‘What?’
‘If the decision is no charge, you’ll accept it; you’ll accept that the decision isours. That we were on the right side of the law. And you’ll move on.’
Tonight we’re done,either way.‘We need to prepare ourselves for?—’
‘Just promise me, Scarlett, please.’
‘I promise.’
I don’t change from my black pencil dress. I don’t know what’s appropriate to wear when you get arrested but as ridiculous as it seems, I want to look smart. I want the confidence that these clothes give me. Ineedthe confidence, the strength to follow through on my convictions, no matter the consequences. I drop to my knees in the walk-in wardrobe and for the first time, I ask my dad for strength. He’ll know I’m finally putting right my wrong and I need him to look in on me and take my next steps with me, to carry me wherever I need to go. I know that I was right to take that shot. I know because I saved Gregory, I saved the little boy from my dreams and one day, I hope I’ll have saved the man I love, truly, in every way he needs to be saved. But the black streak in me that took the shot in revenge – revenge for my dad, revenge for the deep-rooted pain I know Gregory harbours inside him – my dad wouldn’t approve of that. That’s why the decision will be to charge Gregory, and later tonight, me.
When I’m done, I take an overnight bag from the top shelf of one of the wardrobes, the same bag Gregory packed when we went to the hunt. It’s hard to plan for the unknown but I place leggings, jeans, a T-shirt and two jumpers into the bag. Then I rummage through my underwear for cottons: plain, appropriate for a prison cell.
‘What’re you doing?’
He leans against the doorframe, watching me pack.
‘I thought I’d put some things together. I want to be ready to go to the police station. If I wait… I can’t wait. It has to be straight away.’
‘Scarlett, please, I’m begging you not to do this.’
I can’t look at him because I can’t see those wide, pleading eyes. My conviction is spent on going through with my decision; I don’t have a reserve to deny Gregory.
‘I need you to leave me to do this.’
He goes and I finish the bag, adding a toothbrush, toothpaste and face wipes. I zip it up and slump to the floor with it in my lap, suddenly exhausted.
Now we wait.
Time passes by; slowly but surely, the minute hand of my watch moves clockwise until my legs find the strength to make my way downstairs with my bag in tow. The hallway is dark with the early night sky, the soft-blue floor lighting guiding me to the staircase. I turn to take in the spot on the floor where Gregory made love to me, wild and delicious. Then murmuring voices draw my attention. At the bottom of the staircase, I leave my bag and walk into the open lounge, the floor heating warm under my stocking-covered feet.
Lara stands in the window, Lawrence leaning back in the chair closest to her. Sandy and Jackson hold hands on the sofa. Williams sits on a stool a little further out of the group at the breakfast bar.
‘We all care about him,’ Lara says, her sullen eyes full of worry and sympathy.
I don’t want them here but I understand that it’s not my place to tell them not to be. Instead, I nod and as ludicrous as it sounds, even as the words are leaving my mouth, I ask if anyone would like a cup of tea.
‘I can make tea,’ Sandy says, rising from the sofa.
I hold my hand up in protest. ‘I want to.’
As I fill mugs with boiling water from the tap, Gregory appears at the bottom of the stairs, putting the headphones of his iPhone into his ears, then pulling up the hood of his running jumper.
‘You’re going for a run?’
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns his glazed eyes away from me and leaves. After making everyone tea – whether they asked for it or not and in whatever colour and sweetness combination I decided upon because their requests fell on my numb brain – I busy myself cleaning the benches of the kitchen. Amy has been and gone, I assume because Gregory told her to leave, but I still clean the immaculate surfaces. When I’m done, I decide to clear out the fridge, throwing things that are close to their use-by date and shuffling others: all completely unnecessary and thankless tasks. Sandy tries to stop me but she takes one look at my face and goes back to sit next to Jackson.
The cleaning stops me from hearing the occasional words of the others but the silence is deafening and the reality of losing Gregory tonight makes me sick. The prospect of prison pales into insignificance against the increasing sense of fear: the fear of losing this man, of never feeling his touch, never having a life with him, no matter how twisted. The thought of becoming his in mind and body, by law. The thought of maybe one day having a boy that looks just like the one from my dreams. Nausea rises past the lump in my throat and I dart across the lounge into the bathroom to purge the unbearable reality into the toilet.
All eyes analyse my movements back into the lounge. Gregory is back from his run, his focus trained on me. He swallows hard as he pulls out his headphones, then he bounds up the stairs, three at a time, and I hear the bathroom door close.
Filling my water glass, I fumble around in kitchen drawers and cupboards until I find paracetamol and take two tablets. As the cold water strikes my chest, the phone rings. I jump and turn to face the staircase where Gregory stands, freshly showered. He casts a glance my way before retrieving the phone from its holster and putting it on speaker, then resting it on the coffee table in the middle of the five nervous faces waiting to share our news.
‘Gregory Ryans,’ he says. His voice is absent of any conviction for the first time since I’ve known him.
‘Gregory, John Harrison here.’
I walk around the breakfast bar, holding on for support until I’m on the side of the lounge. Then I close my eyes, bracing myself.
