Page 77 of Come Back To Me

This is going to break her. But it can’t beat me. I need to survive in order to get back to her. I’m here to say two words and get back to it. Meet The Saint. Find the source. Hope Mollie gets me out.

The magistrate asks me how I plead.

“Not guilty,” I say.

He briefly looks up at me, then looks back down at whatever’s on his desk in front of him. The courtroom sits whilst he asks both Mollie and the prosecution a bunch of questions—none of which register with me.

After what feels like an eternity, he asks me to stand again. “Given what evidence will be being brought forward, I have decided this case be sent to trial. The prosecution and defence both have six weeks to build their cases. The defendant is to remain in custody until his trial begins.”

Just as he bangs his gavel, I catch a tall figure in the public viewing box stand and leave before anyone else. Quickly, I look at Mads, but before I see her face properly, I’m ushered to stand and dragged through to the holding cell.

Perhaps it’s for the best. Perhaps not being able to see her one last time will make it easier.

I’m escorted to the main room where I was searched upon arrival. Two officers stand by my side. They take me to the transport vehicle and drive me back to the prison.

Walking back into my cell, I see my cellmate is here. I give him a nod of my head, and he jumps down from his top bunk. I wonder what he’s going to do. “How’d it go?” he asks, catching me off guard. Considering he’s hardly been around and we haven’t spoken properly in the past three days, why’s he so chatty now?

“Exactly as I knew it would.” I dump my grey jumper issued by the prison onto my bed, then sit holding my head in my hands, grimacing at the pain in my shoulder.

“You have anyone there?”

I sigh. “It doesn’t matter.” Best I don’t think about it.

He nods understanding. “I’m guessing by the tats you’re the biker they’ve been talking about?”

My cellmate moves, now folding his arms stood in front of me. He’s a big guy—bigger than Travis. I heard he was charged with first degree murder. Of his mother. Apparently killed herwith his bare hands.

“They?” I look up to him.

“The men who talk in this place.” He pauses, then holds out his hand. “Luke.”

Rather than say anything, I lean forwards with another grimace, taking his hand in mine. I grip my shoulder, rolling it back a few times.

“You need to get that checked.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sure you will, tough guy.” I look at him scrunching my eyes. “No offence,” he adds. He moves to the corner of the room, taking a piss in the loo we share, hidden behind a small protruding wall designed for privacy. I hear him washing his hands. “I’d make it a priority to go see the doc.”

His raven hair shines in the sunlight coming through the window when he walks back into view. Our eyes lock, and I understand his instruction.

Later that afternoon, I’m sat in the small health clinic within the prison. The nurse who did my assessment before coming in here deemed my inability to piss properly and the bruising on my body, severe enough to get checked over.

Examining my torso and right leg, the doctor constantly gasps and sucks in her breath at the damage I’ve sustained in three days. I’m given painkillers before she asks me where the bruising came from.

“I fell,” I tell her.

She pauses filling out her form, having checked the range of movement—or lack of, I have in my shoulder. She eyes me then looks away quickly.

How many bullshit stories has she heard?

“Right, all done,” she tells me. “You’ll be allowed back every day for the next week so that I can administer the paracetamol and ibuprofen together. Some stronger anti-inflammatoriesmight be needed as well if the swelling doesn’t go down.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She stands and knocks on the door.

It opens then closes, and I’m left on my own sat on the bed. When the door opens again, a tall brute of a man walks in instead of the officer who should be here to escort me back to my cell. His head is shaved, his face round and full. The black ink stretching across his neck trails up past his ear to the top of his eye. He smiles at me, his face authoritative and solid. “You took your time.”

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