Free Blue Smoke by Deborah Challinor

used his lawyer’s skills before the trial, talking on the quiet to everyone who might help his brother’s case.
    James had been acquitted for lack of evidence, sent to a convalescent hospital in England to recuperate, then returned to New Zealand. Thomas had known he’d killed Ron Tarrant, but he had also known why. And James had never really thanked him for his support, choosing instead to sink further and further into his own anguish, guilt and self-doubt. Yes, there had been a short period after he came home when he’d thought he could manage life after all, but then, without even realising it, he’d slipped gradually and inexorably back into his own private morass of misery. Now, nearly seventeen years later, he was still floundering around, up to his neck in fear, bitterness and bad decisions. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, his thoughts strayed to the shotgun locked in the cupboard behind him.
    He rubbed his wet face with shaking hands and swallowedpainfully around the lump in his throat that threatened more tears, and realised he had probably reached his lowest point. He had finally, truly, become what he had always feared being — weak, inadequate, and a coward.
    And, once again, his brother had come to his aid. But could Thomas be right? Could he stop this awful, destructive behaviour and turn himself around? Because perhaps — just perhaps — it wasn’t too late. James felt something deep within himself shift — only a fraction, but it was enough to give him the first prickle of hope he’d felt in years.
    ‘James? Is there something wrong?’
    He lowered his hands to see Lucy poised in the doorway of the darkened room. She was balancing a tray bearing cups and a plate of biscuits, and peering at him worriedly.
    ‘Yes. No. Well, yes.’
    ‘Why is the light off?’
    ‘I wanted it off.’
    ‘Well, I want it on, I can’t see anything.’ She carefully put the tray down on a low table and fumbled across the wall for the light switch, a sharp intake of breath coming when she saw her husband’s swollen red eyes.
    ‘Have you been crying? Why, what’s happened?’
    James blinked hard in the bright electric light. ‘It’s all right, it’s not bad news.’ He hesitated briefly. ‘It’s good, really.’
    Lucy sat down opposite him and began to pour the tea. She knew better than to force him to divulge information — past attempts had usually resulted in him losing his temper and accusing her of nagging or interfering. Passing him a cup with two biscuits balanced on the edge of the saucer, she sat back and waited.
    He put the biscuits aside, took a sip of his tea, then reached for the whisky bottle on his desk.
    Lucy made a pinched face, hoping it wasn’t going to be one of those nights.
    He caught her look and shook his head. ‘No, it really is good news.’ He poured an uncharacteristically small measure of whisky into his tea and replaced the cap. Then he cleared his throat, took another sip and cleared his throat again.
    To Lucy it seemed he was struggling to say something momentous, something that was going to cost him very dearly indeed. Then she glimpsed the immense sadness in his eyes, and her own heart lurched in response.
    ‘Lucy, I need to talk to you about something quite … well, very important.’ He held up Thomas’s letter. ‘This is from Thomas. It’s only a note but he’s sent a cheque too. A rather big cheque.’
    She gazed impassively back at him, her pale, waved hair gleaming in the light and her hands clasped loosely in her lap.
    ‘Look, this is extremely difficult for me to say. But I am saying it, and it’s probably the first really honest thing I’ve said in years. I’m terribly sorry, Lucy, I really am. I’m sorry for my behaviour and I’m sorry for the decisions I’ve made and the way I’ve treated you and the children. But most of all I’m sorry …’ and here he drew a deep ragged breath, ‘I’m sorry for gambling away all of our money. I’ve had to