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Chapter Text

14/02/2024: Millbank, London

Dusk laid a heavy blanket atop the meandering turns of the Thames as the art-deco lamplights blinked into action in the face of the oncoming dark. Intermittent crowds of tourists drifted down the stairs of Tate Britain, each person laden with expensive souvenirs and even more expensive food. Over the river, the MI6 building, that gleaming shrine of secrets, was aglow from the office lighting that cast a hard pulse on the hive of essential activity that went on within its walls.

DCI Caroline Miller snapped the blind shut with her fingers and retreated away from the window to slide back into her desk chair. Sometimes she considered the fact the nondescript and ageing office that she worked from contained just as many secrets as the modern centre of national security that lay on the opposite side of the river. She rubbed at the ache in her temple with a slow, concentrated touch and clicked off her computer before her train of thought was interrupted by the door being opened.

A quick bolt of unease tightened at her centre. It was only ever something serious when her visitors had taken leave of their basic manners.

Caroline brushed the long strands of her dark hair behind one ear and rose to her feet to shake the hand of her colleague from the National Crime Agency, Ben Draper. He eased his tall, thin frame into the chair opposite and grimaced.

“So sorry for the interruption, Caroline, but this news couldn’t wait.”

“It’s alright, Ben. We all know how these things work by now. I was hardly expecting a dozen roses or a strippergram.” More like she was going home to a most welcome glass of wine and a good book.

He laughed at her lightness, feeling a welcome warmth spread around the pale starkness of her large office. “Well, I think most of us would consider this a Valentine’s gift. Have a guess which very old lag was found dead in his cell at Pentonville this morning.”

Caroline blinked her eyes shut for a moment, letting the weight of Ben’s words sink before her with leaden precision. She’d spent nearly 20 years as part of this guarded and highly skilled unit that worked to protect the living and the not-quite dead from one man, and one man only.

‘Any suspicious circumstances?” Neither old age nor the passage of time guaranteed any safety for one of East London’s most notorious organised criminals. Instinct and training had taught her to always look for the worst.

“Nah. Cellmate found him unresponsive this morning. No obvious signs of trauma. Police surgeon was called and the initial finding was a heart attack. There will be a p.m., of course, but it’s expected to be a formality.”

“And there was me thinking the red-faced old bastard didn’t have a heart,” Caroline said, gripping the polished edge of the desk to regain control over her wavering emotions. “Next of kin informed?” She pulled her focus back to the present minutiae of dealing with death rather than the years-long shadows that she had to dance in and out of in the day to day.

“Colleagues from Kent Police have been down at HMP East Sutton today. His daughter’s coming to the end of a short stretch for running a cannabis farm.” Ben laid out the details in a precise, even tone.

“Bit small fry for that family, isn’t it? I feel like the old man would almost be offended rather than proud.”

He chuckled ruefully and laid his hand against his cheek. “Crime is crime, Caro. All pays the bills either way. Rest assured that, due to the familial link, we had a quick look but weren’t concerned. The daughter’s got a kid now, too, but I seriously doubt it’s hiding marijuana in its nappies.”

Caroline rose to her feet again and went back to the window, the darkness now much deeper than before, lights from the boats glimmering on the water. For a moment she wished herself away onto a Thames Clipper, being carried up to the skyscrapers and industry at Canary Wharf or the historical charm of Greenwich.

She turned back to Ben and leant against the windowsill, needing the grounding hardness of the wood to lean against. Although they had prepared for this moment, although the plans had been made, risks calculated and emotions assessed, the reality always outweighed the theory.

“Ben, is your team satisfied that this is it? That it ends with him? That the risks for anyone still being protected are as close to nil as possible?”

Some of the harrowing things she’d seen in relation to the dead prisoner still sickened her to the core. How could she forget the wracking sobs that emanated from her former boss, Mick Sharrock, at the sight of a family who had borne the brunt of the murderous revenge of the man who always had to win? Mick had seen everything and met some of London’s worst villains (and had put a fair few of them behind bars), yet even he had been reduced to a momentary shell at seeing the level of depravity with his own eyes.

“We both know that even the risk assessment from 10 years ago was favourable. But that it wouldn’t ever really shut down until he died. The network’s gone, and a dead man can’t hold grudges any more.”

She nodded and sank back into her chair, grateful for even the slightest comfort.

“What are the numbers, Caro?”

“15 in witness protection. Five in the SPIDER protocol.”

SPIDER represented the highest level of protection. Something more than witness protection. Something that was, like witness protection, government-approved and was only probably even legal because it was often used for hiding high-profile people who could categorically not be found. However, in the case of serious organised crime, even those who were not celebrities or politicians could also be drawn into its web.

“Five? Fuck. That’s a lot of webs to untangle.”

“Just call me Spiderwoman,” she deadpanned, reaching across to flick her computer back on and feeling some calm from the blue light that pulsed from the monitor.

“Careful, I’ll be telling them all at Vauxhall Gardens how good you look in Lycra.” Ben got up, grinning to himself and readying himself for the short trip back across the river to reach his office, and fixed his gaze across at his colleague.

“Look, I know that the day to day has always been in your remit, but it’s a lot of work. Let me know if you need anything. Got a couple of rookies who could do with taking their fingers out of their arses.”

“Thanks, Ben, appreciate it. I’ll bear that in mind.” They shook hands again and once again, Caroline was alone with her thoughts, mind racing, adrenaline spiked high.

In many ways she knew she had been waiting for this moment. Every visit she had made to those who were still in those shadows, every considered move, every psychological assessment, every mapped-out framework of pasts and of futures had led to this: the unravelling of the protective web around those shielded from the now-deceased Johnny Allen.

*****

Across London, floodlights poured their reams of light down onto the shiny surface of the 4G pitch. The breath of the players misted in the chilly air as they chased the ball and shouted instructions for each other. Coaches and parents watched with careful eyes as the girls’ under-12s battled in their latest round of matches.

Charlie adjusted her headband and pulled the long sleeves of her blue jersey down over her wind-chilled hands. Just ahead of her team mates at the halfway line, she was waiting, waiting, waiting, for that slick pass that she knew Kelsey could always do. That angled, perfect ball that Charlie could get to before anyone else because she was so much quicker than the rest.

And when it came she was more than ready, bearing down on the ball like a flash, heart racing and instinct at the forefront as each touch took her away from the opposition like lighting and she was nothing but a chaotic blur closing in on the keeper. With one swish of her right foot the ball was in the net and, in between the ink of the night and the gleeful cheers of her team mates, Charlie’s focus forever remained the same at the moment she had scored. Head back, hand on heart, eyes up at the aching expanse of the sky.

Always the same mantra: this one’s for you, Mum.

Chapter Text

16/02/2024: Wimbledon, London

Caroline eased her silver BMW to a stop in a secluded avenue in a quiet and affluent part of south-west London, feeling a mix of apprehension and purpose as she unclipped her seatbelt and collected her handbag and files from the front seat. Most of yesterday had been spent going through case histories and risk profiles. While the majority of her team looked after those 15 who had been cloaked by the witness-protection scheme, she was responsible for the five SPIDER protocol cases who had been assessed at the greatest level of danger and had thus been afforded the highest level of protection.

Dead men and women walking.

Tightening the belt on her wool coat, she pressed her thumb into the video doorbell and waited, wondering why she was quite so apprehensive. How many times had she rehearsed for this endgame? Countless times. Yet it was a vast undertaking that involved an intricate map of emotion and care. At times like this she wished her old boss was here. The coppers’ copper, the man with the iron glove and endless wisdom.

The door swung open and her mood mellowed at the sight of the man behind it, who was grinning softly at the sight of her in the doorway.

“Aren’t you a couple of days late? Where are my Love Hearts and flowers?”

She laughed as he let her cross the threshold and the click of her heels echoed along the wood flooring in the hall. “Take it up with the government, they’re the ones who dictate the budget.”

“S’pose I should never really expect the law to do me any favours,” he continued in jest, leading her into the well-lit living room and quickly tidying the array of magazines on the sofa.

“Keeping you alive not enough then?” Humour still edged her tone and she hoped that it cloaked most of her unease. Each one of her cases had become friends, almost family over the years. And now she was the knock at the door with the life-changing news.

“Coffee?” He could sense the weariness and the edge of something he couldn’t quite define in her demeanour and wondered if caffeine might be of help.

“Please. By the bucket,” she affirmed before sitting down and reaching for her paperwork.

Alone in the kitchen and while waiting for the kettle to boil, Dennis glanced at the date on his watch and frowned. Visits were always carefully timetabled and a sense of unease prickled over his skin as he realised, in spite of his earlier jokes, Caroline was actually much earlier than usual.

Pacing back into the living room with purpose, he set a giant Sports Direct mug on the angled glass of the coffee table and felt the slightest comfort at the peal of her laughter.

“Best I could do. We always seem to end up with loads of them when Charlie needs new boots.” Sitting beside Caroline, he studied her more closely: the neat fan of documents in her lap; the slightest tremor as she sipped at her coffee; the timid sweep of her hair behind an ear.

His fine-honed sense for trouble would never, ever leave him. Radar-precise and unfailing.

“You’re early this month, Caroline. What’s going on?” The uncompromising fix of his gaze made her swallow hard. She was usually the one doing the interrogating.

Coffee almost spilling out over her papers as she sighed heavily, Caroline let the truth out in a rush of breath. “Johnny Allen died two days ago.”

“Where’s the champagne, then?” A joke seemed the best line of immediate defence as he tried to stop his mind from racing away at what that meant. For everyone.

“Please can you stop with the wisecracks for maybe a couple of minutes, Dennis?”

Full of tension, he got up and stared at the white plane of the mantlepiece, which was dotted with the patchwork of the life he had made in these secret, shadowy years, and bereft of traces of the past. Arm slung along and gripping at the edge to ground himself, he waited for Caroline to give further detail.

“Heart attack. Well, he was in his eighties. Surprised he lasted that long, really.” After another sip of her drink she stood up so that she was opposite him at the other end of the mantle, sensing the inner war he was waging with himself even while gazing across silver picture frames and gilt-edged trophies. A catalogue of precious memories and celebrations.

“You know that the NCA risk assesses every year and, well, that’s out of my hands. Where people’s lives are at stake they exercise the highest level of caution. Even though ten years ago they felt Allen was unlikely to orchestrate anything, they felt it was paramount to keep the protocol in place. Either for 20 years or in the event of his death.”

“And now that he’s croaked it?” He barely masked the celebratory tone in his voice.

“They’re happy that no risk remains.”

“No such thing as no risk, Caroline.” “I mean, he still got to people while he was inside, right? Still had enough braindead lackeys to do his dirty work?” Yet somehow at that moment Dennis could only think of those times in which Allen did get his hands dirty, and it made his chest tighten with the lack of oxygen and the heat of unfiltered rage.

“I can’t go into specifics, Dennis, but yes. His network was still substantial when we first imprisoned hm. But, well, with time, and with age, it’s gone.” And didn’t they all know about the passage of time and its cost?

“Could use a drink. You want one?”

“No, thanks. Driving and on-duty.”

A couple of inches of vodka slid into a crystal tumbler with the merest tilt of his wrist, and it soon burned in his throat moments later. “What does this mean, in practical terms?” He wasn’t entirely sure the alcohol would give much clarity.

“Your assigned identity stays as is, there’s no room for manoeuvre on that in any circumstances. The past is all joined up in the places it needs to be.” Caroline realised how vague and impersonal it sounded. “But nothing has to stay a secret any more.”

“So it’s not all classified?”

“You’re not that important,” she laughed, watching the myriad emotions play on his features.

“Save that for the politicians and celebs who’ve fucked up, do ya?” A wry grin chased his words as he finished the last of the vodka.

“I… no comment.” Even with her distinguished career and high rank, some operations and procedures remained firmly out of her remit. She had her suspicions, just like her colleagues and all good coppers.

“Bet you’ve heard that a few thousand times?” Sometimes Dennis wondered if he asked more questions than she did.

“Oh you wouldn’t even want to open a book on that. No point.” Caroline paced back to where she was sitting and glanced at her folder. All those histories and lost years printed and inked on flimsy sheets of paper, so different from the tangible person standing tense and conflicted by the fireplace.

“What now?” Dennis swallowed to try to alleviate the hard set of his jaw.

“Operational restrictions are lifted. I mean, witness protection isn’t a secret. This is just a more extreme version of it. Nobody did anything illegal.” It wasn’t likely to be a scandal in the tabloids or anything that IOPCC would be concerned with.

“In non-copper speak, please, Caroline?” Tired of the sudden bone-deep ache he felt, he went back to her and sank beside her in order to try and gain some comfort from the softness of the sofa.

“SPIDER is named as such because every person in it is or was part of a web: all those people who formed part of the person’s past, all caught up in this. Well, the past is no longer off limits. You’re free to contact whomever you wish.”

“What do I tell Charlie?”

“Everything, or nothing, or something in between.” “Or you don’t do anything at all, Dennis, and carry on with this status quo.”

“More of a Led Zeppelin fan myself.” His finger made a tight halo around the rim of his glass.

“Look, just give it a few days to think about it. Or a week. Even longer. I don’t need to tell you that there’s a lot at stake here.”

He glanced back at his watch again and checked the date for a second time. “Yeah. Now might not be a good time. Anniversaries and all that.” A shiver rolled up his spine and he had no idea how his hands were steady.

Caroline nodded in a firm and silent agreement. The SPIDER files did not operate on a criminal basis, and did not record offences if none were present, but she still had a firm grasp on the personal lives of every person who had been connected to Dennis.

Getting to her feet, she drifted a solid hand to his shoulder. “Give me a ring when you’re ready. Or not. One thing remains in place, as it has before. If you need me to be an advocate then I will be there.”

“It’s such a weight to carry.”

She shrugged. “It’s my job. I don’t need a gold star.”

The hollow clatter of her heels as she departed the house echoed in the hard thrum of his heartbeat as he closed his eyes and found himself with one particular memory burned into his retinas, etched as clear and as hard as stained glass.

He could still feel the barely restrained anger twinned with the knot-tight revulsion in his stomach turning like a mangle as he uncovered a deception he wasn’t sure he would recover from. Nineteen years ago last month. And, in the midst recalling of all that, somehow he heard his own voice, his absolute clarity and certainty in a moment of disgusting chaos.

“I’ll never forget about Sharon.”

Truths may fade like colours or flicker like candlelight, but they never die.

Chapter Text

19/2/2024: City of London Cemetery and Crematorium, Manor Park, East London

A biting wind brought a chill to the air as the morning dew glistened in the illumination of the low winter sun, reflecting little rainbows on the lush, long grass patched between the road and the gravestones. The low clack and hum of the trains sounded in the distance as weary commuters made their way into central London, all of them rammed in like sardines.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Dennis looked at the battered leaflet in his hand and tried to ascertain exactly where he was in the vast space. Fading ink in the corner of the map read a series of numbers and letters that gave the precise location of the plot. Even if he closed his eyes, trying to visualise his last visit was next to useless as there were 2,000 acres of land.

A squeeze of his other hand broke his reverie and Charlie looked up at him from under the slight skew of her bobble hat. “Are we lost, Dad? Shall I look on my phone?”

“I don’t think there’s an app called Find-a-Grave, Charlie.” Actually, he thought, some clever bastard had probably made that and found a way to monetise it. “And your phone is for emergencies only. Not messing about with apps.” Not an ounce of sternness peppered his tone.

“Fantasy Premier League is an emergency. Well, it is if you miss the deadline.” She shuffled around a bit, never one to be standing still for long.

“Maybe we can agree on that one. You’re not allowed to beat me, though, it’s against the natural order of things.” Not that a cemetery or crematorium was a respecter of any order of things, natural or otherwise.

My son being in the ground is pretty fucking unnatural.

Such a dark thought rose up unbidden, as invasive and inescapable as knotweed. Suffocating and destructive, thick vines creeping through his senses and spreading out the ache.

He started moving again in order to push away the pain, reaching a wide crossroads and taking a sharp left with his daughter following close by, trying to match his speedy strides wherever she could.

Just past a pristine tap and a neighbouring headstone adorned with the delicate stems of blush-pink roses lay the bare and unassuming grave Dennis had been searching for. No trinkets or flowers lay beside the grey granite, although the space was tidy and well-kept. He knelt down beside the grave, the denim of his jeans creased and then prickled by the wet blades of grass.

Reaching out he felt the grooves of the engraving, tracing the letters in the headstone like Braille, wracked by the sadness of this being the only, barely tangible part of someone he once knew so well.

“Well, mate. He’s dead now. And I don’t believe in heaven and hell and any of that shit, but, if you happen to be in the same place as he is now, then,” he paused, lowering his voice and moving closer to the name, “you have my permission to roast his balls like chestnuts.”

If hell did exist then Johnny Allen definitely belonged there.

Drawing frigid air back through his lungs to try and regain composure, he got up and tried to take in the calm of the early morning even if the tumult of the memories turned in his blood like a thousand screws.

“Who was Andrew?” Charlie moved so that the neon red of her trainers lined up with Dennis’s shoes; toes almost touching through the material.

“I worked with him a long time ago.” He knew that this was a simple explanation that left out a large amount of damning facts, but the difficult skill of locking the past away, whether good or bad, had been honed with ever-sharper focus given the need to survive.

“Why did he die?”

“A bad man threw him off a footbridge.” While in some respects time and being a parent had put a filter in place where there had been none, he saw no reason to sugar-coat the facts of Andy’s death in the face of her youth. After all, she wasn’t about to conceptualise the terror; the bones cracking on concrete; the red glare of taillights; the blare of the horns. Not like he had done in that purgatory between sleeping and waking when dreams were their most vivid and terrible.

She gasped in shock and shifted a bit closer.

“Same bad man wanted to kill me as well.”

Officially, he did. Sort of.

Charlie reached out and looped her fingers carefully around her father’s wrist, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse. Looking up, she swallowed away the dryness from her throat and found the question that perhaps she had been meaning to ask for a long while. “Is that why you don’t see very many people?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Life was quiet and hidden in suburbia: it had to be.

She nodded in simple acceptance as they moved away from the graveside back out onto the wide path. “Next time we should bring Andrew something he liked.”

What did he like? Not cruises or Mitchells, that was certain.

“Everyone called him Andy, and yeah, we’ll do that.” He said, smiling at her thoughtfulness and reaching for her hand, feeling grateful that she was still at the age that she would hold his hand without feeling embarrassed.

“Can we go and practice now? Miss Stevens said I need to keep up during this half term.”

“You’re gonna ruin my face with all your penalties, Charlie.” Every so often he had caught a stray football square in the jaw.

“You should really try saving them with your hands, Dad.”

*****

East London Cemetery, Plaistow

A cluster of daffodils lay under her arm, a fine sheen of rain dotting the cellophane they were wrapped in, the bright yellow like a splash of stars against the black wool of her coat. Her heels were a hollow staccato on the tarmac below as she walked towards the grave, clutching her son’s hand tightly.

She breathed in and closed her eyes for a moment, knowing that she would know the way without even thinking, a natural reflex after all these years. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sharon moved the last few inches towards the well-worn gravestone and cursed at her shoes sinking into the soft, wet grass.

Every bloody time, I never learn.

She frowned at the freshly laid flowers that sat below the headstone; a bright shock of oranges and pinks that contrasted with the grey of the grave. Although it wasn’t altogether uncommon for well-meaning strangers to leave tributes, she felt a slight unease as she wondered who might have left them.

Pushing away the doubt, she laid a plastic bag on the floor to protect her knees from the cold, clinging dew and then motioned for her son to join her on the small space.

Knees aligned and squeaking against the thin material, Sharon realised how small Albie still was in comparison, how he was growing bigger and yet still had so many years ahead of him, and yet she felt the profound sadness that his grandparents were gone. That he would never know two people who shaped her life for the good and the bad.

“You wanna give Nanna and Grandad your presents, sweetheart?” She asked, prompting him to reach out for the cold granite ahead of them.

Albie nodded and unfurled his tiny clenched fist to lay a toy car atop the stone, and then followed by unfolding a drawing from his pocket. Bright green triangles and a circle burst from the page and Sharon smiled to herself in spite of the sadness.

“Well, your granddad never thought of himself as a dinosaur, but he’d appreciate the picture anyway,” she said, pulling him a bit closer and feeling the comfort in holding him.

“Will they like my car?” He asked quietly, eyes wide in expectation.

“Of course, Albie, yes,” they’ll love it because it is from you,” she affirmed, squeezing his shoulder.

With the same amount of care, Sharon added the spray of daffodils to the gifts on the grave. Before them lay a riot of colour: a testimony of years past; of love and of loss.

So much loss, she thought, shivering from the cold and from the memories. Why did she have so little left now, why had so many people in her life been stolen too soon?

Merely days earlier she had sat by her son’s grave with the same invasive and devastating memories collecting in her consciousness. Her life was a litany of loss that was scarcely believable. Sometimes she wondered how she had survived all this and crawled from the wreckage time and time again.

Lashes damp and skin chilled from the onslaught of the cold wind, Sharon pulled them both to their feet and blew a kiss towards the now colourful and busy site.

“Love you both and miss you,” she said quietly, voice wavering with emotion.

“Can we go home now?” Albie asked.

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

“On the green train?” He asked excitedly, and Sharon gave him a genuine smile and light chuckle at his description of the District line.

“Yep. Just like Percy,” she replied, referring to his favourite train that appeared on Thomas and Friends.

Sunlight filtered through the trackside trees as the train shifted back two stops to home. A sparse load of passengers was dotted about the carriages now that rush hour was over. Sometimes she wondered if random strangers could possibly comprehend the life she had led, if they could have borne the steel-heavy sadness of her grief time and again and yet still come back to the place where most of it had occurred.

The beige-grey tiles of Walford East were uninviting as ever, but she felt a flood of relief of being able to take Albie in behind that solid black door and shut away the world.

It was just her and her son for now.

Chapter Text

24/2/2024

Thin frost glittered strongly along the well-manicured back lawn, while icicles began to thaw in the glow of the mid-morning sun. An assortment of footballs lay abandoned in the netting of the goal at the very end of the garden, while a gentle layer of ice lay on the leafy tops of the leeks nestled in a square section for growing vegetables.

Dennis turned away from the window and went back to the comfortable black leather of his office chair, relaxing into it and then staring at the black nothing of the switched-off monitor for a long moment. While the busyness of both work and the half-term holidays had provided some escape from the whirring of his thoughts, he couldn’t help but wonder where to start in letting anyone know about the past. Scratching the surface with Charlie at Andy’s graveside was all very well, and although friends and family in this new phase of life were few and far between, he knew he had to start somewhere.

With a quick swipe of his thumb, he was dialling a familiar number.

“Medaglia D’Oro, this is Roberto speaking, how can I help?”

“Oh shit, sorry, Roberto, I didn’t mean to ring the main phone.”

“Ah, it’s no problem, Dennis. I mean, you’re such an uncultured sod that if I sent you pizza from here now all the way to London, you’d probably still eat it when it is cold and stale, right?”

“Yeah, it’s true,” he admitted, chuckling in agreement. “Absolutely nothing wrong with cold pizza, though.”

“As long as you never tell me that ravioli in a tin is edible, then we’re fine. Anyway, enough about food, what can I do for you?”

Dennis hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should not just leave it all buried away. After all, the shadows of the distant past did not affect the present and future and the universe that he knew Roberto in. Or did they?

Then, just as quick as the doubt arose, he could still hear Roberto’s voice ringing in his eardrums: the warm, genuine help that he was always quick to offer. Fraternity and, well, family.

“You might wanna sit down for this one, Roberto.”

“Shit, fratello, please tell me that Charlie is OK?”

“Yeah, mate, she’s fine. Better than ever. It’s not that.” “Take a seat and, well, maybe get a glass of grappa, and I’ll start from the beginning.”

*****

A long click and buzz punctuated the air as the secure lock was opened. Inside, a man with a stoic and motionless expression beckoned Sharon in and then pointed her towards a woman in a fitted white shirt and blue trousers, who stood as straight and serious as her colleague.

“Valuables for your locker in here, please.”

Sharon swallowed hard, placing her phone and keys into the tray. She had no idea how her hands were steady as she unpinned her earrings and added them alongside her other belongings.

The woman nodded in sober acknowledgment and moved forwards with measured steps in order to complete the search. Hands firm and blade-straight, she felt along Sharon’s sides with quick, even movements until she was satisfied there was no danger present. “Fine. Put your things away and then you have an hour, no more. Someone will come and get you when the time is up.”

“Thank you.” Sharon nodded her acknowledgement and then stowed her belongings away before being let through another heavy door into the main room.

Strip lighting was surprisingly soft in the tiled ceiling while the beige of the plain walls was dotted with posters, paintings and noticeboards. A cluster of yellow and blue sofas lay unused in one corner, while the lights on a couple of vending machines in the other flickered intermittently. 
A neat row of tables was already busy with a few patients and visitors, the low hum of chatter passing between them in amongst the quiet.

Sharon’s deep sense of unease soon began to lift at the sight of Linda there at a table on the right-hand side: the usual riot of pink that was so familiar and oddly welcome against the drab surroundings. Following a quick press of a hug, the two women were seated opposite each other with a strange silence and relief passing between them.

“Hope they’re looking after you in here?”

In that terrifying moment at Christmas where Linda had taken a life to save another, the consequences had come just months later. With the blue-black marks still mottled around Sharon’s neck like a sickening camouflage and the testimony of the other women present, the CPS were satisfied Linda’s actions amounted to manslaughter. Adding the mitigating factors of her actions to save her best friend, and her alcoholism, as well as her guilty plea, the judge had taken everything into consideration and decided that the first three months of her imprisonment should begin in rehab.

“Sort of. Doing OK booze-wise. I’ve stopped shaking so much, so that’s progress,” she said plainly, thankful that the worst of the physical symptoms had started to fade. “No blades allowed, though,” Linda continued, sipping from her coffee. “Got legs like a woolly mammoth.”

Sharon’s laughter at the light moment soon turned to palpable concern as she took hold of Linda’s forearm and gave it a quick squeeze. “Well, they want to make sure you can’t get hurt.”

Bit late for that. For all of us.

“How’s things with you and Albie?”

“Fine, yeah. He’s already excited about school in September. Picking out which toy car he wants to take for good luck.” She tried to keep her emotions as level as possible, painfully aware that although Linda’s enquiry was genuine, her friend could not conceal the anguish of missing her own children.

“Kids been up to see you yet?” Even asking the question sent a shiver through her, pushing forward an ache that she knew all too well, even if Linda’s separation would not be a permanent one.

“Yeah, on the weekends. Fun family trip to the rehab unit,” she deadpanned, looking down at her paper cup again. “Still, it’s better than the nick,” she added, nearly choking on the words as she knew they spelled out her not-so-distant future.

“Main thing is, is that you’re getting help, Linda.” It was scant consolation but the only solace Sharon felt she could offer.

“Yeah. Just wish it hadn’t happened like this, got to this tragedy…” Her voice trailed off and Sharon knew they were both replaying the same harrowing events in their mind.

“We all do, trust me. Just concentrate on gettin’ better, yeah?” She didn’t want Linda to be haunted by the memories, as painful as they were.

“I will, yeah,” “trying to take it one day at a time and not get too far ahead of myself.”

In spite of her declaration, she couldn’t stop her mind from hitting fast-forward. “You ever visit your wicked stepmother in the nick?”

Sharon couldn’t hide her surprise at Linda bringing up Chrissie, even if there were some parallels to be drawn. there.“I think my fist in her face in the middle of Stansted did all the talking, to be honest.” Instinctively she looked at her hands, both saddened by how bare they were these days and somehow strengthened by the memory of her past resilience and fight.

“I don’t have anything to say to her. Think she should be gettin’ out this year.” How had it been so long?

“Don’t s’pose you can ask her for any prison-based hair removal tips, then?”

*****

Paper grazed over wood panelling as Dennis shifted his coffee cup along a deserted balcony and looked out over the green expanse of Wimbledon Park. A flock of Canada geese drifted along the flat plane of the lake while a murmur of cheers rose from the nearby athletics track. After the quick click of heels on concrete, Caroline joined him, leather-gloved hands moulded around her cup.

“I told Roberto about everything. Well, most of it, anyway.” There was no way he could disclose everything about his former life to people he only knew in the present.

She nodded evenly in response. “And what did he say?”

“He was fine about it, really. Think he’s read enough crime novels to entertain the possibility of it all bein’ real. Then we just went back to debating which Godfather film is the best one.” They had spent hours chatting about films, sport and music. For the first time in his life, Dennis had a male relative who he could spar with, someone who, although he was probably bonded closer to because of tragedy, was a friend as well as family.

“Oh, it’s the first one, no question.”

“Yeah, I agree. But he thinks Part II. He’s been through a lot recently, though, so I’m gonna put it down to temporary insanity.”

A thick silence followed her chuckle as he leant forward on the wide balcony and looked across at her, assessing the tight line of her form. They hadn’t often met up outside in all the years and he sensed that she was tense.

“How’s it going? With all the others? I know you.can’t go into details, but…”

“It’s a mixed bag, really,” she confessed. “Some people don’t want to go back, some are still afraid. Some are just shellshocked by the change after all this time.” Taking a sober sip from her coffee, Caroline drifted a hand over her face, feeling the weight of it catching up with her.

“Wish the boss could be here, to be honest. I’ll have to check if I’m permitted to brief him on the outcomes, given he’s retired now.” She’d really only been a rookie detective back then and his guidance and instinct had been integral to the work of the Protocol.

“Anyway, enough about me and the others. Is there anything you want to follow up on, Dennis?”

Aware that her tone was somewhat impersonal, she shifted towards him and leant forward to mirror his stance.

“I was thinking about Danny Moon because he still thinks that he killed me, right?” The planning of the circumstances of his supposed death had been meticulous and designed to be as harrowingly real as possible.

Her breath misted the air as she sighed. “In all honesty, we don’t know where he is. My colleague Ben at the NCA does some digging from time to time. His general feeling is that he’s dead. Killed either by Allen or by his brother.”

Surprise coloured his features with speed. “Jake? He’s softer than a Mr Whippy. He wouldn’t have killed anyone.”

‘Either way, it’s nothing for you to worry about. We don’t break rules with this. Even if he is out there, alive, he’s not being imprisoned for anything he did to you. And not even for anything he did to anyone else. A judge would take one look at his mental-health record and he wouldn’t see a minute in the nick. Secure unit, most likely.” Revulsion turned in her stomach as she was reminded that amongst Allen’s crimes was the exploitation of a young man who likely needed extensive psychiatric help.

“I think we’re avoiding the central point here, aren’t we? And that’s really not like you at all.” Sharp and unfiltered were two would she would use to describe him with ease but he seemed neither at the moment. She saw the doubt etched on his face; the pain; the weight; the questions; the wondering.

“There’s a lot at stake, Caroline,” he said, caught somewhere between fear and hope.

“There always has been. From day one.” Over all these years she hadn’t missed the significance of the one person Dennis had left behind, the one person who was more than the totality of everyone else combined until his daughter came into his life, the entire world encapsulated in one woman.

“Am I going to Walford, Dennis?”

He took a deep breath, steadying his emotions. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

Chapter Text

26/2/2024

A low rumble of thunder threatened in the distance as a thick rain shower slowed to a steady pulse of light drizzle. The dark of early evening was interrupted by the intermittent glow of the scattered street lights. A final few customers shuffled from the market clutching their latest purchases and trying to find shelter from the rain. Caroline closed her umbrella shut with a low whoosh and felt the claustrophobic press of Albert Square weigh on her shoulders.

She’d spent yesterday reading through the necessary information, poring through the web of files related to Sharon Watts. None of them related to criminal activity of any kind, save for witness statements from various events over the years, most notably from Christmas just gone. Part of Caroline remained astounded that someone who had carved a successful life in the warmth of Miami not once, but twice, should ever choose to return to this nondescript part of East London that had seemed to only bring pain and loss. The other part of her was impressed by the woman’s sheer resilience to survive and carry on.

And I’m about to throw a Dennis-shaped grenade into the mix.

Undeterred by that thought, she rummaged in her handbag for her warrant card and then rapped her knuckles against the door of Number 43, aware that there could be a sleeping child inside. She planned these events around work and childcare where possible, aiming for minimum disruption even if she was delivering life-changing news.

The door clicked open and Caroline swallowed away any doubt, taking in the sight of the short blonde woman in front of her who looked well-presented but tired.

“Can I help you?’ Sharon asked, gaze narrowing at the sight of the polished professional woman on her doorstep on a quiet February evening.

“Sharon Watts? I’m DCI Miller, from the Metropolitan Police Operations 7. Could I speak to you for a moment, please?”

“What’s this about? I thought that everything at Christmas had been sorted now. I mean, Linda’s been sentenced.” Dread seeped through her veins at the memory as she took her time to scrutinise the photo identification.

“Yes, and I’m sorry for any misunderstanding here, and for your loss. My colleagues in CID assure me that there’s no issue there. My team deals with an entirely separate section of policing, namely organised crime.”

Oh fucking hell, what’s Phil done now? Sharon was not entirely surprised that this was the first connection her brain knitted together, but even then remained cautious and guarded of the stranger at her door. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake, I don’t have anything to do with any organised crime.”

Caroline knew at this point she had no option but to start pulling the pin out of the grenade. “It’s about Johnny Allen.”

All that Sharon felt at that moment was ice at her throat.

*****

The shimmering reflection caught Sharon’s eye as the light mirrored off the black and gold bracelet at the DCI’s wrist. She noted the clover-shaped details on the chain and knew that it was a piece of Van Cleef and Arpels jewellery: distinctive and expensive. As Sharon set a mug of coffee on the table, she had the unnerving sense that she’d met this woman before, a feeling or a memory that she couldn’t quite place. Leaving a space between them, Sharon joined the detective on the sofa.

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand why I have anything to do with that man. He killed my husband and countless other people, no doubt. Last I heard he was rotting in jail.” She didn’t want to say his name out loud: hated the shape of it her her mouth; the timbre of it in her ears.

“Johnny Allen died 12 days ago.”

“Well, you should have called ahead and I would have brought out the champagne.”

Caroline pulled her face into a neutral mask, hiding her amusement that Dennis had nearly had the exact same reaction in learning the fate of the man who had changed their lives so profoundly. “Believe me, Miss Watts, I won’t hesitate to say that my team would have joined you in the celebration.”

“Is this a courtesy call or something, because a phone call would have done? The Probation Service write me enough letters about my stepmother’s supposed release.” She still wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the news that Chrissie was likely to be freed towards the end of the year.

“No, it’s not that. Johnny Allen’s death means that I’m now able to talk to you about events that preceded it.”

“Why should I care about anything else that happened to that man?” She detested thinking of him, of his vacant stare and the crushing terror of his hands at her neck.

Assessing the clear discomfort on Sharon’s face, Caroline decided to start from the beginning.

“My former boss, Mick Sharrock, he’s retired now. Back at the turn of the millennium he headed the Taskforce that I now lead. I joined back in 2003. I know that Allen was one of those criminals who liked to think he was always ahead of the game, but that wasn’t the truth. We were watching him from late 1999. While the Flying Squad were stopping a jewel robbery at the Millennium Dome, our sole focus was Allen and his crimes.”

“Bet that kept you busy,” Sharon commented sharply, knowing enough to be aware that Allen’s criminality had been lifelong, near enough.

“It did, and it was sadly lacking in speedboats.”

Is this woman a copper or a comedian? “Forgive me if I am still missing the point here.” Confusion weaved its way through Sharon’s veins like dodgems, quick and chaotic.

“We had undercover officers in some of his businesses who kept tabs on his movements and dealings. I think it is an understatement to say he was a shrewd operator who didn’t often get his own hands dirty.”

“I’d have to disagree with you, DCI Miller, since he had no hesitation about putting his hands around my neck.” Sharon swallowed hard at this point at the memory and watched the detective reading her expression with caution.

“In 2005 when he returned to Walford we had one of our officers working at his nightclub, Scarlett’s. I can’t tell you his name but he reported your attack to myself and the guv straight away.”

“And you couldn’t arrest him?” Incredulity rose through her tone. She may have felt differently about the police after everything she had been through, but surely they should have intervened at that point?

“He didn’t witness the attack, just the aftermath of you leaving and some of the dialogue. Enough for him to escalate it to us, not enough to get him collared.” Caroline almost felt it sounded trivial and pathetic, but undercover ops often meant letting some things go to let the offences accumulate or wait for the pivotal moment to strike and make an arrest. Or taking evasive action where needed.

“I still don’t see what significance this has. He still did what he wanted, still threatened my family and killed my husband. Still got what he wanted and you’re telling me you did nothing to prevent all this?” Frustration peppered Sharon’s tone and she felt tense and uncharacteristically trapped inside her own four walls.

What does this woman want? What’s she here for?

"Given there was an immediate threat to life, the guv and I met with Dennis the very next day.”

“No, he would have told me about that. And he didn’t like the law, too much history.” Defiance was there in the shake of her head and the set of her bones, trying to angle herself away from the detective.

“That goes out of the window when it is life and death, trust me.”

“You’ll forgive me if it is pretty hard for me to trust anybody these days. S’pose you have all the details about what happened at Christmas?” Sharon swallowed hard again, feeling the tightness in her throat and the storm of emotion and fear in her chest.

“I do, yes, and believe me, Miss Watts, I know just these mere details are a lot, but, please, bear with me. There’s so much for you to know about everything that transpired.” Caroline kept her tone even and serious, gathering her inner steel for unravelling the final threads of the web.

*****

“Why did you and your boss just meet with Dennis and not me as well?” Sharon got up and rubbed her temples, ache creeping in like vines as the evening wore on and she continued to try and make sense of this woman’s sudden presence in her life.

“The threat to life was explicitly against Dennis. Part of our team’s remit is that we deal with those who were threatened by Allen. And there are different levels of protection that were available to those affected.”

Sharon caught the present tense in Caroline’s words and reacted accordingly. “Are you telling me that people are still being affected by him? Even now?”

“Yes, Allen’s network was pretty vast and unrelenting. A lot of people got caught in his web of criminality and not many people made it out. A lot of people paid with their lives.”

“They did, yeah. But if you met with Dennis then why didn’t you help us?” Despair almost edged out in her voice as she contemplated the possibility that this one change could have made things different. Could have saved him from a violent, horrific end. Pain shocked its way through her at the memory and she went back to the sofa again, needing to sit before she started to fall.

“I think it’s best that I fill you in on some background. The guv, Mick, he was one of the most experienced coppers I’ve known. He did vice, he did CID, he did everything, practically. Nothing shocked him and he put away a lot of dangerous people. But he didn’t underestimate Allen at any point and knew that he didn’t make empty threats. Mick had access to everything. All the years of offences that we hadn’t got to stick, all the networks, all the psychiatric assessments made.” Caroline brushed her fingertips across one of the files she had put on the table, needing a tangible connection to all the history.

“And what was his conclusion?”

“Allen was a psychopath. And the most important thing to a psychopath is the winning. And, well, in Dennis’s case, Mick knew that we had to find a way to let him win.” Caroline stepped closer to the truth with every breath.

“What are you saying, exactly?” A fresh wave of dread pulsed through Sharon. What more torment could Allen bring, even from beyond the grave?

Caroline took a long exhale, knowing that even more of the context was important. That more examples of Allen’s depravity were needed to finally uncloak the hidden.

“In 2004, not long after I’d joined the team, the guv and I were dealing with a guy in his mid-20s called Lloyd Peters. He’d been a low-level operator in Allen’s empire, really, some occasional dealing that would have earned him a reasonable spell in the nick, but he was trying to move away from all that. Had a young family and had set up home. He agreed that he would give evidence in a case that implicated someone who was much higher in the distribution chain and likely employed directly by Allen.”

“So you protected him?”

“We tried. We can’t force anyone into witness protection or into any of the other active protocols that we have in this situation.” The detective paused for a long moment, keeping her unwavering composure intact.

“They have to be willing. In Lloyd’s case, nothing happened for about six months after the court case. Radio silence, he got on with being a husband and father. Until Boxing Day. The boss gets a call as Lloyd is still on our radar. So he goes up to this neat little terraced house in Catford, it’s dark and cold and he knows from the voice on the radio it’s not gonna be good. We’ve cordoned off half of the street and the blue lights are almost blending in with the Christmas ones.”

"Allen had him killed?” It was the easiest conclusion to draw, but the entire truth was all the more shocking.

“Not just Lloyd. His wife and two-year-old son as well. The entire family, dead in amongst the tinsel and the tree and the son’s toys. So when I say the boss had seen everything, he really had. But this, this changed him. Came back to the office, closed his door and we could hear him sobbing in the dark.” Caroline was rigid with the memory.

“That’s terrible, but I’m not surprised. I mean, a lot of the people in my life have been no angels, but Johnny Allen was on another level.” Everything had escalated so quickly, the sheer speed of Dennis’s shocking demise had somehow made it even crueller. That and the fact that she had been carrying his child.

“He was. And that was why the boss was determined not to make the same mistake.” Caroline could almost feel the metaphorical grenade in her hand now, the slide of the pin being pulled out.

“Are you telling me that you offered Dennis this out and he didn’t take it?” Deep-seated pain clawed at her like a gazelle killing prey.

“No, I’m telling you that he did.” She took no pleasure in finally throwing the truth in the room and even less in waiting for everything to explode.

Chapter Text

Rain continued to snake its way along the window in constant yet slow streams. Quiet had now descended on the outside world but the sound of agony was painted in her expression as she eyeballed the street in anger and then felt the crushing hammer of a memory as all she could see in her mind was a scarlet slick out on the pavement.

“No, no this isn’t happening, not again,” Sharon pointed a trembling finger at the DCI and then gestured to the outside world. “Dennis died out there on that Square. I saw it, I was there, I was holding him… his blood was everywhere.” Nausea flared through her and the shaking seemed to double, vibrating through her voice as well as her body.

“Please let me explain. I know it’s so much to take in. Come and sit back down.” Drawing on instinct, Caroline moved across and took Sharon by the elbow and guided her back to the sofa with care. “Where do you keep your booze?”

“Bottom cupboard on the left. Gonna need the whole lot at this rate.” Acid dripped in her tone as she tried to stave off some of the confusion and hurt, emotions crashing around like a pinball machine.

The smooth-sharp of a few inches of brandy did little to edge into the shock.

“This can’t be possible. He didn’t survive… and he wouldn’t ever have left me. Not ever,” Sharon added, the splintering of her certainty, the cracking of the foundations of her belief somehow as equally as devastating as the thought that Dennis might be out there somewhere.

Living. Walking. Running. Popping to the shops for a pint of milk.

“Please believe me when I say that he didn’t want to leave you, Sharon.” Caroline felt it was important to drop some of the formalities at this moment of crisis. “Everything we knew about Allen and the way he held onto grudges, we knew it wouldn’t be safe for you even if you left the country.”

“No, he wouldn’t let me live with this pain, havin’ me believe he was gone, just like Dad did.” Trying to rationalise it only tightened the iron grip that fear and dread held around her, just like the sickening spread of Allen’s fingers at her neck. Suffocating and terrifying. “Y’know, DCI Miller, everyone used to say how much alike Dennis and my Dad were, but this can’t be real. It just can’t. Dennis wouldn’t have done this. We were so happy. I was pregnant.”

Caroline nodded, knowing she had to reveal more of the horrific things her team had witnessed.

“I think I should give you some more information. Lloyd, who I spoke about earlier. The post-mortem showed two things. That he was restrained and he was the last to die. Which meant that when Allen sent some young nobody with a knife to do the killing, he had specific orders.”

She took a long pause, needing the words to become weapons themselves. “Mainly making sure that Lloyd watched his family being slaughtered. Given that you were pregnant at the time we didn’t want to imagine what damage he might have wanted someone to inflict.”

Bile rose through Sharon in an instant, burning and catching at her throat. She was upstairs in seconds and heaving the bitter yellow out of her mouth and into the toilet in wracking, shuddering sobs. Spent and broken against the cold bathroom tile, she didn’t question it as the DCI followed with a glass of water and the soothing press of a cold flannel.

“Thanks,” she croaked out. “I know a Mum when I see one.”

“My son’s at uni now but you just get used to looking after people, y’know?” Caroline leant back against the brilliant white of the porcelain bath, stretching her legs across the floor close to Sharon’s prone figure.

“If Dennis is alive, then why isn’t he here?” She was reminded of that stark moment in the club vomiting profusely as the shock of seeing her father again had sent her to her knees.

“He was mindful of your reunion with your father back in 2003 and the profound effect it had on you in just seeing him there in your business after all those years.”

A heavy brick of realisation fell into place in Sharon’s mind as the detective started to construct the narrative. The only people who know that detail are me, Vicki and Dennis. Sharon straightened up a bit, back aligned with the toilet pedestal.

“So he sent you to do his dirty work? Doesn’t seem like him. He liked to confront things head on. Probably why we got into all that with Allen in the first place.”

Why didn’t you just come home, darlin’? She hugged her knees to herself for a moment, feeling a chill rise through her that she couldn’t explain.

“As part of the protocol I’m permitted to act as an advocate for those who are protected by it.

We agreed that I would come and see you. If you do want to see him again then best to be as prepared as possible for that.” Her even tone did little to dissipate the despair in Sharon’s expression, eyes wet with uncried tears and wide with disbelief.

“Still doesn’t explain how he bled out all over the place. All over me. I wasn’t hallucinating.”

Part of her had wanted to protest with the kind nurse who’d checked her over in the early hours of New Year’s Day. After a blood pressure check and the confirmatory whoosh of a precautionary ultrasound, the woman had wiped away the bloodstains with such gentle caution, but Sharon had almost wanted those traces to remain. His blood. Inside and out.

“No, you weren’t.” Methods for fake deaths in the protocol varied depending on circumstance and Caroline admitted to herself that this one had been pretty brutal. It needed to be as convincing as it could be. Undeterred, she continued to lay out the details. “Once it was agreed, we worked quickly. We knew that Allen wanted you to be gone on New Year’s Eve. Knew that he favoured stabbing as a method for murder. It’s personal, you see.”

“Danny Moon was the most likely assailant, too. Easily exploited and he already knew what Dennis looked like. We were pretty sure that he’d been Allen’s hired help in the attempted murder of a young man in Canning Town back in 2002.”

“He was dying out there on that pavement, with all the fireworks going off.” Closing her eyes she tried to block that away and remember the bittersweet bursts of red, white and blue as she held Denny for the first time on Independence Day. Softness in her hands and bright colours in the sky. “Maybe your Daddy is watching, eh?”

Her reverie was soon broken as the DCI continued to map out the details behind the worst day of her life. Well, one of two. Or maybe even three.

“We equipped Dennis with two things. A pack used by SFX teams in films. It’s a thin, skin-like membrane strong enough to protect the wearer from impact but can be broken by the shock of a fist or a knife. It’s filled with dyed warm saline so that when it’s cut or punched it gives the impression of a heavy bleed. And a fast-acting sedative that allowed him to appear unconscious and bradycardic, i.e. to have a very slow pulse.”

“So who the hell did I bury? And what about the death certificate? It’s illegal for those to be fraudulent, remember all the notices about that from when it had to get done for my son…”

A gasp followed her words as a memory knitted together and Sharon remembered the haze of guilt and grief, and the sharp glint of gold off the edge of the detective’s bracelet which was now illuminated by the bathroom spotlight.

“You were at my son’s funeral.”

*****

Bone-tired and wrought with emotion, Sharon shifted across the floor so that she was sitting beside Caroline against the bath panel. The woman who had helped orchestrate something that had made her suffer so much. Yet her presence also brought an odd calm. If Dennis was alive, then had this police officer kept him away from harm for all these years?

“I was, yes. As I said, I’m permitted to advocate for the people in the protocol.”

“Dennis knows that our son died?” She could hardly stand to get the words out, choking on them like there were ball bearings in her throat.

“I always have a balancing act with what to tell anyone about things that occur in the web of their former life, things that happen to the people they left behind. However, this was something I couldn’t keep from him. I didn’t want to conceal it, but it was out of my control anyway. I’m sure you weren’t aware of it at the time, but your son’s passing was featured in the local and national news. We couldn’t have avoided it anyway.” Slipping off her suit jacket, Caroline moved to place it over Sharon’s shoulders, noticing that she was beginning to shiver.

“So we were both suffering and you couldn’t put us back together? To share in that pain? ‘Cos I know he probably felt it even if he never met Denny.” Every question seemed to tear from the centre of her heart like pages ripped from a book, history pulled away from its spine and flayed out.

“The NCA, who are our partners in this, assess risk level on a continuous basis. Their feeling was that it would only be safe once Allen was dead. In all honesty, we didn’t think he was going to live this long.” Even stress caught up with the soulless, she thought, not keen to articulate on that any further.

“You tellin’ me that I could have had this knock on this door ten years ago doesn’t really help.” It already felt punishment enough, she surmised, arching up her thumbs to push the slick of tears away from her face.

“And to answer you about the death certificate, this type of protection has to be signed off at ministerial level. So it’s probable that the death was registered by the same doctor who certified it. Likely someone at the Home Office who is familiar with the protocol and knows that it’s government-sanctioned and thus not illegal.”

“You certainly came prepared with all the answers.” Her tone was flat with acceptance now, even if she could feel the slow churn of anger swelling like a tsunami.

“It’s my job to know all the details. It keeps everyone safe.”

“It didn’t keep my son safe though, did it?” Voice razor-blade sharp and unforgiving, Sharon knew the detective was the wrong target for her pain, but was powerless to stop the hurt brimming over.

“We had to act in the moment, there isn’t time to think about what else may occur in future.”

“So you told Dennis to hide away and damn all the consequences?” Her tone are ever-louder as anger rose up, echoing off the walls.

“If there’s anyone you should direct your anger at, it’s Allen. He’s the reason why my team and I have worked to keep people out of danger for so long.”

“I don’t think you understand, DCI Miller, so I’ll spell it out for you. I’ve never got over the loss of Dennis. There’s hardly any pictures in my living room because I can’t bear to think about how he was taken from me. I got hooked on pills and nearly killed myself because I couldn’t cope. And you’re telling me I shouldn’t be angry with him? Because he made the choice that led to all those things, right?”

Breathless with the agony of remembering, Sharon drew the blazer even tighter around herself, trying to gather warmth from somewhere under the harsh light and cold tile of the bathroom.

The DCI nodded in sober agreement. “Everything in our intelligence suggests that if we hadn’t let Allen believe that he had his revenge that he still would have taken it. By any means necessary and in the worst possible way.”

“He might as well have killed me back then. Would have saved me a hell of a lot of pain.” Now everything seemed as numb as novocaine as she confessed such a dark thought.

“You have your son, that’s the biggest reason there is to stay alive.” Caroline felt the huge weight of it at that moment, the raw ache painted on Sharon’s tear-stained face.

“But I should have all my boys,” she stuttered, unable to stop another hot wave of fresh tears from escaping.

*****

In the surreal quiet that enrobed them both for a long moment, Sharon glanced at her watch and was surprised that it wasn’t much later in the night. It had felt like hours since DCI Miller had brought this bombshell to her door. Emotional exhaustion seeped through her like poison, slow and yet relentless.

“Please don’t tell me he’s been hiding in Spain. That really would be the last straw.”

“No, he’s in London. Wimbledon.” Sometimes the planning to relocate someone was as simple as picking the opposite side of a city or opposite end of a Tube line.

“What’s he doing there, tennis?”

Caroline chuckled at Sharon’s sardonic quip and once again began to feel a sense of why she had been well-matched with Dennis. Both possessed the ability to inject some humour into dark moments, something that seemed to be a rare quality these days.

“Resettlement for anyone in the protocol takes a little while. Everyone’s observed in the first few months because there’s always a high risk.”

“Of what?”

“Suicide.” It was a short, sharp interjection from the detective.

Sharon swallowed thickly at the thought, still able to taste the acrid burn of the bile from earlier, closing her eyes to try to shut away another churn of revulsion. The thought they’d both been close to taking their own lives was nearly incomprehensible. “Did you tell him anything else about my life now?”

Caroline leant back again and let out a low laugh. “What you’re asking me is did I tell him that you married Phil Mitchell? No, I didn’t think that was in his best interests.”

“Didn’t do me much good, either.”

“Well, we make the best of things when children are involved.” Her job was to uphold the law and keep people safe, and she didn’t feel the need to pass judgement on the women who married men who were loath to stay within the confines of the law.

“Think if you typed his name into your computer at work it would probably crash.” In all honesty, Sharon wasn’t entirely sure how her own record remained clean.

“Believe me, Sharon, I’m aware of all the details.”

“Didn’t mange to nick him, either?” Even in the midst of all the despair, she couldn’t help but vent another sharp crack of anger out into the air.

“Not in my remit. And I couldn’t comment on anything colleagues in the other divisions of Serious and Organised may or may not be doing.”

Sharon raised an eyebrow at what felt like a hint, but exhaled and tried to think of the future. “What now?”

“Dennis made it clear to me that it’s absolutely your decision as to whether you choose to see him or not.”

“That sounds like him. And if I don’t then we forget this conversation ever happened?” The thought almost seemed absurd, to have this earth-shattering news and then do nothing with it.

‘We can do, yes. Please take my card, it’s in the inside pocket. I know that it has all been a lot tonight, and I realise it’s just you and your boy, so please call if you need anything at all. My mobile is 24 hours. I’m staying in Stratford tonight. Holiday Inn in the middle of Westfield. So if you need me to come by again at short notice, I can do that. Or call a doctor.”

“Think you might be the nicest copper I’ve met.” The smooth edge of the embossed white paper seemed to almost glow in Sharon’s fingertips as she gripped it in one hand and handed back the blazer from the other.

“Well, don’t make a habit of it.” Caroline joked, getting to her feet in one swift movement. “It’s late. Make sure you get some rest and I’ll leave this for you,” she explained, taking a small envelope from the outer, larger pocket of her jacket. “Something we ask everyone in the protocol to do. To share something that only the people they have left behind would know about. Like I said, no rush. Take all the time you need.”

Placing the sealed manilla-coloured object on the floor, the DCI gave Sharon’s arm a fleeting squeeze before heading away, leaving her still cold and numb on the bathroom floor.

*****

The uncertain grey-blue of the early hours filtered through the curtains as Sharon lay curled on the sofa, hugging a blanket around herself. Somehow there was comfort in the framed pictures all around her, even if she only knew them by memory and couldn’t set eyes on them in the dark. It was still too raw to add Keanu’s portrait to the gallery of the missing, and she was certain it would be a long time before she processed everything surrounding his death.The booze cabinet was locked and water was all that sat in the glass on the nearby table, as she knew she had to carry on for her son.

Snapping a lamp on, she turned over the envelope in a shaking hand and slid a thumb along the edge to unseal it. The gloss of a photograph almost slipped through her fingers before she saw the colour in the truth of the moment, a bright circle, a complete ode to forever.

The object that was so clear and so achingly there in the photo: a plastic pink ring.

Covering her mouth with her hand, she heard her sobs echo around the quiet grey of the living room and one sharp dagger of truth was all that pierced through her mind.

How can I ever forgive him?

Chapter Text

27/2/2024

The hard rush from the kitchen tap rose above the unimportant chatter at the tail end of the breakfast news as plates and glasses were clattered into the sink. Sharon took the sponge in hand and began to work the abrasive edge of the scourer against a plate. Tension and upset still made her muscles ache and her heart heavy, but all she had known for most of her life was carrying on.

So her make-up had gone on, she’d walked Albie to nursery and was now trying to distract herself with the mundane task of the dishes. Picking up speed, she scrubbed harder, the ceramic edge of the plate hard and redundant against her as she scraped in an almost chaotic fashion, trying not to let the tremors overcome her once more.

“You alright? You’ll take the pattern off it you’re not careful,” Martin remarked with a light tone, looking over her shoulder at a distance.

Sharon looked back at him and knew she was powerless to mask the distress painted on her face. “Had a knock from the police last night.”

His brow furrowed in confusion and concern. “I thought Christmas was all sorted out?”

Turning and keeping a solid grip on the edge of the kitchen cabinet, Sharon had moved so that she was face to face with him. “No, nothing to do with that. It was a DCI from Organised Crime.”

“Finally catching up with Phil, are they?”

“Funny, I had the same thought. But, no, it’s not about Phil. She came to tell me that Johnny Allen has died.”

The usual offer of condolences did not pass Martin’s lips. Not that either of them would feel sadness at this news. “Were they looking for me? Because of Ruby? I mean I know he was a terrible man, but he was still her father. I’ll have to make sure I can visit her soon.”

“No, it wasn’t about Ruby. It was about Dennis.”

*****

Fingers cupped around the edge of a mug, Sharon took slow sips from her tea in the vain hope the warmth would permeate deeper. Martin had guided her into the front room in stunned silence after she had filled him in with the life-changing news that had been brought to her home last night.

“You sure it’s not a wind up? Although s’pose it’s not so odd what with your Dad, and Kathy and Cindy. It’s like the Walking Dead round here.”

Somehow she was grateful for the lightness in his words despite the seriousness of the situation.

“It’s true. The detective, she gave me a picture of something that only the two of us knew about. Know about,” she corrected with a breathy pause. “Dennis is alive.”

“Christ, what happened?” Martin exclaimed, moving so that he was sitting closer and looping an arm around her shoulder in order to offer some comfort.

“Once Johnny had threatened me, they stepped in, told him the only way we would all be safe is if they pretended he was dead. So they could let Johnny win.” A drastic measure that left her alone and grieving while pregnant.

“They must’ve had something concrete, Sharon, because he wouldn’t ever have left ya without good reason.” He had been a close observer of their relationship during two very different times while they had resided at Pauline’s: directly following the horrific unearthing of Den’s body and after the heady rush of their honeymoon. In each time he was certain they had a lasting bond that would be difficult to break.

“They told him what Allen did to other families. Thought we would all be at risk even if we left like he asked us to.” And that’s why we didn’t get to be a family.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” he breathed, squeezing her shoulder to press reassurance onto her skin, attempting to offer the merest solace in such an unusual situation. “What are ya gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Martin. It’s all so much,” she breathed, passing a hand over her face and through her hair in order to try and chase away the confusion. “I don’t know how I can reconcile all that pain. That my grief was for nothing.” Having to welcome back the ‘dead’ had been hard enough once, but twice?

Martin let go and took a sip of his own drink, lost in thought for a moment, thinking of those he had loved and lost. “What’s the one thing most of us feel when we’ve lost someone? That we want them back. Seems like a second chance to me.”

“Where d’you find all that philosophy, eh?” Her voice was low, almost wistful.

“I’m a Spurs fan, Sharon. Helps to think about anything else but football.” They both gave in to gentle laughter before he continued. “It’s true, though, ain’t it? I meet all sorts of people out on the stall. All ages. All have been through different things in life. Most of ‘em would want the people they cared about back if they could.”

“You think I should see Dennis?” It sounded strange to say it aloud, to vocalise the possibility, to make it something tangible. Something real. It wasn’t as if the scenario hadn’t slipped through Sharon’s dreams like a fictional satin, something smooth and comforting that was shattered into rough threads by the harsh reality of daylight.

“Ignorin’ it won’t make it go away. If you need someone to come with you,” Martin offered, watching as Sharon inspected the last dregs of tea in her mug, swilling them slowly back and forth in contemplation.

“Thanks. Maybe it’s just too much right now, after everything.” A shudder chased up through her spine. How much more weight could she carry, just months after an horrific and tragic Christmas?

“Well, when you do, y’know, I can look after Albie if you need it.”

Sharon didn’t miss the certainty in Martin’s words, but didn’t know if she would find it for herself.

*****

Dim blue light started to burn behind Dennis’s eyes as he approached the end of the working day. Setting the black frames of his glasses on the desk, he rubbed away the tiredness and turned to the thin pages of his diary, checking that the appointments matched with the blocks in the calendar app on the computer. Every now and then his gaze drifted to his phone, upturned but not unforgotten. He couldn’t pretend that his heart wasn’t in his throat at every text alert or ring, wondering if there was news from Caroline.

It’s only been a day, give it a rest!

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yep.”

Charlie came in quickly, hugging a book to herself before she plonked down onto a large red beanbag in the corner of the home office.

“S’pose that means it’s dinner time, then?” While he always took time out to do the school run, he often had to go straight back to his desk and finish up before they could spend any length of time together in the evening.

“Yeah, we can have whatever,” she replied brightly, lazing back into the colourful and soft cocoon.

“Not sure I have the recipe for whatever,” he answered, turning in his chair to face his daughter, watching her roll her eyes and try to chase away a smile, but she failed to do so.

“You’re really not funny, Dad.” Charlie opened her book and held it up high to continue to try to mask her amusement.

“No? Just as well I can make a living out of this betting stuff then, eh?” Once he’d become settled enough after the initial shock of agreeing to go into the protection of the protocol, the supporting officers and psychiatrists had felt it was best to endeavour to keep him working in the same field. He’d risen from being tucked away in the back office of a tiny bookies in Streatham to working on algorithms for one of the world’s biggest gambling companies.

“Are you at Cheltenham next month?” As Charlie was getting older she became more used to the patterns where her dad was working away from home.

“Only for the Gold Cup. I’ll be back in the evening. Grand National will be all three days of the meeting, though.” Part of his role involved some measure of, as he called it, corporate bullshit. Dennis couldn’t say that he ever really enjoyed the glad-handing, but there was some benefit to discussing the latest trends and tactics. Plus a healthy dose of trying to back an outsider and take some money from the competition.

“So Uncle Roberto will be here to make sure I get to Saturday football, then?” He laughed gently and was unsurprised that the match was at the top of her concerns.

“Yeah. Four days of homemade pizza and he can get away with swearing at the ref in Italian.” Shoving his phone in his pocket, he paced across the room and offered out his hands to help Charlie up from the bean bag. “You done all your homework?”

“Most of it. Then practiced penalties again. And, yes, I know, I’ll get it done and I’ll work hard at school because I might not get to be a footballer.” She knew that she had to apply her work ethic to both the classroom and the pitch.

“Well, yeah, ‘cos none of us really know what might happen in the future, Charlie.” The sound of his own wisdom almost felt alien to him as he strolled downstairs behind her, stopping dead at the foot of the stairs and leaning against the bannister as he heard the chime of a text alert.

He unlocked with a steady hand and thumbed to the new message.

Opticians: Don’t forget to contact us to book your appointment. We last saw you in March 2022.

He sighed and eyeballed the ceiling, knowing in his heart it was just a waiting game from now on.

Chapter Text

1/3/2024

The meandering turns of the Thames lay, dark and murky, behind the avenue of trees that lined the roadside. Fresh shoots had begun to bud on the thick network of branches, all of them bearing the green promise of spring. Buses and taxis bustled about in the not-quite-quiet of lunchtime while the cycle path was busy with both tourists and locals. After a long moment of feeling as if those turns of the river had been churning in her stomach, Sharon moved away and tried to regain control of her thoughts.

Always gonna hate this river.

It almost seemed like an odd parable or fiction that the black of the tide had taken one son and given another. If only it were mere fable and not the shocking, terrible truth. Once safely inside the building she had come to visit, she toyed with the gold chain on her handbag and smoothed a hand over the sleek black of her coat before entering the office.

“Please, have a seat.” Caroline gestured to the chair opposite hers before reaching behind to adjust the blind, conscious to shut away the river view. “You said on the phone that you had some more questions?”

“Yeah, just some other things I want to be sure of.” Certainty had felt an alien concept over the last few days. Sharon scanned the room for a few moments taking in the bare walls, neat desk and DCI Miller’s calm demeanour. Her long dark hair was mirror straight and her cobalt-blue blazer striking in the plain office. Lanyard looped around her neck and paperwork ordered in the in-tray, everything seemed in place with the officer and her demeanour.

It crossed Sharon’s mind that this was a stark contrast to her own form. Cloaked in black and tired, the shadows of dead men wrapped around her like a shroud.

You dress like a widow.

Thought I was one, darlin’.

A quick dart of excitement was sudden, rising from deep inside as she realised the conversations with Dennis she had in her mind no longer needed to be in there. There was a promise of a future, albeit a distant one, she had never dared hope for.

Yet, before that, she needed some more answers.

“I wanted to ask you about Andy Hunter. If you were watching Allen then why didn’t you try and prevent his death?”

“24-hour surveillance is rare and is only used where there is solid evidence that a crime is imminent or may take place while the subjects are being observed. We had no intelligence to suggest Allen would escalate to ending Mr Hunter’s life. And, to be frank, it has be justified given the costs involved. It’s not just a couple of experienced old coppers in a Ford Mondeo with a flask of tea and some sandwiches.”

Sharon wondered if Andy was out of the risk assessment simply because of his background. Not just because he was well-schooled in crime but because it was her understanding he had been the details man. The organiser in organised crime, the right-hand man who gave everything illicit the impression of being legit. Why didn’t he see it coming?

“Allen was an accessory for what happened to Dennis but you couldn’t punish him for something he didn’t do, right?” Concern was not really a pressing emotion at that moment, she was just trying to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together.

“We don’t commit any crimes or break rules with this. Allen confessed to so much at the behest of his daughter, the CPS had enough actual crimes to charge him with. He didn’t serve any time that he hadn’t legitimately earned.” The protocol may have worked in the shadows but it always had to stay within the law.

“That New Year’s Eve, Johnny Allen was seriously injured. I was led to believe that Dennis might have done it to get back at him for him attacking me.” Remaining tight-lipped about just who had made this suggestion, Sharon watched the detective’s face with caution and felt apprehension creep through her body like vines.

After clicking through a few screens, Caroline scrutinised the notes that were kept about the incident. “CID looked at it at the time. Scenes of crime swept the office but there was no useful DNA evidence. CCTV during the estimated time of the assault was missing, though.”

“Although Dennis knew we would be helping him, his new identity isn’t a shield and I wouldn’t ever have advised him that it would be or that he could carry out such a crime and then disappear. CID might have suspected that it was Dennis and closed the case, as they would have thought he had died and thus there was no case to answer.”

“Did you ever ask him about it?” She couldn’t quit pin down her emotions at that moment, struggling with a mix of intrigue and fear.

“Not like I could report it if I did. He ceased to exist. The ambulance that arrived on scene when you thought he had been stabbed was manned by myself and the guv, as well as one of the doctors who is part of the team. We went straight to the safe house after that. I don’t recall if he showed any signs of having assaulted anyone.” Caroline could have confessed that she had probably followed the same track of thought back then as Sharon had just done, but couldn’t have followed it without solid evidence.

“Lucky for you that I was too distressed to come with.” Air seemed to rush out of Sharon’s lungs as she wondered if the brutality had been part of the setup. To keep her away while they took steps to ensure Dennis was hidden.

Regaining a few threads of composure, she pressed on. “Allen sent Danny Moon to commit a murder. What would you have done if he hadn’t?”

“We would have used a member of the team as the murderer. We knew Allen’s deadline. One of our officers was watching Danny Moon. When he was heading for Albert Square, we knew there was only one reason he would be going there.” She swallowed hard, tension pulling as tight as rope through her body at remembering the operation. Even with a team of professionals in place and the governmental seal of approval, in any job there was always something that could go wrong.

“Convenient,” Sharon commented, watching the DCI’s troubled expression and tense body language.

“Maybe. We were covered either way. And don’t worry about Danny Moon, he won’t be going to prison even if we find him.”

“He’s still had to live with thinking he’s a murderer, though.” All that looped in Sharon’s mind at that moment was Dennis’s confession on that dark Easter all those years ago. The smell of stale cigarettes in Dot’s kitchen, the pulsing ache in her jaw and the hope they plucked from the wreckage of them. Of a murder.

“I’m not a doctor but I am unsure as to how much capacity he has to let that affect him.”

“I came here to speak about Dennis yet we’ve done nearly everything but,” she replied as plainly as Caroline had, fingers rubbing at her jaw as if she was retracing the memory that had etched itself in her brain again.

“Did you come to any decisions about seeing him?”

“Yeah. How does it all work?” She felt that fleeting surge of hope again; something so rare and real.

“We have safe-house facilities all over the city. Let me bring up a map.” Concentration furrowed the detective’s brow as she worked on her computer. “I usually go by stations. Closest one to you is Stratford. Closest one to Dennis is Richmond. Let’s see what’s in between on the North London line.”

Something had changed in Caroline’s demeanour at that point, the slightest lilt of joy colouring her words and Sharon almost felt the warmth of it.

“Think you must like trains as much as my son does.” She joked, strangely energised as if they were both gathering some kind of positive storm.

“Just makes life easier sometimes. I wouldn’t advise anyone to drive to a meet-up like this. Too emotional,” she remarked. “Ah, there’s one just on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Any dates I should avoid?”

The question sounded like the preparations for a funeral but it was the opposite - a resurrection.

“Weekend is probably better, right?”

A confirming nod from the detective cast more curiosity Sharon’s way. What did he do for a living now? What was his home like? “You’ve been… looking after Dennis since the beginning?” Somehow this was both a comfort and an absurdity; the thought that a grown man needing shielding in such a manner.

How is this ever gonna make any sense?

“Yes. And some others we needed to keep away from Johnny Allen.”

“Is he alright?”

Caroline grinned at the soft concern wrapped in Sharon’s tone. “Yes, he’s alright. Everyone who took part in this has had to be cautious with their lives and I wouldn’t say that he’s exactly the same person, but who is after all these years? I’ve seen enough people, both there innocent and the guilty, to believe the the centre of a person, the essence of who they are, always remains the same.”

A long, cleansing breath did little to stop the little tremors of fear and doubt that zipped through Sharon’s veins like lightning.

“Don’t be afraid, Sharon. These places just look like houses but they’re medically equipped with a doctor onsite. And there’s a garden for air. Or, in this case, one of London’s biggest public spaces on the doorstop. I’ll be there with you until you want me to leave, or if you want to get out and need a lift.”

“You really are an above and beyond sort of person, aren’t you?” A strange comfort seemed to filter through to Sharon in a kind of osmosis, the knowing that this was the person who had shielded Dennis from harm.

“You’ve been through a lot. The protocol was named after spiders because we’ve always had to consider those in the web belonging to the person we’re protecting. So you’ve always been on my radar, as such.”

“Does he… talk.. about me?” Her voice was low, all shattered like broken china.

“How could he not?” It was more of a statement than a question, cast-iron truth that seemed to push away some of Sharon’s doubt. “I’ll make some calls and get back to you with dates.”

*****

Back out on the street, Sharon was eye to eye with the river again, the swell of the mud-flecked water lapping at the concrete walls, a RIB tour boat beginning to bounce atop the surface. Dirt and tide and the sucking dark that had taken her son.

And now, standing beside the banks of the Thames, she was one step closer to regaining his father.

Chapter Text

09/03/2024

Pure white clusters of blossom, brilliant and soft against the burgeoning green of foliage, trembled in the cool breeze. Maze-like canopies of thick trees and bushes gave way to bare expanses of green grass, darkness unfurling into light. The hilly streets that lined the edges of Hampstead Heath were crammed with sleek terraced houses and basement flats, some of them benefiting from terrific views of one of London’s most famous and expansive public spaces.

One of those houses, however, was no ordinary property.

Navy-blue and white checked tile lined the narrow entrance and led to the solid blue door, while a quirky arrangement of cacti lined one of the windowsills. Sleek white blinds had been pulled shut at every window with a view out to the street, such a contrast to the covering at the windows at the back that overlooked the Heath. The slats were pulled open to allow for the lovely vista.

Soft light streamed over Sharon’s face as she watched the comings and goings of the people below. A few dog walkers tossed tennis balls into the short grass. Dark-clothed walkers meandered into the forest-like sections, passing from the open into the closed.

Anxiety settled deep in her belly, sharp as a scythe, tremors coiling beneath the surface. All those folk out there were passing from the shelter of the branches and leaves out to the exposed chill of the wind-blown paths. Was she now doing the same? Going from darkness to light? From grief to hope? From shadow to definition?

She sank onto the cushion that followed the length of the window, grateful for its softness, before taking another cursory glance at her watch.

Fifteen minutes to go.

The ticking of an ornate clock and the steady pulse of her own heartbeat were the only sounds she was conscious of. Every now and then she could hear the faint murmur of conversation between DCI Miller and the doctor, who were downstairs. A quick check of her vitals had been completed and she felt isolated in the plush comfort of one of the bedrooms. No amount of the posh water they’d handed her seemed to quell the dryness in her throat.

A long press of the doorbell pitched her heart rate through the roof.

My darlin'. He’s here.

Sentimentality, however, soon faded when she was down near the threshold of the front room. Waiting to confront the future and the past; a torrent of memory stabbing at her brain like needles.

Sharon didn’t need to pass into the room to know it was him.

Her senses were flooded with a thousand pictures of times past. Her Mum spritzing Chanel No 5 in front of the mirror with those powdery florals curling under her collarbone. Dad basking in the epitome of an 80s Christmas, his endless red boxes of Old Spice unpacked and the soap on a rope looped up in the shower.

Then came the wave of clean, sharp citrus, the scent she knew was laced on his skin.

Eyes closed to lock away the onslaught, she stumbled back against the plain wall of the entrance hall and felt the weight of Caroline’s assessing gaze just a moment before the detective’s hand brushed her elbow.

“We’ll just be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

Sharon nodded and creaked open the door, legs like lead and fingers shaking like the pale flowers outside. Swallowing away the cotton-ball dryness in her mouth, she studied the figure on the other side of the room.

Leaning against the wide patio door with one blue shirt sleeve pressed against the glass, the other hand pressed deep into his jeans pocket. Casual and yet tense, faced away from the centre of the room until he turned, slow, slow, slow and Dennis drank in the sight of her for the first time in nearly two decades.

Uncertainty shackled his blood like a vice and he stood statue-still, fighting hard to chase away the smile that the wanted to give in to, so aware that his happiness might not be what she wanted. That she might be angry, or paralysed by sheer disbelief.

Sharon had no idea how her legs carried her across the stretch of the wooden floor. Somehow she kept moving, the world outside nothing but a dull echo as she moved closer to Dennis. Each step feeling like ascending Kilimanjaro rather than crossing a living room in North London.

Once they were face to face she lifted a trembling hand to his jaw and swallowed hard, touch vibrating on his skin as she tried to recommit him to memory, a soft trace that seemed to burn through like a brand.

Not that he’d ever really been out of her mind.

He remained impassive even though he could feel the wet edge of tears beginning to mist his vision. He needed her to continue showing him the way.

How can this be real?

Something shifted when she pulled her thumb away from his chin and stood as straight and still as he was, each of them mirroring the other. A darkness clouded her for a moment, a need to have something even more tangible, another confirmation that it really was her lost soulmate standing before her.

“Show me your back,” she whispered, wracked by the thought of what she knew she was asking of him. Despair flashed white-hot in his gaze before he acquiesced with a defeated nod, turning to inch the cotton of his shirt northwards and to bare the only distinguishing mark on his body.

A tiny, dark-red rectangle marked there forty-two years ago by the end of a belt buckle.

White noise crowded her ears like a swarm of bees and the ground seemed to sway before all that remained was an unrelenting black.

*****

The sharp tingle of the blood pressure cuff still pulsed in her bicep as she leaned back on the plush quilt. Fading light flowed over her skin and seemed to help calm the shock she had experienced. Once the doctor was happy everything was in order, she’d settled down in one of the bedrooms before Dennis came back in and sat by the bedside, brow creased in worry and fingers locked into a bridge.

“You alright now?” This time he didn’t hesitate to break the silence.

“Yeah. Done this before, haven’t I?” She toyed with thin cord of the bedside lamp and studied him for longer. His hair was greyer and maybe there were some faint lines at his eyes and forehead, but otherwise his appearance was much the same. Time had been kind and she felt torn because if there had been strain in his enforced absence (and she was sure there must have been) it didn’t show.

“I’m sorry that I asked you to do that…. Just had to know it was you,” she clarified, feeling the guilt still swirling low in her stomach.

“Had better times undressing,” he deflected, knowing she would find the forgiveness in his humour.

“Yeah, no doubt,” she replied, the knowing all there in her tone, a slow undercurrent of reminiscent desire rising that almost took her by surprise.

Almost.

“Did Caroline fill you in on what happened?” He knew that his words didn’t carry the weight of it at all, even as he unlaced the knit of his fingers and tried to relax.

“Yes. But I want, I need to hear it from you now,” she said quietly, searching his face for the answers even as the light began to fade from the room and he was beginning to be bathed in shadow. Somehow this made her feel that, although he was there, he was still out of reach.

“She tell you about the bloke who had to watch his family getting murdered?” Dennis swallowed hard at the memory before continuing. “Her boss, he showed me the crime-scene photos. I’ve seen some fucked up things in my time, Sharon, but that was… He trailed off, needing a long pause to regain a few threads of composure.

“A two-year-old kid with his throat cut. Arterial blood all up the walls next to his teddy bears.” Voice cracked like eggshells at the memory, he pinched the bridge of his nose while squeezing his eyes shut.

“And you think any of that justifies leaving me to think you’d died in my arms?” He hadn’t expected to open his eyes and see the unfilltered anger painted on her face or to feel the acidic sting of her rising tone.

“The threat was so real that the murder had to be as well. I didn’t want to leave, Sharon. Not ever. But I had to make sure you were safe. All of you.” Emotion zig-zagged in his voice, jagged and uncertain. He’d never left any room to doubt the decision he took, but seeing the pain it caused Sharon splintered the strength of his belief.

“You never got scared before. We would have been safe in America.” She had wanted to take Allen’s assurances at face value, even if she too had seen - and felt - the brutal shape of his depravity.

We were so close. We were so close to being a family.

“Nah, they went through Allen’s correspondence. He had an associate in New York. Short trip down the East Coast wouldn’t have been an issue. It wasn’t just about you, me and…

She filled in the blank with ease and brought a shaking hand to her mouth in shock. “Vicki? Oh, God, Vicki. I need to tell her about all this.”

“Whole family was like his speciality. Never thought I’d see anyone who was as much as a sick fuck as Dalton.” Changing the subject to something more familial, Dennis decided to enquire about his little sister. “She doing alright? Got any kids?”

“Yeah, and no, no kids. She’s still with Spencer, though. They run a bar in Australia. I went out there just after Christmas.” The need to escape had been paramount, but she wasn’t ready to elaborate on any of that right now. “He’s good for her. Sensible.” Sharon wasn’t sure she could say the same about any of her romantic choices since the bottom had fallen out of her world.

“Bet the drunk punters give him hell.” Amusement coloured his features in the fading light and he felt a deep wave of relief as she also managed a faint smile. Tentative steps for both of them, feeling the way through these uncharted waters.

“Life toughened him up, like it did for all of us.” Maybe too much for some of us. Dark conquered both her voice and her eyes as the sunlight began to fall away and once again she remembered all the things she had been through.

“Are you tellin’ me he learned how to take a punch?” Gentle laughter passed between them with a little more ease, forging a fragile bond.

“I know this sounds a bit… vague… but what have you been doing for 19 years?” Sharon knew the only way to fight the weariness creeping through her was to move closer to Dennis. She slid up and then turned so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed opposite him.

‘Keeping out of trouble. Staying out of the way in case he found me.”

“Sounds difficult.” Her own words took her by surprise, a quick dart of empathy.

“It has been, yeah. Think they thought Allen would have a quicker road to hell. Didn’t expect for it to take this long…”

“What happened when they took you away?” Somehow she still craved the all the details, how everything felt so convincing.

“It was a place like this. They sedated me. I was out of it for days. Bit fucking weird.” Life at that moment was a grey of confusion, of sleeping and waking and performing the day-to-day necessities like a zombie. He could recall very little about the first few days hidden away from harm.

“They did it to stop you from hurting yourself. Wish someone could have done that for me.” She examined the neat gloss on her fingernails, not wanting to see the understanding that she knew would be there in his expression. “It’s been so hard. So much. I thought I’d lost everyone that mattered to me. So many times I just wanted to give up.” Hand splayed across her chest, she fought to contain the rising hurt and anger.

“I’m glad that you didn’t,” Dennis whispered, ignoring the instinct he felt to move nearer, still unsure if she would welcome the closeness, trying not to reel from the depth of her confession.

“You put me in that position.” Fire flared across her face and this time she did look right at him, the blunt edge of her tone striking him as hard as the flint-hard cut of her gaze.

“What was I meant to do, Sharon? Wait for Allen to kill all of us, one by one?” Pain circuited around his temples in a sudden flash and he knew his face was now reflecting her ire. All I ever wanted to do was keep you all safe.

“Yes! I would rather have died beside you than lived without you.” Tears misted her eyes and she was close to shouting at him, wrecked by the despair of remembering.

“That’s a stupid thing to say! It’s not fucking Romeo and Juliet, there’s no romance in being six feet under.” Caution had been thrown by the wayside now as he moved from the chair to stand just a few paces away from her, close enough that he could feel the hurt radiating from her.

“Do you have any idea how it felt to trying to bring up our son by myself? Without him even knowing you?”

He took a long breath and could see all of it in that moment: the soft lines of her beauty combined with the hard emery of life that had worn her away at the edges. And yet, in spite of the way his heart burst and sank at those twin truths, he knew he had to remain as unfiltered as ever.

“Yeah,” he confessed, daring to place his hands on her forearms with the barest of touches. 
“I know exactly how it feels.”

Chapter Text

All the air seemed to be squeezed out of the room at that moment, everything squashed and compact as if in a vacuum. Sharon became aware of the gentle press of his hands at her forearms and didn’t know whether to push them away or stay silent beneath the softness. Yet again she was caught between so many emotions. Feeling like she was grappling at a rock face: close to some triumphant ascent and yet aware that one slip could send her plummeting.

“You… have another kid?” She spoke so quietly it felt like a sharp contrast to the mishmash of feelings all bound inside. Jealousy, hope, anger, wonderment, fear, grief. All of it wound together like a ball of wool. It wasn’t rational for her to think that he would have lived like a monk for all those years, but this new revelation felt like another punishment.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, voice as low as hers had been, then smiling as he continued. “Charlie, she’s ten years old. 11 in November.”

Those fine threads of ill feeling were soon smoothed when Sharon tipped her gaze back up at him, searching for and finding someone she did know, someone she had seen glimpses of before he was stolen away: the father of her son.

All that heady excitement cut with the slight slivers of worry they had felt between Christmas and New Year came flooding back. All that promise torn away.

Swallowing hard, she placed her hands atop his and motioned that he should sit next to her on the bed, lessening the feel of confrontation.“What happened to her Mum?”

“She was killed when Charlie was little.”

Something in the phrasing sent a chill to her bones, liquid and terrifying. “Oh God… please don’t say that it…” Please, please don’t let it be intentional. She couldn’t look at him at that moment, just eyeballed the blue-black canvas of night that was unfurling behind the window.

“No, she got hit by a lorry while cycling.” Throat dry and words tinged with the sharp edge of loss, Dennis also stared forward, mirroring her. “I mean, they say it was an accident… somehow it doesn’t feel like the right word… not enough?”

“Yeah. I know,” she replied, that last utterance carrying with it the insight that she didn’t need to articulate any further.

Nobody meant for their son to die. No knife, no bullet, no hands at his throat. But there was still blame, still someone who was responsible. “You’re right, Dennis, it isn’t enough.” Raking air through her lungs, she slipped her hand over his knuckles and squeezed his fingers into the mattress before disconnecting as quickly as she’d touched him. “Did you get married again?” Pain splintered through her at even asking the question.

A quick laugh chased after her inquiry. “Nah, nothin’ like that,” Dennis said, both nonchalant and amused as he saw the confusion painted on her face.

“But you had a kid together?” Somehow she couldn’t imagine him having a child outside a serious relationship.

Serious is all we ever were once… once we knew.

“It’s a long story,” he admitted, not keen to reveal everything at once, as mindful of her feelings as he had been since setting foot inside the safe house. “Charlie’s Mum, Nancy, she was a professional cyclist. Won a gold medal at London 2012. So she was faster than half the fucking traffic and still ended up dead.” Every angry word felt like a dull blow cast out into the air. “I told her it wasn’t safe…,” he trailed off, palm pressed against his face in an effort to hide away the pain.

“I’m so sorry, Dennis. That’s terrible.” Genuine empathy had always been one of her best traits and she hadn’t lost it in spite of everything. After all, she knew all about loss and the raw truth of it.

And it was an almost unbelievable truth. His son grew up without a father and his daughter grew up without a mother.

“What about you?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask the question. Always hated the mere thought of her with anyone else but knew that circumstance gave him no room to object.

“I was married,” she explained, avoiding his eyes and taking a deep breath, “but it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry, that’s rough.” Dennis remained hopeful that the honesty came through in the moment. She’d been through enough.

You won’t be when you find out who I was married to. Pressing away that thought as quickly as it arrived, Sharon moved to concentrate on the one good thing that had come out of all the mess. “I have my little boy, though, Albie. He’s four.”

He submitted to a smile at the emotion in her tone and then knew his expression was changing to something akin to puzzlement. Soft laughter rang out as she watched him do the maths in his head. “Yeah, I know, didn’t expect for that to happen so late on… but glad that it did.” All the circumstances, from the very beginning until very recently, had been difficult. Nothing about her second son’s life had been straightforward. Nothing in her could begin to regret him being there, though. A child was a blessing; she knew that better than anyone.

“Is his dad about?” Curiosity rose in his voice and, once again, it was well-meaning.

“Yeah, but we’re not together. It’s complicated.” Even though they were sitting close by and nearly shoulder to shoulder, she felt a strange distance settle at that moment. Saying it was complicated felt like a huge understatement. Every twist and turn had led to Keanu dying and Linda being imprisoned. What and if were the two biggest and yet smallest words in the universe.

How could they move forward from any of it? She couldn’t bring herself to cast out the revelations, one in particular, that she knew would cause him so much pain. Not yet.

*****

Gentle reams of pearlescent light spilled from the opulent bedside lamps, bringing comfort and warmth as the evening drew on and the weight of all the missing years still lay heavy between them. After a quick and much-needed shared pizza, Sharon had retreated back to the bay window where she had sat prior to Dennis’s arrival. Little could now be seen of the outside world and she was grateful for the somewhat odd safety she felt in this alien place.

“What d’y reckon this house is worth?” Small talk had never been their forte but she couldn’t help but absorb the obvious decadence of the property.

“Few million, probably.” Dennis sat on the opposite side of the window seat, casually strewn across the cushion in an attempt to relax, all slouched with rolled-up shirt sleeves and creased denim.

“Feels like a long way from Walford. So is Wimbledon, right?” She studied him for a longer moment this time, the scant light making him seem youthful and almost carefree. Something closer to the man she knew so intimately nearly two decades ago.

“Yeah. I didn’t choose it, they just look for whatever’s at the other end of the Tube line. Could have ended up in Upminster instead, gettin’ chased by Essex girls.”

“Think you might have been doin’ just as much chasing, Dennis, “ she offered, matching the lightness in his words even if it felt like opening a wound to imagine that freedom, that eager charm that was so natural, knowing it would have been kept only for her if he had been able to stay by her side.

“You still work in betting?”

“Yeah. All online now, though. I do the stuff in the background that recalculates the odds in real-time.”

“So you’re like a computer geek?” It all seemed so many worlds away from him being behind the counter at the bookies, learning the ropes and sparring with Pat, the static of the racing commentary blaring in the background. She knew she was giving him a gentle smile, something fragile, not just at the thought of him bashing out code behind a screen, but also at the bold memory of better times. Let’s get married.

“A bit, yeah. Sort of miss the punters, but I get to go to a lot of the events. Gold Cup next week.” Dennis knew that his boss’s generosity extended to guests on those sort of occasions. It wouldn’t have been an issue to offer for Sharon to accompany him to the races. Conflict warred inside him for a long few moments. Patience wasn’t one of his virtues yet he kept his cards close to his chest, feeling it was still too early on in their reunion.

“Still gettin’ your kicks from the drunken punters?”

“No, I’ve done all sorts over the years. I run a gym now… with a focus on boxing. A tribute to our boy… and to you.” Tears misted Sharon’s eyes for the second time that night.

The words our and boy came across wrapped with such love and such hurt he felt it much like a gut-punch, breath-stealing and blunt.

Slow warmth dripped through his veins as he realised he’d hardly been far from her mind either. “Y’know, you don’t have to talk about what happened… until you’re ready…” It was only natural that he wanted to hear more about their son from Sharon.

Sharon wasn’t sure there would ever be a right time. Yet she gave him a gentle nod, thankful for the consideration.

“What now?” She asked the question boldly, staring right at him adjacent to the wide expanse of the window.

“I don’t know, Sharon… what we do if we were strangers? If we’d never met before?”

The low hum of desire passed for a light and electric moment and she knew she was fighting off her amusement just as much as he was. “I’m not expecting you to say that any of this will ever be alright, but… maybe we could try and start from the beginning?”

She bit the edge of her thumb to disguise the slowest, softest smile. “And what exactly would you be sayin’ if this was the first time we met?”

“Gonna give me your number, then?” Easy charm flowed from him as naturally as breathing and she held out her phone without hesitation, feeling the static leap as he hovered his device above and waited to accept the transfer of contacts.

There, in the semi-dark of the safe house, she saw the imperfect charm of the man she had loved and lost and felt something that had been missing for so very, very long: a spark.

It only ever took one spark to ignite a fire.

Chapter Text

Daybreak marbled the sky with blue and white as the dawn chorus began in earnest, birdsong peppering the chilly air. Soft light began to burst through the clouds in thick reams, making the fresh dew bright against the grass. Warmth and comfort surrounded his skin like a cocoon as he flitted in and out of dreams while wrapped in the luxury of the cotton duvet. Pictures of times past were both clear and a blur before the shrill burst of music emanated from his phone on the bedside table.

Still half asleep, Dennis read the name on the display and answered the call without hesitation.

“It’s half-six in the morning on a Sunday, Roberto. What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep. And making tiramisu waits for no man,” he explained, his voice as weary as Dennis’s had been in answering.

Even while shaking off the early morning fog, Dennis was able to read between the lines. “As long as the marsala’s going in the dish and not down your neck.”

“I was tempted. That’s not good, is it?” The defeat in Roberto's voice came across the line, clear and concise.

Sitting up straight against the headboard, Dennis ran his fingers over his face and through his hair to chase away some of the sleepiness. “When I had to… disappear, I spent some time in counselling. And it weren’t optional. Talked about a lot of things I never thought I would. I think it might be a good idea for you to try it.” In the distant past he would have dismissed the mere thought of any kind of therapy as baseless nonsense. However, having to partake in it to come to terms with leaving behind his life had been both essential and surprising.

“Should I open with ‘I’m an award-winning Italian restaurant owner but my wife left me for the pizza delivery guy’ and be met with ego-stinging laughter?” The steady glugging sound of alcohol being poured over sponge could be heard in the background.

“Look, mate, I’m allowed to rib you about that because it’s fucking absurd, not because any part of your pain is amusing to me. And it won’t be amusing to a professional, either. They’ve always heard worse.” Although Dennis was certain Roberto had come a long way with his emotions since he’d stayed with them towards the end of last year and had hardly moved from the sofa, there was still some way to go.

“S’pose you’re right. I’ll think about it.” Spoons and dishes clattered in the background as Roberto continued to work on assembling the dessert. “Hey, how did your meet up go?”

“Yeah, it was alright. Easier for me than it was for Sharon. I’ve known all along that I’m alive.” Hearing himself say that aloud was both truthful and bizarre.

“Strange for you as well, though. You shouldn’t play that down.”

Throwing off the duvet with one hand while still cradling the phone in the other, Dennis decided he might as well get up now that he was awake. “I’m fine, Roberto. We exchanged numbers. Ball’s in her court. Best to just give her time to come to terms with it.” The soft brush of cotton against his skin brought warmth as he pulled on a hoodie and wondered how much of the weight he had felt from yesterday’s reunion. While it was true he had been emotionally prepared for some time, and sleep had not evaded him, it was far from an insignificant moment. Caught between hope and caution, two emotions he had become more used to, he made for the stairs.

“Fair enough. What about yesterday’s match report?”

“Google it, you lazy bastard!” Saturday football was so much a part of the weekend routine, but it hadn’t been forgotten in the midst of everything else.

“I will. And I’ll remember never to call you this early again,” Roberto replied, taking the gentle riposte in the humorous way it was intended.

“In all seriousness, these are the exact moments that you should. See you in a few weeks, mate.”

*****

Small footsteps on the carpet echoed around the room as Albie rushed towards Sharon, clutching a soft-toy giraffe in one hand. She bent to scoop him up from the floor, heart as full as ever at witnessing his eagerness to see her. Her son had been sound asleep on her return last night.

“Hi, sweetheart. You have a nice time with Martin at the zoo yesterday?” Pressing the plush softness of the toy animal against her neck, he nodded, giving her a big smile that she returned with ease.

“What’s the name of your new friend, eh?” She ruffled Albie’s hair and then smoothed her fingers along the gold and black fur of the giraffe.

“Daddy?” The short, sharp simplicity of the question made her heart ache, as she saw the confusion and hurt on her son’s face. He was still struggling to comprehend where Keanu had gone and wasn’t quite familiar with Phil yet.

Phil is more brass neck than long neck, she thought, trying to distract herself from the sadness.

“Needs to be something beginning with ‘G’, Albie. Like Greg or… Gino.” Martin offered this insight while strolling in with the morning coffee, setting the mugs on the table.

“Gino!” He declared loudly, his happiness elastic and palpable even on a busy Sunday morning. “Can he have Rice Krispies as well?”

“Might struggle to get his neck in the bowl, mate,” Martin joked, while carefully assessing Sharon’s demeanour to see how she was coping after yesterday’s meet-up. “You wanna sit down in the kitchen and we’ll get sorted in a minute, alright?”

Albie nodded and ran out, still cuddling the giraffe close.

“How did it go yesterday? You doin’ alright?”

Sharon hugged her arms around herself before giving in to a shrug and a tight smile. “Yeah, it was alright. Few things I weren’t prepared for, that’s all.” “Hard to be prepared for any of it, to be honest.”

“Well, if anyone ever was…” He trailed off as he watched her sit down, still tense and troubled. “It really was Dennis, right? Not his evil twin or somethin’?” Attempting to keep the mood light seemed like the best strategy, even if Martin could see that Sharon was both worried and distracted.

“It’s definitely Dennis, yeah. Sort of knew before I even walked in the room,” she mused, remembering the crowding of her senses, everything vivid and in stereo. “He…uh, he has a kid.” Sitting down quickly as she felt the weight of it all down to her bones, she drew the coffee cup across the table and took a tentative sip.

“That’s a lot to take on board. Did he get married again, then?” In spite of the strangeness of the situation, Martin found imagining Dennis being in a long-term relationship with anyone but Sharon difficult.

“No, his daughter’s mum died. She was a famous cyclist or something. At the Olympics.” Saying it aloud didn’t make it easier. A slow ache purled through her blood as she contemplated the unfairness of it all.

“Sounds like you need to Google her, Sharon. That’s what I would do. You must be curious.”

“Yeah, a bit,” she confessed, examining the shiny gloss of her nails, lost in thought. “I told him about Albie. Nothin’ about all the rest of it, though. Didn’t think that we’d get off to a good start if I told him about Phil. He’s gonna be… devastated, Martin.”

Martin nodded in agreement. “It wouldn’t have been the best opener. Sounds like a bit of a level playing field if you think about it, though. Both of you with kids….and you both lost Denny, too, even if Dennis wasn’t around. And we all know that families ain’t straightforward.”

Feeling there was a lot of truth in Martin’s words, Sharon felt a little more resolute and remembered the ghost of a spark she was sure her and Dennis had both felt at the end of their meeting. “I haven’t said anything to Vicki yet. Not sure where to start, really.”

“I won’t say anything until you’re ready. S’pose there’s nothing stopping Dennis from getting in touch if he wanted to.”

“I think we all know it’s easier coming second-hand.” While she wasn’t angry that Vicki had brought their Dad back from the dead with scant regard for the huge emotional toll (and her sister wasn’t to know that Sharon was also thrown into that situation with Dennis’s scent still on her skin), a softer introduction was preferable to a shock one.

Mind whirring with thoughts, she felt one of Martin’s suggestions whirl around in a tight loop and knew she wanted to act on it sooner rather than later. “I’ve got to pop into work for a bit after breakfast. Half an hour or so, will you be here?”

“Yeah, no real plans, it’s fine.”

*****

Hidden away in the black and gold of the office, Sharon adjusted the desk lamp and then sat back in her chair. Sighing away the doubt, she opened up her laptop and pulled up a search engine. Her fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment before she entered the scant details that Dennis had offered, knowing they would probably be enough to find something more concrete.

Just as she hit enter, the door creaked open and she managed to stay impassive and resist the temptation to snap the lid shut as if she had been burned.

“Y’alright?” Phil asked, exhaling deeply as he always seemed to, voice rough-edged like emery, wearing away at things.

He’s worn away enough of me, she thought, glancing at him over the top of the screen.

“Yeah, just catching up on a few bits.” Just googling my supposed dead husband’s dead baby mama, that’s all.

“Albie alright?”

“Yeah, Martin took him to the zoo yesterday, bit of a boys’ day out as I had a few things on.” Her smile was tight and contained.

Phil nodded and didn’t seem perturbed by this, and she felt relieved that there hadn’t been too many tussles about weekends or indeed living arrangements in regard to their son. As soon as Phil had appeared he was off again, and she was able to chase away the sinking feeling that his presence made set in and turned her attention back to the computer. After a quick scan of the search results, she clicked through to the one that seemed to be most pertinent.

20th June 2015

Olympic and World Champion Cyclist Nancy Amato killed in road accident

The Italian cycling federation, Federazione Ciclistica Italiana, (FCI) confirmed this afternoon that Olympic and double world champion Nancy Amato was killed in a road accident this morning in south-west London. Emergency services were called to East Hill, Wandsworth, at 08:32. Eyewitnesses report that Ms Amato, 33, was struck by a HGV while cycling during the rush hour. The Metropolitan Police arrested the driver on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving.

Nottingham-born Amato represented her parents’ home country of Italy in competition, taking a sprint bronze at Beijing 2008 before upgrading to a gold in the country of her birth at London 2012. Unable to defend her world championship crown in 2013 due to injury, she returned to the world championships in February this year, reclaiming her world title in France.

Gianfranco Lombardi, spokesperson for the FCI, said that “As a team and as a nation we are devastated at the loss of Nancy, a fierce competitor and above all, friend. She never failed to share in her success with all of us. Now we are heartbroken that we all have to share the pain of losing her.”

Ms Amato leaves her parents Enzo, 63, and Donna, 60, her brother Roberto, 36, and daughter, Charlotte, 19 months.

Pixels turned to a blur in front of Sharon’s eyes as the words in the news report somehow made it even more real than it had been from Dennis’s own account. After a few more turns of the scroll wheel, a photo came into view.

Captured in time was Nancy, the green, white and red of the Italian tricolor draped over her shoulders, dark hair neatly French braided, gold medal gleaming in the strong lights of the velodrome. Sharon knew she was looking at the only other woman who had borne Dennis a child. However, she didn’t allow that thought too long to settle as her eyes drifted to the other person in the frame. Clutching at the blue Lyrca of Nancy’s race suit were two tiny hands, green eyes scanning the huge expanse of the cycling arena, her mother’s arm holding her secure for the duration of the medal ceremony.

Charlie. Dennis’s daughter.

Thumbing at her tears, Sharon read the caption.

21st February 2015. World champion Nancy Amato and her daughter, Charlotte, on the podium following the sprint final at the 2015 UCI World Championships, Vélodrome National de Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines, France.

Through a jumble of tears and mixed emotions, somehow she couldn’t help but smile at the happiness in the picture, even if it had been so cruelly erased mere months later. A strong certainty shocked through her like a dart and she knew without doubt that she had to meet this little girl.

Chapter Text

16/03/2024

Oil sizzled in the pan as the batter hit the fat with a smooth slide. Bubbles formed at the edge and the sweetness of vanilla filled the air. Moving away from the hob for a moment, Dennis turned his attention to the fridge door, where the hard copy of the fixtures was kept. Double-checking that he hadn’t missed any of the details, he logged the postcode for the short trip to Richmond and Kew FC.

“Are we going to that place called Ham? Charlie asked as she came into the kitchen, headband already in place and hair neatly braided at the sides. “Do you think there’s a place called cheese? There should be a place called cheese,” she mused, moving to fill her water bottle from the sink and then taking a glance at the smart display on the counter. “Sunny and cold today. Don’t forget your old people’s thermals, Dad,” she said brightly, taking a Lucozade Sport from the fridge.

“It’s called a base layer and save your lip for the opposition, please, Charlie,” Dennis remarked, laughing at his daughter’s brightness.

“I don’t need to say anything when my feet do the talking.” There wasn’t any hint of arrogance in her voice, she was just making a statement of pure fact. While Dennis would admit to himself that he hadn’t ever been short of ego, his daughter displayed the unfailing confidence in her ability that was hardwired in her DNA. Speed and skill were natural gifts that he was certain came from her mother.

Sliding a plate of golden pancakes across the kitchen counter and adding a handful of blueberries, Dennis knew he had to follow their easy banter with a serious conversation.

“Hey, you remember a while ago I told you that I had to leave some people behind for a while. ‘Cos there was trouble with a bad man?” Distilling everything down to the bare bones seemed to be the easiest option given her age.

“The one who killed your friend?” Her expression changed into a concentrated frown as she started to push a few blueberries around the plate with the edge of her spoon.

“Yeah. Him. Well, would it be OK if, later on, we meet up with someone who was very important to me back then?” Gentle warmth was evident in his tone and his daughter soon picked up on the inference, breaking into a knowing smile.

“Someone who was important to you like Mum?”

“Sort of,” Dennis explained, knowing in his heart it wasn’t a fair comparison. “Her name is Sharon. And she has a little boy.”

“Does he like football?” He chuckled but was unsurprised that her thoughts went straight to sport.

“Dunno. Probably.”

“Then fine. We can play. And can we get the good hot chocolate from in town?”

“You’ll have to earn it,” he said smoothly. While it was true that she needed little incentive to succeed and already possessed an impressive level of drive, he figured it also didn’t hurt for her to work towards a few treats now and then. “Hat trick?” Dennis extended a hand and Charlie shook it firmly, nodding and agreeing.

“Deal. Six goals and two hot chocolates it is,” she said, adjusting her headband and taking her things with her, leaving her father smiling and shaking his head softly at her unwavering self-belief.

*****

Even once it was mid-afternoon, the sharp edge of a chill still lingered in the air in spite of the strength of the sun. People bustled into a nearby pub and queued for the matinee at the theatre. A few benches that lined the edge of the neat green space were empty apart from the one where Sharon sat, enrobed in her black wool coat and watching Albie trail a toy car along the armrest of the seat. This part of Richmond had been made famous by the TV show Ted Lasso, but she just felt grateful that the river was streets away and not in view. Packing away that thought, boxing it up in that dark, heavy place that she was burdened with, her mind wandered to today’s meet-up. Excitement and dread pulsed through her, one quick and loaded with possibility, the other slow with leaden weight. Although she knew that it was necessary to meet with the future as much as the past, she didn’t know what emotions would prevail or what she would feel the need to reveal.

Uncertainty was always so hard to deal with.

It had only been a week since she had sat waiting for Dennis to appear and this time she was out in the open and watching him approach from the other end of the green, his daughter bedecked in blue and by his side. She swallowed hard, so acutely aware of the knowledge that Dennis never got to meet their son.

All she could do now was watch him being a dad to someone else’s child. And she sat there beside her son, fathered by a man who Dennis detested.

We have to deal with the past before we can think about any kind of future.

Soon enough they were all close enough to be greeting each other and she distracted herself with slight amusement as Dennis almost seemed relieved to place the rucksack he was carrying onto the bench. He bent down without hesitation to speak to her son.

“Hi, mate. I’m Dennis.”

Albie looked at Sharon for the scarcest of moments before answering. “Like the bin lorry?”

Laughter rippled up in waves behind him at the reference to the DENNIS-made trucks, with Charlie dropping her football on the floor and reaching into the pocket of her tracksuit for her phone in order to send a message. “Uncle Roberto needs to hear this.”

“He already knows I’m the dustbin since he insists on making me test all his new dishes,” Dennis responded, smiling at the gentle banter and feeling pleased that Sharon was also amused by the situation.

Extending a hand, and hoping it wasn’t shaking, Sharon reached out to greet Dennis’s daughter. “Hi, Charlie. I’m Sharon.”

“Hi Sharon, nice to meet you.” At that moment she was so alike her mother in the picture Sharon had seen: dark hair braided at the sides, blue sports kit in place. Much the same except for the green eyes that were the mirror of her father’s. “Would you like to play football, Albie? This is my match ball from today,” she explained, crouching down just as her father had.

Albie nodded in agreement and Charlie took his hand without hesitation, ball back under her other arm as they made their way to the centre of the green.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be gentle with him. I’m the only one who gets the ball in the face,” he joked, sitting down beside her on the bench and offering up a cardboard tray laden with cups. “Please have a ridiculously expensive hot chocolate.”

Grateful for the warmth and then for the richness of the silky drink, she took a moment to reconcile the picture she was seeing before her of Dennis as the football-going dad, responsible for the bag laden of all the stuff needed when taking care of kids, providing the drinks and the travel and, most of all, the safety. A question forced its way to the front of her mind, as trivial as it seemed.

“Did you braid Charlie’s hair?”

“Scotch mist not really known for doing hair,” he quipped. “Seems to be the best thing for keeping it out of her eyes. I just looked it up on YouTube.” “Bit sexist of you to suggest that dads can’t do hair, Sharon,” he laughed, not entirely serious in his admonishment.

“No, it’s not that, just a bit hard to imagine, that’s all.” While she knew he was capable of the gentleness needed, patience had never been his strong point.

“Yeah, you just have to adapt, I s’pose,” he confessed, knowing there were much greater challenges to come than hair.

“I can’t pretend that I know much about football, but does your daughter play for Chelsea? Even I know that’s the best women’s team in the country.” The blue shirt and lion emblem had been familiar even to someone who wasn’t a fan.

“Yeah. Under 12s. She loves it, which is the main thing. She also happens to be very good at it, too. She’s so quick. Nobody else can catch her.” Pride fused in his words as he looked ahead and watched their children chasing the ball with enthusiastic cheer, knowing Sharon was observing as well, wondering if she was thinking along the same lines.

This could have been our kids in a different time. Our family.

“I looked up her mum on the internet…. Martin thought I must be curious,” her voice was low and filled with caution at wavering into this near-unspoken territory.

“Obviously still got a lot of Pauline in him,” Dennis mused, “although in her case, curious was just a codeword for nosey.” He chuckled to himself at remembering his running battles with the Fowler matriarch and in response to Sharon’s throaty laugh.

‘He’s the only one who knows all about this. And he was right, Dennis, I was curious. Wanted to read it for myself and know that it was all real,” she explained, tone still soft as she tiptoed closer to another enquiry. “Something bothered me, though. The paper, it named all the people that Nancy had left behind, but it made no mention of you.” Squeezing his arm through the thin material of his top, she met his gaze and he saw the questions in her eyes.

“We met at a work event. The boss was interested in investing in cycling. I think we could both tell that we hated all the corporate bullshit and bonded over that. We were mates.” It wasn’t exciting or glitzy or anything romantic, just the bare truth that he tried to tell where he could.

“But you had a child together?” Puzzlement painted her features and confusion reigned supreme.

How did she manage not to fall for him?

“After 2012, Nancy was favourite for the World Championships in early 2013. She got injured and she was upset and low about it. Hated not competing, ‘cause she lived for it. Comfort turned into something else. Just the once, but it only takes once.” Alcohol hadn’t even played much of a part in their one-night stand. Nancy didn’t drink and he’d maybe had a vodka or two but was nowhere near being drunk. “It wasn’t awkward or anything, just a bit of a surprise. We lived together after Charlie was born, but we weren’t in a relationship.”

It would have been wrong of him to say that Nancy hadn’t been an important person in his life, and he’d been relieved that their easy camaraderie had returned after their unexpected unguarded moment of passion. Their friendship had continued as a parenting team and he’d been warmly welcomed by her family as any partner would have been in a normal situation.

They had not been in love and, in some ways, that had made things easier. In other ways he felt the longing for those left behind, that jagged shape of what could have been.

Surprise was still the main emotion visible on Sharon’s face, but he also saw a softening, an acceptance, maybe even relief that he hadn’t been in a serious relationship with Nancy. And there had been little that was exceptional since her death, either.

“What about Albie’s dad bein’ around?” He didn’t miss the tangible shift in her emotions as she moved away a touch, letting go of his arm and beginning to fidget a bit, turning a ring around her fingers.

‘When my marriage wasn’t working out… I had an affair,” she confessed, throat razor-dry and one hand holding the edge of the bench to gain as much composure as she could. All of the strength she could muster for what she was about to admit. “Thought the guy I had been with was the dad and wanted him to be, really,” she said, caught between a smile and the edge of tears.

“But a couple of years ago, Albie was ill. He’s got somethin’ genetic, somethin’ that can only be inherited from both parents.”

“Is he alright?” Dennis asked with concern, looking out over the kids running around again.

“Yeah, he is for now. We won’t know until he gets older, but it was proof that it had to be my ex-husband who is his father.” She raked air through her lungs and set her eyes straight ahead, unable to look at him, knuckles near-white at gripping the wood beneath her fingers. “That man, Albie’s dad, is Phil.”