Page 45 of One More Time

Spinning in his seat, Charlie shot the man a cautioning gaze. ‘You stay the hell out of my business, Burrows.’ He pointed a finger in Rodgers direction, but made sure not to lay it on him. ‘Or there’ll be trouble.’

‘Come on then, Charles. Bring it.’ For the second time that day, Rodger shaped up to him.

Fighting the urge to do just that, Charlie felt the crashing impact of something across his shoulderblades, and through the shock and pain, saw part of the pool cue that had just been broken over his back fall to the floor. Before he could recover, some burly guy’s fist connected with his jaw. Flying back, his breath was knocked out of him when he slammed to the floor. After the fleeting dizzying stars had cleared, he saw his assailant and groaned in recognition – an ex-prisoner who’d been let out only last week.

‘Hey, Wilson, remember me?’ Barry the Brute sank a boot into his ribs, and Charlie groaned.

How could Charlie forget the tattooed tower of muscle? All this guy had done in jail was stir trouble, and they’d butted heads countless times.

As he rolled out of the way, Charlie’s military training kicked in. He jumped to his feet. Someone called ‘Fight!’ Patrons scattered left and right.

Rodger was nowhere to be seen. Coward.

Charlie didn’t want to fight, but he had to defend himself. Adrenaline rushing, he came out swinging. There was no way he was going to let this scumbag get it over him. The ex-con threw another quick, well-aimed uppercut that sent him stumbling to the side. Pain pounded through his head, but he pushed through it. His left fist connected with the man’s cheek and his right sank into the guy’s stomach. They exchanged a flurry of punches, some missing, some hitting their mark. The crescendo of noise built around them. Then the bastard tried to punch him in the groin.

Dirty bastard.

Light on his feet, Charlie was sidestepping the low blow that could have sent him into a heap when a sneaky left hook threw him sideways. He slammed into a table. Stools went tumbling in every direction. Shooting pain seared through his jaw and the strong metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

With the room spinning in dizzying circles again, Charlie turned and threw another punch before the other man could attack again. His knuckles connected with the man’s jaw, and he swiftly followed up with another right hook. The other man fell into the punch, and it connected with his left temple. He tumbled backward and hit the ground with a sickening thump.

‘Charlie, stop.’ Strong hands grabbed him and dragged him back. ‘That’s enough.’

A sudden hush fell over the crowd.

‘Holy hell, is he dead?’

‘Someone call an ambulance.’

‘Oh my god, he’s not breathing,’ a woman cried out.

Woozy on his feet, Charlie fought to pierce the mental fog and reshape his racing thoughts. Had he just heard right?

He couldn’t have …

Did he just kill a man?

What had he just gone and done? He fell to his knees and dropped his head into his hands, wishing to god he could block the anxious shouting out. He’d worked in the penal system long enough. He knew how this was going to pan out. This was going to be the end of everything he knew. His life was about to get a whole lot darker.

CHAPTER

14

The waiting game was excruciating.

After pacing the holding cell for what felt like forever, Charlie had forced himself to sit, and then sit some more, the toe of his shoe tapping a staccato rhythm of impatience. His future was now completely out of his control. Lost inside the torment of his head, the reality around him shifted and whirled as he relived the punch that had killed the ex-con, over and over and over. If only he could rewind time, and … who knew? Maybe it would have been him dead on the floor. Barry the Brute had lived up to his name every second of every day of his life, and Charlie knew from experience that the repeat offender wasn’t one to give in or walk away from a fight. He’d done nothing but cause trouble when in jail. And whenever he walked the streets a free man, Barry would do something that would send him back behind bars. The world would be a better place without the oxygen-thief in it.

But Charlie wasn’t god, and it wasn’t his place to take a life. Grace had said on her visit to him this morning that maybe god had used him to rid the earth of an evil man, but Charlie didn’t believe that for a second. He knew it was his beautiful wife’s way of trying to support him through this horror.

Heaving himself from his nerve-wracking thoughts, he looked to the gated door. What was taking them so long? Had the pendulum swung his way? It would only take one juror to sit on the fence, and he might, by the skin of his teeth, avoid going to prison. God, he hoped they could see he’d only acted in selfdefence. The fact that he’d never been in any trouble was working in his favour, but only by a smidge.

If they did send him to prison, though, how long would it be for? His solicitor had explained that it all depended on whether his actions were ruled as manslaughter or murder. Life without parole, now that would be his worst nightmare. It wasn’t necessarily on the cards, but it certainly was in the deck being played between barristers, and all in front of a dutiful bunch of jurors.

It was all so surreal, it almost felt as if it wasn’t happening to him, and he was just watching it unfold from the sidelines. However, he was the main character in this emotion-fuelled story, and the villain in the eye of the law. From one agonising twenty-four-hour wait, to the next, and to the next, reality was hitting him hard, and he was feeling himself slipping down a deep dark hole, to one of the blackest times of his life.

An explosion of raised voices carried, and a booming male voice shouted expletives. Seconds later, two beefy guards dragged an equally brawny handcuffed man down the cement hallway – the slam of another holding-cell door was followed by more swearing and the jangling of keys as the guards strode back past, both men looking mighty angry.

His mouth like cotton, Charlie swallowed down hard in a bid to try and clear the insistent emotional lump from his throat. His finest suit was sticking to him with sweat. Overhead, the fluorescent light bulbs were suddenly blinding, the yellow light igniting every dirty nook and cranny of what could have easily been a windowless broom closet. Olive-green paint had been ineffectively used to cover up the graffiti on the cement walls, but nothing would ever be able to hide the stench of stale urine and god only knew what else. A skeletal man with tattoos covering almost every inch of visible skin sat opposite him, his eyes to the ground and his shoulders slumped as if the entire world was upon them. Charlie was thankful the man didn’t want to talk, let alone look his way. There was no such thing as a friend in jail.