Second Chances: A Control Series Spin-off Read online

  I gasp.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Have they ever shown you one caring moment? One kind word?”

  I try to think hard, but every memory I have of these two people, who’d been raising me since my birth, involved violence, drugs, and hatred.

  “No.”

  “Do it. Get revenge for all the years of suffering. Nobody’ll know. My men have made it look like an accident. Send them to hell.” My grandfather’s words stir something inside me. An insane need to destroy the people who’ve treated me like dirt. I need to extinguish the memories plaguing my brain. My feet carry me toward Dwayne, first, and my fingers grasp the plunger of the needle. I take a deep breath and push. Dwayne sits up, and I jump back. My foster father’s eyes widen, and his mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Then, he slides back down into the chair.

  I look up at my grandfather who’s smiling happily. “Well done. Now, her.”

  I go over to my foster mother and do the same. She doesn’t sit up, though, she just slumps farther down into the chair. The men with my grandfather go to the two lifeless bodies and check their necks.

  “Gone,” one says.

  “Same,” the other confirms.

  “Do you have anything that you want to bring with you?” my grandfather asks.

  I look around at the filthy squalor surrounding us.

  “No,” I reply and follow my grandfather out to the car. We climb in, and the car sets off. Nobody speaks. I’m not stupid—I know I’ve just killed my foster parents. Surely, I should feel sadness or guilt, but neither of those emotions are inside me. No. Happiness floods my body, and a feeling of finally being free.

  I pick up the box containing the remainder of the pizza before looking back, one final time, at my past. I notice two people, a man and a woman, pulling up in a Ford Cortina outside the house. I almost pity them…they are about to discover the sort of man I've become.

  Chapter One

  Elena

  “Thank you, Miss.” The group of nine and ten year old girls giggle as they run to their parents standing at the back of the dance class waiting to collect them. They all match in their pink leotards with frilly tutus and ballet shoes. Their hair is neatly pulled back in buns. I wave goodbye to them and make sure each child is collected by the right person. When they all leave, I hand over the reins to the new deputy manager, Lucinda. Since my best friend and the dance school owner, Amy North, gave up full time teaching to start a family, she’s virtually handed the running of her school over to me. I don’t mind, though—I’m enjoying it. It takes my mind off other things such as how crap my life is: no boyfriend or even the hint of a love life to speak about, and a good job but not the glittering career I was destined to have when growing up.

  But I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself, and it’s nothing a Chinese takeaway and a large glass of wine can’t fix. It’s only then I realize that’s not going to happen tonight, because it’s Tuesday, and that means dinner at my mother’s house. Ever since my father passed away from a heart attack four years ago, it's been a regular date on a Tuesday night. I even had to schedule my classes around it when I first started working for Amy.

  I pick up my bags, and with a grumble, I trudge out into the warm London evening. It’s late September, so the sun hasn’t set yet, despite it being six o’clock. Another month, and it’ll be dark when I leave work. It doesn’t bother me, though—winter is one of my favorite times of the year. I love being all snuggled up in warm blankets and wearing thick woolen socks. Nothing beats watching a film by a warm fire while dozing off.

  God, I sound like I’m a hundred not just turned thirty.

  This is what going to visit my mother does to me. It depresses me and leaves me old before my time.

  Come on, Elena, snap out of it. I reprimand myself. Maybe a chocolate bar will help raise my spirits. It’s probably just a lack of energy after dancing for most of the day. I nip into a newsagents on the corner of the street, next to the dance school, and grab a Toffee Crisp: biscuit, puffed rice, and caramel all wrapped in chocolate—what more could a girl desire. I hail a taxi and jump in. Giving the driver my mum’s address, I sit back and practically inhale my chocolate bar during the ten minute journey from Kennington to her home in Chelsea.

  When he was alive, my father owned his own import and export business, which is a massive industry in the UK, and he made a lot of money from it. That, combined with the insurance policy he’d taken out on himself, has left my mum comfortable for as long as she lives. Her house in Chelsea is worth a staggering amount and would be very profitable for her if she ever decides to sell it. My parents purchased it before the property price boom of the late nineties. Basically my mother is minted, but I refuse any offers of help she tries to force on me. I want to do things my own way, and I think I haven’t done too bad a job running the dance school: it is profitable, well renowned, and already expanded over the UK. All of which I’ve assisted Amy in coordinating. I’m effectively the head of the whole company now and paid handsomely as a result.

  “We’re ’ere, love,” the cabbie informs me when the taxi stops. I tuck the now empty Toffee Crisp wrapper into my bag and check my mouth in the mirror to ensure I don’t have any chocolate around it.

  “Thank you,” I say and hand him the correct money plus a ten percent tip. I’m particular like that—I always give ten percent no matter what.

  Climbing out of the taxi, my stomach instantly drops. I shouldn’t feel this unhappy about coming to see my mother. I love her to bits—it’s just she’s so…what’s the word…insistent. It grinds on me and leaves me feeling a shadow of my happy self when I leave. Tuesday is definitely the worst day of my week.

  I have my own key, and I open the door to the sounds of the end of Act Two, Scene Fourteen from Swan Lake. My mother is a big lover of the arts and in particular ballet.

  “Mum,” I shout out, and the music decreases in volume.

  “Elena, welcome darling.” My mother is the epitome of a Stepford wife. Her elaborately blow-dried hair is perfectly styled. She wears her Chanel suit like it’s a second skin, and her shoes are neat courts, polished to within an inch of their lives. In stark contrast, I’m dressed in my trainers, which have seen better days, leggings, and a baggy top. “Have you just come from work?” She looks me up and down. “If you want to shower, there are clean towels in the spare room.”

  “It’s ok,” I say, dropping my oversized bag on the floor. It opens, and several of the contents of my make-up case spill out. “Sorry.” I scoop them up and throw them back in the bag.

  “Dinner won’t be long. Why don’t you open us a bottle of wine. We’re having chicken so a white will be best.”

  “Will do.” I follow my mum into the kitchen. The smell of a delicious dish instantly hits me. My mum is the best cook ever. “What are we having?” I ask, so I can make a more informed decision about the wine.

  “Poulet a la Providence,” she replies with a perfect French accent.

  “Nice. I’ll get us a Chardonnay.”

  “Make sure it’s cold,” my mum shouts after me as I head down into the wine cellar beneath her house.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Yes, Mother. I’ll bring a warm bottle up because that always tastes the best.” I huff in whispered tones. Calm down Elena, she’s not as bad as you are imagining. She’s just lonely without your dad. That’s all.

  I pull a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay from the fridge and take it back upstairs. Two glasses sit on the counter, waiting. Twisting the cap off, I open the bottle and pour a small amount for my mum to taste. I wait patiently as she swirls it around in her mouth and then swallows.

  “Lovely,” she finally replies, and I pour a big glass for myself and a little one for her. She doesn’t really drink much, despite have a big wine cellar—it’s more for show. I take a large gulp of mine and sit down at the counter while she finishes dishing up.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  “Good, I met with the ladies of the women’s association. It was our annual meeting. Lots of paperwork. I’ve been put in charge of the social calendar next year. It’ll be fun. At least I know I’ll be able to find places to visit that Barbara Witworth never could. Seriously, the last restaurant we went to was disgusting. The glasses were all smeared, and I couldn’t tell you what I ate, but it certainly wasn’t salmon.”

  My mother continues her complaining while I switch off and flick my eyes toward a local newspaper sitting on the counter—it’s open at the arts pages, and I can see there are two ballets coming up my mother has circled to go and watch.

  “Dinner’s ready,” my mother announces as she places our plates of food on the table, which has been neatly laid with her best cutlery.

  “Thank you.” I reply, and picking up her glass of wine and mine, I join her at the table. The head is always left empty as a tribute to my dad, so we sit on opposite sides, facing each other. I take my first bite of the casserole.

  “Hmm,” I murmur at the rich flavor on my lips. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” My mother takes a bite of her chicken and dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin before taking a small sip of the wine. “I’m going to see Swan Lake tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were listening to it when I came in.” I keep my eyes down on my plate, knowing full well what is coming next.

  “Yes, it has Pippa Adley in it as the lead. She’s come so far since the days you were in ballet school together. It just shows what you could have achieved if it hadn’t been for the accident…such a shame. Pippa was never as good as you.”

  Bang.

  And there is was.

  The reason I hated coming to see my mother.

 
Every single time, it came down to this.

  I’ve always loved dance, especially ballet. It’s been my passion since I was a little girl. I think I had my first lesson at two years old. I could barely walk properly let alone dance, but it was what I wanted to do. My mother had always enjoyed dance and encouraged me. She was the perfect mother. At eleven, I was accepted to study at the Royal Ballet School here in London. Pippa started at the same time as me, and we became good friends as we both boarded at White Lodge in Richmond Park. I dreamed big and was told I had the potential to make it as a prima ballerina in one of the biggest ballet companies in the world. Sadly, all that changed shortly after my sixteenth birthday. It was a stupid mistake—when running to meet my mother, I tripped and broke my leg. The promise of a glittering career for me ended that day. I no longer had the strength in my leg to be a lead dancer. I’m not sure who was more devastated, in the end, me or my mother. I took up teaching instead of performing, and I’ve never looked back. I can pass my enthusiasm on to those wanting to learn. Encourage other little children who at two years old are dancing before they can walk properly. I recovered from my injury…my mother never did.

  The food suddenly feels like a hard lump in my throat—it’s tough to chew and difficult to swallow.

  I reach for the wine glass and take another large gulp.

  “I’ll have to see if I can get tickets.” It’s the only reply I can give my mother. I don’t know how to manage her disappointment.

  “It would be so good to see you up on that stage performing instead of Pippa.” Mum places her fork down and tears well-up in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m trying to keep my own tears from surfacing. We both fall silent. The tick of the old grandfather clock in the corner of the room is the only sound. I put another mouthful of food into my mouth and chew it carefully. It’s delicious flavor has gone.

  “It wasn’t your fault, darling. It was an accident. One of those things that happens. I’m just saying you were destined for greatness. I would have loved to see you performing for the Royal Ballet instead of teaching little children how to do first position. You’re worth so much more.”

  “Mother, please.” I just want her to stop. “I’m sorry I fell. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. It’s one of those things. I’m not unhappy with what I’m doing. The children and their enthusiasm are a blessed reward for what I do. To be a top ballerina would’ve been lovely, but I have a weakness in my leg, and it would never have withstood the pressure.”

  I place my fork down and let out a large huff of air. I need more wine. I’ve somehow finished my large glass. Getting up, I go to the kitchen and pour another one. I know the bottle will be drunk before the evening is over.

  Going back into the dining room, I resume my seat at the table. My mother is now pushing her food around her bone china plate with her sterling silver fork.

  It’s been fourteen years, almost half of my life, since the accident, and the damage is still there in my relationship with my mother. I shouldn’t dread seeing her, but I do.

  “I’ve been invited to judge at the annual winter rose competition.” My mother changes the subject.

  “That’ll be nice,” I reply, my heart no longer in the conversation. We fall silent. The rest of the evening continues with small talk until I go home. As the taxi pulls away from the ostentatious Chelsea mansion, I finally let me tears fall. I’m a disappointment to my mother and will always be.

  Chapter Two

  Ryan

  “Ssh,” my mother coos. “It’s ok. Everything’s going to be ok. We have you. Your family has you. You’re home.”

  That’s pretty much all I remember from that day on the roof. I’ve blocked out trying to jump off it and kill myself. I’ve been told I pointed a gun at my parents, Miranda and Pete, and threatened to kill them, but I don’t remember that at all. I thought I had nobody who cared for me, but I did—my mother and father both wanted me. It was my grandfather, my mother’s father, who told all the lies and turned me against them. I’d latched onto the first person to show me kindness without fully understanding my grandfather’s motives—motives, I’ve since learned, which were driven by revenge against my parents for falling in love and by my grandfather’s lack of control in trying to keep them apart.

  After I tried to kill my mother, my father, and my siblings James and Sophie, I listened to their words of comfort but chose to take my own life instead. I’d been so wrong. I’d hurt, damaged…killed so many people, and all for a revenge that wasn’t necessary. That is the man I’d become back then, and now I have to try and come to terms with it.

  “How are you feeling today Ryan?” My counselor opens his notebook and prepares to write down every word I say.

  I’ve been incarcerated in this loony bin for over a month now. It was either that or prison, according to Matthew Carter, the bodyguard of my billionaire younger brother, James. I’d shot Matthew, so I could understand why he was a little angry with me. Especially as we’d been friends for so long. We’d met when we both worked together at MI5. Matthew had eventually left and set himself up as my brother’s bodyguard—it was a fortunate turn of events that allowed me to get close to the family I didn’t think wanted me.

  “Good,” I reply. I don’t feel good. I’ll never feel good again. I feel guilty.

  “The truth,” the counselor persists.

  “Shit,” I reply and fiddle with a non-existent piece of lint on my jogging bottoms.

  “Well, we’re making progress. Two weeks ago you would have insisted that you were fine even though we both know you aren’t.”

  “Progress, great,” I reply, not caring. I’m having one of those days. One where everything weighs heavily upon me. Sometimes I’m positive—I can see the future, and how it’s possible for me to have one. Today, I just want to hide away because of what I did.

  Fuck, I’m a mess. Why am I this way?

  “Progress is always good, Ryan, even if sometimes we have bad days, which you are obviously having today. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “I killed an innocent woman,” I spit out. My counselor has been paid handsomely to ignore such revelations

  “She wasn’t that innocent.” My mother leans forward in the chair next to me. My parents have come to every counseling session that they’ve been allowed to attend. They both visit me every day, spending as much time as possible with me. When they aren’t here, they’re helping Amy and James with their children. My mother places her hand on my knee, and I instantly feel the warmth of it seep into my body. I’m like a child again, needing her touch. I seek it out as much as I possibly can—a little sad for a grown man of thirty-four years old.

  “You work for MI5, Ryan. Would you say for example a man holding a child hostage and threatening to kill them was innocent?” my counselor asks.

  “No, but the man doesn’t deserve to die all the same. He needs to be taken into custody and punished.”

  “But if you had no choice—if it was either the child or the man, would you kill him?”

  I don’t need to think about it, because I know exactly what I would do. It would be the same response as that of anyone who’s been trained in MI5: I’d try to keep them both alive, but if I couldn’t, I’d save the innocent.

  “Yes, I’d kill him.”

  “Exactly.” The counselor, flips through a few pages in the file he has on me. “Sally Bridgewater was not a good woman. She wasn’t along the lines of a terrorist, but she’d done some despicable things to her son.”

  The picture of Sally dying comes into my head. I killed her by wrapping my hands around her neck and strangling the last breath from her. She was already half dead when I’d found her. Sophie, my sister, had been in a fight with her earlier, and Sally had fallen and banged her head, which rendered her unconscious.

  For a long time, I allowed Sophie to believe she’d killed Sally. It’s one of the first things I admitted to my sister after coming to the asylum—I no longer wanted her to suffer the guilt. I couldn’t believe it when Sophie instantly forgave me. However, I think Grayson, her husband, will take a little while longer to be persuaded. Sally was the mother of Askhii, Grayson’s son. She didn’t tell him he had a child, and instead, she sold their baby into a living hell—a mirror of my own childhood. I’m lucky I can now see Ash flourish under the love of Grayson and his new mother, Sophie.