Caught in the Web by Emmy Ellis (most read books in the world of all time TXT) 📗

the same story. Mr Quint had suggested that Gordon had been at home the whole time.

“You’re telling me to lie,” Gordon said.

“I’m asking you not to mention where you went or what you did,” Mr Quint said.

Gran had suggested a similar thing all those years ago, to not mention something, that day when she’d given him the fizzy pop.

Gordon looked at Mr Quint and his waxed hairdo that would probably still remain intact even if a windstorm blew through it. The style bore the tracks of a comb, its brownish-blond the same as the caramel inside the chocolate barrels he’d eaten one time he’d stayed at Gran’s over Christmas when she had gone out to get drunk with the man who’d liked touching Gordon’s penis.

“That’s still lying,” Gordon said.

Mr Quint sighed. Fiddled with his sky-blue tie that had a slight sheen to it. Silk, maybe. His white shirt collar was as stiff as could be—had to be dry cleaned, and Gordon should know. The black suit was of the cheaper persuasion, off the rack, but the man wore it well.

“I’m here to support you in whatever you decide to do, Mr Varley, but I strongly advise that you—”

“Lie.”

Mr Quint coughed. Blushed. “What do you wish to do?”

“Tell the truth.”

“Have you never lied, Mr Varley?” Mr Quint’s stare wasn’t very nice. His blue eyes—as blue as his tie—resembled marbles.

Gordon didn’t want to think about the times he’d lied—or answer that question. Those fibs had been as necessary as killing, but he still hated the fact that untrue words had passed his lips. He’d lied to her and The Man—which had all but crippled him at the time. To lie to her had been such a monumental thing that it had almost stopped him from doing it—and from killing her. But she’d believed him, that the heroin he’d had for her had been his gift to thank her for bringing up such a hateful son, and he’d realised the power of the spoken word to someone who was as desperate for a fix as she had been.

A means to an end, those lies. And the ones he’d told The Man, Anita, and the tramps.

While Gordon was justifying them, Mr Quint filled out a form. The solicitor’s handwriting was blocky and neat, clear to read across the table. Gordon’s name and address had been inserted into rectangular boxes, plus his birthdate and ethnicity. Mr Quint went on to write out Gordon’s truth, and he felt better that this solicitor was of the same mind as him now. That lies weren’t good.

Mr Quint paused in his writing. “All I can do in the circumstances, Mr Varley, if you insist on admitting your whereabouts and actions on those dates, is to help you get a lesser sentence. Perhaps no sentence at all if you agree to seeing a psychiatrist—and that may not be something you have any choice over should you exhibit certain behaviours during your interview.”

“Are you suggesting I’m mad?” Gordon wasn’t happy about that assumption, that he would perhaps get off because of diminished responsibility. He’d seen that on the telly.

These solicitors, they were so rude.

Gordon shook his head.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Mr Quint said. Those eyes again. So hard-looking. He sighed once more, as though Gordon just wasn’t getting it. “It’s clear to me that you’re happy to proceed with telling the truth. Therefore, I shall represent you in the best way I can with what your actions and words dictate. I can do no more than that without you at least meeting me halfway.”

“I would like to be interviewed now.” Gordon folded his arms across his belly, still comfortably full of pie and chips. “And I want to see the man who pretended to be my father, too. I want to know why he lied and didn’t tell me he wasn’t my dad when I made the mistake of calling him that. He made me feel silly, and I don’t let anyone make me feel silly anymore.”

Mr Quint frowned. “Do you mean Detective Varley?”

“Yes. Him. He’s my dad but not my dad.”

Mr Quint shifted his eyes and looked down at the form. “Okay… Right, well… I’ll let them know you’re ready then.”

“Thank you.”

Mr Quint collected his papers, held them to his chest, then left the room. And what an odd room it was. No pictures on the walls again, although there was a large mirror. Scuff marks at hand height blemished the cream paint. How many people had pressed their backs to the walls and splayed their fingers against them? Lots, it seemed.

Gordon got up to do the same thing. He liked being the same as everyone else.

Because being different had all but ruined him until he’d found contentment.

“But there isn’t contentment anymore, is there, you stupid prick?”

That was different. And unexpected. The Man had never spoken to him inside his head before. Gordon shivered, the wall warming his bum, his shoulders aching.

“Go away, you fucker.”

“No,” The Man said. “No, I won’t.”

Gordon didn’t know what to do. How to get the voice to go away.

“I’ll never go away, you ugly little fucker.”

 

 

Chapter Thirty

Burgess watched through the two-way mirror, startled for a second at what Varley had said.

‘Go away, you fucker.’

Burgess knew him and Shaw couldn’t be seen, but it was still unnerving that Varley might well know Burgess was there—or that someone was, at least. Or was he talking to the uniform standing by the door?

Varley tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. What was he thinking? And what had he spoken about with Quint? The sound had been switched off while Varley had talked with him—confidentiality and all that, which was a pain up the arse in instances like this, when a confession to