“What? No, this can't—” Jackson's confused mutterings muted out the studio questions that were being asked. He paused to hear the reply from the outside broadcaster.
“That's right, Suzanne. They are believing it to be a suicide. A note has been found in the room,” the reporter continued to camera, “which is being analysed for authenticity, but it has been leaked that the words written are, 'It was me. I cannot live with the guilt. I'm sorry'.”
The television cut to the studio and every breath in the room was held as they all watched the round up from the breakfast presenters. Kris Sharpe. Dead. Killed himself. Three days after the release of his co-star Jackson Young from Flaymore prison where he had been awaiting the trail for the suspected murder of his girlfriend, Tallulah Payne. It then went on to detail Kris's life with images of him with Jax. His brief life history. Image after image. Headline after headline.
Fletcher's phone screeched from inside his jeans pocket. He ignored it. He expected he knew who it was. Rose would be calling him in to write the next by-line saga in the Jax and Kris mania. Instead, he scooted down the bed, placing a hand on Jackson's shoulder. He was more than aware of Cam's eyes on him but, right then, he couldn't have cared less.
“Jax,” he said, softly.
Jackson hung his head, shaking it from side to side. “No. He can't.”
Kneeling beside him on the bed, Fletcher blanked out Cameron watching them and the television images of Kris with Jackson filling the screen. He muted it, focusing on Jackson as he trembled beside him. He slid his hand on to the man's back, rubbing soothing circles. He couldn't tell if Jackson was finding this hard to believe or if he was denying the allegations.
Or if there was something worse at stake here.
He'd said he remembered. Had this been his memories? That dream?
“Jax,” Fletcher urged again, attempting to rip Jackson free from his inner turmoil. “Talk to me. You said you remembered. Was this it?”
Jackson hesitated. He whipped his head up to meet with Fletcher’s gaze as though just recalling the previous few seconds ago. He opened his mouth. Then shut it as he peered up to Cam standing over them.
“Who called you?” Jackson asked him.
“My producer.”
“Charmaine?”
“Yes. She said she was called a while ago and she's had to cancel the rehearsal, calling everyone about this.” He motioned to the screen.
Jackson stood, Fletcher's hand falling from his skin. Shivering, he searched the room for his clothes.
“What are you doing?” Fletcher asked, stepping off the end of the bed. He stood beside Cam, watching the flustered and irate Jackson.
“I thought we were leaving,” Jackson replied, jumping into his jeans.
“But, this, this could mean you're clear. There's nothing to chase you for.”
Jackson laughed. Bellowed. His deep, recoiling laughter bouncing off the walls and fading the continued chatter from the news reporters blasting from the television screen.
“No, Fletcher. This just got a whole lot more serious.” He popped his head through his jumper. “And I suggest we go now. Before we can expect a knock on this fucking door. Am I right, Cameron?”
Fletcher felt the shifty movement from Cameron beside him and he shot a confused look to his old friend. To a man he'd trusted. “Did you?” he asked, voice low.
“Fletch, this is a police matter.” He grabbed Fletcher's arm. “That's two people close to this one now dead. And you've got rose-tinted specs on if you think because he's playing to your desperation, that you won't be next. Fletcher, come on!”
Fletcher shoved him. Hard. And by fuck, it felt good. “Ye fucking piece of dogshite!”
“No, Fletch, I came in here to show you that to make you see.”
“See what, Cam? See that ye full of fecking shite.” Fletcher snatched his shoes from the floor and rammed his feet into them.
Jackson grabbed the bag from the floor, held it to his chest, then with a fearful look from Fletcher to Cam, he vacated the room and launched out of the flat.
“Fletcher, please.” Cameron gripped his arm. “Don't follow him.”
“I swear to ye, Cam. I swear to fecking Jesus, I'll tell her everything.” He bore that threat right across the fold-out bed to land with a slap to Cam's face. “I think I can tell who the liars are these days. I've had a shite ton of practice.”
He trundled out, slamming the front door behind him and bundled down the steps out to the biting cold daylight. Jackson was already getting on the bike, helmet lodged over his head.
“I'll give you an out,” Jackson called to him. “If you want it. You can go. You can leave all this behind.”
Fletcher hesitated. Mulling that over. Then, snatching the bag from the back seat, he shoved it over his shoulders and flung his leg to straddle the bike.
“Not a chance, lad. You got me hooked. Now go, ye eejit. Let's catch that fecking ferry to Derry.”
The engine growled and Fletcher slipped closer, his groin sliding in to fit against Jackson's backside. He curled his arms around the man's waist then bucked when the bike sped out of the street, flicking up dust from the wheels in their haste.
Chapter Thirty
Runaway
It would take the best part of six hours to bike it all the way from London to Holyhead where the ferry was departing for Dublin. Not the most ideal mode of transport to travel such a long distance on the motorway and A-roads, but the Ninja was fast, and was able to nip into the gaps in traffic when needed with the protective headgear a bonus in disguise.
Jackson was a pretty decent motorcyclist too. Or perhaps it was his desperation to flee that kept them on the right path.
They stopped at a roadside service station just after Birmingham and filled up with petrol, which Fletcher paid for after calling his office to declare he wouldn’t be in for the foreseeable. Family emergency, he’d called it. He’d most likely lost his job at the magazine and soon Charles Payne would know whose side he was on. But if they were careful, they could get this book out before any of that mattered. No one knew his family address. He’d only ever declared Heston’s during his employment at London Lights.
And if they went to Heston’s… well, he wasn’t sure he cared all that much if he was brutally honest.
He sent a brief text to Natalie, though. Just to say he was safe and not to worry. She replied with stay that way.
He then ordered breakfast from the services and used the time to log into the internet on his laptop and check on the latest developments while Jackson ate outside, probably to avoid anyone recognising him. The news kept repeating the same information. Kris Sharpe had been declared dead, by suicide. He had been found on his sofa having taken an entire bottle of prescription pain killers which he’d chased with enough whisky to pickle his insides. His cleaners had alerted the authorities and found the note. Most of the speculation circulating around the media outlets was that Kris and Tallulah had been having an affair. That her death had been a sex game gone wrong. Kris’s ultimate guilt at not coming forward during Jackson’s incarceration had eaten away at him to the point that he saw no way out other than to take his own life.