1
GREGORY
My Omega tells me it’s been less than one minute since I last watched the second hand tick round. Two twenty-three. It’s been almost three hours since it happened. Less than three hours since I watched what I’ve craved for almost three decades unfold. He’s dead. The biggest demon in my life has finally been condemned to the pit of flames he deserves. But it’s not what I imagined. When I’ve thought of this day, I’ve thought that killing him would break the black clouds that have cast a shadow over my existence. Now my black clouds have been replaced with torment.
What have I dragged this sweet girl into?Fuck.
I drag my hands over my tired face, as I sit in this grey, windowless box, not knowing where Scarlett is. She should’ve stayed clear of me when she had the chance. I should’ve been fair and stayed away from her. But I couldn’t. I sought her out like a vulture seeks its next meal. Those devastating green eyes, the way they turn hazel in a certain light like nothing else I’ve seen. That unbelievable body. Her skin feels like silk and once you’ve touched her and tasted her, there’s no going back. Noother woman could ever be good enough. And she’s smart. Too fucking smart for her own good sometimes, and tougher than she thinks. But not in the bedroom. There, she gives herself to me completely, utterly, and I’m desperate to have her all the fucking time. That laugh. I can’t help smiling now as I lean forward over the steel table in front of me. Even when she’s laughing at something only she finds funny – that happens a lot – I can’t help but break my stoicism because it’s such a beautiful fucking sound. I’ve broken her, corrupted her. Since the day she met me, I’ve turned her world into darkness. I’ve dragged her down to my level.
Rising from my metal chair, I kick it back against the mirrored wall and pace the concrete floor of my custody cell, my hands deep in the pockets of my blood-stained dinner trousers.Where is she? What are they doing to her?She won’t break. She’s stronger than that.Iknow it but doesshe?
I’m going to fix this. If it’s the last thing I do as a free man.
I’ll fix this.
The most peculiar pressure builds behind my eyes, making them sting. I can’t stand the thought of her trapped in a room like this, like an animal. She’ll be cold. She’ll be intimidated.
‘Fuck! Get a fucking hold of yourself!’ I chastise myself through gritted teeth. I need to see her. I need to hold her and make her understand that she’s safe. God, that face, that look in her eyes; she was terrified.
There’s a short tap on the door before it opens and a tall man wearing a cheap suit walks in. An off-white shirt hugs his middle-aged spread just above the waistline, part-covered by a questionable mustard tie. The cardboard coffee cup in his hand is held as tightly as a full cardboard cup can be held. He’s followed by a short woman with her mousey-brown hair in a bun, wearing a black trouser suit and flat, dull leather shoes.She’s scowling, brows almost meeting in the middle. She holds one hand on her hip, exposing the gold police badge on her belt.
‘Gregory Ryans?’
‘Yes,’ I say, holding out my hand on instinct.
The man shakes my hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Barnes and this is my colleague?—’
The woman holds out her hand. ‘Trina. I’m Trina.’
She’s a woman out to deny that this is a man’s world but I can tell she’s battling with her inner Aphrodite.
I’ve affected her. Another woman who sees only my looks. Like most women, like all women before Scarlett Heath swanned into my life in her fitted suits with her white-collar sass. She’s the only woman who’s ever been interested in what’s behind my money, face and clothes. A story I can’t tell her.
It’s unlike Trina to be affected by a man, Barnes’s reaction tells me that. It’s also obvious that these two people don’t see eye to eye.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both,’ I say. ‘Albeit in the very worst of circumstances.’
Trina flashes a wide, coy smile which she quickly replaces with straight lips.
‘Take a seat,’ Barnes says, gesturing to the chair that came to rest flush against the mirrored wall. ‘You’re a Safa.’
Rolling up the sleeves of my crimson-splattered shirt, I sit. His thoughts are written all over his face: South African, angry, volatile. And not afraid of guns. A jury would love the stereotype.
‘Do you need someone to look at that?’ Barnes asks, pointing to my cut shirt and the slashed skin at my ribs beneath.
‘It’s been patched up but thank you. Fortunately, it’s not as deep as it seems from the mess.’
Barnes nods and pats the recording device on top of the table. ‘I’ll be recording your statement. We’ll start with some basic questions – name, date of birth, that sort of thing – then we’ll get to it. Okay?’
I nod, waiting. Barnes hits Record and a digital wheel counts us down to action. He strokes his grey-black beard before he leans back and hangs an elbow over his seat.
‘DI Barnes accompanied by Katrina Martin. 2.31a.m., Sunday, November eighth. Please state your full name and date of birth for the record.’
‘Gregory James Ryans. October ninth, 1995.’
‘And your address please, Mr Ryans.’
‘One, the Shard, London.’
