Читать книгу The Dare Collection February 2019 - Nicola Marsh, Avril Tremayne - Страница 23

ANGER IS A funny beast. Anger at Connor lingers within me, unbroken, for days. It taunts me and follows me and any moment I have when I might be close to forgetting, fresh anger surges and my fight is renewed.

It is worse because I need it to be. Because anger allows me refuge from analysing anything else I’m feeling. Anger lets me forget that I’ve done something really, spectacularly stupid and fallen in love with someone like Connor. Someone like Connor? There is no one like Connor.

Anger stalks me. But early on Sunday morning I go for a run. I run hard and fast, grateful for the way the air explodes through my body, torturing lungs that crave kisses from Connor.

I run along the Thames, all the way to Barnes, over the bridge, and then I loop my way back, hard and fast, crossing the Common, barely noticing the way autumn has begun to take hold of the ancient trees that populate its banks. Grand and stately, and gradually being denuded of their summer finery, their greenery slowly shaking loose and tumbling away, into the river and out to sea.

He tried to call me yesterday. And Friday. Twice each day. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I want to hear his voice. I want to go back to what we were before Senior Crown Prosecutor Alexander, but something’s shifted. I understand what I feel now, but not what I want. There is nothing simple about this—desire, lust and love have to be weighed against the reality of our situation. Most importantly, how I feel has to be weighed against how he feels.

The road lifts up in a none-too-gentle hill as I approach Putney, running along the river, and I keep going, each agonising step after the other, until finally I reach the café on the corner of my street. It’s busy, as usual at this time of the week. I join the queue—it’s almost out of the door—and shuffle forward incrementally, just me and my anger, and a need for coffee I have been delaying since daybreak.

I order the biggest size, a jumbo, and shift away from the counter, absentmindedly reaching for a paper. I lay it on a vacant table at the back and turn the pages, pretending to read without really taking any of it in.

My name is called by the barista and I turn the page once more, simultaneously lifting my head as if to move to the counter and collect my drink.

But Connor is there. His eyes. Somewhere. I have the vaguest impression of having stared straight into them moments ago.

My blood pounds through me and my body squeals with instant, gale-force recognition. I scan the café urgently, my frown deepening when I can’t locate him. I shift my attention back to the paper, to return it to the front as I leave, and then I see him once more. His ocean eyes stare at me from the pages of the magazine section.

Donovan’s Goliath, the headline reads. I scoop the paper up and reach for my coffee.

‘Can I buy this?’ I ask the barista, lifting the paper higher.

‘Nah, it’s yesterday’s. Help yourself.’

‘Yesterday’s?’

Anger is a funny beast, like I said. It has stalked me and hounded me but in that moment it dissipates instantly. New feelings overtake it.

My coffee and the paper deserted, I bustle out of the café and move briskly down the street. My head is bent, my heart thumping. It’s not from the exertion of my run, though.

Donovan’s Goliath

The article beckons me. I fumble my key into the door and push it inward then place my coffee down on the kitchen bench, spreading the paper out wide and flicking back to the magazine. It takes me a few moments to find the right page but, when I do, my heart throbs painfully. It is a great photo of him, a posed publicity shot. He’s staring straight at the camera and his expression is both impatient and sardonic, as though he has no tolerance for the vanity exercise of a photographic portrait.

Connor Hughes, long-regarded as a Teflon defence barrister, has gone from criminal-defence wunderkind to a veritable Goliath of the justice system. Adored by his clients, his fame—or should that be notoriety—extends across the country, and now the world. At thirty-five, he’s garnered the kind of professional success most can only dream of, amassing a fortune and a prestigious law firm along the way.

His previous wins are notable, but none more so than the stunning verdict he was able to procure for Murray Donovan. The accused’s acquittal in the case that had gripped all of Great Britain was shocking to any who followed the trial. For his client’s guilt had been predetermined by many, and yet Connor Hughes proved otherwise.

Today we take a closer look at the man who seems to have the Midas touch when it comes to winning unwinnable cases.

I frown, continuing to skim the article. It catalogues several of his previous legal victories, most of them also controversial in the same way: where public opinion largely disagreed with the verdict rendered.

It’s a flattering puff piece. Long and detailed, yet it gives no new information and the only quotes from Connor have obviously been compiled from previous interviews. There’s no mention of his parents’ death, either, nor the fact he was raised from the age of twelve by his local priest. Both of these titbits are worthy of running in a story like this, which makes me realise that those facts mustn’t be widely known.

I skip to the bottom of the piece—a paragraph that hangs beside another photo of Connor, this one with his partner, Michael Brophy.

Our firm was born out of a desire to defend those who were seen to be indefensible. Who is in greater need of protection than those who have been found guilty in the court of public opinion even before their trial has begun and the facts have been heard?

The media is not the place for a person’s innocence to be decided. We formed Hughes Brophy with the intention of making sure every client we take on receives the defence they deserve under the law.

That’s why we’re here.

My skin prickles all over. I disagree with the way he practises law but, reading the final paragraph, how can I not understand him a little better? How can I not—somewhat—admire the fact he’s willing to do what others won’t?

And yet I’m blindsided by the piece—how must he feel? I know instinctively that he would absolutely hate this. That he would hate the press, hate the reporting, hate the glorying of his wins—especially the Donovan win. I have sensed a duality in him with this case, a desire not to discuss it, and yet a holding back, as though there are things he wants to say to me but won’t.

I groan as I look up, to where my phone is charging on the bench. He called yesterday. Because he needed to talk to me? Because he wanted me to make this better?

And I was too angry to answer.

Anger is a funny beast. I can’t summon even a hint of the fury that has accompanied me since Friday night. Now, only my concern for Connor is left. That’s the love part, I guess.

I push all thoughts like that aside. Perhaps I’ve thought too much. It’s time to simply act now.

Acting, though, is not so easy.

I call him and he doesn’t answer. So I send him a text and I wait. I call my mum and tell her I’m not well, that I can’t make lunch, and, though I don’t like lying to her, I don’t even feel guilty. Because this is now vitally important.

I try his phone again mid-morning and this time leave a voice message. ‘We need to speak. Call me. Or come over. Something.’ I pause, holding my breath a moment. ‘I just saw the article.’

I disconnect the call and I wait. And I wait. And some time that afternoon it occurs to me that he really isn’t going to call me back.

The call comes around lunchtime Sunday.

A new client, Michael says, and I hear the smile in his voice. ‘Asked for you specifically.’

My breath snags inside me. I stare directly at the white wall opposite. ‘Yeah? What’s the deal?’

Michael runs me through the police report. The charges. The brief is standard—for me, anyway. It’s the kind of case I’ve defended over and over.

But fuck. The idea of doing so again is like a hammer against my skull.

‘Arraignment is set for first thing tomorrow. Jeannie’s organised the jet.’

I expel a sigh. ‘I’ve got lectures.’

Silence. And we both know why. I took up this position on the proviso I’d make it work with our firm. Michael and I built Hughes Brophy from the ground up—it’s our passion. Or it was, anyway.

‘I’d run the case but he’s adamant he wants you,’ Michael murmurs.

Fuck.

‘Sure.’ My gut rolls like a stone has been thrown at it. ‘No problem.’

No problem? This is a big problem. I’m shying away from a bread and butter case and for what? I’ve had my break. It’s time to get off the mattress now.

I’m a criminal defence barrister. That’s what I do and, more than that, it’s who I am.

This has all been a fantasy land—an elaborate game of make-believe.

I agree I’ll fly back later tonight and I disconnect the call. The university will understand why I can’t finish out the semester—they always knew I was a flight risk.

But Olivia?

God, Olivia.

Part of me wants to skulk off to Ireland without telling her why, but I can’t do that. I have to face this. I have to show her who I am, show her she’s wrong to have got involved with a guy like me. Wrong to have thought I was anything other than scum. I’ve laid down with dogs too often.

I don’t bother calling her. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. I need to see her.

I drive to her place, my mind already sifting through the case, the analytical side of my brain unable to resist shifting the case around in my mind, seeing it from all angles, exploiting possible weaknesses, and I’m disgusted at how easily I can do that. How I can list ten things that might allow my new client to have these charges thrown out of court at the arraignment. Guilty or not, it’s all a game of law.

I pull up in front of her flat and my body stills. I can see her in the kitchen; a glass of wine to one side of her, she’s leaning forward, writing in a notebook. I’d put my whole fortune on the fact she’s listening to a lecture. Studying.

Like the good girl she is.

My chest heaves.

I step out of the car and cross the street, knocking on the door before I can change my mind about doing this in person.

I jam my hands in the pockets of my jeans and I wait.

She jerks the door open and her beautiful face greets me. She smiles, but it’s a careful smile. Apologetic. Shy. Something. ‘Hey,’ she says, pulling the door wider. ‘Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ she says, wiping her hands on a tea towel in the kitchen and waving towards a seat. ‘I saw the article, in the paper. I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

‘It’s just an opinion piece.’ I shrug, aware of the way she’s looking at me, seeing everything. I don’t even attempt a smile. ‘Most people would have considered it flattering.’

‘But you’re not most people.’

‘It’s not the first time I’ve been in the paper.’

She shakes her head and closes the distance between us. Damn it. I can’t have her right here, I can’t smell her sweetness and be within reach of her softness. ‘You’ve done a lot, professionally. And it’s unavoidable that you’ll be linked to Donovan from now on. It was a career-defining case.’

‘Most of my cases have been.’

‘This is different.’

‘Why?’ I challenge, needing to hear her say it.

She sighs softly and there’s sympathy in her expression. Sympathy I don’t want. ‘Because you won a bad case for a bad guy.’

I stiffen.

‘I know you can’t talk about it.’ She’s so beautiful. Her face is softened by the words she’s delivering. She’s afraid of hurting me. ‘You can’t tell me certain things, I get that. But I’m saying what I think. He’s guilty. He killed that poor girl, a girl just like I was, days away from setting off on a huge adventure. And I believe you took the case on for all the noble reasons you’ve espoused. Yes, he deserved a good defence. He deserved to have someone fight for him in court. You’re right. That’s how our justice system works and it’s important. But he didn’t deserve to be found not guilty. The system failed. You were too good at your job, and the prosecution wasn’t good enough. But innocent and guilty isn’t like a bad call in a game of football. This really matters.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ The words come out unintentionally cold.

She continues in the face of my rejection. ‘This will be like OJ. It’s not going to blow over. It’s not like hiding here in London, playing professor for a term, is going to wipe any of this from anyone’s memory. It’s a big deal. You’re a big deal. You and Donovan are linked. This case is a part of you. And you hate that.’

Her words are slicing into me, each syllable cutting deeper and deeper. She’s pouring her truth into my soul, but I can’t say with any clarity if it’s my truth, too. Or if it’s just what I wish were the case.

‘But it doesn’t have to define your future. If you don’t like the way winning Donovan felt, don’t win any more. Don’t fight those cases. Don’t be that guy.’

A laugh strangles my throat. I shake my head and then I cave, lifting my hand and cupping her cheek. ‘It’s so easy for you, Olivia.’ I don’t mean the words to sound patronising. It’s an anger that’s directed at myself, not her. ‘You, with your simple, happy outlook on life. With your “good is good and bad is bad” mentality. You think I should just change what I do? When what I do is who I am?’

Her eyes have softened with sympathy. I don’t want sympathy. ‘Who you are is a good man. What you do is practise law. You can do and be both those things without defending the Donovans of the world.’

‘It’s who I am,’ I repeat, the words heavy in the small living space of her run-down flat. ‘I thought fucking you could change that. I thought you could be a gateway to a new life. But leopards don’t change their spots. I’m sure as hell not capable of change.’

She blinks, her expression showing confusion.

‘Fucking me isn’t what you hoped would change you. It was all of this. You came to London because you didn’t want to be the defender of men like Donovan any more. You came here because you’re running from who you are. I’m just a part of that.’

‘No! You’re all of that. You’re so fucking good, Olivia! You’re some kind of angel. I actually thought that being with you could give me some kind of fucking redemption. Or clarity. Something. But all it’s done is put your future in jeopardy. See? Even when I’m trying to be good, I fuck it up.’

‘Wait a second,’ she says, frowning. ‘What’s in jeopardy?’

‘Nothing!’ I’m exasperated. ‘But that thing with Dash could have been a disaster. That was a bullshit thing to do to you. You were right to be pissed about it. What if he found out about us, Olivia? What then? You’d have lost your shot at the CPS—see? My decision, my mistake. You’re all good. I’m not. I did what you explicitly asked me not to and it could have ruined everything you’ve been working towards.’

She swallows, her beautiful, delicate throat knotting so that I see her pain and feel it lodge inside me. ‘But he didn’t find out,’ she says with a simplicity neither of us feels.

‘That’s beside the point!’ I drop my hand and step back from her. ‘I did what I wanted without thinking about what was good for you. Sooner or later, this will be bad for you, Olivia.’

She shakes her head.

God, she’s fighting this and now that I’ve seen the truth of our situation I can’t ignore it. I want her, I want to pretend this is fine. But I can’t.

‘I came here to say goodbye.’