“NICK RENSHAW HAS been arrested!”
Anna stared as Belinda delivered the news.
“What? Are you sure? Why?”
“Assault and criminal damage. Apparently, he caught his fiancée in a compromising position with another man, and then smashed up her car and the fella’s house. Can you believe it?”
For a moment, she was speechless. Poor Nick. Poor, poor Nick. She knew only too well the deep, fierce pain of betrayal.
But she wondered . . . could she imagine him beating up his best friend? Could she imagine that? She’d seen the passion for his game, sensed the deep waters that flowed through him, but this sort of violence?
There was a long pause.
“They say he hit her, too.” Belinda’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“No!”
Anna’s automatic denial was immediate.
“That’s what they’re saying. It’s already all over the internet.”
Revulsion flickered, spreading a wildfire of horror throughout Anna’s body. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to erase the mental images Belinda had unwittingly set loose.
How could he do that? How could a man like Nick hit a woman? It seemed impossible. But he’d been arrested for it. How had she gotten it so wrong again? She really didn’t know him at all.
Disappointment stole her breath, and her stomach churned.
An hour later she received an email from Steve Jewell’s assistant cancelling all future appointments for Nick Renshaw.
So that was that.
“Time for your phone call.”
Nick followed the police officer who pointed to a cheap-looking plastic phone on the desk.
“I can’t use my mobile?”
“Just the landline, sir.”
“Okay.”
He took a deep breath and called his agent.
“Mark, it’s Nick Renshaw. I’ve fucked up . . .”
After that, he sat quietly in the police cell, stretched out on the thin, lumpy mattress as the wheels of justice ground a path through his life. His thoughts were sluggish and spinning at the same time. He knew that he’d just detonated a bomb under his career. Or his whole life.
Shouldn’t he feel something?
The police had given him a breath test when he’d arrived at the police station, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he’d driven to Kenny’s house before losing his rag and going terminator on the fixtures and fittings. Maybe drunken rage was easier to understand than sober rage.
He breathed in slowly, trying to filter out the smell of piss and bleach, and the slurred rambling from the cell next door. For a moment, the muttering stopped, and then Nick heard the sound of vomiting.
He studied the bandage over the knuckles on his right hand, still slowly oozing blood. When had it started? Had they been together all along, laughing at him behind his back? Or maybe it was new? All those nights when he’d been too tired or too sore while he recovered from his surgery, too much of a miserable git to go out with her, had it happened then?
And then he wondered if it mattered, wondered if he cared.
The emptiness inside numbed him.
He’d been booked in by the Custody Sergeant and been checked over for any injuries as well as having a short mental health assessment, his hands were bandaged, and then he’d been put in a cell.
All he could do now was wait it out. He’d been told that the police had 24 hours to collect evidence, which included statements from the injured parties, photographs of injuries and the damage, and a search for witnesses. Kenny’s neighbours were probably lining up for that one.
Pain and despair slowly filled the vacuum where love and friendship had lived. And he realised that nothing about his life had been real.
Eleven hours later, Nick had been interviewed, charged, and released on bail with the conditions not to approach the injured parties, Kenny’s house, Molly’s mother’s house, or Molly’s sister’s flat.
The solicitor his agent had found for him was a brisk, well-dressed woman, with the clipped tones of someone who was perpetually busy. Mark probably had Miranda Wilson-Smith on speed dial because altercations between belligerent rugby players wasn’t unusual. She was the go-to guy when you’d got “in a spot of bother” as Mark put it.
“We’ll need to meet as quickly as possible to start planning your defence, Mr. Renshaw. Given that the assault included a weapon . . .”
A wrench from a tool box was a weapon? Yeah, probably, when you swung it the way Al Capone swung a baseball bat.
“You’ll appear in court at the first available opportunity, probably within one or two days, to enter a plea of guilty or not guilty. I would advise you to plead guilty; if you plead not guilty, the case will be referred to crown court for a trial. And that could drag on for six months or more.”
Nick dropped his head into his hands.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her. It was an accident—I’ll cop for the rest.”
“But you agree you assaulted your fiancée?”
Shame burned him—he was dreading telling his mum, his sister.
“Ex-fiancée,” he said softly. “Yeah.”
“The magistrate will hear the evidence, then adjourn for sentencing.”
“As quick as that?”
“Yes.”
Nick felt an odd sense of disconnection. The man who’d raged around Kenny’s house hours ago felt as though it had happened to someone else; as if he’d watched through the wrong end of a telescope as some maniac systematically destroyed his former friend’s house. All that fury, overtaken by a frenzy of destruction, it seemed so remote from him now. The pulse of pain and betrayal beat weakly deep, deep inside him.
He ought to care that everything had gone to shit. But he didn’t. He didn’t care about anything.
Miranda Wilson-Smith packed all her papers away in her briefcase and left him with a severe warning to stay away from Ken and Molly. He had no problem with that. Seeing them even once more in his lifetime would be too much.
The desk sergeant handed back his phone, shoelaces, car keys and wallet with polite indifference. Not much seemed to ruffle the police officers. There was that disconnection again: his life had imploded messily, bleakly, and it was just another twelve-hour shift for them.
When Nick looked up, his dad was standing there, watching him with so much love and pity. Nick swallowed several times before he could speak; the weight of how he’d disappointed the man who’d given him everything left him wordless.
His father wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tightly.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’ll be alright, son.”
Nick stepped back, grateful for the undiluted love he saw on his father’s face. He didn’t think of his dad as old, but today he saw the grey flecks in his hair and the lines of life and love, grief and happiness all leaving their mark over the years.
He slumped wearily into his old man’s battered Volvo, and it was only when they’d driven for ten minutes in silence through the late evening traffic that he realised they weren’t going to Nick’s house.
“Dad? Where are we going?”
“Trish has gone to pick up your car from Kenny’s,” he sighed, “and your mother wants you home.”
“Oh.”
His dad glanced at him but didn’t say anything else.
Home. He hadn’t lived under his parents’ roof since he was 19, but it seemed right to go there now.
His mum threw open the front door and hugged him tightly, talking quickly and wiping tell-tale tears.
Nick hated to see his mother upset, hated to see the worry and regret on her face. And when Trish arrived back with his car, she was furious, torn between threatening to beat the shit out of Kenny even though Nick knew that she’d always had a bit of a crush on him, and trash-talking Molly. Either way, he didn’t want to hear it.
His dad handed him a can of Stella and his mum made his favourite cottage pie, as if food and drink could make it all better. If he was ten, it might have worked, but he appreciated the effort.
He ate mechanically without tasting anything, drank the beer and then a second and a third as they watched with the anxious, tortured faces of people who loved you but didn’t have the power to make it all better.
“Alright if I kip here tonight, Mum?”
He knew his mum would like that and he couldn’t face going home just yet. At some point he’d have to go back; if nothing else, to find out how much Molly had taken since she still had a key. Right now, he didn’t give a tuppenny fuck.
“Of course you can stay. I’ll go and put fresh sheets on the bed for you.”
“I’ll clear up in the kitchen,” muttered his dad.
Trish came and sat beside him, his big sister who hadn’t been bigger than him for 14 years.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nah, you’re alright.”
“Is there anything I can do? Slash her tyres? Slash his tyres? Post ugly-drunk photos of them on Twitter? I’ve got loads.”
Nick gave half a smile and leaned back on the settee.
“No thanks, sis. My brief says I can’t go near them or it’ll make things worse.”
There was a long silence, then Trish spoke softly.
“Did you really hit her?”
He opened his eyes and met her worried gaze.
“It was an accident.”
“Really? You can tell me, Nick. I’d understand.”
He sat up straight, staring at her tight expression as understanding rushed through him.
“You don’t believe me! Jesus!”
“I do! I’m sorry. I had to ask.”
“Did you? You couldn’t just believe I’m not like that? I’m your brother!”
Trish bit her lip.
“I thought maybe, in the heat of the moment, you just lost your temper. It happens.”
“Fuck, Trish! If you don’t believe me, I’ve got no fucking chance of convincing anyone else. I can’t believe this is happening. My own sister!”
“Oh God, Nick! Of course I believe you! I know you wouldn’t lift your hand to a woman. It’s not in your DNA. I hate that the mardy cow has done this to you!”
He stood up, glaring at her.
“Where are you going?”
“Out. Home. Away from here.”
The idea that his family thought he was the kind of man who battered women made him physically sick.
“Don’t go! Not like this!”
He brushed past his mum who was holding two mugs of tea.
“Nick?”
He kissed her cheek quickly.
“Sorry, Mum,” he muttered.
He ignored his car keys, knowing he was too lit to drive. Instead, he walked quickly, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets, his expression bleak.
The dark streets were quiet and Nick was utterly alone with his thoughts. On the way, he stopped at an off licence, studying the brightly-lit rows of spirits, wine and beer. Oblivion in a bottle. Cheap at the price.
As he neared home, his footsteps slowed, the emptiness spreading inside to fill every part of him.
The street was silent when he reached his house but in the orange glow of the streetlamp, he could easily read the red paint sprayed across the front door in foot-high letters.
WOMAN BEATER!
He touched the paint but it had already dried. Whenever this had been done, it was hours ago.
He turned the key in the lock, pushing open the door slowly, then stood staring at the wreckage inside.
Everything had been trashed, pretty much the way he’d trashed Kenny’s house. He wandered through his home, staring at the graffiti sprayed across the walls, wading through shards of broken glass. All Molly’s stupid throw cushions had been gutted, and he was followed by a cloud of feathers as he moved from room to room.
The worst devastation was in his bedroom. All his clothes had been slashed or had paint poured on them, and the duvet looked as though wild animals had torn it apart.
He slumped on the settee, angling himself to avoid lumps of foam protruding through the ripped material, and opened the first of two bottles of Scotch that he’d bought, tipping the burning alcohol down his throat. He paused, wiping his mouth and remembering the night Anna had drunk Scotch and the clever stuff she’d said about the flavour—guacamole? Whatever. Nick took another swig, enjoying the burn in his throat and his belly as the amber liquid made its way south.
He sat in the unlit room, drinking until the darkness consumed him.
The next morning, the shit hit the fan.
Nick’s phone buzzed continually as the alerts and notifications started to flood in.
Online news sites had picked up the story, and were enjoying the real-life soap opera:
Rugby Renegade in Police Custody!
Top Player in Vicious Assault
Minotaurs’ Fullback Charged
Battered Girlfriend Tells All!!
Nick struggled to sit up, feathers caught like snow in his black hair. His body ached and his tongue felt as if it had been at the bottom of a parrot’s cage all night.
His phone was full of dozens of messages and missed calls. He jabbed at it with bleary eyes, sitting up a little straighter as he read the accusations against him.
Shit, this was bad. Really bad. He realised he’d made a serious mistake by letting Molly get the PR upper hand. But now it was too late. There was no way he was coming back from this, not for a man who had the reputation of being a bullying abuser. Not that he had anything to come back to.
His stomach was sour with whiskey and grief, and he wondered how he’d go on. What would life be like now? Where would he go? What would he do?
Someone thumped on his front door and he heard voices yelling. He hadn’t bothered to pull the curtains last night, so he could see camera flashes and realised that there were reporters outside.
Then he heard a key in the lock and tensed. Molly?
But it was Trish. She marched into the room and slapped him across the face.
Fuck, that stung!
“What the hell, Trish?”
“That’s for walking out last night and making Mum cry. And this,” she slapped him across his other cheek, “is for not answering your phone and generally behaving like a knob.”
“Bleedin’ hell, sis! Is this your idea of sympathy?”
“No,” she said grimly. “It’s me telling you to get your arse in gear.” Then she seemed to become aware of the destruction around him. “Oh my God! Did Molly do this?”
He shrugged and Trish shuddered.
“Thank God you’re not marrying into that family. They’re all bonkers.” She glanced at his chagrined face. “Sorry. But you’re better off without her. What did the police say?”
Nick almost laughed.
“I haven’t reported it.”
Trish’s eyes widened.
“For God’s sake! Why not?”
“Seriously? You think I want anything more to do with the police?”
“But . . . you can’t let Molly get away with this!”
Nick shook his head and rubbed his throbbing temples.
His sister looked as though she was about to argue, but then pressed her lips together in a hard line and didn’t say anything.
Nick thought about his ex-fiancée. It hadn’t all been bad, had it?
A memory of silver-grey eyes and Anna’s ready smile flashed into his mind. What would she think of him now?
“Nick, you have to get up!”
Nick ignored his sister, too tired, depressed and hungover to function.
Then Trisha grabbed his hands and attempted to pull him off the settee.
“Oouf! How much do you weigh?” she asked, giving up the unequal struggle and slumping down next to him.
“Twice as much as you, shrimp.”
“Bog off, you great heathen. God, you stink of whiskey. Take pity on my sense of smell and go and have a shower.”
“What for? I’ve got nowhere to be.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Check your messages, Einstein. Steve Jewell wants to see you. He phoned our place first thing when he couldn’t get through to you. And I’ve brought your car back. Again.”
“Thanks, Trish,” he said, touched that she’d bothered with him after their fight the night before.
She stared at him seriously, crossing her arms.
“Just because you’ve behaved like a dickhead doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, little brother. And you’re not alone.”
He gave a weak smile, because whatever she said and however much his family cared, the problems were his and no one else’s.
“Thanks, sis.”
“Thank me with an amazing present at Christmas.”
She hustled him up the stairs and he took a long shower, washing away the sour smell of whiskey and failure, then dried himself with a shredded towel.
The only wearable clothes were in his kitbag, slightly wrinkled sweatpants and t-shirt, but clean.
When he came down again, feeling like a bad photocopy of himself, he found that Trish had called the police about the vandalism.
He was too tired to be angry with her. Besides, the police couldn’t say when an officer would become available—it wasn’t the kind of crime that was a priority. Trish had even taken photographs of the damage, but Nick wasn’t going to hold his breath.
She had a guilty expression and was busy sliding her phone back in her pocket.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Are you looking at the news pages?”
“Don’t read them, Nick,” she said, her voice pleading. “You know they only print lies.”
Nick took her phone and flicked through the pages she’d bookmarked. The trouble was, as far as Nick could see, they’d all told the truth, or a version of it.
“It’ll blow over,” said Trish quietly, squeezing his arm.
He couldn’t bear any more sympathy and he hadn’t even told his family yet that he needed another surgery.
“You’d better get going.”
“Yeah.”
She handed him his car keys and he pulled a dark blue beanie over his damp hair and slipped on a pair of sunglasses, trying to ignore the camera flashes and questions from the two journalists standing outside.
“How long you been knocking her about, Nick?”
“Did you know they were having an affair? Did you do threesomes?”
“Give us a quote, Nick!”
He climbed into his car, carefully reversing down the driveway so he didn’t run them over, even though he really, really wanted to.
One of them pressed the lens up against his window and nearly blinded him with another camera flash.
“Wanker!” shouted one of the journalists as Nick drove away.
An hour later, he arrived at the Minotaurs’ HQ for what he strongly suspected would be the last time.
“Morning, Sally,” he said to the woman on the front desk who’d smiled at him every day for the last three months.
She stared stonily at her computer screen, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Mr. Jewell is waiting for you. In the boardroom.”
The boardroom? Yeah, that didn’t sound good.
“Thanks,” he said shortly.
She acted as if he didn’t exist.
Steve Jewell wasn’t alone. He was sitting with the assistant coach, the club’s manager, Sadie from PR, and Ernie Carter, the club’s owner. Nick was relieved to see that on the other side of the table was his agent, Mark Lipman.
“Take a seat, Nick,” said Steve, grimacing slightly as Ernie blew cigar smoke and stared impassively.
Nick’s heart beast faster but his face remained blank. He wished he was better dressed.
“This is a bad business,” said Steve Jewell, shaking his head. “Very bad. But we’ve thrashed out a deal,” and he nodded at Mark to take over.
“You’re being released from your contract, Nick.”
The blow fell soundlessly, but all Nick could hear was the death knell of his career.
“The club is willing to pay you a third of your annual salary,” Mark continued carefully. “You can’t talk about this to the Press. That’s the deal.”
“Released?”
Nick’s heart slammed against his ribs. This was it. It was really happening.
Steve Jewell leaned forward. “You’re not being sacked. It’ll look better for you this way.”
“We ought to bloody well sack you!” snorted Ernie, teeth fastened around his cigar like a Bond villain. “Men like you make me chuffin’ sick and . . .”
Sadie tapped her pen on the table, effectively halting what would have been an unpleasant tirade.
“We feel it’s best for everyone . . .” meaning the club “if you leave quietly.” She pushed a piece of paper towards him. Sign here.”
Mechanically, Nick took the pen, then stared up at the ring of faces.
“The orthopaedic consultant you sent me to says I need another operation on my Achilles tendon.”
Steve Jewell nodded slowly.
“We know, son.”
Ernie spat out his cigar.
“We’re not chuffin’ paying for it. You shouldn’t have lammed your lass!”
Nick signed and stood up to leave the room, looking around for one last time.
His moment of playing for a top team had come and gone and left him in the dust. He nodded at the grim faces and walked out.
Nick tried to concentrate while his solicitor went through the charges against him.
“I’m not going to sugar-coat this,” she said. “It doesn’t look good. As I said, I’m recommending you plead guilty, because if you don’t, it’ll be six months of negative publicity before the case even gets to court. Then they’ll paint you as a woman-beater with no remorse. The prosecution are going to whip out a photograph of your fiancée with a black eye, and you’ll be finished. You used a weapon—the fact that you had to go and get it out of the tool box in the boot of your car looks bad. Not quite as bad as a premeditated assault, but bad nonetheless. Nick, are you even listening to me?”
Nick heard the exasperation in her voice, but still felt like he was watching a badly-written soap opera, all melodrama and facial tics.
“Hitting Molly was an accident.”
“So you said. Given the circumstances, a magistrate will take one look at you, a six foot, fourteen stone rugby player, then take a long hard look at her, all five foot nothing and a hundred pounds after binge-eating a litre of Haagen-Dazs ice cream, and you won’t like the answer.”
“There’s sod-all I can do about that.”
Ms. Wilson-Smith nodded.
“We need lots of women—credible women—to come forward and say that you’ve never lifted a hand to them, not even during a bit of slap and tickle . . .”
Nick grimaced, feeling like the soap opera had turned into a 1970s sitcom.
“ . . . I’m talking ex-girlfriends, significant women in your life—and I don’t mean family. So let’s hear it.”
She stared at Nick expectantly, a fountain pen with green ink, poised over a yellow legal pad.
“I was with Molly for three years . . .” Three wasted years.
“Nothing on the side?”
“No!”
“Sure?”
“Very.”
“Because I need to know where the hits will be coming from.”
Nick gritted his teeth.
“I was faithful.” Like a stupid, trusting fool. Unlike Molly.
“Right, well . . . before Molly?”
Nick sighed and then listed all the girlfriends he’d ever had, and the solicitor wrote careful notes.
“That’s it? That’s all of them?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“No one-night stands?”
Nick ran a hand through his hair, making the curls even wilder.
“A couple. I don’t remember their names—it was a long time ago.”
Ms. Wilson-Smith tapped her pen.
“It’s, er, quite a short list . . . sure you haven’t left anyone out?”
“Bloody hell! How many times are you going to ask me that? No, that’s it!”
“Alright, you’ve made your point. But let me give you a tip, don’t lose your temper like that in court—it’ll be exactly what the prosecution will want. They’re going to portray you as an aggressive, laddish thug with violent tendencies. Got it?”
“Yes,” Nick seethed.
She adjusted her glasses and pursed her lips.
“You’re paying me to represent you, Mr. Renshaw. I’m just doing my job.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Okay. So, you and Molly, anything kinky in bed? Handcuffs, punishment, any rough stuff?”
Nick’s mouth dropped open.
“What?!”
The solicitor sighed again.
“These are the kind of questions you could be asked. They’ll try to show that you have . . . tendencies, like I said. So, once more . . .”
“No, nothing like that.”
The solicitor raised her eyebrows as if expecting more, and Nick felt his anger start to build again. When the fuck had his sex life become important in a criminal trial?
“Ah, well, okay. So . . . you’re saying the whole incident was out of character?”
Nick wasn’t sure how to answer that—he barely knew who he was anymore. He didn’t have a fiancée, didn’t have a career, and now his reputation was in shreds, too. The newspapers were reporting it as a nasty piece of domestic violence, in a what can you expect from a rugby player sort of way. It made him sick. Ironically, it made him want to punch someone.
“Yeah, it was out of character.”
“Have you ever been arrested before?”
“No.”
“Ever been involved in any drinking-related incidents? Any trouble at all?”
“No. I kept my head down, worked hard, trained hard. I didn’t want to go back.”
The solicitor looked up.
“Back to what?”
Nick shifted in his chair.
“Back to working in a paint factory.” Back to being nothing.
There was another pause.
“We’ll need to bring in some character witnesses—people who can say what a great guy you are, wouldn’t hurt a fly . . . off the rugby field. Anyone come to mind?”
“Not my best friend . . . former best friend.”
“No, indeed . . . but we might be able to work in some deep-seated jealousy of your promotion to the Premiership that led to his . . . the affair.”
Nick wondered about that. Could it be true? He’d always thought that he and Ken were mates, solid.
“I’d asked him to be my Best Man.”
The solicitor’s eyes brightened. “Excellent! That’ll show how much you trusted him. Good . . . anyone else who’d speak up for you?”
“Um, my old coach at Rotherham, Henry Selby, he might.”
“Anyone else?”
Nick scratched his beard. Why was it so hard to think of people who’d stand up for him?
“Steve Jewell might.”
“Hmm, he might . . . as he hired you in the first place. And then fired you.”
“I was released from my contract.”
“I’ll put him on the list. Next?”
Nick named a couple of former teammates, knowing that he was putting them in the awkward position of having to choose between him and Ken: a teammate and a former teammate.
“We need some women—other than your sister and mother, of course. All this testosterone isn’t going to play well when you’re accused of hitting your ex.”
One name flashed to Nick’s mind, but he hesitated. The solicitor caught it at once.
“Yes?”
“Uh, well, I was seeing a sports psychologist to help me with my game. She might speak for me.”
“How exactly did she help you?”
The solicitor’s gaze was sceptical, and Nick felt irritated on Anna’s behalf.
“She works on confidence, visualisation techniques, stuff like that. Dave Parks, one of the Props, was seeing her, as well. The Minotaurs sent us both.”
“Excellent, I can use that. Name?”
“Dr. Anna Scott.”
“A doctor? Even better. How close were you and this Dr. Scott?”
“I had appointments with her weekly since September . . .”
Would Anna speak for him or would she walk away? The thought disturbed him more than it should.
“Did you ever socialise with her?”
“No. Uh, once she turned up at the same pub as me. But I was with Molly, and Anna . . . Dr. Scott was meeting someone. That’s everything.”
The solicitor wrote it all down, looking pleased, then placed her pen on the yellow jotter filled with tiny notes.
“I’ll be honest, Mr. Renshaw. I’m looking for potential factors that could reduce blame and ultimately help you to achieve a fair, just and positive outcome.”
“Such as?”
“A nominal fine, a couple of hundred hours community service. That’s the best case scenario.”
Nick swallowed.
“And the worst case scenario?”
“Let’s focus on the positive.”
“Tell me.”
The solicitor folded her arms, looking grave.
“Well, court listings are matter of public record, so the media will know everything . . .”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should. It will affect your future career.”
That seemed unlikely since there was no chance of a club signing him now, injured and in trouble.
“What’s the worst case scenario.”
“Upwards of six months in custody, possibly a year.”
Nick’s mouth dried and he felt a cold sweat break out across his body.
“Shit.”
The solicitor gave him a hard stare.
“You used a weapon—that makes it a lot more serious. I have to show that it wasn’t premeditated and that you were under extreme stress. If the wrench had been on the passenger seat, that would have been better. But by your own admission, you got it out of the boot of the car. That’s why we have to show how out of character it is for you.” She paused. “However, the courts look closely at the specific factors of the case and the individuals involved and, on occasions, the conduct of the victim. The fact that your fiancée was caught in flagrante delicto with your best friend and Best-Man-to-be is in your favour . . .”
Nick grimaced.
“ . . . because one factor that is relevant to sentencing is whether the victim provoked the assault—and that can be construed in many different ways.”
She gave Nick a chilly smile that was meant to be reassuring.
Nick’s heart sank.