Page 129 of Claim

I couldn’t even find words. So I shrugged.

“I am also aware of the circumstances that led to your recent… entanglement.” He chose the word carefully. “That it was not, in fact, the result of your own actions, but of decisions made far above you by men who determined you were expendable.” He took a drink, glancing away for a moment. “Not all those who move comfortably within my professional circles are good people, Mr Slade. That is a lesson that Marcus and I have tried, sometimes unsuccessfully, to impress upon Tristan.” A faint, wry edge entered his voice. “As you may appreciate, merely telling him such is rarely sufficient. He is his father’s son. He requires evidence. Experience. And, more often than not, the freedom to arrive at his own conclusions. Much like he had to with his previous boyfriend, who was not worthy of his affections.”

He gave a wry shake of his head at Tristan.

I glanced at him. That boyfriend hadn’t been worthy. I might be a lowlife gutter scum, but I hadn’t cheated on him. I’d known from the off that I couldn’t get better than Tristan, so there’d be no point. His Oliver needed that spelt out to him.

I felt glee that I might have done that for him.

“I also accept that in encouraging his proximity to certain individuals,” Charles drew my gaze back to him, “I bear responsibility for what followed. For what happened to you.” He didn’t name Wolfe. Some things were left unsaid because they might yet be needed again. “So,” Charles adjusted his cuffs, the room leaning in with him, “I have a question. One we all share.” He gestured vaguely around the table. “What do you intend to do with your time now you have gained complete freedom from the authorities who had their stamp over you?”

That was a lot of words for a simple question.

I could’ve shrugged. Told him I didn’t know. Because, truthfully, I didn’t. Not really. I was twenty-eight with no CV, no references, no qualifications. Tesco wouldn’t touch me. Lennon had tried to get me labouring on sites, but even that needed tickets and experience. Sixteen-year-olds were cheaper. I was surplus to requirements.

I was, on paper, fucked.

But there was one thing.

“My mate Lennon runs a boxing gym.” I shifted in my seat, tightening my grip on my glass. “For kids who are already halfway gone. His brother used to box before…” I left that there, took a drink, and felt Tristan squeeze my hand. I got back to the answer. “It ain’t even a real gym. It’s some rundown council building he rents with borrowed equipment. But it does the job. Used to send lads to him when I saw them standing on corners, palms out, thinking that was the only future available. He’s good with them. Trains them. Teaches discipline. Self-defence. Gives them somewhere to put all that anger without it destroying them. Stuff I didn’t have. Stuff that might’ve changed things.”

The room went very quiet.

“I’m gonna help him.” I forced myself to keep going. “Now I’m allowed back in the borough. Though they’ve housed me the other end of London so the travel’ll be a bitch. But it’ll be worth it. Kids knowing I’m there might get a few more to come along for a bit. Maybe longer.” I shrugged, aware of how thin it sounded out loud. “Maybe build something of my own eventually. Getting kids out before gangs feel like family. Giving them skills. Options. A reason not to owe anyone. Become anyone’s soldier.”

I leant forwards then, rubbing a hand over my mouth, realising, too late, that this wasn’t quite what he was asking. He didn’t give a fuck about purpose. He wanted to know whether I planned to live off his son.

“It won’t make me any money.” I shook my head. “If that’s what you’re asking. But it might keep a few kids alive. Give me a reason to keep turning up. Purpose matters, I suppose.” I linked my thumb with Tristan’s under the table. “The rest?” I glanced at him with a small smile. “I’ll work it out. Always have.” Then quickly turned back to his father. “Legal shit, I mean.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It was… evaluative. As if this room full of people were recalibrating a position they hadn’t expected to shift.

Then Charles spoke. “Then that’s settled.” He nodded to Eloise.

Eloise straightened, nodded.

I frowned. “Sorry…what? What’s settled?”

Charles looked back at me. “My daughter-in-law has founded and overseen several charitable organisations. One of which your sister is currently supported by. We had already been discussing an expansion into preventative work, and we are… encouraged to discover you have arrived at a similar conclusion independently.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. “I don’t—”

“Let me finish.” Charles held up his hand to stop me. “Eloise will speak with your friend about formalising his gym. Turning it into a registered charitable enterprise. Accessing funding. Safeguarding structures. Sustainability. And Tristan has redirected a portion of his discretionary assets into this work.”

I went to open my mouth.

“This is not a handout,” Charles continued, anticipating me. “You would not be an employee. You would not be beholden to us. Nor to Tristan. Nor is this an attempt to replace one hierarchy with another. We ask only that you contribute your insight. Your experience. Consultation, if you will.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t come here for your money.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Because we’re not giving it to you.” He glanced from me to Tristan, back to me. “What impressed me today, Mr Slade, was not your proposal. It was that you walked through that door tonight knowing how unwelcome you might be. That tells me you are not seeking shelter. You are seeking footing. And perhaps…my son.”

I swallowed. Looked at Tristan. He smiled and yeah, the bloke was right. I had come seeking him. Then I turned back, head pounding with what was happening here.

“Are you saying… you want me involved in your enterprise?”

“I am saying, that you have identified a problem we also recognise. And that your solution has merit.” He paused, letting that settle. “What you choose to do with that opportunity remains entirely yours.” Then, he softened. “But we need not conclude any of that this evening. You may think about it. Finish your drink.” He gestured to the table. “We have dessert.”

As if on cue, the housekeepers returned, placing delicate plates in front of us—some kind of cheesecake thing, all pale layers and precision and sauce drizzled like art.