Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) (10 page)

She also hadn't realised Joel would be there, too. But he
was stationed by the tea and coffee on a table a little way apart from theirs,
and so far, she hadn't had much contact with him. He seemed pretty
disinterested in her, anyway, and that was fine as far as she was concerned.

The people she was serving with hot food and drink tugged at
her heart. She couldn't decide what was worst; the old men, hands shaking,
grateful that she even looked at them never mind talked, and gave them food. Or
the thin, spiky young women, often fresh out of the care system with nowhere to
go. Or the scared-looking young men with mental health problems. Or the drunken
old ladies who blustered and shouted and tried to block out the reality of
everything around them.

No, how could you rank them? It was all awful.

They thanked her with exaggerated politeness, often
insisting on taking her hand in theirs, patting her fingers, as much desperate
for the healing of real human contact. She didn't recoil from the dirty
fingernails, the scabs and the bruises. She just felt helpless in the face of
such need.

It was approaching eight o'clock and they would be packing
up quite shortly. The queue was diminishing. In a lull, Polly pressed her
gloved hands to the large metal urn that contained the remnants of the gravy.
"Have you noticed the reaction of the public?"

"Yeah. Mostly scurrying past, head down, like we don't
exist."

"Well, this shouldn't exist, in a rich country like the
UK. Recession? Bollocks." Polly was close to pressing her face to the urn
in an effort to get warm. "They want to go to some properly poor
countries. Where people are grateful for anything. Here, we whinge if we can't
afford a holiday!"

"I know." Emily thought wistfully of the times
when she had had enough money for holidays and treats. She was struggling now,
but at least she had a warm flat to go back to. "How much is left in
there?"

Polly peeked under the lid. "Not a lot. Any more food in
the van?"

"I think so. We may as well bring out the last bits.
I'll go. Wouldn't want to tear you away from your personal radiator."

Polly stuck her tongue out at Emily as she went off to the
white transit that had transported all their gear from the charity's lock-up
garage. The food was in insulated boxes and she dipped the thermometer to check
it was still useable - it was. She piled everything into one box, and lugged it
back with her towards the table, struggling as it banged against her shins as
she walked.

Polly was no longer wrapped around the warm urn. Instead she
appeared to be talking rather excitedly with a man who had his back to Emily.
He was standing quite upright and waving his hands, too. He was dressed in
clean, new clothes and as Emily crept closer, she heard what he was saying.

"So why has that borough in London banned soup
kitchens, then? I'll tell you why. They've done research. This kind of thing
actually promotes homelessness. I'm not saying anything against you guys. You
probably think you're helping. But you're making the problem worse. You
encourage dependency, you know."

Joel went to Polly's rescue, even though he was half the
size of her and as pale as a ghost. "Are you really saying that when I was
homeless, standing out here to get a rancid pie or lukewarm brew, was somehow
making me want to stay homeless? That the option of getting a house and a job
was so easy, that I could choose to come here instead?"

"I'm saying, mate, that plenty of people aren't
homeless. They get off their arses and work damn hard."

"It's easy for you to say. You don't know what it's
really like."

"Oh yeah? I'm not here to justify my past to you, but I
have to tell you, mate, that I've been inside. I've been on the rocks. I have
had it hard but never did I roll over and say, oh well, that's it, I'm
homeless. I've fought for what I've got. The whole benefits system is screwed.
You're just a victim too, I suppose, being trapped into claiming instead of
working. And all the while we're flooded with immigrants just here for the
money too."

Polly appeared to inflate, working up to a humdinger of a
reply and Joel was looking ready to fling hot coffee into the man's face. Heart
hammering, Emily stepped forward, keen to somehow placate the man and move him
away.

"Excuse me, sir. Perhaps these concerns would be better
expressed in a letter to the charity where we could consider them and address
them more fully." She could hear how her accent had shifted up a few
notches on the social scale, but she couldn't help herself. Polly's eyes
widened in surprise.

The man turned, and it was Emily's turn to be surprised. It
was Riggers.

He recognised her immediately. But instead of the vile abuse
that she was expected, given that in court all those months ago he'd sworn to
attack her, he said, "Emily Carrera. This isn't your fight."

"Yes it is." She glanced at Polly and Joel. Polly
was hanging on to her mobile phone, ready to call for help if needed. But Joel
was staring with an expression of anger on his face, and she didn't feel it was
all directed at Riggers.

"Yes it is," she said again, desperately.
"I'm here from the charity too."

"Good god. Does Turner know what you're up to?"

"Of course he does."

"And he lets you stand out here in the dark and cold,
with these kinds of people?" He nodded at Joel who snarled, his hand
shaking and making the coffee spill over his gloves.

"It's not a question of him allowing me to do
anything," she snapped. "And it's nothing to do with you, anyway.
You're harassing the staff here. Could you please move on. Thank you."

She summoned all the assertiveness training that she'd ever
had, and moved decisively to the table, heaving the heavy box up next to the
urn, trying to show Riggers that the discussion was definitely over.

He wasn't for moving. He kept on staring at her with a look
in his eyes that made her flesh creep. "Defensive, aren't you?" he
commented, infuriatingly mildly.

"Who the hell are you?" Joel blurted out.

Riggers turned his head slowly and looked Joel up and down.
The ex-con had insolence all over his curled lip and narrowed eyes. "Just
a concerned, tax-paying citizen. And freeloading scum like you have no business
talking to me." He turned away, presenting his back to Joel.

"How dare you!" Polly shouted. But she looked as
if she didn't know what to do. Shout more? Threaten him? Riggers lingered,
revelling in their powerlessness.

"I have a right to say what goes on in my
country." He looked Polly up and down, just as he'd done with Joel.
"You don't. Where's your country? Where are
you
from?"

"You racist fuck. You fucking racist fucking fucker."
A torrent of abuse spilled from Polly. Emily felt cold sweat all over her back.
There was no reasoning with people like Riggers. No amount of history lessons,
birth certificates, maps of centuries of immigration, or plain human decency,
could change the mind of a man like that. So she pulled out her own phone, and
began to dial the police.

Riggers' head whipped round as he heard the conversation
with the 999 controller start up. He shrugged, apparently unconcerned.
"Anyway, nice talking to you all. See you later, Emily." The hint of
threat made her stumble over her words and she lost what the controller was
asking her.

"No…sorry, no, he's gone now. No, it's fine. I'm sorry.
No, we really don't need…" in panic, she hung up. Could they trace a
mobile number? Was she going to be arrested for making a prank call? A million
terrible things tumbled through her mind but Polly brought her back to the
present.

"Arsehole. I shouldn't let him rile me up. Not like I
haven't heard all that before. And worse. Try being a black lesbian." She
shook her head, her anger dissipating quickly. "If people don't want to
put you on a pedestal as a wonderful example of diversity, they want to stone
you to death."

Emily sighed and threw her head back, unsure whether she
ought to answer Polly's humourless smile with a smile of her own. She didn't.
"I'm sorry."

"For…?"

"Everything. A shitty, shitty night. Are you okay? And
Joel… are you okay…?"

Joel's face was set hard, his pointed chin almost quivering
as he clenched his jaw. Emily wondered about how he felt. The way society
always expected a man to be all protective, and he'd been helpless.

"It's not your fault," she said, trying to express
her half-formed thoughts.

"No, of course it's not," he replied strangely.
"So, how do you know that fuckwit?"

"I…"

"Another article? Another fall guy for you?"

"No, not at all…"

Polly waved her hands between them. "Look, look, guys.
We've had a stressful encounter. Let's tidy up. No-one else is waiting for food
now. So let's call it a day, yeah?"

It was true. All the clients had melted away into the night,
unwilling to be anywhere near potential confrontation. They'd all had too many
bad experiences when things had gone wrong, police riot vans and custody suites
and unanswerable questions and assumptions roping them into bad situations.

"Yes." Emily immediately grabbed a plastic bin
bag, and shook it out so she could start filling it with the discarded
Styrofoam cups that were littering the area. Joel huffed, and she tensed,
waiting for another dig at her. But he went back to his own table and began to
tidy up the drinks area.

They worked quickly, and almost in silence. Polly made a few
light hearted remarks from time to time, but both Joel and Emily gave
non-committal one word replies, and Polly gave up. Even her indefatigable
enthusiasm seemed to have a limit.

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Emily got home. The
heating had clicked off an hour previously, and her flat seemed chilly and
unwelcoming. She was exhausted from the weekend of camping, the night of
stress, and the cold which had eaten into her bones. She would have had another
bath to warm up, if she'd had the energy.

But she wasn't a freelancer anymore. She couldn't have a
late night. She had to be up and at work the following day, and earn some money
to pay some bills.

She rolled into bed, feeling sorry for herself, and then
immediately feeling guilty for her self-indulgence. She remembered the folks
who'd been grateful for a bit of hot food and a chat.

Fuckity.
In spite of her tiredness, sleep was a long
time coming.

* * * *

Turner visited the bank and paid in two cheques and a wodge
of cash. It felt good. He grinned widely at the cashier who smiled back,
blushed, and lowered her head in a fluster.

I'm not grinning at you,
he wanted to say.
Just at
the fact that I'm paying in my own hard-earned cash at last. But hey. Take it
as a compliment if you wish.

He floated out of the bank, a bundle of notes still in a
roll in his inside pocket. With a number of commissions behind him, and some
very satisfied customers, he was feeling positive. He'd spent the morning at a
business link-up meeting organised by the city council. At first he'd felt like
a fraud when he walked into the swanky hotel reception, but after a while he'd
started to connect with other creative professionals in all sorts of job
sectors, and he realised that he was more like these people than anyone else
he'd met.

It was a revelation. All the skills of being a criminal, he
realised, were essential to the modern entrepreneur, too. Up to - but not
including - breaking the law. But everything else - fast thinking, finding and
exploiting loopholes, finding customers, meeting their needs, supplying quality
products - he knew of many drug dealers, for a start, who could have applied
their skills to start-up businesses and done very well for themselves.

He linked up with a jovial graphic designer who'd been
freelancing for a number of years, and his insights were particularly
invaluable. "Even if you can complete a job in a day, if the price is
high, wait until just before your deadline. Otherwise they'll think they're
over paying you."

Sound sense.
In fact, the whole morning had fired him
up with new and exciting ideas. He positively bounced his way home, and got
straight onto the phone to make more plans.

Although, not about work. No, this was pleasure. Emily had a
real treat in store for her this weekend.

Over the week since the camping trip, he'd grown more and
more regretful about it. He'd been so keen to show her his special place that
he hadn't considered her own feelings very much. And she'd been so polite and
willing to go along with it, too. But it was clear that she didn't like camping
very much.

I really do want to give her the whole world! Starting tonight.

* * * *

He appeared at her flat door in a smart black suit, holding
a very large bunch of red roses. The look on her face was priceless. He wanted
to take a snapshot of it.

"Oh my god. What…?"

He thrust out the flowers. "For you."

"Ahh, thank you. Come on in. You look… good."

"Thank you. We're off somewhere special tonight."

"I got your text. I'm nearly ready. I'll pop these in
water."

He watched her dash through to the kitchen and then on to
her bedroom. She was in a slinky black dress that made her curves even more
inviting, and her hair was piled in artful heaps and clips around her head.
When she emerged once more, she had wrapped a turquoise scarf in some floaty,
shiny material around her shoulders. She'd probably put more make up on, but Turner
was focused on her eyes.

"God, Emily, you look fantastic."

She smiled, looking down, shy and pleased just like the bank
cashier. "Thank you."

"Got an overnight bag?"