebrations.
* * *
Barnett limped around the dinner table to refill his father’s mulled wine.
He’d deliberately laid off the painkillers today so he could have a drink himself. With everything that’d happened, it seemed like a long time since he’d last enjoyed himself, and so he wanted to give it a shot today.
Also, it helped with the nerves. There was a special guest arriving shortly.
‘Thanks, son,’ Richard said, lifting his filled glass.
When he sat down and reached for his glass, he noticed his father still had his glass raised. ‘A toast. To my son, the hero.’
Barnett lowered his head.
‘That girl is alive because of you.’
Barnett raised his glass but didn’t make eye contact. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you know how that makes me feel, son? It makes me feel proud.’
Awkward as this made him feel, Barnett held back on telling his father to stop. He was glad for his father’s happiness.
Richard looked up and raised his glass in that direction. ‘And she’ll be so proud, too.’
Barnett noticed the tears in his father’s eyes. He missed her every second of every day.
Later, while watching the King’s speech, Richard turned to his son and said, ‘She really didn’t know about Clarissa.’
‘I know, Dad,’ Barnett said. ‘You don’t have to keep telling me that.’
‘Even so, I need you to really know… I need you to believe it. The money they gave her… well… it led her here to me… and to you. If she’d have known, even for a second, that—’
‘Dad, please, no need! Mum was special. End of.’
‘She was that,’ insisted Richard. ‘She was indeed.’
Barnett stared at a picture of his mother on the mantelpiece and smiled. She was here. With them. And the memories of all their many Christmas Days together were part of this day too. The doorbell rang.
‘Come on then,’ Barnett said.
His father remained rooted to his chair.
Barnett stood, wincing. He held his hand out to his father.
Richard paled and looked away. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘We’ve talked about—’
‘But the shame I feel, son.’
Barnett inwardly sighed. There was no point. They’d been through it countless times. ‘Okay Dad. Just wait here.’
Barnett went to the front door and opened it.
Clarissa, his half-sister, stood there, in a Christmas jumper, with a bottle of wine.
Barnett smiled. ‘Merry Christmas. It’s good to see you again.’
She returned his smile. ‘Merry Christmas. I’ve an hour.’ She proffered the wine. ‘I thought we could have a glass, but it’ll have to stop there as I’m driving.’
They embraced. It was only the third time they’d met, but they felt comfortable with each other.
‘You know,’ Clarissa had said at the end of their second visit. ‘I feel now like I’ve always known you. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
Now, at the front door, he warned her about Richard. ‘My father… he’s nervous. I told you he would be.’
Clarissa nodded. ‘I’ll be gentle. It’s not his fault.’
‘I know,’ Barnett said, ‘but the man has a big heart. And his heart is still sore after Mum. And he feels her pain now. Feels the pain she’d have felt for letting you down.’
‘She didn’t let me down.’
‘But if she’d known, she’d have felt that way…’
‘I can see that,’ Clarissa said, nodding.
‘Anyway, shall we give it a whirl? We made it this far.’ He led her by the hand into the lounge.
His father was already standing. His eyes were red from crying, and Barnett had to swiftly turn away to brush tears from his own eyes. He didn’t want this to turn into an emotional outpouring.
‘Mr Barnett. Merry Christmas. I’m pleased to meet you,’ Clarissa said.
He came forward, slowly, as his hip had been playing up recently, and he took Clarissa’s hands. Barnett could tell from the expression on his father’s face what was happening.
He was recognising.
Clarissa looked like Amina.
‘Excuse a foolish old man’s tears,’ Richard said. ‘But you’re beautiful, Clarissa. Your mother isn’t here today, but I speak for both of us when I say we’re very pleased to meet you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’re also sorry. So dreadfully sorry—’
‘Please…’ she said. ‘Please don’t apologise. There’s no need to.’
‘Even so. We want to, Clarissa. We really want to. And you’ll make us so happy if you let us.’
Clarissa said, her lips curving into a gentle, reassuring smile, ‘Of course… I accept your apology.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, his face softening with relief and gratitude. ‘Thank you so much.’ He took a deep breath and rocked her hands. ‘And now that is out of the way, my dear.’ He looked over at the picture of his wife, a wistful expression crossing his features before turning his attention back to Clarissa, his eyes shining with warmth and curiosity. ‘Please tell us everything about you. Everything. Or at least as much as you can remember. Start with your very first memory… and don’t stop until you get to today.’
* * *
Feeling the heat of the prison corridor, Neville Fairweather took off his jacket, brushed snow from it and hooked it over one arm, while the guard unlocked the door.
Fairweather stepped into the room with the guard alongside him.
‘Merry Christmas Jack. Nice haircut.’
Jack Moss, dressed in blue overalls, sat on the side of his bunk, looking down at the floor, running his hand over his shaven head.
Fairweather turned to the guard. ‘I need ten minutes.’
‘I can’t leave—’
‘I need ten minutes,’ insisted Fairweather. ‘And you know that isn’t negotiable.’
The guard nodded and walked out. He turned at the door. ‘Ten minutes,’ he reiterated. ‘No longer.’
Fairweather smiled over the guard’s desperation to assert himself. Futile. But then, who could blame him? He had some challenging characters in this prison to keep in line.
Once the door was locked, Fairweather sat beside Jack. He started a timer on his watch for ten minutes, and then he joined Jack in regarding the floor. ‘Merry Christmas, Jack,’ he repeated.
Silence.
Eventually, after a time, Jack said, ‘Christmas Day? Really?’
Fairweather looked at his watch. It’d taken him four minutes. Jack had proven himself, many times, to be a sociopath with an art for strategic patience. Four minutes was rather disappointing. He’d expected eight.
Fairweather regarded the bland room. Must be something to do with the lack of stimulation.
‘Is solitary confinement because of you?’ Jack asked.
Fairweather took a deep breath. ‘You rarely exhibit a tone of voice, Jack. I can tell by your emphasis that you are irritated by this.’
‘Christmas Day… protective custody… I wonder what could irritate me?’
‘Sorry, have I interrupted your celebrations? Pray tell, what were the festivities you’d lined up?’ Fairweather knew this would spark another couple of minutes of silence. He checked his watch. Hopefully, he wasn’t cutting it too fine.
Two minutes and twenty-three seconds remained when Jack said, ‘So, answer… why protective custody?’
‘Well, it’s that or dead, isn’t it?’
‘Has something changed?’
‘No. Everything is the same. It’s just time now. You knew that this day would come.’
Jack lifted his head, stared at the wall for a moment instead, and stood. He put his hands in the pockets of his overalls and strode forward. He turned back, smiling.
Don’t pretend to be amused. You don’t bother with such feelings. You’re merely trying to irritate me because it feels right to do so after I’ve irritated you.
‘Come now, we know each other well, yes?’
Jack raised an eyebrow.
‘We’re both as black and white as each other.’ He looked at his watch. Under two minutes remaining. He stood. ‘It’s time for your death, and I don’t want it to happen.’
‘Oh,’ Jack said, shrugging. ‘Use your God-like powers to stop it?’
‘Even a god has limits.’ Fairweather laughed. ‘No, but it’s time to act.’
‘Maybe you should have thought about that before…’ He looked around his cell and held his wrists out together as if bound.
‘You act simply by remaining alive.’
‘Why are you so bothered about my life?’
‘Would you believe me if I said you’re like a son to me?’
‘No. So tell me why?’
A minute left. ‘No time, now. But if you lie down and die, then I can’t protect your daughter any more.’
‘You’ve never protected her.’
‘Is that what you think? Do you wish to take that gamble?’
Jack edged forward. ‘I never bet… How do we stop this supposed assassination attempt? I’m a sitting duck.’
Thirty seconds left. ‘We take the target from the crosshairs.’
Jack gestured around him. ‘You don’t see a problem?’
‘Walls are never a problem.’
‘They’re certainly boring the piss out of me. How then? How do I get out?’
‘Your sister.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Emma?’
‘You have more than one?’
‘She would—’
His watch buzzed. ‘Oops. Time’s up.’
The door swung open, and the guard stood there, looking stern.
‘We wouldn’t want to upset our host,’ Fairweather said, smiling at Jack. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Is that it?’ Jack said. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, not really. Just wanted to give you fair warning,’ Fairweather said. ‘No pun intended.’ He gave a swift nod of the head and left with his coat still over his arm.
* * *
Following the Christmas meal, O’Brien remained with the children while Gardner went to the hospital. With a wrapped gift under one arm, a book by James Ellroy, an American crime author, Gardner worked her way through the hospital to her friend’s ward.
Some unpleasant news greeted her at the tinsel-decorated reception. ‘He’s not having a good morning. He’s perked up a little, but he’s still exhausted. That said, you can stay as long as you want if you let him sleep. We try not to refuse company on Christmas Day.’
‘I haven’t got long, anyway…’ Gardner sighed. ‘I thought he was on the up.’
‘The doctor is about if you’d like a chat?’
‘That would be good, yes.’
‘You head in, and I’ll call him.’
Gardner headed into Riddick’s room and stood over him. He looked out for the count. She put a hand on his upper arm, and a weak smile came over his face. ‘Father Christmas?’ Riddick’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at Gardner groggily. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Piss off,’ she said, pulling her hand back.
He laughed and opened his eyes fully. Then he winced, and his hand went to his stomach where Tommy Rose had wounded him. ‘Why are you here? I told you not to come on Christmas Day. Who’s with Rose and Ana?’
‘Lucy…’
‘Thick as thieves.’
Gardner nodded, avoiding eye contact for a moment. ‘How could I leave you with no presents?’ She placed the book on the bed beside him and sat.
‘Actually, I’ve presents.’ He pointed out some chocolates on the side. ‘From Daz, my sponsor.’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘Oh, so you have.’
He then pointed out a James Patterson book. ‘And that’s from Cecile. Now, I know you’ve met her.’ He winked. Riddick looked pale and weak. Until last week, he’d been far on the road to recovery, but a bacterial infection had set him back. One which had led to a nasty bout of myocarditis. The inflammation in his heart muscle had caused genuine problems, and he was still undergoing tests to see how severe the damage was. He was keeping up a brave face, but Gardner could tell that he was struggling. His lips trembled as he spoke, and his voice broke, occasionally.
‘Daz will be back later, too.’
Gardner nodded. ‘Yes… good, but if it’s too much, tell him to go. You need to keep resting.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Riddick said, grinning.
‘I’m not your boss. Been there, done that…’
‘Got the blood-stained T-shirt…’ Riddick finished.
Gardner smiled. ‘Something like that.’
Riddick said, ‘Anyway… I’ve been thinking… you know, about whether you fancy giving it another shot?’
‘What exactly?’
‘Partners… working together.’
‘Partners… is that what we were? Felt like a babysitting gig.’
‘Easy tiger.’
‘Anyway, it’s a bit early to be discussing that, don’t you think?’
‘Nearly dying gives you some perspective. I need to do something… something good.’
‘Saving four children from trafficking was good…’
‘So, you’re condoning my actions?’ Riddick asked.
‘Not your methods, no. But what you did was special, I can’t deny it.’
‘Special!’ Riddick said. ‘I leave a trail of carnage wherever I go. I’m sure you’ve said that to me before, too.’
‘Probably. Cecile claimed you tried to save Tommy’s life after he overdosed?’
‘Did she?’ Riddick asked, looking away. ‘She probably remembers more than me. I was out of it.’
‘Said he stabbed you, left you for dead and then injected himself. When he convulsed, you crawled over to help him.’
‘It’s a blur,’ Riddick said.
Gardner eyed him up. She knew some suspected this narrative as a falsehood, but with four saved children to his name, it was a hot potato for stringent investigation.
She, herself, couldn’t shake off her own suspicions. In the past, Riddick had paid for the murder of his family’s killer. Was it outside the realm of possibility that he’d taken the law into his own hands again?
She’d tried to bring it up with Cecile, but she had shut her down with, ‘You told me Paul was a good man. Lost, but good. You were right.’ That was all she was prepared to say on the matter.
‘So, let’s see what this is,’ Riddick said, reaching over and unwrapping the gift. ‘Shit. Used to read this guy all the time. Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve got nothing for you.’
‘Your health will do me.’
‘Yeah, about that…’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think I’m on the mend. And when I’m mended, I want to come back. Have I said that already?’
She snorted. ‘Yes, you have.’
Eventually, he grew tired, and his eyes closed. She leaned forward and kissed him on the head. ‘I’m letting you rest now.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
She reached out and took his hand, and he opened his eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, before his eyes closed again. Once he was asleep, she kissed him on his hand, released it, and then kissed him on the forehead a second time. ‘See you tomorrow, mate.’
Outside, Doctor Steepleman was waiting for her.
She’d met him several times before. A rather young doctor with a nervous energy and a jovial demeanour. He led her down a corridor and buzzed around a couple of rooms until he found an empty one for them to sit in.
They began with some pleasantries. It transpired that he was in the first year of his divorce and didn’t have the children today for the first time, so he’d volunteered his services.
She’d never have guessed his pain until he said this; he always looked so joyous.
‘That’s good of you,’ Gardner said.
‘Distraction,’ he said and smiled. ‘And I like it here. Did Paul talk to you about his health?’
‘Said he was on the mend.’
Steepleman nodded. ‘Nothing else?’
‘If there’s something wrong, you’ll have to tell me. He’s the most secretive pillock I’ve ever met.’
Steepleman smiled. Judging by how quickly the smile then fell away, bad news was afoot.
He clasped his hands together and took a deep breath. ‘The myocarditis did a lot more damage than we’d expected. The tests have shown it to be rather extensive, in fact. He’s faring well, considering. The fever keeps flaring though, and he’s having a lot of chest pain.’
Gardner nodded. ‘Okay… secretive pillock… like I said. So, what now? Medicine… rest…?’
Doctor Steepleman sat back in his chair and fixed her with a stare.
To Gardner, who was used to reading people daily, this was like a punch in the face.
‘Don’t…’ Gardner said, straightening up. ‘Don’t you dare… He can’t…’
‘No, wait,’ Steepleman said, holding up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s bad, yes, but there’s hope… a chance.’
She suddenly felt like she might just throw up.
She squeezed her eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry… Please, what’s wrong with him?’
‘He needs a heart transplant, Emma.’ Steepleman reached over and took her hand. ‘If we can get him a heart transplant soon… then we—’
But Gardner didn’t hear the next words because the world suddenly seemed to collapse around her.
* * *
Gardner looked at herself in the mirror in the hospital bathroom. It was obvious she’d been crying hard, but unless she stayed in here for another hour, she wasn’t shaking off the evidence.
She walked straight back to Riddick’s room and looked through the window, watching him sleep, before whispering something under her breath and turning away.
All the way down the corridor, out of the hospital, and through the car park, those words she’d said replayed in her mind.
And even when she’d left the car park and had driven right back to her drive, the words remained on a loop.
She lowered her head to the steering wheel.
I love you.
After crying for a while, she lifted her head and took a deep breath. You’ll be fine, Paul. She caught her bloodshot eyes in the rear-view mirror. I’ll make sure of it.