Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1)

Squirt.

Emily groaned as cold, muddy water shot up her leg.
Manchester council had found better places to spend their money than on
pavement and road repairs, and the loose paving slab twisted under her foot,
sending a jet of unpleasant puddle-water to soak her ankles. She kept walking.
With the rain sleeting down - typical June weather in the north of England -
she just wanted to reach the cinema as quickly as possible.

Tuesday nights were the best nights to go to see a film. The
auditorium would be mostly empty, and she'd have her pick of seats. Tonight she
was indulging in a subtitled Mexican arthouse flick which promised emotional
trauma, dramatic scenery and at least one scene of goat torture that
"viewers may find upsetting".

The streets were quiet as office workers had now left the
city centre but die-hard midweek revellers had not yet emerged.

Oh shit. Don't look.

She scurried past the figure curled in the doorway, refusing
to turn her head.
Don't be Joel.

"Spare any change, miss?"

It wasn't Joel and she dared a sideways glance. The figure
could have been him, though, and it sent pain through her chest. Just a boy,
really, thin and pale. Wrapped in coats and a sleeping bag, he huddled against
the paint-peeling doorjamb, and stared at her with dull, unexpectant eyes. When
she stopped walking, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, and he raised his
eyebrows. His gaze skittered around her, almost in fear.

"Sorry," she blurted out, and walked away, feeling
low and mean.

"Thanks anyway," he muttered after her, his
politeness knifing her guilt into shreds.

The film was as tedious as she had anticipated, though with
an amusing slow-car-chase scene and a delightfully insane matriarch. But the
image of the homeless boy and all he represented to her still lingered.

Emily stepped out of the warm lobby onto the street and was
pleased to find the rain had stopped. She glanced up and down the street. A
taxi crept past but she waved it on. She saw what she was looking for, and
darted across the road, decisively.

A few minutes later, she was standing by the homeless lad
again, and offering him a cheese and ham sandwich.

He grinned up at her, hugging the stained polyester bag
around his shoulders. "You think if you give me money I'll blow it all on
drugs, yeah?"

She took a deep breath. "Yes, actually."

He laughed, which turned to coughing, and she remembered all
those statistics about tuberculosis that she'd once had to dig up and write
about. Her pointless fucking research. "Thanks," he said at last,
wiping his mouth, and reaching out a knobbly hand for the plastic wedge of
food.

"S'okay." She turned to go but his laugh stopped
her.

"I'm a vegetarian."

She spun on her heel. "You're what?"

"Veggie. Sorry. Can't eat this." He held it back
out for her.

She stared at him, aghast. She bit back the unnecessary
sarcasm about beggars and choosers, and through gritted teeth she growled,
"well, you can pick the ham out."

He turned the package to read the label again. "Nah.
I'm a lactose-intolerant veggie."

"For fuck's sake."

He dissolved into laughter once again, and ripped the
plastic wrapper off the packet. He pulled out a sandwich and waved it at her,
his face made older, strangely, by the laughter lines around his eyes and
mouth. "Priceless! I'm sorry." He seemed to notice her glare, because
he reined his mirth in. "I
am
sorry. But look, I don't get a hell
of a lot of chance to laugh, you know."

Emily smiled. "You git," she had to say, ruefully.
"You had me there."

"I know. Your face. Brilliant. Anyway, thanks. For
everything."

She walked away, leaving him still chuckling, and shoved her
hands deep in her pea-jacket pockets. A light drizzle started up again and she
had a ten minute walk back to her apartment. The homeless boy had amused her,
and it would be a tale to tell.

For she was, of course, a professional teller of tales.

* * * *

Wednesday morning. Emily had hit the sleep button on her
alarm twice, and finally unplugged the damn thing. Her phone was the final
catalyst, dragging her upright in bed at about ten o'clock.

Her brother Matthew was clipped and efficient. He'd probably
been awake since five am and had already earned roughly her monthly income in
the intervening time.

"Emily. Morning. Not disturbing you?"

"No, I-"

"Good. Right. Got a story for you."

"Okay…" Emily pulled a pillow up behind her, and
leaned back.

"Got a pen?"

Her bedroom was a jumbled mess of cast-off clothes and piles
of books. She half-heartedly leaned over and grabbed a pencil from the bedside
table. "Yeah. Go on." She found a bank statement on the floor and
flipped it over, finding just enough space to scribble in the margins of the
threats and small print.

"One of my clients. Just got out of jail. Got him a
pretty reduced sentence, considering. Anyway. Wants to go straight, abandon his
life of crime. You know what it's like. Most of them won't. This man, he's got
something about him. Thought it would fit in with your social commentary stuff,
make a nice case study.
The Guardian
like that sort of thing."

Emily thought it through, clacking the pencil on her teeth.
God knows, she needed a new lead right now. If she was to regain any
credibility in the journalism world, she had to get a scoop and make it stick.
But what did Matthew know about good stories? Clearly, nothing. But she
humoured him.

"Sounds okay, Matthew, thanks for this. But is there
anything different about this guy? Is there some kind of unique angle or
something? There's potential maybe, but I need more."

"Just meet him. He's a charmer. Ready for the
details?" Once her older sibling got an idea into his head, he would not
be stopped. It had made him a successful solicitor and an infuriating brother.

She jotted down the name and contact number.
Turner
Black.
"Good name. He's not like a serial rapist or child molester or
anything?"

"No. Up to him to tell you about himself, though. Oh.
Janey wants to know if you want to come for dinner this week."

"Uh - let me get back to you on that…"

"Yes, I told her you'd say no. Okay. Good luck with
Turner. Catch you later."

And he was gone, her high-flying criminal solicitor brother,
off to stalk the custody suites and courts of Manchester. Emily closed her eyes
for a moment and tried to get her head around his call.

It really wasn't a story. It certainly wasn't a lead, a
scoop, a blast-open-the-secret-establishment kind of feature. "Ex-con
tries to go straight" - whoopee fucking do.

But it was the only thing she had on the table right now,
and they'd be repossessing that table if she didn't get started.

She flung herself out of bed and stumbled towards the
shower.

* * * *

Two hours later and she was ready to start work. She leaned
back in her chair and ran her fingers through her long dark hair, tipping her
head back so it cascaded down her back. She usually wore a dark green broad
headband to keep it out of her eyes. It had been trendy when she was a student,
but sometimes she wondered if she was projecting quite the professional image.
She started to think about hair styles and whether to go for a cut.
I wonder
if that cute salon on Deansgate has any slots this week?

Fuck. I know I'm time wasting...

Emily usually allowed herself the first thirty minutes of a
working day to check emails, facebook, and general messing about online. Then,
her rule was to turn off the browser and get to work.

When she'd first graduated from University with an
unremarkable degree in Media Studies, she'd worked hard to establish herself as
a freelance journalist. There had been some false starts, some dodgy moments,
and a well-used credit card but now, five years on, she no longer had to work
nights in a pizza place or tout for agency work in offices. She was fully
freelance, working from home, and living the dream.

She sat forward at stared at the half-completed game of
spider solitaire on her monitor. The dream wasn't a nightmare - that was far
too dramatic. The dream had become a rather dull and mildly concerning … yawn.

A long yawn, a downward spiral of a yawn.

The debts had been paid off, sure, but there were mounting
bills and a sliding income. It wasn't supposed to have happened this way.
Onwards and upwards? Stagnation, more like.

Right. Time to work. I need this story. But I hope to god
he's got something more interesting to say than what Matthew implied.

She flicked up a few statistics on the computer, and swore.

Nearly 90,000 prisoners in the UK. Yeah. And this one's
going to be different?

This
really
wasn't going to work.

She looked down at the scrawled number, and reached for her
phone.
Another dead end? Another pointless conversation?

She was getting so tired of this dream life. Her thumb swept
over the smartphone and she scrolled through the contacts.

"Hey, Kayleigh!"

"What are you avoiding now?"

"Harsh, very harsh."

"I've known you for too long to think you're ringing me
out of love, affection or our deep and lasting friendship. You want something
or you're avoiding work. Deadlines?"

Emily grinned. It was so good to hear her old mate on the
phone, and even the distance between them didn't matter. "No deadlines,
and that's the problem."

"Oh Ems. What's going on, petal? I thought you sounded a
bit low last time we spoke. I miss you. Can you come over to see me? Have a
little break? Belgium's not far, really, on the train."

"Ha. And how do I buy a train ticket?"

"Is money that bad? I thought you'd got sorted and your
feet were on the ground now. Things had been going well. You've had some
regular commissions - what's happened?"

"I messed up the last one, remember?" She couldn't
help recalling the face of Tom Khalil, and shuddered. She ought to print out
"never
ever ever get involved with a subject"
and stick it to every surface
in her flat. She shook her head. Kayleigh had endured some very long, late
night conversations picking that little disaster apart.

"Anyway," she continued, "I spent so much
time on that commission because I thought it was The Big One that I just didn't
send out any pitches, so now I'm stuck without any work."

"So, do like you did when you started. Get out and find
some."

"I dunno. I'm losing heart. This freelancing thing,
it's like an endless chase. At least you're properly employed."

"Maybe you ought to look for a staff writer's
position."

Emily slumped lower in her chair, and grimaced at her faint
reflection in the monitor. "Maybe. Huh. Anyway, darling brother Matthew
has just rung me with a potential story. Well, what he thinks is a potential
story anyway. One of his clients, no less. An ex-con wanting to go straight or
something. I was actually supposed to be ringing him to arrange to meet him…
and somehow I rang you instead."

"Avoiding work - yup, I was right."

"Mm-hm."

"Admit it!"

Emily wrinkled her nose. "Yeah okay. You were
right."

Emily could imagine Kayleigh punching the air in triumph.
Then her friend said, "Hang on one minute, you daft mare. You're arranging
to meet this chap? This, um, criminal?"

"Yeah, just to talk and see if he has a story."

"Back up one moment, petal. Listen to yourself. You're
arranging to meet
this criminal?
"

"Matthew said he was okay."

"With all due respect," Kayleigh spoke slowly and
pedantically, "I've met your brother Matthew, and he is as clever as a box
of monkeys and thicker than a breezeblock, all right? He'd happily send you
into a private room with a known con because he doesn't think further than his
next Law Society dinner."

"Oh yeah." Emily had slumped so far now that her
bum was on the edge of her frayed office chair and she started to rock it back
and forth. It creaked on the old springs alarmingly. "Shit."

"Even after all these years I have to look after
you." Kayleigh sounded exasperated. "Oh, Ems. Ring him up and ask for
a meeting together, not on your bloody own. Look, I want to chat but I have to
go - some of us work for a living - can you call me tonight, maybe?"