One Dark Two Light Read online

  Also by Ruth Mancini

  The Lies You Tell

  His Perfect Lies

  In the Blood

  ONE DARK, TWO LIGHT

  Ruth Mancini

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Ruth Mancini, 2020

  The moral right of Ruth Mancini to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781788543347

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781788543354

  ISBN (E): 9781788543330

  Cover design: Craig Fraser

  Images: front © Donald Jean/Arcangel Images; back by Joanna Kosinska/Unsplash

  Author photo: Matthew Pitt photography

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  For Dad

  PROLOGUE

  The voices are all around, taunting him, almost.

  ‘Ten, nine, eight…’

  His fist clasps the handle and pulls open the door.

  ‘Seven, six, five…’ they chime in drunken unison as he steps out into the cold night air. ‘Four, three, two, one…’

  The door swings shut. The street is empty, but the sky above him is alive – glowing, iridescent orange on black, the sound of fireworks like gunshots piercing the air. There is a disorderly roar from the small building behind him, followed by the muffled beat of music. Another simultaneous clatter of gunshots breaks out above him followed by an eruption of colour: pink, purple, yellow, green.

  He pulls up his collar against the cold and pushes his hands into his jacket pockets. He turns the corner into Packington Street. He’ll cut through the Pear Tree Estate; it’s always quickest – fifteen minutes and he’ll be home. First, get home, then he’ll call, tell her he loves her – and that she should give that boy a big hug from him. This can’t go on. He only ever wanted to be with them. He’ll tell her everything – it’s time she knew the truth.

  The estate is huge, sprawling and incongruous. On the one side, there’s the prosperity of Packington Street, with its huge brass door-knockers, its white pillars and arches, its BMWs and its Porsches. On the other side, beyond the small park, there’s the council flats, with their frontage of pale blue metal panels, their PVC… and their trash. His eye moves to a row of garages, where an old Rover and two white Transit vans are parked. A broken armchair lies on its back next to an overflowing green metal skip, a swivel desk chair and several broken planks of wood thrown carelessly on top.

  He walks up the street a little, quickening his pace. There’s no traffic, so he steps out to cross the road – and then he feels it. His neck cricks under the weight. He’s dazed, disarmed. Slowly, he turns to face his attacker. Their eyes meet, momentarily, but before the horror can register fully, his legs buckle underneath him. The back of his head hits the pavement. There’s a split second of immense, crucifying pain – and then he’s gone.

  When he comes to, he remembers but he can’t move. He’s on his side, his arm bent at an awkward angle beneath him, his cheek pressed hard against the cold paving slab. There’s a hand on his upper thigh. It’s patting him down, lifting his wallet and his phone. He tries to speak but no words will come. He feels a hand on his wrist and his watch is unclasped. Footsteps, running and fading into the distance. More gunshots overhead.

  His eyelids flicker open, his head is blurred and spinning. He slides one leg back and rolls onto his stomach, freeing his trapped arm and pushing himself onto his knees. With his good arm, he pushes hard and staggers to his feet. He glances round. There’s no one; they’ve gone.

  He rubs his cheek, feels the sticky wetness there and realises that he’s bleeding. He’ll be OK. He needs to get home, that’s all. He steps off the kerb and spots a glint of metal against the blackened tarmac. It’s his door keys; they’ve dropped his door keys. Thank Christ. He bends down to pick them up, but the effort is too much and he stumbles and falls, his head smacking the ground for a second time.

  For a few moments he drifts in and out of consciousness, while the sky continues to crackle and light up above him. Somewhere, somewhere outside of him, there’s a growling sound. In his dream-like state he at first thinks it’s a lion but then… of course not – it’s a car. He forces himself to swim up out of the murky waters of unconsciousness and listens hard. From the direction of the pub, the vehicle is cruising slowly along the road. Soon, the headlamps are on him, blazing brighter and brighter until he is blinded by their yellow glare. But his head is so heavy. He’s going to sleep again… he can feel himself slipping away.

  With a sudden roar, the engine accelerates. The car is almost upon him. It’s going too fast – it’s not going to stop. For a fleeting, surreal moment he feels the metal of the bumper as it smacks, scrapes and rolls him sideways, followed by the incredible, crushing weight of a tyre against his back. Then, nothing. Just blackness – and the distant scream of an engine, as the car speeds away.

  1

  I’m in court when my phone rings. It’s a Tuesday, just after three. We’re all sitting in silence – the court clerk, the prosecutor, myself and the usher – while District Judge Long peruses the papers for the next case. The judge is a tall, thin-framed man in his sixties with wavy grey hair, kind, intelligent eyes and a soft-featured face. We call him Lock-’em-up Long because, in spite of his gentle appearance, he’s known for being tough. You could say he takes no prisoners but, actually, he does – a lot. I sometimes wonder what he’s like at home, what happens when he falls out with his wife. He must feel annoyed that he can’t lock her up. Maybe they don’t argue; I wouldn’t. No, that’s not true – I probably would.

  The judge finishes reading and looks up as Cathy from the Youth Offending Team walks in. He asks her if my client, Jerome, is complying with his Youth Rehabilitation Order. Cathy shakes her head. ‘No, sir, unfortunately not. He’s not been engaging well, I’m afraid—’

  She pauses and glances in my direction. We can all hear it: there’s a deep buzzing noise from beside my feet and a familiar tune now starts to play. My heart sinks. I reach down, grab the handle of my bag and leap to my feet.

  ‘Turn it off, Ms Kellerman.’ Judge Long looks hard at me from the bench.

  ‘Yes, sir. I just have to find it, sir.’

  I’m r
ummaging as quickly as I can. My bag doesn’t seem to have anything in it apart from an inordinate quantity of half-used tissues and a tangled-up mobile phone charger lead. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Can I just…?’ I nod plaintively in the direction of the courtroom door.

  ‘Turn it off, Ms Kellerman,’ the judge repeats, his voice booming across the room.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  The phone’s in the side pocket. Just as I find it, it stops. I lift it up a little and try to sneak a peek at the screen – I can’t help myself. But it’s a withheld number; goddammit. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Malcolm, the usher, shaking his head.

  ‘Ms Kellerman,’ says the judge, enunciating my name as if it contains two separate sentences.

  ‘Sir,’ I mutter. ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’ I turn the phone off and sit back down.

  ‘Stand up,’ the judge orders.

  I stand up again.

  ‘Ms Kellerman, I have the power, do I not, to deal with you immediately under section 12, subsection 2 of the Contempt of Court Act 1981 and Criminal Procedure Rule 48.5. I can imprison for one month anyone who wilfully interrupts the proceedings of the court.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t wilful, sir. I thought I’d turned it off. It has to be wilful. Section 12, subsection 1.’

  The judge leans forward. ‘It was wilful when you looked at it just now. It had already stopped ringing.’

  I nod. ‘Sir, that might be true. But if it was, it was a split second of wilfulness, as set against a strong background of compliance with the protocol of the court.’

  ‘Is it a man?’

  The court clerk covers her mouth and coughs. Cathy bites her lip and looks pointedly down at her papers.

  I give him a long, hard stare. ‘Sir. The number was withheld.’

  ‘Very well.’ The judge’s face relaxes suddenly and his mouth curves into a smile. I’d forgotten that, whilst tough on crime, Judge Long has a wry sense of humour. ‘I was young once,’ he tells me. ‘Sit down.’ He turns to the usher. ‘Call on the next case.’

  The usher disappears and a moment later my client, Jerome, enters the courtroom, with Georgina, his mum. Georgina looks fed up, and not without reason. She’s a good person and a loving mum; I know that about her. But she’s up against it. This is the third time already this year that Jerome has been before the Youth Court. Stealing cars, or vehicle interference (when he doesn’t manage to steal them, that is) – it’s the same thing every time. The kid’s been obsessed with cars since I’ve known him. He can’t stay away from them. I keep telling him he needs to get himself some junior apprentice job in a garage – and then in just over a year’s time he could get his driving licence and get paid to fiddle with them, all legit. Georgina tells him to listen to me, and he almost does, but we both fear that he’s heading down a different route.

  The court clerk lifts up her head. ‘Take your hands out of your pockets, please.’

  Jerome does as he’s told. He takes a seat at the bench in front of me and Georgina sits down beside him. Jerome is fifteen. He’s British Jamaican. On the surface he’s unemotional, but deep down he’s angry. He’s angry because none of the white people in this courtroom (myself included) knows what it’s like to be a black kid growing up on Finsbury’s Pear Tree Estate. He’s angry because he’s a teenager, and because his dad left when he was small. Georgina has three other children besides Jerome, all under the age of ten. She’s lost control. The only men in Jerome’s life with any authority over him are the drug dealers on the estate.

  I’m not going to tell the judge any of this. He already knows it – but what can he do? The law is the law. You break it, you’re punished, you get so many chances and then: ‘Take him down.’ Judge Long’s favourite phrase.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Jerome shuffles to his feet. Now that his hands are no longer in his pockets, his trousers are falling down. From my seat behind him, I can see the band of his red underpants along with an expanse of unblemished skin. There’s something about it – that youthful skin, that curve at the small of his back, the bright red underpants – that makes my heart melt. He’s so young. He’s just a kid. He’s my Ben, but bigger. And black. And – of course – brighter. Much brighter, I concede. For a start, Ben’s not yet ready for underpants. And at five years old, he still can’t talk. Although, right now, Jerome’s vocabulary range appears to be almost as limited as Ben’s.

  ‘So, why shouldn’t I send you to youth detention?’ the judge asks Jerome, directly.

  ‘Dunno.’ Jerome shrugs his shoulders. Georgina, next to him, hangs her head and sighs.

  ‘Well, you haven’t cooperated with the Youth Offending Team, have you?’ the judge asks him.

  Jerome shakes his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Jerome, again.

  ‘All right. Sit down. Ms Kellerman?’ The judge turns to me.

  I have just one shot at this, I know; the judge has limited patience. If I launch into a lengthy mitigation he’ll cut me off sharp. I need to make my best point – and quickly. Sum it up in just a few sentences. Economy of words is everything here.

  ‘Sir, it’s the groupwork,’ I tell him. ‘Jerome lacks confidence. When he’s in a group with others he feels inadequate. He can’t speak – it mortifies him. He dreads these sessions because they always leave him feeling so low. He constantly compares himself to others and, in these groups, he comes out second-rate, every time.’

  Jerome’s head dips. He hasn’t told me any of this, not in so many words – he wouldn’t have thought to, nor would he have known how to articulate it, but I know Jerome, and I know it to be true. I also know that this is what counts in the eyes of the judge. This is the only thing that will persuade him not to revoke the Youth Rehabilitation Order and send Jerome ‘downstairs’.

  I study the judge’s face; there’s a flicker of interest. ‘By contrast,’ I continue, ‘when he’s behind the wheel of a car he feels really good about himself. In control. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a reason – that’s why he keeps slipping back. He needs a way to feel good about himself; a way that’s legal, of course. Youth detention won’t do that. It will only reinforce his negative self-image. When he comes out the problem will still be there – but multiplied by ten.’

  The judge says nothing for a moment. He picks up a pen and writes something down. He then looks up and gives Jerome a thoughtful stare before turning to Cathy. ‘Is this group issue something that can be worked on?’

  Cathy nods. ‘We can offer one-to-one sessions initially. Resources are limited but we may be able to get him onto a mentoring programme. I’ll need to do a further assessment, but, yes. There are definitely options we can look at.’

  ‘Very well.’ The judge turns to Jerome. ‘Stand up.’

  Jerome grabs hold of his waistband and wriggles to his feet.

  ‘On this occasion,’ says the judge, ‘I will allow the order to continue. Jerome Thomas, for the offence of aggravated vehicle taking, I’m sentencing you to a two-year Youth Rehabilitation Order. This is your last chance. Do you understand? You will be sixteen in a few weeks’ time and then things will be different. If I see you before the court again, I will send you to youth detention, make no mistake about that.’

  I finish tapping into my iPad and look up. Jerome’s head is bobbing up and down as the judge speaks. He won’t admit to it, but he’s overwhelmed with relief. Thankfully, he hasn’t yet reached that stage – the stage that some of them do – where he wants to go inside for a bit, to big himself up in the eyes of the older kids on the estate.

  The judge sits back in his chair. ‘Go with your mum and make sure you see someone from the Youth Offending Team before you leave.’

  I pick up my bag and my iPad and we all follow Cathy out of the door. As soon as we’re out on the concourse and Jerome and Georgina have gone into a room with Cathy, I pull my phone out of my bag and turn it back on. I quickly check to see if there have been an
y more calls.

  There’s nothing, no alert from my voicemail service either. I tap the screen and dial the number for my voicemail anyway, but the caller hasn’t left a message. I still have just the one saved message; the one I’ve already listened to a dozen times. I exhale deeply and curse my optimism. Why would he withhold his number, anyway? It doesn’t make any sense. It can’t have been him – and if it was the school, calling about Ben, their number would show, it always does. Besides, they’d have left a message, without a doubt.

  I sink into a seat to wait for Jerome. Beyond the staircase that leads down to the foyer, I can see that, outside, it’s raining steadily, the glass doors to the entrance obscured by beads of water which are streaking downwards to form runny, broken lines. I lift my phone up again and scroll back through my messages to check the date of my last text to him. And then I dial voicemail again.

  ‘Hi, Sarah.’ Will’s lovely, smoky barrister’s voice. ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t make it tonight. Something’s come up. There’s somewhere I have to be. I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?’

  Only he didn’t. He hasn’t. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. Not for over a week.

  I end the call and push my phone into my bag, my heart sinking a notch deeper, the way that it has done with each passing day. He’s lost interest; it’s obvious. Oh well, there you go. It’s not as if things had really got off the ground between us, anyway. It’s only been a few weeks; we’ve seen each other a few times – that’s all.

  But on the other hand, I thought we had something. And it’s not as though we’ve only just met. An involuntary bubble of excitement rises inside me as I cast my mind back, as I try to pinpoint the precise moment when I realised that we were going to transition from work colleagues into something more. But there wasn’t a single moment. It was a slow, gradual realisation – for me at least. A joke, a smile, a lingering look. The deep concern that Will showed for me – the passion with which he defended me – when I ran into all that trouble on the Ellis Stephens case. The daily texts and the long, late-night phone calls. Dinner at mine. A second dinner. And a first kiss that told me that I’d been far more to him than just his instructing solicitor for a long time now.