Free East of Innocence by David Thorne Page B

this morning listening to the news of Rosie’s death, for thefirst time I see it in a different light, my own comfort in such sharp contrast to the squalid end of her life. The white walls bathed in early-morning sunlight seem a splendour I do not deserve, in fact feel guilty for enjoying. When did my life become so safe, so comfortable? This thought naturally leads me to my next, which hits me with such sudden force that I lay my spoon down on the table and stare blankly out of the window, unable to move until I have processed the implications. What the hell was I thinking challenging, no, worse, insulting a known gangster and murderer in his own bar?
     
    I do not have long to worry; Halliday is clearly not a man to allow an insult to go unanswered for long. Later that morning, I am at my office and considering a long-running case, an elderly couple who had the chimney and part of the roof of their six-hundred-year-old converted coach house demolished by a wrecking ball supposed to be razing their neighbour’s garage. The neighbour is a footballer and apparently needed somewhere bigger to park his Hummer; he is South American from an impoverished background and is finding it hard to accept the cost and bureaucracy involved in the repair of a Grade I-listed building, despite his astronomical weekly wage. But dispute resolution is my area of expertise and I believe I am making progress towards a satisfactory outcome, his histrionic Latin outrage an act I am becoming familiar with and beginning to enjoy.
    I am disturbed from this modern and tabloid-friendly tale by my bell ringing. I put my papers together, placethem to one side and walk into the lobby. Standing outside my door is Vincent Halliday in a grey suit with two of his men, both bigger than he is and dead-eyeing me through the glass from behind him with the nonchalant air of those practised in brutality. I pause, steady myself, realise that I have little choice. I open the door and nod them in. I dealt this hand; now I must see how it plays out.
    If anything, Halliday’s reaction to my place of work is even less impressed than Baldwin’s. I momentarily question whether a colour scheme of white, black and chrome would convey a more professional ambience or would come across as too masculine; I have heard that condemned men are plagued with inane thoughts on the walk to the execution chamber. Halliday takes in my meagre office in several agitated and disgusted glances and I wonder about his blood pressure. He is wound up as tightly as anybody I have ever met. His men take their places at the door to the lobby, one either side, and I realise with a sick suddenness that this is a scene that the three of them have played out, with variations, many times in the past.
    ‘We’ll start,’ says Halliday without any preamble, ‘with what you said to me last night.’ We are all still standing in front of my desk; I would like to invite him to sit down but feel the volatility in the air and worry that it might be the last thing I ever get to suggest. My office is not big and our combined presence, so close together, is oppressive; we are like four dogs in the back of a van that have not yet decided who will be the first to launch. Halliday meets my eyes and I am surprised by the amount of rage in his; he is barely in control of himself, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.I wonder what is keeping him from attacking me, or giving the nod to have his men do it for him. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
    His choice of words is oddly paternal, as if he has caught me cheating at school. I need to choose my next words very carefully.
    ‘I was reacting to what I saw as a provocation,’ I say slowly. ‘My father might not be successful or come with a reputation, but I could not and cannot understand why you would call him a mug to my face.’ Halliday is watching me intently and so far he doesn’t react. I take a deep breath. ‘I should not have said what I