A Broken Lock

Chapter 1

E

They’re gathered around my bed like they’re watching a caged lion at the zoo. Well, I'm done. Move on tossers.

I look around at my brothers, waiting to see which one will stop being a pussy and speak first. Each and every one of them is present bar Matt who seems to have fucked off without telling anyone.

I challenge them all with my gaze, because I’m in no fucking mood to talk and, normally, they keep fucking quiet in response to my glower.

Jelly’s on her way, Karl speaks up eventually.

I nod and look away. I’ve been in this room for two days solid and it feels as much of a prison as a zoo cage. I have zero inclination to speak to any of these clowns. For the first time, I understand Jelly’s tendency to maintain radio silence.

E, what the fuck are we meant to say? Karl sighs.

I’ve got a load of pirate jokes, Danny mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

I shoot him my usual reproachful look, but I’m not really feeling it, and neither is he. The respect is gone; how is he supposed to respect a broken man?

Even as I stare around at my family, the people who I love most in the world, I can’t muster enough energy to reassure them that I’m fine.

All I can think of to distract myself is what must have been going through Olivia’s head when she received my text.

Stop.

She would already have been in the restaurant. Xander had her driven there, but I only had time to send one message, so it had to be to her.

Protocol is to shut down any and all assets associated with a cover as soon as the agent is compromised. I had seconds to act and she needed some form of closure.

The office would have called Xander as his company were external contractors to the operation. He probably knew not long after she did.

Olivia.

I swear internally because I was foolish to let myself believe we could have some fantasy happy ending. I’m not what she needs. I’m not what she wants.

I can’t give her the future she deserves, not with the life I have, and not with the way things are now.

Ian! Jelly’s shrill voice breaks through the monotony of my thoughts as she dashes into the room and launches herself at me, limbs flailing wildly in her usual clumsy fashion.

I can see the worry etched all over her face, and the expression is mirrored by her fiancé, Reed, as her follows her in.

Her small arms attach themselves around my neck and I return the hug carefully, not wanting to crush her. I know she’s stronger than she looks, but the part of my brain that remembers holding her as a baby refuses to process that fact.

I feel her body start to vibrate and I know what’s coming. She sobs into my chest, and they’re gut-wrenching cries of agony.

Hey, I soothe, rubbing her back and gritting my teeth in frustration. What are you crying for?

I can feel Reed’s irritation; he doesn’t like watching my sister cry and for that I have to like him, even if it is only fractionally.

She continues her sobbing, shaking with what must be a confusing mixture of anxiety and relief.

The others look on helplessly. Seeing Jelly cry is messing with their heads worse than seeing me in this fucked up state.

You promised me you were bulletproof, she complains with shaky breaths.

Even superheroes have to get it wrong sometimes, Jellybean, I try my best to reassure her, but it’s hard because I don’t believe a single word.

"You could have died, Ian," she sits up, levelling me with her ever improving Carter glare.

I didn’t, I attempt a casual shrug but the truth is, for a second, I almost wish I had fucking died.

Does it hurt? Her lower lip trembles, glancing down at the end of my bed.

Nah, I muster a grin, but it’s fucking agony. I’ve never felt anything like it. I need to sleep, but these idiots won’t leave my bedside.

That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you lie. Jelly frowns, and the forlorn expression on her face breaks my heart.

Sorry, I apologise, because I haven’t lied to them in a very long time and I feel a deep seated sense of shame.

The truth is, it’s hard to be honest with my family when I’m not even being honest with myself.

My life is over. My job is gone, my girl is gone, and my fucking leg is gone. I clench my teeth hard because, for the first time in over twenty years, I’m on the brink of shedding a tear.

None of you had the balls to bring it up, but Jelly did, I scoff, distracting myself by insulting my brothers.

I watch them all shuffle awkwardly, trying hard not to stare at the dip in my bedsheets where the rest of my left leg should be.

Can we see it? Jake pipes up, shuffling past the twins, Rick and Danny, to get a good look.

I sigh because I knew it was coming, but I’ve barely looked at it myself. I feel sick every time I try and I don’t like that weakness.

Karl punches Jake on the arm and shoves him back. Don’t be a dick.

It’s fine, I shake my head. I have to bite the bullet at some point. I mentally scold myself for a poor choice of words.

With a deep sigh, I pull the hospital blanket away and reveal the jumble of bandages hiding what I assume is a gruesome as hell stump.

Fuck, Jake exhales slowly.

E, I know scars are sexy, but this is going a bit far don’t you think? Rick shakes his head, eyes wide with disbelief.

I ignore him because humour is his way of dealing with the situation and at least one of us is dealing with it.

I need some sleep, I reply, staring out of the window at the wall of concrete which dominates the view.

Ian, Jelly frowns. Please can I stay in here with you? Her voice is a gentle plea.

I don’t have the heart to turn her down, but I just need time alone to process everything. I’ve only been awake for a combined total of twenty-four hours and, in that time, I’ve been constantly picked, prodded, and disturbed by medical staff and psychiatrists. I just need some time to myself.

Reed catches my eye, and I know he understands. If a man has weaknesses, he doesn’t necessarily want to share them.

Come on, little squirrel, he laces his fingers with hers. Let’s give him some space. The hotel’s not far. We’ll come back soon.

I can see the other’s glaring at Reed for making that call, but I don’t have the energy to comment. Instead, I roll onto my side, close my eyes, and wait until I hear them leave. I know they’ve driven a long way to see me, but I can’t deal with them right now.

My mind runs over and over the scene, running diagnostics, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

The operation was an overwhelming success until the very last moment.

Months of work culminated in one day. Claire and I spent almost a year infiltrating that cartel, earning the trust of everybody within. She played her role beautifully, right up until some fucker beat the shit out of her and we had to pull her out.

I was meant to be the only trainer with access to her, but some sadistic prick got his hands on her whilst I was otherwise engaged.

Eventually, I worked my way right into the thick of it, but I knew my work wasn’t done. I needed Elliot Vanders; he was always the end goal.

His name was never spoken in the cartel, but everyone knew he was the head of the snake. I was just biding my time until he showed himself, and I could prove his hand in it all. Alive or dead. The state didn’t care which way they got him.

Personally, I had a preference for the latter. He was so deeply rooted in providing weapons to the militant groups that I’ve spent much of my life fighting overseas.

I met him once, as a corporal during my first tour in Afghanistan. I made him a promise then. That I'd make him pay. I was green as fuck at the time. Literally and figuratively. I had camo paint all over my face.

He didn't remember me, but why would he? He was just starting out and his men killed three of ours. In those days he hadn’t quite learnt how to keep his hands clean. Xander and I were the only two left alive, outgunned and outnumbered, so he got away. He has been unfinished business ever since.

More than that though, it was his right hand man who kidnapped Jelly last year. He may not have known the connection to me, but I wasn’t about to forget it. She almost died because of that asshole and now permanently wears the scar he gave her.

Then there was the issue with Vander’s legal team, Callaghan and Son, causing trouble for Craig’s girlfriend, Bella. The girl went through years of hell at the hands brutal and manipulative hands of Callaghan Junior.

All that adds up to a bullseye on Vander’s forehead; right between the eyes.

That’s where I got him, and his death is still gratifyingly imprinted on my brain. I hope it stays there forever.

As soon as I fired the crucial bullet, all hell broke loose. My team were poised and ready. They were by my side in seconds of my cover being broken.

When the bullets started flying, I knew my team were there. They had me covered, but I fucked up.

My brain is normally a well-oiled machine; its cogs never stopping, gears never wavering. At the worst possible moment, it trailed off for a split second to imagine what Olivia would be wearing for me that night. It was only a fraction of a second, but that was all it needed.

As I was ducking into a corridor for cover, a bullet caught me straight through the knee cap.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve taken a bullet, but this time hurt a hell of a lot more than being shot in the chest.

The bullet severed a major artery and shattered a patella. This was no 5mm, it felt like at least a 45.

What I can’t get my fucking head around is why the recovery team took twenty minutes to arrive when they should have been on site in five.

If they had been there on time, they might have been able to save my leg from this fate, and I wouldn’t have ended up with an above knee amputation.

I know they’re not to blame if I’m truly honest with myself. I fucked up; I have to accept that.

Considering I rarely make mistakes, I have made catastrophic mistakes when it comes to Olivia.

She had no place being in my thoughts at a time like that. I’ve hurt her on a level I don’t think she has truly comprehended yet, and now I’ve lost a part of myself that I’ll never get back.

Maybe it’s for the best I sent off that text before the company shut my alias down.

Still, I can’t help but imagine the hurt she would have felt, all glammed up in that restaurant only to have her hopes shattered. At least now she’ll heal, move on, and find somebody who can give her everything she needs.

I know what I want for her, and that is happiness, pure and simple. What do I want for myself? I’ve always known I wanted to serve and protect. My family and my country, in that order. But what now?

I already know I’ll be discharged for this. It’ll be an honourable discharge, and who knows, I might even get a fucking medal.

Almost thirteen years of service, here’s a fucking medal, see you later. I hiss out loud in self-reproach.

These thoughts aren’t me, I love my place in the army and the SAS, and the life it has given me. I love my training, my military brothers, and the strength I have found.

But it’s hard not to be bitter when you’ve been cast aside for being broken.

Fucking broken.

It has quickly become my mental definition. I’ve been a fighter, a solider, a parent, a brother. Now I can be none of those things.

All because of this fucking stump.

Pushing past my discomfort, I slowly unravel the bandages wrapped around my dismembered limb. Gritting my teeth as each slither of swollen flesh is revealed. The surgery is neat and tidy but that doesn’t make it any prettier. The bulbous head of my leg is a fleshy encumberment.

I can’t look at it anymore; my stomach is rolling uncomfortably, despite the fact that I’ve had only water since I woke up. The bathroom is on the other side of the room, but I have no choice.

I dart from the bed, caught off guard when only one foot lands. I fall hard on my side, splitting one of the surgical stitches and causing my leg to bleed.

There’s no choice but to lay on the floor, supporting my weight on my hands as my stomach heaves a few drops of water. I’m a pitiful picture of pathetic tragedy, waiting for a nurse to come and save me.

That bullet would have been better place through my skull.

Chapter 2

Olivia

I can hear knocking at the front door, but it won’t be for me so I ignore it. It’s probably for the new tenants downstairs. They’re elderly and have carers come around regularly.

They’re quiet as mice, and so I rarely see or hear from them, which suits me just fine.

I only just woke up so I know Tamara won’t be home for several hours. I sigh, adjusting my jogging bottoms to get more comfortable on the sofa, before recommencing watching the screaming couple on the screen for today’s episode of Jeremy Kyle.

The stupid thing is I’m even slightly jealous of this woman whose boyfriend has a crack addiction because at least he genuinely does seem to love her.

That must be nice; being loved.

I swallow and reach for my glass of water to quench my suddenly dry mouth; I’d started to think of him again. It has been two weeks and I still think about him in almost every waking moment if I’m not careful.

It’s such a complicated feeling to both love and hate somebody so strongly. Being in his old flat doesn’t help, but it was the right thing to do.

The rent is so low, and it's already paid up until the end of July. I didn’t want to stay here and be reminded of him, but when the estate agent contacted us to offer us the lease, we couldn’t say no.

Especially not since I lost my job. I know exactly why I was fired, and so do they. Normally, I would have fought the injustice, but I was too broken at the time. It serves me right for doing the moral thing and trying to stop Perkins, my unscrupulous former manager, from ripping the company off for thousands of pounds.

They fired me on my first day back after the break up. Things literally couldn't have gotten any worse. If it wasn't for Tamara, I would have run back home to my Dad and given up at the adult thing.

Tamara still has her job at GMC, but probably only because they haven’t realised that we’re living together. She’s having to be very careful in everything she says and does. If they know that she knows about the figure fudging, she’ll be gone too. We can’t both be unemployed.

That girl is the best thing in my life right now. She’s looked after me every single day since he left. She has made sure I’m eating and exercising, hugged me through my tears at night, and been by my side relentlessly.

I know she must be hurting too, after all she lost Xander, but you would never know it. She keeps me motivated to move on. One day, maybe I will.

I know I need to find another job, but with the lack of references, I can only find bar work or restaurant work and I’m quickly running out of money.

I know I deserve better, but sometimes you have to take the cards life deals you. If my Mum had been made unemployed, she would have taken any job she could get. She was a proud woman and would be dependent on no one, especially not the state.

When Tamara gets home, I’ll make her dinner, and then I’ll go on another round of CV handouts. This time, I resolve myself, I will take anything that comes.

At least working will keep me from thinking about E. I don’t want to remember the way he touched me so gently, or adjusted my glasses when they became skewwhiff. I don’t want to bring myself to climax at night remembering the things he did to me.

I’ve not even thought about having sex with another man since he left, but the thriving sexual thirst remains, and I’m left thoroughly unsated each night, no matter how many times I bring myself to climax.

I’ve not told Tamara, of course, but I know she would understand. She knew the things E and I did together. On several occasions, I’ve considered asking her to come with me to a club. A very specific kind of club where I can find somebody to bring me to those levels of sexual gratification once more. I couldn’t do it on my own.

I’ve asked so much of my friend though; I can’t ask any more. She’s all I have left in London now. I haven’t seen Steph since the day she left, packing her bags without so much as a second glance in my direction.

Kev has completely disappeared off the face of the planet. He never answers my calls or texts. I stopped by the estate agents but they said he didn’t work there anymore. He must have deleted his profile because I can’t even find him on Facebook.

I feel so very alone here, but I also know that giving up and moving back to Mansfield would be admitting defeat. I will not give up, but I need a miracle.

E became the centre of my world in a relatively short period of time. He’s in my very blood, my life essence.

I hate him with so much venom that I’m being poisoned from the inside out. It’s the lack of closure that really hurts. I need to understand why he tortured me so relentlessly and then crushed my soul so completely.

There were any number of less painful ways to end our relationship. There were things he could have done which would have still hurt, but I could have healed.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I may never know. There is literally no trace of him. The letting agents didn’t even have a forwarding address for him. After months of relentless pestering, they still haven’t given me a contact number for the landlord who knows E personally.

I even checked the land registry for the property, but it was in the name of a company registered in Poland, which in turn was owned by a company in Estonia. Both companies were part of a trust registered in South America.

Whoever owned the property, did not want to be found. Which meant I’d never find E.

I’ve searched every Carter on Facebook, checking for any hint of familiar blue eyes. I figured with so many siblings, they’d be on Facebook, but no such luck – they seem to have very little in the way of a social media footprint.

It’s truly hopeless.

Without finding him to get my much needed closure, my days consist of lying on the sofa and waiting for Tamara to come home so we can go to the gym, eat, and occasionally go out for coffee.

Hey gorgeous, she announces as she lets herself into the flat.

Hey, I manage my first smile of the day, brushing a few crumbs of toast off my shirt as I stand. How was your day?

Some old, same old, her smile remains but I can see how unhappy she is at GMC.

I frown in sympathy. Neither of us are really enjoying life.

I’m going to go look for jobs tonight, I tell her to cheer her up. Even if it’s just a café.

Awesome, she grins, an expression of relief hidden behind the smile.

What? I wince. Why is she relieved?

Nothing, she shrinks guiltily. I am just worried about you.

I’ll bounce back, I attempt, but with little conviction.

Our eyes meet and we sigh as she sinks down onto the sofa next to me.

We’re both miserable, Livvie, Tamara squeezes my hand.

I have to smile despite the subject matter because, with Kev and Steph gone from my life, Tamara has taken over calling me Livvie. The name no longer means somebody wants something from me, it’s just an affectionate nickname.

Yes, we are, I nod in agreement. I’m sorry.

It’s not your fault, she answers firmly. It’s cock-face wanker’s fault.

Yes it is, I agree, because he is very much a cock-faced wanker.

We need to change something. We can’t live like this forever, she laments, releasing her hair from the band holding her braids together.

I know, I nod in begrudging agreement. Maybe we should look for jobs outside of London?

I may never get a decent paying job in this city, not with my old employer refusing to give me a reference. I could maybe move closer to Mansfield, then I could see Dad and Dino more often. What about Tamara though?

Maybe, she seems hesitant.

You don't want to move out of London do you?

No, she seems contemplative. But really, there's nothing keeping me here anymore.

I'm not sure if she's referring to Xander, or her broken relationship with her mother, but it's a sad thing not to have any connection to a place you've spent your whole life, so I reach out and squeeze her hand.

Just something to think about, I reassure her that I'm not pushing. I want you to be happy and I don't want to be without you. You're possibly the best friend I've ever had.

Breast friend? She wrinkles her brow in confusion.

Yes, Tamara, I laugh affectionately. You're my best breast friend.

Realising that she has misheard me, she giggles. It is contagious, and the two of us end up in a fit of stomach stabbing laughter.

As we collapse onto the floor, clasping our waists, it's good to know that there is still one person in this world who I can laugh with.

That thought leaves a smile on my face as I approach local restaurants and cafes for possible job opportunities. However, the smile slowly falls as I'm turned away at every door. My trek starts at the restaurants with doormen, before moving on to the boutique cafés, to the bistros. After being rejected at a fish and chip shop, I stand before my final option.

It's a rundown caff with a faded nameplate and a white linoleum floor coated in a thin layer of grease. The aluminium chairs have ancient padding tied on, and several have the stuffing hanging out.

The guy at the counter has a hairy belly hanging over his tracksuit bottoms, and there are grease stains all over his plain white t-shirt. I wouldn't eat food from this place without a gun to my head, and even then I’d be reluctant.

I remember my resolution to take anything and everything, and I know I need something to keep me busy and stop me thinking about E during every waking moment.

Excuse me, I hedge tentatively, a folded CV in hand.

I wait patiently for the guy to look up from his iPhone, the cracked screen seemingly of no impedance at all.

When he's finished sliding digital sweeties around the screen, he looks up at me with casual disinterest. I'd put him in his mid-fifties, although he could well be thirty and sleep on his face.

What can I get you, darling? He gleams, his eyes eagerly grazing over the parts of my body I wish he'd ignore. It makes me feel as dirty as the floor in here, and I try not to shudder with revulsion,

The money in my bank account is getting dangerously low, I need a job, any job.

I was wondering if you might have any jobs available? I ask cheerfully, but it sounds fake even to me.

He seems caught off guard by the question, like he was imagining I'd ask him for a large sausage to lick.

When the words I've spoken sink in, I see his eyes light up. Minimum wage, Tuesday to Sunday, ten to two and then four to eleven.

Um, I falter because the CV in my hand hasn't even been unfolded. My brain rapidly kicks into gear because at least there's an offer on the table. That sounds fine. I mentally cringe at being offered minimum wage; I don't even know what that is any more.

No funny business, no bringing your boyfriends here, no giving people free shit. You want to eat, you pay for it. You can have one free drink per shift.

Okay, I agree tentatively. Would I be waitressing, or? I let the question hang in the air.

You a chef? He guffaws.

No, I answer slowly. He sure as hell doesn't look like a chef.

His laughter grows. Then of course you'll be waitressing.

Condescending bastard.

Okay, I grit my teeth.

Start tomorrow, bring your P45 and driving license, he tells me before returning to his phone.

Thank you, I mumble, taking a few seconds to realise I've been dismissed.

He didn't even ask for my name, or if I had any experience. I don't know his name, or even the name of the caff. The sign outside is so faded that it's illegible.

Still, as I walk home, I smile because at least I can give Tamara the good news. I think she was worried I'd turn into an agoraphobic cat lady if I didn't get out of the flat soon.

Chapter 3

Olivia

This has got to be the worst day so far. I've managed to last three whole weeks in this shit hole. Max, the owner and my disgusting new boss, is a wanker. A complete and utter wanker.

If he's not staring openly at my ass or chest, he's brushing up close to me and breathing all over me with his vile breath. He's a lazy, useless moron, and how this business has survived for so long is a mystery to me.

As far as I can tell, our clientele consists of construction workers, drug addicts, prostitutes, and the type of people who drink Foster's at eleven in the morning.

To be honest, the prostitutes are my favourite; they're genuinely nice people just trying to earn a living. They're not shouting crude things at me or spilling food all over the place just to watch me clean it up. I wish they were the only customers we had.

The work is so monotonous; I spend my time wondering why I ever complained about having a desk job. The work may not have been perfect, but at least it gave me a mental challenge.

I feel so worthless in this role, I constantly need a shower and my appetite is destroyed. The food smells so greasy and repulsive that I never want to eat, and yet I seem to be putting weight on because the universe hates me.

It probably has more to do with the fact that I rarely get time to go to the gym anymore. I've had to cancel my membership because I’m working through their opening hours.

I try to go for a walk in the morning, but I find myself wishing E had left the punching bag because I have far too much pent up anger and frustration to work out.

Worse than taking the bag, is leaving that hook in the ceiling. We really need to take it down because I cannot deal with being livid and turned on every time I look at that bloody hook.

At least this dreadful job keeps me from thinking about all that. Even if it is the most degrading thing I’ve ever had to do. As I clear another table, I send up a silent prayer to my mum to promise that I will do better and be grateful for the things I have left. As the door opens, and a gaggle of familiar construction workers comes in, I send up another prayer, this time pleading for strength.

What can I get you? I ask them as they take a seat and look over expectantly. I pointedly avoid looking at the self-appointed gang leader, Jack, because he’s always trouble.

A blowie if you’re offering, Jack guffaws like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said.

His friends clearly think it is as they all leer at me.

On your knees then, one of them reaches out for me and I take a step back.

I don’t deal in small change, I reply. You obviously need some more time. I’ll let you read through the menu. If you’re struggling with the big words, I can bring you a children’s menu.

The rest of the men laugh and slap Jack on the back, but I can feel his hatred burning a hole in the back of my head as I walk away.

Don’t sass the customers or I’ll dock your wages, Max threatens as I grab the coffee pot to top up my other table.

I grit my teeth and ignore him. For a start, he can’t dock my wages because I’m on minimum wage. Secondly, it’d be too much effort for him to do the math for taxes so I know he won’t do it.

I learnt from one of the regular ladies in here that he’s had fifteen waitresses in the last year. None of them quit because of him, although he’s not exactly pleasant, but the caff is so dirty and depressing. I can understand why none of them stayed.

The caff fills up a lot quicker than normal, and I’m so rushed off my feet as a group of men push the door open and take the last remaining table next to Jack and his crew.

I’ll have to finish giving Jack’s lot their full English breakfasts before I can take their orders. I take a deep breath as I begin carrying their plates over. I may well reach the end of my tether today if Jack’s lot push me.

This job leaves me feeling worthless. Spending all day being yelled at, objectified, and demeaned is not the definition of my dream job. The worst thing about it is that I’ve started seeing it as normal and accepting the sexist comments and insults.

As I lean over the table to hand the two men by the window their breakfasts, Jack reaches out and cops a feel. I immediately lurch back.

Do. Not. Touch. Me, I bite out my warning, resisting the urge to run to the kitchen and clean my breast with industrial strength cleaner.

Just a bit of fun, darlin’, he smirks with a smug wink at his mates. Keep your knickers on.

Or take ‘em off, his mate chimes in, miming holding them up to his face and sniffing them.

My stomach rolls and it takes everything in me not to throw up across their greasy food.

I need this job. I need this job. I mentally repeat my mantra because I have so little money left and I need to keep a source of income.

I have four other meals to serve so I cross my arms over my poor molested chest and stroll back over to get the rest of their food.

I’ll be with you in a minute! I call over to the new table of men, casting them a casual glance because they appear smartly dressed, and don’t fit in with the usual customers.

Take your time, a northern accent calls back. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

I steel myself for more unwanted attention as I balance four plates precariously on both hands and quickly unload them on the table. I’m meant to ask them if they want anything else, but that sure as hell isn’t happening. Instead, I turn my back and head to the next table with my new customers.

Oi! Jack shouts. I ordered extra bacon.

No, he didn’t. I stop and grit my teeth.

If you’d like extra bacon, I’ll ask Max to do you some more, I call over my shoulder.

What can I get you, fellas? I don’t look up as I pull my notepad out of my pocket and prepare to write.

A moment of your time, that Northern voice repeats.

If it isn’t on the menu, you can’t have it, I reply emotionlessly without looking up.

The last thing I need is another table of raucous customers.

What the fuck, Karl! We want food! Another similar accent chimes in.

I swallow thickly, and finally look up from my notepad. Karl. That explains the familiar voice. As my eyes meet with those familiar blue ones, so like his brother’s, the heavy lump in my chest threatens to choke me.

What are you doing here? I whisper, aware of nothing else around me except for the brother of my ex-lover.

We need to talk, Karl’s rough voice insists with no small amount of urgency.

I’m working, my voice remains a whisper.

When do you finish? He responds immediately.

Can I get you guys something? I look around at the rest of the table.

There are four of them in total, three men and a young woman who I hadn’t noticed initially because she is completely dwarfed by the men. I don’t need to ask to be sure that this is E’s sister. She has the familiar brown hair, and blue eyes, less grey than her brother’s.

She is absolutely beautiful, but appears a little awkward at being here. This tells me I’m not going to enjoy this meeting at all. I have absolutely no desire to