Page 10 of Savage Justice

“Nico? Was that his name?”

She nods. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“I should tell the police.”

“No! They didn’t want to talk to the police.”

I’ll bet they didn’t.

“Please, you have to promise.” She grasps my arm. “It’s a secret.”

I draw in a deep breath, then slowly nod. One good turn deserves another, after all.

“Okay. A secret.”

CHAPTER 3

Molly

“This is my favourite book,” Lucy whispers, clutching my arm to pull the book closer so she can see the words on the page for herself. “It’s got me in it.”

“It certainly does,” I agree. I know this is one of the reasons she loves The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe so much, as well as the fact it’s a cracking good yarn. I must have read it to her four times already, and it never gets old. I swear, she knows the story word for word.

It’s been a month since the vile encounter with the man in the white van, and she still has occasional nightmares about what happened. It’s not every night now, just once or twice a week. Even so, if I could get my hands on the lowlife who scared her like that…

I grit my teeth. He’s in custody at least, and the law will take its course. Eventually.

“Can we get to the bit where Edmund kills all the wicked creatures?” Lucy yawns and snuggles back against her Barbie pillow.

“We can’t read that much tonight,” I point out. “Lucy’s only just found her way through the wardrobe. Shall I go on and we’ll see how far we get before you fall asleep?”

She nods happily, so I continue with the story. By the time Narnia Lucy encounters the faun, her namesake is fast asleep.

I slip an old supermarket receipt between the pages to mark our place and set the battered paperback down on the bedside table. I know full well that when she wakes up in the morning Lucy will be reading ahead, and tomorrow at bedtime I’ll pretend not to have noticed and we’ll pick up from where we left off.

I get to my feet and creep to the door, closing it quietly behind me.

I open my own bedroom door before I go back downstairs. I want to check on Noah, also fast asleep in his cot at the foot of my bed. It’s not yet nine o’clock. I can get in a good couple of hours in my studio before I turn in for the night.

I suppose to call my cluttered conservatory a studio is something of an overstatement, but who cares? It’s where my workshop is set up, and the light’s good in there. Not at this time in the evening, admittedly, but usually. And artificial light will do for what I want to do this evening.

I’m just starting a new project, so this is the design and scoping stage. Sketching, measuring, selecting the right medium for the work, sourcing materials. The fun part comes later, when it’s time to actually craft the piece.

I’m working on a commission from an architect based in Bristol, a guy I know and do quite a lot of work for, on and off. He’s remodelling an office block and wants an original piece for the foyer. The client deals in arcade gaming machines, so the subject matter needs to be in keeping. I’m thinking some sort of superhero, but it will need to be bespoke. I don’t want to be sued by Marvel. I’m leaning towards an animal theme, maybe a stag or an eagle…

I lose track of time as I try out various ideas, sketching figures and facial details to see what seems to fit. Even though I reject pretty much everything at this stage, it’s not wasted effort. The ideas always stick, and I often come back to them at a later date, in a completely different context. I have boxes and boxes of half-formed ideas and concepts just waiting for me to say ‘Ah-hah, I have the very thing…’

I glance up and catch sight of the clock on the wall. Fuck, it’s after one in the morning. I need to be up early tomorrow, Lucy’s due at her swimming club by nine, and it takes at least an hour to get both kids ready.

I stretch and set my charcoals aside. I’ve done well, the ideas are crystallising, and by tomorrow my plans will have settled. I just need to sleep on it, let the images form in my subconscious somehow, and I’ll be ready to pour it all out into a sculpted form. I daresay there are psychiatrists somewhere who make a fortune out of understanding and explaining the creative process. Good luck to them. I just know how it works for me. Gather ideas, any and every idea, sweep them together into a pile, leave them to fester, then, bingo! The right answer pops up, and I know I’m onto winner.

That’s why folks pay good money for my work. That’s why my exhibitions always sell out. That’s why my bank balance stays healthy and my kids want for nothing. Added to which, I love what I do.

Okay, I used to love teaching, too, and that’s had to fall by the wayside recently, but I can still work and earn a good living. Mustn’t complain.

I wander through to the kitchen. I usually like to take a cup of tea up to bed with me, so I hit the switch on the kettle and take my tea caddy from the cupboard. I prefer real tea, the loose-leaf stuff. I tip a couple of spoonfuls into the teapot, another concession to tradition. No mashing it in a mug for me, thank you. The kettle clicks off automatically, and in the ensuing silence I lift it by the handle.

And I hear it.

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