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Ripley had not had a good day. One fucking bad thing coming on top of another, and a headache that wouldn't quit. He used his remote to open the garage and drove inside. It was a few streets away from the late Georgian Islington town house he called home and he got soaked walking back. Though probably not as soaked as the young man with the crutch. Ripley had felt bad about splashing him, then less guilty when he'd refused to give back the box.

Now he'd had time to calm down, he could see he'd not been reasonable or charitable. He blamed his headache but mostly blamed his mother who'd set the bad day in motion. Ripley wanted to strangle her, though that was nothing new. He'd been on his way to court that morning when he'd had the first of two calls from his mother's companion, Petra, telling him that unbeknownst to her, his mother had sent several items off to auction, including pieces of furniture.

Ripley was rarely lost for words. Words were all important in his job as a barrister, along with determination, stamina, self-motivation, self-discipline and nerves of bloody steel. In truth, the words hadn't been lost. They'd all been there, furiously bubbling away in his brain, but they weren't words suitable for screaming down the phone at the long-suffering Petra. Particularly because he really didn't want Petra to quit. Finding someone to look after his…extremely difficult mother was a task he didn't want to have to do again. Ever. An exhausting, frustrating and annoying waste of time…especially because until Petra, none of the women his mother had eventually deemed acceptable had lasted longer than two months. One hadn't made it through an entire day. Then again, Ripley understood, he really did.

Get me this. Fetch me that. Do you actually know how to make tea? Why are you wearing that awful shirt? Did you wipe your feet when you came in?Get your hair cut. Don't interrupt me. You make an awful noise when you're eating. All in the space of an hour.

So he'd swallowed what he'd wanted to say to Petra, taken a deep breath and spoken in the quiet, measured tone he used on juries, asking her to explain how his mother had snuck furniture out of the house without her noticing. Except Petra hadn't answered, she'd cried and cried. Ripley had felt a moment of sympathy. Just one. And it didn't last long. He'd got the name of the auction company out of her and hung up.

Ripley unlocked his door and stepped in out of the rain. Paracetamol! He hung up his coat, kicked off his shoes and headed for the kitchen. After he'd washed two tablets down with a glass of water, he slumped on the couch and closed his eyes.

Thanks to his powers of persuasion the auction company had waived their withdrawal fee and removed from sale all the items they'd collected from his mother's. Ripley had paid for them to be returned to the house. He could have argued about the cost of that. Whoever had been out to speak to his mother had taken advantage of her.

Though that deduction made him uneasy. He doubted anyone could take advantage of her. Ripley wasn't at all sure she was suffering from the degree of absentmindedness she claimed. She only brought up dementia when she wanted something and was quite capable of having done all this to provoke a reaction and get him to visit her. After all, she'd been sharp enough to have arranged for the furniture to be viewed and collected while Petra was out.

Which brought on another thought. Had Petra colluded with her? How had she not noticed the missing items? Some of them weren't exactly small. Had those tears been fake? He stopped himself going down that path. That was the trouble with being a barrister, you questioned everything, including yourself.

Ripley leaned back, willing his headache to fade. Petra's second call in the afternoon had been more significant. Part of him thought his mother could do what she liked with the contents of the house. It wasn't as if he wanted them, but he knew some items were valuable and he didn't want her to get cheated. But Petra had discovered a box of items missing from what had been Ripley's bedroom and she was worried it had gone off to auction too. He'd thanked her for letting him know, ended the call and then clenched his teeth almost hard enough to crack the enamel. When a call to the auction house had gone unanswered, Ripley had driven there as fast as traffic allowed.

The auction house had been under no obligation to tell him who'd bought the lot, which was indeed a box belonging to him, nor that the buyer had only just left. You might catch him. He walks with a crutch. Except there his luck had run out. Bloody stroppy guy. Bloody stroppy cute-looking guy. Though Ripley would be seeing him again. He had to have that box back. The only reason it had not been in Islington was because Ripley was fighting with his memories.

By the time he'd showered and put his dinner in the oven, his headache had miraculously gone and he decided to use his exercise bike. He needed to ride off his frustration. Within minutes, he was wishing he had a new bike. Not a road bike, he didn't have a death wish. No, what he wanted was a more technical static bike with a choice of interactive trails. Then, when he was exercising, he could choose whether to tackle an alpine switchback or perhaps enjoy the white-knuckle terror of the Amalfi coast or even negotiate one of those off-road mountainous routes in South America that looked so dangerous he wasn't sure he'd have even chosen to walk along them, let alone ride a bike. Ripley liked his terror carefully managed.

Using his current exercise bike for forty-five minutes was boring as hell whether he was listening to music or not. So, a new bike it would be. It was near enough to Christmas and it was the only thing he'd get that he actually wanted, because he didn't count whatever his mother settled on. Socks or scarf. Never anything he'd wear and he usually gave them to his cleaner to take to a charity shop or whatever. He didn't care. Ripley knew the old adage—it's the thought that counts—but his mother put no effort into a gift for him and never had.

Though to be honest, did he? He bought the same thing every year, but a large hamper from Fortnum and Mason's was at least something he knew she'd appreciate. Even so, she managed to complain about something inside it. Why would I want capers?

Last Christmas Day, things had been very… Oh God. Don't! Much to Ripley's annoyance and disappointment, a lump formed in his throat. He thought he was done with that sort of discomfort, of being brought low by remembering Alejandro. Clearly not. Burying memories in a box, locking it and throwing away an imaginary key had failed. Sticking a box of physical memories in a wardrobe in another house had failed too.

Ripley found himself cycling faster. Thinking about Alejandro would pull him onto a path he couldn't afford to take. So he turned up the volume of the music pouring into his ears and Bon Jovi's It's My Life drowned everything, including the ability to think.

The following morning, he stepped out of his house with his rolling briefcase and carried it down the steps to the waiting car.

"Morning, Harry."

The rear door was opened for him.

"Morning, Mr Belmont. Better day than yesterday."

"Yes." He bloody hoped so.

Ripley stared out of the window as he was driven to Lincoln's Inn Fields where he worked in Old Square Chambers. He should have been reading his case notes but he'd prepared for the trial last night as he ate his dinner. Another fun-filled evening.

And whose fault is that? If you're going to sit there and make no effort, then why should you be anything else but miserable?

He didn't want to make an effort. He missed Alejandro.

Ripley extinguished the thought as if he were blowing out a match. Maybe not the best of analogies because the aroma lingered and Ripley rather liked the smell of a burnt-out match. Memories of Alejandro would always be there, but he was gone. There was no point wishing it otherwise. Loneliness was here to stay until Ripley decided to do something about it.

He could blame Covid. He'd never been the most sociable of individuals, but increased remote working and the use of Zoom rather than meeting people face to face had made him feel isolated. Barristers spent much of their time alone, preparing cases, travelling. But he'd had Alejandro to come back to… Well, mostly. He clenched his teeth.

On the plus side of Covid, there were fewer mountains of paper to cart around, which had to be better for the planet and his back. Almost every case he was given these days was submitted digitally.

"I'll have to take the longer route, Mr Belmont. The road's blocked ahead."

"No rush."

Ripley had got Harry off a serious criminal charge a few years ago and Harry was now devoted to him, acting as part-time driver and occasionally as a PI. Harry didn't work exclusively for him, but after Ripley had kept paying him throughout the pandemic, even when he had no need of his services, Harry put any request of Ripley's above those of his other clients. It had been money well-spent.

That morning's case was straightforward. Ripley was pretty sure the man he was defending had taken a baseball bat to his neighbour's car and threatened the neighbour, all because of a row about a hedge, but he was still entitled to a defence and Ripley's job was to get him the best result possible. Hopefully, not a prison sentence. All he could do was his best and then it was up to the jury and judge.

Billy, the senior clerk, stepped out of his office as Ripley walked in.

"Good morning, Mr Belmont."

"Is it?" Ripley went into his room and took off his coat with Billy on his heels.

"It's not raining," Billy said. "It's not snowing. The world hasn't ended. Work is still pouring in."

Ripley huffed and dropped down behind his desk. "Now give me the bad news."

"You're needed up north."

"Was that a Lancashire accent?"

"Yorkshire. I've been practising and I'm mortified you didn't recognise it."

"Leeds?"

"Yes, Mr Belmont."

It could have been worse. Ripley was happy with more work, though not particularly happy about having to go to Leeds. But not disappointing his clerk was important, or he could find himself stuck with a case he really didn't want in a town even further north. Though Ripley trusted Billy to give him the right cases and Billy trusted him, so he'd be going to Leeds. Ripley didn't have anything against Leeds though he liked to sleep in his own bed.

First job was to call the auction house. It took no small amount of pleading to persuade them to give him the address of the young man from last night. Well, the address of his employer. The moment this trial ended, he'd go and ask for his box back.

"Car's waiting, Mr Belmont."

Ripley turned to see Billy standing by the door, tapping his foot.

"Sorry, Billy. I'm on my way."

Ripley grabbed his roller-case and hurried out to the Uber waiting on double yellow lines.

"Hello," Ripley said to the driver as he climbed in the back.

The man muttered something Ripley didn't catch.

He pulled on his seat belt, and turned his mind back to the case. Now all he had to do was hope his powers of persuasion worked again, but this time in court. Mal Peters, his belligerent client, was a handful. It wasn't the first time Ripley had acted for him. He'd done his best to ensure Mal understood the need to be quiet in court, at all times, but especially when witnesses gave their side of the story. Unfortunately, Ripley wasn't sure quiet was in Mal's vocabulary.

Mal was lightning fast to fly off the handle, not a trait Ripley wished to be seen by the judge, opposing barrister or jury. Or himself, come to that, should Mal not be happy with the result of the trial. Ripley winced. Victory was not a forgone conclusion, especially when he was fairly certain Mal was guilty. Mal had sworn blind he'd not raised a baseball bat to his neighbour's expensive car, but then Ripley wouldn't be defending him if he'd said otherwise.

Criminals rarely confessed their guilt, even to their lawyer, no matter how obviously guilty they were. They knew the score: once they said they'd done it but still wanted to plead not guilty, they lost their brief. Mal liked him, though that was almost certainly because Ripley had got him off last time. But Ripley treated Mal's promises to ‘behave' with scepticism.

Ripley made his way to the robing room, a place for barristers to change into wig and gown, discuss cases and sometimes to hide from troublesome clients. He exchanged a few words with a couple of other barristers he knew though not with opposing counsel. Not that he was likely to be tricked into giving something away. Most people in there were reading, only a couple looked up. There was never enough time to prepare as thoroughly as you might like.

Gown and annoyingly itchy wig in place, Ripley switched off his phone. There was little that irritated judges more than mobile phones interrupting proceedings, unless it was a defendant calling a witness a liar. Was Mal capable of keeping quiet? Ripley sighed. If he'd believed crossing his fingers would have made a difference, he would have.

The case was won, more because the other side had slipped up on a detail they should have checked, rather than Ripley showing his brilliance, though he'd seen the issue coming when he'd read the notes. Mal was suitably grateful, telling him he'd be recommending Ripley to everyone he knew. Ripley thought, but didn't say, so are all your friends criminals? Because they probably were.

"Don't let me see you again," Ripley said.

Mal laughed. "Don't hold your breath."

Fuck. Ripley hoped he paid on time. He wasn't someone he wanted Billy to have to chase.