Free Like This, for Ever by Sharon Bolton Page B

from the start. When we met I was soaked in another woman’s blood.’
    The mask that was Lacey Flint, the mask that her true self hid behind, the mask that could never be allowed to slip again.
    ‘For a while he thought I was the killer,’ Lacey went on. ‘I’m not sure he’s ever really learned to trust me. Even when he sent me to Cambridge, it was against his better judgement.’
    ‘I read the transcript of what happened on the tower.’
    That bloody tower! ‘I remember very little about the tower,’ said Lacey. ‘They’d pumped me full of LSD, I was away with the fairies.’
    ‘He told you he loved you.’
    Lacey forced a smile. ‘He was on quite a lot of medication too, from what I understand.’
    ‘You think he didn’t mean it?’
    Every word I said on that tower – I meant it.
    ‘I think he would have said anything in the circumstances.’
    ‘Well, either he meant it, or he knew it would mean something to you. Either way, it seems significant to me.’
    Much brighter than she looked. Not stupid at all.
    ‘Are you worried about getting involved with another police officer?’
    ‘I just don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.’
    ‘When were you last involved with someone?’
    ‘It’s been a while,’ said Lacey, thinking that never probably qualified as ‘a while’.
    ‘Months? Years?’
    Jesus, was it not enough that they’d pulled the insides right out of her body? Did they have to hang them up for all to see and let them scorch in the sun for good measure?
    ‘I’m leaving the police.’
    The announcement seemed to hang in the air between them.
    ‘This is a little sudden.’
    ‘Not really, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’ll wait till after the Cambridge trial, of course.’
    ‘Have you told anyone?’
    Lacey shook her head. How could she have done? She’d only made the decision ten seconds ago. ‘I just can’t do it any more,’ she said.
    ‘Can’t do what, exactly?’
    ‘I can’t look into people’s eyes and see the dark.’

15
    ‘BARNEY?’
    The usual midday smells of congealing gravy and chemical sweeteners were seeping through the air-conditioning system when Mrs Green called Barney back. He stepped to one side and let the other children walk round him. ‘Push the door to,’ she told him, when the last curious face had disappeared.
    Mrs Green was Barney’s form teacher. She’d joined the school just under a year ago when she and her husband had moved south to London. Mr Green worked at the school too. He was the games teacher and Barney’s favourite teacher ever. Not that Mrs Green was bad. She never lost her temper, but somehow always managed to keep control of the class. And she was tidy. The books on the shelves were always neat, arranged in alphabetical order, and she always cleaned the whiteboard completely after each lesson. As she walked towards him, she pushed chairs back under desks, neatening the rows.
    ‘You look tired,’ she said, when she’d reached him. ‘I thought you were going to drop off during science. Is everything OK?’
    Barney nodded. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said, because that’s what you always said, even if it wasn’t. He hadn’t checked Facebook that morning, but he’d felt it, hanging over him, since he’d got up. Sooner or later he’d have to log back on and see what was waitingfor him. Whether Peter Sweep had left him another message.
    Mrs Green was giving him an
Oh, really?
look. ‘So those shadows under your eyes are just purple paint to make me feel sorry for you and give you less homework?’
    ‘Well, less homework would be good,’ he said, keeping a perfectly straight face. ‘Because actually, my dad woke me up last night with the washing machine.’
    At that his teacher blinked hard in surprise, then half frowned, half smiled. It was a nice sort of look. Friendly but puzzled. Mrs Green had pale-red hair that she’d worn long until a couple of months ago and then cut in a more complicated