Page 95 of Claim

“Mr Slade.” He nodded, professional, gesturing for me to follow.

He didn’t smile. No hint of recognition going beyond client and counsel. I’d expected that, needed it even, but something about it felt wrong. He walked as if holding something in. Shoulders set. Jaw tight. A fraction too rigid. I knew better than to pretend I knew every version of him, every tell, every fault line. I didn’t. But I knew men who were wound tight and determined no one notice. I’d seen it before. And usually, it was because I was paying them a visit.

So as we moved through the corridors, I drifted a step closer and dropped my voice. “You alright?”

He gave a single, clipped nod. “Mm.”

That was it.

Then he showed me into the meeting room.

Imogen Barrett KC was already there.

“Mr Slade.” She gestured to the chair opposite her. “Please, sit.”

I did.

The chair was solid, uncomfortable in a way that felt intentional. Tristan took the seat to my right, and I could feel the heat coming off him. Not the good kind. Not warmth. Tension. Sitting tight under his skin. I’d spent enough time on the streets reading men to know when something was off. I’d learnt to clock danger early or paid for it later. I knew the faint shift before a temper snapped. The fractional stillness meaning someone was holding too much inside.

Tristan had all that about him then.

Mercer to my left, set out the files, pen in hand, ready.

“This meeting is legally privileged,” Imogen said, closing the folder in front of her with quiet finality. “Nothing you say here leaves this room unless you authorise it. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“This is also the point at which you confirm you wish us to continue acting for you. Through the plea hearing and, if necessary, a full trial.”

I could feel Tristan angled beside me. Solid. Too close. I remembered what he’d said: that if he was my brief, I wasn’t to touch him anymore. That whatever this thing between us was, it had to stop at the door. Professional only. No blurred lines. No moments that could tear the case apart. Or his career.

I glanced at him.

He looked up. There was the faintest nod. Barely there. But it was enough.

“Yeah.” I turned back to Imogen. “I do.”

“Good.” Imogen inclined her head and nodded to Mercer, who tapped something into his laptop. The official mark, I guessed. Me becoming theirs. Properly.

She turned back to me. “Then this is your opportunity to tell us what happened. In your words. And let me be clear, if you lie to me, I will still defend you. But I will not be ambushed by the prosecution because you tested my patience. Is that understood?”

My jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

She studied me for a moment longer. “Then start at the beginning.”

I stared at the table for a moment. At the grain in the wood. At my hands resting there. Scarred, blemished, familiar. Hands that had done things I didn’t pretend were clean. I’d been sticking to no comment for so long, it felt strange to get the chance to speak.

“I got a call early doors.” I looked up. “From my boss.”

“Your boss?” She peered at me over the rim of her glasses.

Right. No half-truths. “Cormac O’Rourke.”

She nodded once. “All right. Continue.”

“He asked me to do a drop. That was the first thing that felt off.”

“Why?”