Free The Chosen Seed by Sarah Pinborough Page B

slightly on the side of his narrow cell bed and rubbed his face. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. He hadn’t had one good night in months – so much for the old adage about the guilty sleeping like babies; it sure as fuck wasn’t true in his case. But then, it wasn’t so much his guilt keeping him awake – that saved itself for his dreams. It was the fear that left him staring wide-eyed into the shadows of his cell until the early hours of the morning.
    There was plenty for him to be afraid of. He’d sold out just about everyone he could – Gary Bowman, other Paddington coppers, Macintyre’s contacts, anyone he could think of – to try and get his charges reduced. He was staring at the death penalty, his lawyers had been clear about that fromthe outset, and he needed to do whatever he could to get that down to life.
    His stomach felt greasy as it tied itself in a fresh knot, as it did a thousand times a day, as the memory of Claire May’s face as she tumbled downwards assaulted him. He could see shock and realisation fighting with the dread in her wide eyes. Those eyes were with him, everywhere. Sometimes, in his dreams, time had rolled back and she was alive and well and they were naked together in bed. In those dreams he could feel the warm, wet inside of her, and smell her skin. For a moment it was wonderful, and then her limbs would become cold and stiff and he look down to find himself fucking her dead and broken body.
    Most days he just wanted to cry, and today was no exception. How could it be, that after everything that had happened, he was the only one facing a first-degree murder charge? If he didn’t feel so sick he’d almost laugh. Bowman must be laughing at him, that was for sure – after all, Bowman’s lawyers had been quick to point out that their client hadn’t actually killed anyone. He couldn’t be held responsible for Macintyre’s actions, or Blackmore’s. Bowman might be facing a long life behind bars, but at least he didn’t have the gallows hanging over him.
    Sweat pricked on Mat’s palms. His brain was in such a state of frenzy most of the time that he felt he was going slightly mad. Maybe if he went fully mad that wouldn’t be so bad – they couldn’t execute a mad man, could they? He almost giggled. They must all have been mad, to get so carried away, and now every time he went out on recreation or to the library he could feel eyes on him – not only was he a bent copper, he was also a grass. No one gave a shit that he’d grassed Bowman, but the underworld contacts he’d given up? They all had friends on the inside. Someone wouldget him one of these days; he knew that much.
    ‘Brief’s here.’ The cell door opened and Blackmore jumped slightly as his reverie was broken. A mix of anticipation and dread washed over him. He hadn’t been expecting a visit – what had developed? Everyone – all the accused, from Bowman downwards – hoped for the same thing. With Cass Jones discredited, no one wanted to drag these trials out. There were more plea-bargains being offered; maybe at last one had been thrown his way. He got up and followed the whistling warder out into the main prison corridor, moving meekly, like a lamb. There was no strut left in his stride and his trousers hung loose on his hips from where his fear had burned off his weight.
    The door closed behind him. He was surprised to see a suited stranger on the other side of the desk. The man was twenty years younger than Blackmore’s normal brief, and he was wearing the kind of suit he himself had spent a lot of his ill-gotten gains on: designer, tailored, and very expensive. Maybe the law did pay better in the end.
    The well-dressed stranger held out his hand.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Johnson is off sick today. He wanted to come, but he doesn’t trust himself to be more than ten feet from a toilet at the moment, if you catch my drift. My name’s Anthony Ware.’
    Mat gingerly shook his hand. The man had