“I think people deserve the truth. Regardless of how uncomfortable it is for me. I will start though by saying not everything they publish is true, and I hope people are intelligent enough to know that the whole point of these stories is to create noise and click bait.”
“And that’s what this was? Click bait?” one of the interviewers asks.
“Yes and no,” he admits. “Everyone has a past and I am no different. But bringing my loved ones into it, is not okay. I appreciate that me being in the position I am in will put a target on my back, I signed up for this. But my family, they didn’t, and that has got to stop. The complete disregard by the tabloids that at the end of every story is a person who has feelings, that their words hold power, that they could use it for so much better.”
“So, Owen Cooper, or should we call you King? What is your truth?”
Holy shit!
“How the fuck did they get his name? You said it was buried.”
“Come on, Kara,” Roman replies.
“Lucy,” I interrupt. “It’s Lucy.”
“Nothing is ever buried, you know the power he has.”
“They found out,” I say standing, pacing.
“There goes my carpet again,” Henry mutters.
I whip round quickly, pointing. “No one is going to trust him when they see his record.”
“He didn’t want you to know for a reason Ka—sorry, Lucy. It still feels weird calling you that,” Henry says. “He has a plan.”
“Of course he has a plan. He spent seven years with Luca, the man has clearly rubbed off on him,” Roman says.
“That’s why he didn’t want me to go with him,” I announce. “That’s why he was withdrawn last night. He’d seen the stories, why wasn’t I told?”
“There was nothingwithdrawnbased on the sounds coming from your room last night,” Roman says, and I want to punch him in the face again.
“Fuck off, Rook. Haven’t you got a prison to get back to?”
The fucker just smirks at me.
“He didn’t want to tell you, Lucy, because he is protecting you—”
“But how can I protect him if I don’t know?”
“What makes you think he needs protecting?”
“Have you forgotten why he is sitting on national TV?”
“You’re right, my name is Owen King. I was born in Fulham Hospital on the 18th ofSeptember 1990. I grew up in foster care. My foster mothe—my mother—is everything a person could want in a Mum. Caring, loving, supportive, but firm.” He smiles when talking of Maria, and my heart warms.
“And your father?” the interviewer probes.
“My foster father was abusive,” he answers tersely. “I may talk about my mother fondly, but my foster father.” His jaw clenches on a swallow, pausing. “Not everything about my childhood was a kind one. When I was twenty, I was arrested for his murder.”
The interviewer doesn’t say anything, just lets what Owen has admitted settle, and rather than ask more questions, Owen jumps in.
“But as you can see, the fact that I’m sitting here in front of you today says that it wasn’t true. I was charged and spent seven years in His Majesty’s Wandsworth Prison. You already know that, though, you ran the story yourselves. What was the headline you chose?Corrupt Cooper.”He smiles at them. “I was charged, I was serving time, I was released with a full pardon, yet I’m still corrupt. Can you see why I would change my name? The press would grip hold of it, and any good I was trying to do, any change I was trying to bring. You would ignore the good and pull through the bad. Because that’s what the media in this country does. You do what you’re told.”
“I don’t think—”
“No, I’m talking. And you’re going to listen,”Owen says firmly. “I want change. I will answer all of your questions, and I will answer them honestly. But let me ask you, where did your story come from? Your source, did you trace it back?”
No answer.
