Burn Like An Angel (Harrowdean Manor #2)

17. Xander

CHAPTER 17

XANDER

JERK – OLIVER TREE

PRESENT DAY

The shining lights of Central London blur all around me in the drizzly morning rainfall. It paints a saturated, kaleidoscopic world, busy with suit-clad workers, dawdling taxis and bright-red tourist buses whizzing past.

Normality is a thin veneer painted over the truth I know lies within. A transparent film, invisible to the naked eye, concealing the reality that few are unlucky enough to ever uncover and live to tell the tale.

London—the heart of power and corruption in a lawless land.

I hate this fucking city.

It’s not so much the people. I’ve learned to tolerate them. And I only truly pay attention to those I care about. Like always, everyone else is irrelevant. Inconsequential. Undeserving of my limited empathy.

No, my qualms with this dirty, sweaty hellhole are far more pertinent. It’s the secrets this city holds so dear. So much exploitation, hiding in plain sight behind glittering tourist attractions and gilded palaces.

What if those in power cared?

Would we still have suffered back then?

Even if the bigwigs behind the corporation that stole our lives from us harboured a mere speck of humanity, we earned our places in Harrowdean Manor. Perhaps it’s only fair that we bore the brunt of their scientific curiosity.

No.

That isn’t true at all.

Sure, some of us earned our place there. You only have to look at the long list of convictions that were quickly doled out when the world started the lengthy process of assigning blame for what unfolded.

Not everyone deserved to be hammered with society’s hatred and disgust, though. Regardless of what they did, and the innocents they harmed, to ensure their own survival. Which is exactly why I’m here today.

“Mr Beck?”

Wrenched from my musings, I look over my shoulder. “Mr O’Hare.”

His morning coffee in hand and a tan, leather satchel slung over his shoulder, Elliot O’Hare blends into the crowd on his morning commute. I’ve memorised his routine well enough. The investigative journalist is a creature of habit.

“What are you doing here?” He jostles on his feet to keep warm.

I push off from the wall. “Waiting for you.”

“You’re alone.”

Staring at him, I lift my shoulder in a shrug.

“Changed your mind about that interview?” Elliot fishes.

The anticipation gleaming in his eyes turns my stomach. I’ve denied enough media requests over the years. None captured more than a split-second of my attention. But I’m not here for me.

It isn’t selfishness that’s led me to lurk outside his place of work at eight o’clock in the morning, waiting for the nosy reporter to show his face. I swear, the fucking lengths I go to. Yet I’m labelled obsessive and controlling.

When I don’t immediately answer, he scans his security fob to open the door. “How about a cup of coffee?”

Fuck yes, you leech.

Nodding, I follow him inside the fancy skyscraper, escaping the lightly-misting rain. Elliot has a quiet word with the security guard manning the entrance before he’s handed a visitor’s pass that’s then passed to me.

My body clenches tight with paranoia as I watch the guard absently wave us past. His eyes are glued to his morning newspaper. Thank fuck he didn’t insist on doing a search.

“Right this way,” Elliot chirps. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr Beck.”

I have to grit my teeth to maintain my blank expression. He thinks he’s scored a big fish. To get to where I need to go, I have to keep it that way. Lips pursed, I follow Elliot over to the elevators and we ride upwards.

“What changed your mind?” he asks.

“Irrelevant.”

Elliot chuckles softly. “Believe it or not, we’re on the same side.”

“And what side would that be?”

“The side of the truth.”

Welcome rage swirls in my chest, a vortex spewing sulphuric ash that quickly heats my veins. “No one has ever cared about that.”

“Well, I do.”

“I’m sure.”

Slipping the lanyard over my head, I smooth a hand down my pressed, white polo shirt, tucked into plain black jeans. In my periphery, I can see Elliot trying to subtly look at my toned forearms.

Pale skin stretched over corded muscles, both arms are layered with years’ worth of meticulous horizontal lines. They haven’t faded since I first inflicted the marks as a sullen teenager, fascinated by the pain that accompanied seeing myself bleed.

I’m not ashamed of the silvery lines covering me. In fact, I never have been. Why should I? It’s my body. My blood. My pain. If I wanted to take myself apart to study the pieces, that was my prerogative.

Now at thirty-six years old, those marks have evolved to mean something more to me. Not evidence of my experimentation with cheap razor blades as a child. Nor a survivor’s badge of honour, even if the battle was fought against my own mind.

No.

These marks are a reminder.

A reminder of who I once was—and who I’ll never be again.

Because of her.

My eyes ping-pong as we weave through desks bearing half-awake employees, camera gear, desktop screens and steaming cups of coffee. I’m surprised by the size and gravitas of it all.

This is an industrial-scale operation, filming episode after episode of documentary footage, ready to be churned out. When it airs… I predict a toxic media frenzy. And I refuse to see that shit play out again.

“What are you trying to achieve here?”

Stepping into the studio, Elliot holds the door for me. “There are still many unanswered questions about Harrowdean Manor and the other institutes. The world needs to know.”

“You’re reporting on them all?”

“Yes, we’re unravelling the whole story. This documentary series has been in the works for the last decade.” He smiles proudly. “It will be my life’s work.”

Inside the studio, two folding chairs sit in the centre of the room. It’s clear I’ve caught him with his pants down—lackeys rush in to begin setting up tripods and cameras, and an assistant is urged to make fresh coffee.

Elliot flips through several stacks of notebooks. I get a glimpse at the covers while he searches for the correct files. Each is carefully labelled with the names of the interviewee attached to their relevant institute.

They’ve spoken to a whole pool of people. Countless names I recognise. I’ve followed the lengthy criminal investigation and subsequent years of media reports ever since those horrific days.

My eyes brush over the labels denoting the five other institutes until he lands on HM . Harrowdean Manor. The sixth and final institute. We got our own file. How organised. But beneath those letters? There are names.

Ripley Bennet.

Lennox Nash.

Raine Starling.

Xander Beck.

“Ah, here.” Elliot hums as he plucks the file free. “Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d come around to this interview. You’ve caught me rather unprepared.”

“Clearly.”

My gaze is locked on that file. I want it. The tapes. Notes. Documents. Photographs. I want every fucking scrap of salacious gossip he’s got piled up in there so I can build myself a nice little bonfire.

The truth isn’t some ray of light shining on those who’ve spent their lives downtrodden. How could it be? Nobody values truth anymore. Not even when it’s printed, played or publicised. We’re wilfully ignorant as a species.

That doesn’t mean I will allow our lives to be sold off for profit. I don’t care how healing this bullshit is supposed to be. Some stories shouldn’t be repeated, and ours is one of them.

“We’ve been given a great deal of information from Miss Bennet. Perhaps you’ll be able to fill in some gaps for us.”

Jaw clenching, I fight to keep my voice even. “Of course.”

Elliot casts me a look. “She was rather tight-lipped about what became of your… uh, relationship. I wonder if you’d care to shed some light on that.”

“Alternatively, you could mind your own fucking business.”

Elliot grimaces, his crow’s feet deepening with the movement. “I don’t get paid to mind my business, Mr Beck.”

“Or to respect people’s privacy, it seems.”

“Unfortunately, not in this line of work.”

The coffee appears right on time, carried by a bumbling, early-twenties lad who seems eager to impress. Elliot appraises me while I accept the hot drink.

“You know, we had journalists stalking us for years,” I state casually. “Hacking into our email accounts, accessing medical records, reading therapy notes. Even picking through our trash. We were hunted.”

“Harrowdean was a sensational story.” He shrugs like the lifelong invasion is a mere inconvenience. “It still is.”

“And this tell-all documentary series… That’s going to settle the score, is it?” I chuckle. “You’re going to create public spectacles of us all. The last decade will have meant nothing.”

Elliot takes his own coffee. “I believe the public reaction will be one of sympathy.”

“When have they ever been sympathetic to people like us, Mr O’Hare?”

He opens his mouth to answer but can’t find a response.

“The ignorance of the world is the reason Incendia Corporation and its six institutes went unchecked for decades.” I stare at him without mercy. “The public is culpable here, not us.”

His gaze ducks to my white-knuckled grip on the coffee mug. There’s a flash of apprehension in his eyes, like he can tell I’m wrestling the urge to dump it over his head.

Did no one else give him a hard time? I have no idea how many people he’s sat down with. Only one matters to me. One I made a promise to protect ten long years ago. I intend to keep my word.

“Excuse me?” A dawdling employee sneaks into the room. “Elliot, security would like a quick word. It seems you have another visitor.”

“Of course.” He clears his throat. “Mr Beck, make yourself at home.”

Placing his notebook down, Elliot scuttles from the room, taking his lackey with him. Pathetic. It shouldn’t be this easy to play him, but I’ve never had much trouble bending the will of others.

He’s so desperate for his scoop, he’ll do anything to capture our stories on tape. Including letting the wolf into the sheep’s pen. I have to stop this. He’ll regret ever dragging the past back up.

Setting the untouched coffee down, I know I have to move fast. This place is prestigious enough to have a full security team and countless levels of staff, offices and more. I won’t have long.

Scanning the room, my determination hardens, steeling my muscles with staunch focus. This has to be done. I’m the only one who sees this exposé for the threat it really is.

Opening my jacket, I pull the canister of lighter fluid out. I’ll have to aim for the important stuff. Documents, cameras and records. Anything that can be used against us. Secrets that should never see the light of day.

My foot connects with a tripod, sending it flying. I douse the motherfucker in fluid then turn my attention to the other cameras. It’s easy enough to pop the memory cards out, each marked with date stamps.

RB. Interview Three.

Seeing Ripley’s initials causes a lump to lodge in my throat. She’s done a brave thing. I want her to find peace. Salvation. Whatever the fuck she’s still looking for after all these years. This just isn’t the way to do it.

But she chose this.

Can I take that from her?

Unable to burn the memory cards, I tuck them into my pocket. I’m not chickening out. These files will remain in the one place they’ll be safe: my possession. I’ll protect Ripley’s secrets with my life.

The cameras are smashed then added to the pile of metal gathering in the room. I don’t have long before the dickhead returns. There’s still so much to destroy before I can calmly rest again.

Grabbing as many of the labelled notebooks as I can hold, I toss them into the mix, dousing everything in fluid. One lands on top, spelling out another recognisable name written beneath the words Compton Hall .

Colour me surprised.

I never thought they’d get that nutcase to sit down.

Not even I would risk that conversation.

The pungent scent is thick in my nose as it fills the room. I’ve turned the studio into a tinder box. I take a moment to enjoy the scene before pulling a cigarette lighter from my jeans.

Elsewhere, Harrowdean is being ripped down for the final time. Bricks pummelled and secrets burned. I’ll burn its legacy here and finally set us all free. We need to forget. It’s the only way to start living.

Flames leap from the lighter’s tip. All emotion drains away as I drop it onto the pile of rubble. The effect is instantaneous.

Fire engulfs the stacks of evidence, setting noxious fluid alight in bright-blue flames. Black smoke curls from the smouldering pages, setting off multiple fire alarms.

Yet not even the blaring racket can rouse me. I’ve zoned out, staring deep into the flames, watching our history vanish for the last time.

I thought I’d be relieved.

Defeat settles like ash instead.

I can’t burn the memories. Years of suffering. Lives destroyed, by our own hands and theirs. Indelible scars left behind on skin and soul alike. Truthfully, nothing can erase that lifelong trauma.

“No!” The studio door cracks open. “Stand back!”

I’m manhandled from the room, now billowing with thick smoke. Bodies swarm, and footsteps pound. The screeching alarms add to the escalating panic, and in the mayhem, I summon a smile.

“You!” Elliot stops in front of me, spitting with anger. “You did this!”

“Correct.” I seize fistfuls of his cheap dress shirt. “Our story is not your life’s work. It never belonged to you.”

Grabbing my hands, he tries to prise free. The alarm on his face is enough satisfaction for me. I haven’t hurt anyone for a long time, but that side of me is still in there. I can bring it forward if he doesn’t let this selfish pursuit of fame die.

“Xander! Put him down immediately!”

My scalp prickles, a flush racing all over me. I release Elliot, setting him back on his feet, and look over his shoulder at the lilting voice spelling my name out with utter disbelief.

Ripley stomps closer, her weary, hazel orbs trained on me. “You had no right.”

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I had every right.”

She looks between the fire being tackled with extinguishers and Elliot scuttling away from me, shouting down his phone at an emergency responder. My little toy’s anger still tastes the sweetest.

“This was my choice,” she screams at me.

“I’m protecting you! You have no idea what this will unleash!”

Ripley stops in front of me, our faces almost touching. The years have softened her sweetheart-shaped features and lightly-freckled skin. She still wears her septum piercing after all these years.

“I’m choosing to unleash it.” Ripley’s furious eyes scour my face. “I need to speak up. I can’t spend another year hiding in the flat, painting the pain away until it returns come daybreak.”

Hand spasming, I take her cheek into my palm. Despite her fury, she leans into my touch, a ritualistic behaviour that’s stood the test of time. Years haven’t diminished the intensity between us.

“It’s killing me,” she whispers. “I want to live, but I can’t until I face the past.”

Unwelcome guilt infects my cells. “Don’t make me watch you get hurt again, Rip. We barely survived.”

She rests her hand over mine. “And we’re still not living. Not really.”

Foreheads meeting, I push my lips on hers. Each time we kiss, it’s like the first time all over again. Back then, I was manipulating her. Ensnaring the touch-starved orphan with the attention she craved in order to achieve my own goals.

Yet another story I’d like to erase.

One the world won’t get.

So much of our history doesn’t bear dredging back up. I wish our family had been forged under better circumstances. That we hadn’t spent so long hurting each other or found our strength when it was too late.

No one will understand. Love like ours isn’t fit for public consumption. They’ll judge our shared darkness. Ridicule the bond we formed. I didn’t want to silence her—I just wanted to protect her. To protect all of them.

“I need to do this.” Ripley releases my hand. “Burn whatever you’d like. I’ll keep doing these interviews until the truth is out there for everyone to hear.”

She steps to the side, giving me a view of who’s behind her. Of course, she didn’t come alone. None of us have been that for a long time. Harrowdean took everything from us. But it didn’t take our family.

Gripping his white guide stick, Raine stares off to the side, listening to the whooshing extinguishers. Lennox loosely holds his bicep, exchanging urgent whispers with our mutual friend, Hudson Knight.

“Come home, Xan,” Ripley pleads.

I look away from her to the mess I’ve made. The fire has been extinguished. Elliot stands in the doorway, shaking all over as he studies the destruction. His staff are scattered in varying states of shock.

“You should give him these.” I reach into my pocket, reluctantly pulling out the memory cards. “I kept them for you.”

Shaking her head, she takes the small handful. “One day, you’ll stop being the obsessive psychopath with no boundaries who made me fall in love with him.”

“Is that really what you want?”

Peering up at me beneath her lashes, a small smile curves Ripley’s lips. “I wouldn’t still be here cleaning up your messes if I did.”

I watch her walk over to Elliot to hand over the remaining memory cards. He’s gesticulating angrily, losing the professional persona that makes him so slyly amicable. This wasn’t a total waste, then.

Strolling over to me, Hudson pulls a cigarette from tucked behind his ear. “If you’d like tips on how to be a successful psycho boyfriend, I offer private tuition.”

The black-haired bastard pins me with a hard stare. I bite back an eye roll. Like that’s ever worked on me.

“Fuck off, Hud.” I punch him in the shoulder.

“The offer stands. It’s an art I’ve perfected over the years.”

Hudson snakes an arm around my neck to lock me in a playful headlock. Snarling, I knock the unlit cigarette from his hands.

“This was your plan?” Lennox shakes his head, approaching with Raine in tow. “Great plan.”

“I did this for her.” I lower my voice. “For us. Nobody knows how our story ends. Do you really want them to find out like this?”

“Of course not! But it’s Ripley’s decision!”

“We did what we had to, Xan.” Raine’s eyes shift behind his round, blacked-out lenses. “It’s nothing every other person in our situation wouldn’t have done.”

I hope the world sees it that way.

Because surviving cost us everything… Including our souls.