A Little Snippet

My fourth book is finished! I can't wait to get it out there and for people to read it.

It will be published on 1st February 2024 and will be available to order next week.

In the meantime, here are some sample chapters for you to read.

The book is a thriller and is set in a barristers' chambers in Manchester.

THE BRIEF by CAROLINE BLAKE This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright© Caroline Blake 2023 All Rights Reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. Instagram @caroline.blake.author

Prologue

Whites Chambers has occupied the narrow, three-storey Victorian building on the corner of St John Street in Manchester for a hundred and thirty years. 

The busy chambers reverberate with activity in the afternoons. Barristers return from court triumphant that they have done their best for their client, whether or not that is, in fact, the case. Any mistakes which may have been made are quickly forgotten. Nobody has time to dwell on past cases and anything that may have gone wrong; a witness who didn’t quite perform as expected; a closing speech that could have been a little more persuasive or a prison sentence that may have been too lenient or too harsh. 

The clerks keep their resident barristers in constant and lucrative work. Their well-structured diary system means that the best legal brains on the Northern Circuit (according to their recently updated website) are constantly put to the test, defending or prosecuting the unfortunate beings who find themselves at the mercy of the English criminal legal system.

There is always another case waiting; its depositions wrapped in luxurious cream paper, the accusations held tightly within the traditional pink ribbon of the brief.  In an occupation where a brilliant mind is paid for by the hour, the demand to leave any regrets behind and move on to the next case is always pressing.

And so it was on that particular Friday afternoon.

The heavy wooden door leading to Whites Chambers was pulled open by James, one of the junior clerks, who was rushing out for his daily sandwich, almost two hours later than usual, after a particularly busy morning. His journey was momentarily halted by three or four returning barristers (later, when questioned by the police, James was unable to remember the exact number) chattering animatedly about their morning in court. As he held the door open, he didn’t notice the stranger behind them, who was able to enter the chambers without having to use the intercom system. The man, dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt and a black and grey striped tie, and carrying a leather briefcase, merged into the small crowd perfectly. If anyone had taken the time to look down at his shoes, however, they may have noted that they were old and scuffed at the toe. If anyone had taken the time to look closely at his face, they may have noticed the sheen of sweat on his upper lip and the tightness of his jaw. But after a busy day in court, the barristers were focused on getting back to their desks and to their next awaiting case.

Therefore, he went unnoticed.

James smiled politely and reverently and waited until his path was once again clear. Then he walked quickly down St. John Street, onto Byrom Street and down to Quay Street to his favourite sandwich shop. By the time he was ordering his bacon, lettuce and tomato on granary bread, he was well out of earshot of the unusual activity in St John Street.

His older colleague, Imran, head to one side, with the phone held between his ear and shoulder, concentrated on his computer screen. He was trying his best to juggle commitments and find someone who might be free to do a sentencing hearing next Wednesday. He vaguely noticed the group entering the building. The flapping of coats, the shaking of umbrellas and their loud voices annoyed him. The phone line to the instructing solicitors wasn’t a particularly good one, and he was finding it hard to hear what was being said. But he smiled politely and professionally and then once again, stared at his computer screen.

“I’ll have to put you on hold for a second,” he said, “while I speak to Miss Kershaw. If we can move her conference to later in the day, then she’ll be free to do the hearing for you.”

The doors to the lift opened and the noise in the reception area diminished as they closed and took the group upstairs.  The clerk put the solicitor on hold and listened to the ringing of Miss Kershaw’s phone. He was irritated that she wasn’t answering when he knew she was in the building.

“Miss Kershaw isn’t at her desk at the moment,” he said. “But leave it with me, I’ll put the hearing in the diary for you. If she can’t do it, for whatever reason, I’ll find someone who can.”

As he chatted to the young solicitor, laughing and flirting, which he did with everyone, he thought that he heard something that sounded like gunshot. But the traffic on St John Street was always busy, so he told himself that it was a car back-firing, although the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms told him that he was wrong. The noise seemed to have come from upstairs.

A few seconds later, when the doors to the stairs at the side of the lift flew open and a tall thin man wearing a black suit and scuffed shoes ran into the reception area, the clerk knew from the man’s crazed look, his frightened eyes and the sweat running down his face that something was terribly wrong. The screams from upstairs could now be heard quite clearly through the ceiling and he knew that, whatever had happened up there, this man was responsible.

He had to stop him before he got to the door.

“Oi, what’s going on?” he shouted, dropping the phone. He ran out from behind the long reception desk.  Maybe the man would stop and calmly explain that everything upstairs was fine. Nothing was going on. There was nothing to worry about. Yes, he had heard the car back-firing too. Or was it a motorbike? They would laugh and the clerk would then ask him his name and who he had come to see. He would ask him to take a seat. Would he like a tea or a coffee while he waited?

Deep down, the clerk knew that the chances of that happening were zero.

He had to stop him.

The man didn’t say anything. He was walking now, almost running, to the door. He was seconds away from his freedom. But Imran was there first and blocked his way, his arms outstretched and his back to the door, ready for any altercation that may be forthcoming. He had been working at the chambers for nearly twelve years and he had met thousands of criminals in that time and, although they didn’t usually wear suits, the clerk knew one when he saw one. He knew that this man didn’t have an appointment and he shouldn’t be in chambers. None of the barristers had a conference arranged until after four o’clock.

The continued screaming from upstairs disturbed him and although all of the clerk’s instincts called out to him to get out of the way, to let the man go, he stood his ground.

The man stopped and stared at him for a moment. The clerk thought that he saw the tiniest flicker of regret in his eyes, a second before he raised his right hand and pointed the gun directly at his forehead.

Don’t people say that your life flashes before your eyes in the moments before death comes to take you? That wasn’t so for Imran. He didn’t see his past life.  Rather, visions of his future life zipped through his mind. In what must have been only a second, or two at the most, he saw his wife standing over his grave, sobbing and falling to her knees as his coffin was lowered into the ground and splattered with handfuls of soil thrown by the gathered mourners. He saw his daughter walking down the aisle on her own on her wedding day, fighting back the tears that would ruin her carefully applied make-up.  He saw his unborn grandchildren playing in the back garden of the house he had bought with his wife just before they got married; the house where their daughter had grown up. He saw his wife spending her retirement alone, going on cruises where she sat with strangers at dinner and pretended to be happy.

He wasn’t ready to die yet. There were so many things he hadn’t yet done, so many places that he hadn’t yet visited. He hadn’t been to Cuba or seen the Grand Canyon.  He had never eaten in a sushi restaurant. He hadn’t finished the John Grisham book he had been reading for the past month. He liked to take his time with a book, reading a few pages each night before he went to sleep. Now it seemed that he would never know the ending. He hadn’t even had time to pay off his mortgage. How would his wife manage without him?

He had always thought that he would saunter into retirement.

But complacency, it seemed, was not for everyone.

Fate had decided that his time was up, and he was willing to die like a man.

He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet that would propel him from this world into the next.

When he heard the front door open and felt the cool wind rush into the reception area, he prayed that it wasn’t James, his young colleague, returning moments too early, clutching his expensive and carefully wrapped artisan sandwich. It wasn’t fair for them both to be gunned down at work. If anyone was going to be the sacrificial lamb, then it should be him, surely. He was older, he was the senior clerk and, well, he couldn’t think of any other reason, except that it would be a pointless waste of another life. Goodness knows what damage this man had caused upstairs, but he didn’t need to kill another two people, just because they were in his way.

He waited for the sound of his colleague’s startled voice, but when it didn’t come, he opened his eyes, slowly and reluctantly.

The reception was empty.

The gunman had gone.

Chapter One

Eleven Days Before the Shooting - Monday

As Samantha dotted the foundation around her face and gently rubbed it in with her fingertips, she looked at her husband and smiled to herself. The door to their ensuite was open. She loved to watch him shave. Was that odd? There was something very masculine about it. The way he lifted his chin and dabbed the badger hair shaving brush over his neck, and then gently wiped the foam off with his silver-handled razor, ending the routine by splashing his face with cold water. As she curled her eyelashes and covered them with two layers of black mascara, she wondered whether he liked to watch her as she applied her makeup. The feminine equivalent of his shave. He had never said. So, probably not.

Even after ten years together, she still pinched herself every day when she woke up next to Alistair. She had confided in her best friend, Jamilla, shortly after their wedding, that she didn’t think she was good enough for him. Too much gin had loosened her lips on a girls’ night out and she confessed that she was worried that he would stray, sooner or later.  Jamilla told her not to be so stupid -  he had chosen her, hadn’t he? But the words came from one who was blessed with natural beauty and curves that only dreams are made of.  Nevertheless, Samantha worried. She told herself that there must be something about her that he loved, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. She had heard something somewhere about men not wanting their wives to be too beautiful, so they didn’t have to worry about them being constantly chased by other men. Maybe that’s why he chose her. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.

She finished her makeup by adding golden bronzer and pulled her unruly curly hair into a tight ponytail. Alistair went into the shower as she went downstairs to the kitchen, where she made two coffees and poured them into stainless steel takeaway cups. They wouldn’t have time to sit and drink coffee this morning. The traffic into Manchester was always crazy on a Monday and today’s forecast for rain wouldn’t help. Nobody seemed to want to get the tram at the slightest hint of inclement weather.

She popped a slice of bread into the toaster and then ran back upstairs to get dressed. She would have to eat it in the car, which Alistair wouldn’t be happy about, but so be it. He hated finding crumbs on his leather upholstery.

“You know my trial starts this morning, don’t you?” he said, curtly, as she walked back into the bedroom. “Why are you still in your dressing gown?”

He was already dressed in his self-imposed barrister’s uniform of a navy blue three-piece suit, with a white shirt and blue tie. A thick white pinstripe ran through the jacket and trousers. There was nothing subtle about Alistair.

She grabbed his tie and straightened it for him. It didn’t need straightening, but the opportunity to be near to him, if just for a second or two, was too much for her to resist. She didn’t know why he bothered with it; it would soon be replaced by the white stiff wing collar for court, but he wouldn’t dream of walking through chambers without a tie.

Not for a second.

He batted her hand away. “Leave it. I’ve just put it on. I’m quite capable of sorting out my own tie.”

She stepped back, away from him and turned to her wardrobe, so that he wouldn’t see the start of tears.

“Can you just get dressed? Quickly,” he said.

She took a deep breath and told herself that it wasn’t personal; he was always grumpy on the first day of a trial. Although, as most of his trials lasted a week or less, he was grumpy most Monday mornings and she was getting a little tired of it. She didn’t tell him so. It was just part and parcel of being married, especially to someone who had a stressful job. Surely, she had some annoying foibles that he had learned to live with over the years. She knew it irritated him when she picked the gel from her nails, and she never stuck to the shopping list at the supermarket. She always came back with a bag or two of extra groceries. There were probably other things that he had never mentioned.

But nobody’s perfect, are they?

She hung her dressing gown on the hook on the inside of the wardrobe door, took a black shift dress off the hanger and stepped into it.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said, pulling the side zip closed and turning to give Alistair a big smile to defuse the building tension. He was still scowling. She grabbed her work shoes, sensible and black with a low heel (boring as hell) and put them on.

“Come on, I thought you said you had a trial. Let’s go,” she said.

It was almost seven a.m. and she knew that he planned to leave at seven, to be in chambers for seven forty-five, so, today at least, she couldn’t be blamed for making him late.

“Fine,” he said, checking the time on his Tag-Heuer watch. “You’ll have to finish your makeup in the car.”

She ignored his last comment and followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“I’ve made you a coffee,” she said, nodding to the two cups. She picked up the toast, which had popped out of the toaster and was lying on the worktop and began spreading it with peanut butter.

“Aren’t you meant to be giving up gluten?” said Alistair, as he took a large gulp of his coffee. “Fuck me, that’s hot.”

“I’ve just made it, that’s why,” she mumbled. She followed him out of the house, closed the door and walked to the car.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, taking a bite of her toast and climbing into the passenger seat of their Jaguar F-Pace.

“Did you put the alarm on?” he said. He held onto the driver’s door and peered at her, accusingly.

“Yes, I think so.” She honestly couldn’t remember. She was thinking about her busy diary and wondering whether James, their junior clerk, had managed to move her conference that was planned for tomorrow afternoon. As she left chambers on Friday, he had been on the phone to the instructing solicitor, promising that he would do his best. It wasn’t the end of the world if he hadn’t managed it, but she could do with a free afternoon to catch up with paperwork.

“Well did you, or didn’t you?” Alistair stared at her for a second, not waiting for her to answer. “Right, I’ll check it myself.”

She watched him stamp back to the front door and open it. She could hear the beeping of the alarm and watched him stab the code into the panel, before stabbing it again to re-set the alarm.

“I told you I’d done it,” she said, as he climbed into the car and started the engine.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You weren’t sure. I don’t know why you’re incapable of remembering something that you did literally less than a minute ago, but there you are.” He drove down the driveway and onto the road, quickly reaching a speed that was far too fast for a residential area.

Samantha didn’t want to start her week with an argument. Not again. So she pretended to be engrossed with Radio Four, as they sat for the rest of the journey in silence.

Chapter Two

Monday

Sebastian Thomas arrived at chambers at a few minutes to eight, as he did every day and as he had done for the past thirty-five years.

“Good morning, James,” he said, as he shook the rain from his umbrella. He held open the door to chambers with his back, until James ran across the tiled reception floor and held it for him. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yes, lovely, thank you, sir,” said James.

Imran, in his position as senior clerk and self-confessed legal dinosaur, had insisted that all the barristers in Chambers were addressed by their surnames, or sir or ma’am. Modernity wasn’t welcome in the legal profession and especially wasn’t welcome in Whites Chambers.

“Did you have a good one?”

“Excellent, James, thank you very much,” said Sebastian. “Today’s trial is a non-starter, which meant I had lots more free time than I’d anticipated. Much to my wife’s dismay.” James laughed politely, as he helped Sebastian out of his raincoat and took his umbrella, which he placed in the tall ash wood stand next to the door. “A good friend of mine is the instructing solicitor. He had a last-minute telephone call with the defendant on Friday evening and he told me that he intends to plead guilty today, although until I hear him say the word ‘guilty’ with my own ears, I’d better be prepared for the alternative.”

The lift doors opened, and Sebastian stepped in and pressed the button for the second floor. He tried to squash the thought that he should be taking the stairs. The diet and exercise regime that his wife was trying to instil could start tomorrow. Mondays were bad enough, without having to endure hummus, beetroot and lettuce wraps and thousands of unnecessary steps. He knew that she meant well and was looking out for him as he approached his sixtieth year, but the walk from the car park just now - via his favourite deli, where he had picked up a bacon and cream cheese bagel - and the walk to court and back would be enough for him today.

He pushed open the door to his office and settled down in his high-backed bottle green leather chair. He unwrapped his bagel, which was warm and steaming, and took a large bite.

Despite the fact that he had received the good news about today’s defendant intending to plead guilty, (which was absolutely the right decision, as Sebastian had always felt that the evidence weighed too much against the defendant, despite his insistence that there was a perfectly good explanation for his fingerprints being found at the scene of the burglary) which had resulted in a leisurely weekend, Sebastian’s energy levels were still low. He needed a holiday. Desperately.

He took his phone out of his jacket pocket and sent a text to his wife.

"Laila darling, I need a holiday. I’m sure you do too. Caravan in Whitby or 5 star in The Maldives? X"

He received a reply immediately. "Such a tough choice. Leave it with me. I’ll do some research and we can chat tonight x"

Sebastian knew that Laila would make the right decision and would choose the perfect holiday destination for them. She always did. He put his phone back inside his jacket pocket and picked up the landline on his desk. He dialled zero for the clerks’ desk. Imran answered on the second ring.

“Good morning, Mr Thomas,” he said.

“Good morning, Imran. How are you?”

“Good thank you, sir. You?”

“Yes, very well, thank you.” In all the years that Sebastian had worked with Imran - ten, fifteen, he could never remember - they had never had a proper conversation. They never seemed to get over the barrier of professional politeness. It was a shame. He seemed like a nice man. Maybe he should invite him out for lunch one day. Get to know him properly. Not this week though. Now that his diary was about to empty, he was looking forward to having a few days off later in the week. “Imran, I’ve been informed that today’s trial is possibly going to be a guilty plea this morning. Please could you ring Monson and Co and double-check that is still the case and, if so, give the prosecutor the heads up?”

“Yes, sir, consider it done,” said Imran.

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, putting the phone down.

“Morning, Dad,” said Jamilla, opening his office door. “Are you busy?”

“I’ve always got time you for, darling. How are you? You look troubled.”

Sebastian met his daughter with a huge hug.

“I’m alright,” said Jamilla. “I just wanted to see you, that’s all. That bacon smells good.”

“Don’t tell your mum.”

“I won’t,” she said.

Jamilla sat down in one of the tub chairs facing her father’s desk. He pushed his bagel towards her with a conspiratorial wink and she took a small bite.

“I can tell when you’re upset, but I won’t press you on it if…” He was interrupted by his office door crashing open. “Robert! Please! How many times have I asked you to open the door gently? There are so many dents in that bookcase, it will be fit for nothing but firewood very soon.”

“Well, whose stupid idea was it to put a bookcase right behind a door?” Robert peered behind the heavy oak door and rubbed at the bookcase, where the door handle had crashed into it. “No damage done,” he said.

“Which is more than can be said about you,” said Sebastian. “What have you done to yourself?”

Robert reached up his hand and touched the graze on his left cheekbone. “I walked into the cupboard door in the kitchen,” he said. “Morning, Jamilla.”

Jamilla ignored him.

“Mmm, somebody’s fist more likely,” said Sebastian.

Robert shrugged. That was a possibility. Highly probable, in fact. Thankfully, whoever had done the damage hadn’t put much force behind the blow, or maybe he had managed to dodge out of the way in time. Who knew? But thankfully, he had managed to avoid a couple of black eyes. They would have been more difficult to explain away.

Sebastian shook his head. “You look a state, man. Have you shaved?” Robert rubbed at his chin, feeling the stubble that had grown overnight. “Don’t answer, on the grounds that you will most definitely incriminate yourself.”

Robert stood in front of Sebastian’s old-fashioned mahogany desk, taking the admonishment like a recalcitrant schoolboy. How many times had he stood in front of the head teacher’s desk like this? Too many to remember. If someone had told him that history would repeat itself at work, he would have chosen another profession. One where there weren’t so many rules.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he admitted. “I pressed the snooze button on the alarm one too many times, I’m afraid, so I didn’t get time to shave. It won’t happen again.”

Robert’s head teacher used to tell him that a little contrition wouldn’t do him any harm. Despite him telling her that he was sorry for whatever transgression he had committed that particular week, she said that he needed to learn the meaning of humility. And whilst he was at it, he could take that stupid grin off his face. Right now, Robert tried to appear humble and contrite. Whether he managed to pull it off, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that he was holding onto his position in chambers by his fingertips. He was nine months into his twelve-month pupillage as a trainee barrister and in no time at all, the decision would be made as to whether he would be given a permanent position. This year, there was no competition. He was the only pupil. So, in theory, the tenure was his. All he had to do was to reach out and take it. So why did he keep fucking it up?

“Go and get yourself a coffee and use this,” said Sebastian. He opened the top drawer of his desk and retrieved an electric razor, which he held out to him. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s clean. No shave, no court attendance.” Robert took it from him. “And I’ll have a tea, please. Nice and strong. We leave for court in forty minutes, okay?”

Robert clicked his heels together and saluted with his right hand. “Sir, yes, sir.” Then, “Okay, okay, I’m going. Don’t throw anything at me. I know you want to. Jamilla, can I get you anything?”

Jamilla turned to look at him, and shook her head, making no attempt to hide her disdain. He left the room.

“Why do you put up with him, Dad?” she asked. “He’s a useless waste of space.”

“I take it you two have had a spat?”

Jamilla’s tears appeared suddenly and fell down her carefully applied make-up before she had time to stop them.

“I hate him,” she said.

Sebastian rushed over to her, and she buried her head in his chest, as he stroked her hair with one hand and her back with the other. He didn’t know what to say. He had told Robert only last week that he was on shaky ground, and he needed to work harder, on his appearance, on his attendance and on his attitude. And he certainly needed to work harder on his relationship with Jamilla. The sooner she ended it with him, the better, as far as he was concerned.

Chapter Three

Monday

In the kitchen on the ground floor, Robert filled the kettle with water and waited for it to boil, while he poured himself a black filter coffee from the large jug which was prepared by one of the clerks every morning. He tried not to move his head too much, hoping that his headache would at some point subside. Another Monday, another hangover.

He knew that Jamilla was mad at him. He was hoping that at some point today, he would remember why.

Robert’s iPhone alarm had woken him at seven o’clock this morning. The incessant beep beep beeping reverberated around his head painfully.  After fumbling around on his bedside cabinet, his eyes still tightly pressed shut, he had located the phone and pressed the stop button. As he lay back down on his pillow, his fuddled brain calculated that he had only had four hours of sleep. Maybe not even that. But he knew that the pounding in his head would force him to get up. He needed water and paracetamol.

He still couldn’t remember the finer details of the previous evening, but he knew that he had been out longer than he had intended. A meal with Jamilla and an early night had been the original plan. He had invited her to stay at his apartment in Castlefield, just a short walk from the restaurant, but he couldn’t remember whether she had said yes or not. He had reached his hand across the bed this morning and felt a cold space where her warm body should have been.

“Jamilla?” He had shouted. His voice was hoarse and croaky. He had cleared his throat with a cough that made his brain hurt. He tried again. “Milla, are you there?” No reply. He didn’t hear the shower running or any activity in the kitchen. Where was she? His bedroom door was open, but he couldn’t see her. He didn’t have the energy to shout out for her again. He had closed his eyes, hoping that she would bring him a drink and some painkillers soon. She must have heard his alarm going off. But she wasn’t there.

Now, pictures of last night flashed through his brain. A bottle of wine in the restaurant. Another bottle. Jamilla storming off to the toilet. Her pizza untouched. Had they argued? A wet pavement. A stumble into the road, car horns beeping. The roulette table, spinning. He remembered that he had lost. Again. Piles of red and blue plastic chips being swept away. The croupier’s blank face.

After that, he remembered nothing.

He rested his elbows on the worktop and held his hands over his eyes, trying to blank out the awful shattered pieces of memory that jumbled in his head. Another night in the casino. No wonder Jamilla hadn’t been by his side when he had woken up. He had promised her that he wouldn’t go there again. Only a few days ago, she had held onto his hand and begged him never to step foot inside any gambling establishment ever again.

“Just for clarification,” she had said earnestly, “That means casinos, betting offices and the shitty little places in Blackpool where they have those machines where you can win two pence pieces that you knock into a plastic cup.” He had laughed and told her that he hadn’t been to Blackpool since he was six years old.  “You know what I mean,” she had said, with tears in her eyes. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t do it.” He assured her that he loved her. He had kissed her cheeks, kissing away the salty tears, and promised her with all his heart that he would ‘sort himself out’.

He had tried to explain to her that it was just a hobby, but she didn’t get it. An argument about ‘reigning in his spending’ had ensued. She questioned whether he really needed his Porsche. Was it absolutely necessary? He could walk to work from his place in less than ten minutes, so if he returned the car and put the money into a savings account, they would have enough for a house deposit in no time. Robert had bitten down on his tongue. It was alright for her, with rich parents to subsidise her lifestyle. Nobody had bought him a car or paid for his rent. Unlike her, he paid his own way in life. But he hadn’t said that, of course, because he loved Jamilla, and he knew that she would eventually be his wife. Hopefully.

The kettle boiled. He poured hot water over the teabag in Sebastian’s favourite mug and stirred it around. While he waited for it to brew, he contemplated how he could make it up to her.  He took his phone out of his pocket and tapped ‘Interflora’ into the browser. A flower delivery would do it. But then again, she would moan at him for not making it personal. At lunchtime, he decided, he’d go to the florist on Deansgate, choose her a huge bunch of flowers and take them to her office himself. Remorse and love, wrapped up in fragrant petals. Public displays of affection always went down well. He’d be back in her good books in no time. She knew which side her bread was buttered.

“What the fuck have you done to your face?” It was Alistair. The smug prick. He waltzed into the kitchen in the same way as he waltzed into any room - as though he was King Dick.

Robert tried not to let his true feelings show on his face. “Good morning to you, too,” he said, with a false smile. He lifted the teabag out of the cup and went to reach for the bin, but Alistair stood in his way. Drips of tea landed on the clean tiled floor.

“Aren’t you meant to say something witty like ‘you should see the other guy’?” Alistair laughed at his own pitiful attempt at humour.

“I didn’t get to see him,” said Robert. “He was taken away in an ambulance.”

“Ahaha, yes, good one,” said Alistair, braying like a donkey.

Robert wondered what time he could take his next paracetamol.

Imran appeared at the open door. “Mr Mallory, phone call for you. Line two.”

“Fill the kettle up, will you, there’s a good chap,” said Alistair as he walked away.

Fuck you, thought Robert, as he poured milk into Sebastian’s tea. He emptied the water from the kettle down the sink, picked up Sebastian’s tea with one hand and his coffee with the other, and quickly left the kitchen.

Sebastian’s room was empty when he got there. The smell of bacon lingered in the air. Robert stuck his nose into his coffee cup and tried to keep a lid on his nausea.

Further snippets of memory from last night were slowly but surely becoming clearer. He couldn’t remember whether Jamilla was by his side at the time, but he remembered kicking a can of Coke and shouting, “Goal!” Where the goal was, he had no idea. The can staggered into the road, bumping noisily along on the tarmac. It finally came to rest in the gutter, its journey halted by a discarded bottle of beer. The colours of the red can and the green bottle mingled as they rolled into fallen blossoms from a nearby cherry tree. Robert had nearly fallen over its root, as it bravely struggled through the concrete paving slabs. He tripped, steadying his fall by holding onto the trunk.  He saw that chunks of the tree’s bark had been ripped away and someone had tried to carve initials within a heart. The artistry was half finished. The culprit had probably been caught by an over-enthusiastic community support officer.

Robert’s inebriated brain had stared at the can and the bottle. Litter. The middle-class, well-behaved, well-educated boy within had wanted to pick them up. He remembered thinking that he didn’t want to live in a place where littering was commonplace. But it wasn’t his litter. So, he’d left it where it was.

Then someone bumped into him from behind. The memory was hazy.  Was it a man? Sorry mate. Pats on the back. Far away words and laughter. Heels clip-clopping on the pavement, fading away.

He remembered looking down at his feet. When he managed to work out that they were his feet, he made a huge effort to put one foot in front of the other.

A cycling Deliveroo driver swore at him, and almost knocked him over. “Get off the road, you stupid twat!”

He hadn’t realised that he was on the road.

Oh God! It’s no wonder that Jamilla isn’t talking to him.