Billy Lamb died two days after the disastrous head of chambers elections, two days after the murder of Mickey Joy, and two days after what was arguably the most important day in Martha Costello's career. His funeral a few days later was attended by hundreds, people from all walks of life surrounding the criminal bar. There seemed no limit to the number of people whose lives, in one way or another, had been touched by Billy Lamb throughout his career - and no limit to the sheer number of flowers that swamped the front of the room, offerings from those either unable to attend or wishing to visibly mark their presence. Amongst them somewhere was a bouquet of roses, tied in red ribbon, with a card marked Clive: his only presence at the funeral.

People were starting to file out of the large crematorium but Martha sat, pale and composed, alone at the end of the front row of seats, staring straight ahead at the door through which Billy's coffin had disappeared not ten minutes before. The emptying of the room passed her by, too mundane and everyday to notice, until Caroline took the seat beside her and silently pulled her into a gentle hug, resting her cheek on smooth blonde hair. "Time to go," she said softly. "I think the funeral director's glaring at us."

What started as a feeble laugh disintegrated into a choked sob, and Caroline moved away to look at her. "You're coming home with me," she said firmly, handing her a tissue. "And don't even think about arguing."

Martha wiped her eyes and blew her nose, nodded her assent.

"Come on then. How did you get here?"

"Taxi."

"Right. My car's outside."

The carpark looked as grey and bleak as the crematorium itself in the unforgiving light: evening was drawing in, the air chilling quickly as the sun filtered weakly through clouds above the rooftops. The journey back was silent - glances exchanged but not elaborated upon - a hand on Martha's knee at a particularly long wait for a red light; when they finally pulled up on a quiet, residential street, the void left by the cutting off of the engine was resounding, almost uncomfortable.

Caroline cleared her throat. "Come on, darling, you can't sit here all night."

At last Martha stirred, undoing her seatbelt and looking across at her companion. "It's just...well, it's weird, isn't it? When you've had time to get used to the idea of someone dying?"

"I suppose it is."

Her gaze slipped away and fixed on her hands, twisting in her lap. "Thing is... Thing is, Caroline, I'm glad he's gone. I'm glad he's not in pain any more, I'm glad he's not just waiting to die." She looked up. "What sort of a person does that make me?"

A pained smile flitted across Caroline's lips. "Human, I'm afraid." She took the keys from the ignition and reached into the back for her bag. "Come on, inside with you."

Once inside, she pointed Martha to the armchair. "Coffee or alcohol are your options," she said, digging out her glasses to leaf absently through the pile of post she'd picked up on the way in. "I have many strengths, but stocking a kitchen is emphatically not among them."

"I didn't think it would be."

"Oh?" she said, a hint of danger in her voice, but Martha just smiled enigmatically and stretched out her legs.

For a moment there was silence, this time comfortable, broken by the rustle of opening envelopes and the steady ticking of the clock. "Let's go somewhere," said Martha suddenly. "I want to get really, really drunk."

Caroline considered her over the rim of her glasses. "I'm not sure that's the best idea you've ever had, is it?"

"What, because you think I'm fragile and upset and-and- vulnerable?" Martha looked almost betrayed, standing abruptly and glaring at Caroline, who studied her for a moment before sliding off her glasses and setting them on the table.

"Quite the opposite," she said conversationally. "I think you're very angry, and I think you're very dangerous. And I think you're more than a little destructive." She moved towards her, a wry smile on her lips. "But who am I to judge any of those things." Close enough to touch, she settled one hand on Martha's waist, stroked her cheek with soft fingers, and, leaning in, kissed her with gentle thoroughness. "In fact, I find it all terribly attractive. But I'm not going to stand by and let you make the same mistakes that I did."

Martha stared at her, half reverently. "You," she said, running eager hands over her hips, across her waist, over her breasts, before moving up to cup her face, "you are bloody amazing." This time the kiss was hard, demanding; there was more than a touch of desperation in the way she twisted her hands in Caroline's hair, scraped her teeth along her bottom lip, and groaned as Caroline matched her ferocity in return. When she pulled back, breathless and flushed, she smiled. "We're going to go out. We're going to get horribly drunk. We're going to celebrate Billy's life, properly. And then tomorrow I'm going to fix my life."

"There's my Martha."

Four pubs and far too many glasses of wine later, they emerged from the taxi outside Caroline's flat in a floating haze of warmth and amusement, laughed their way up the steps, and fumbled with keys in the lock, kicking it closed behind them once they finally figured it out.

"See, I told you this was a good idea," Martha said, darting in and kissing her with the joyfulness of just enough wine to make the world a better place. "I told you."

"You did," allowed Caroline. "You certainly did. And speaking of good ideas..." She pushed her gently back against the wall, fingertips at the hem of her dress. "What about this one?"

Martha's eyes fluttered closed. "God yes," she breathed. "Yes."

Her dress was at her hips, a hand dipping down between her legs to caress the inside of her thigh, when Caroline paused. "Sure?"

Frustrated, Martha wriggled against her, trying to encourage that teasing hand to touch her where she needed it. "I will kill you if you stop now." It was enough; clever fingers resumed their motion, reached their goal, and Martha gasped at the contact, hissed out a "fuck" as they began to move, head falling back against the wall. She responded to each touch with shallow, shuddering breaths and incoherent encouragements, blindly seeking Caroline's mouth with her own. Kisses swallowed her moans, expert fingers working against her until she dropped her head to Caroline's shoulder, mouth moving wordlessly against her neck in babbled nonsense. Her voice caught and she sobbed out a soft, relieved noise as she came, gasping for breath.

They stood there for a moment, breathing hard, until Caroline moved back, smoothed Martha's hair, and said, "Now you, Martha Costello, are going to sleep."

She frowned, tried to step towards her, and stumbled on shaky legs, caught by a waiting arm. "But-"

"You're exhausted, you're a little drunk, and you can barely stand up straight." Caroline tightened the arm around her waist, leading her into the bedroom. "And while I take full responsibility for that last one, you're going to take those clothes off, get into bed, and go to sleep."

"But you-"

"I," she said teasingly, "have two hands and the memory of you, back there." She grinned. "It won't be a problem."

The alarm that went off at six the next morning had two very different effects. Caroline sighed, half-awake, and sat up, turning it off with practiced efficiency; beside her, Martha stirred, groaned, and opened her eyes: "Oh god, my head.".

"There's water on the table next to you," Caroline said, sliding out of bed. "Still feel like fixing your life?"

Martha closed her eyes again. "Fuck off," she mumbled.

"It's always wise to be nice to the woman who knows where the painkillers are."

"Give," Martha demanded immediately, and Caroline laughed, heading for the bathroom and coming back with a packet of paracetamol.

"Go back to sleep. I know you don't have anything today, and I have to be in court at eleven."

"Mmmm." She swallowed down two pills and a few mouthfuls of water, made a face, and hid back beneath the covers, resenting every last second of daylight that had ambushed her eyes. She heard Caroline laugh, and then the sound of the shower in the bathroom next door. Seconds after that she was asleep again.

When she awoke next the bedside clock said half eleven, and she dragged herself unwillingly into the shower, reminding herself that not only was she a grown woman, but she had a plan for the afternoon that would not admit the excuse of a headache.

An hour later, she was walking into Shoe Lane chambers; another hour later, and the taxi dropped her outside her flat. She went down to the door with a spring in her step, stopping only to send Caroline a text (when you're done, my flat. got news!) before booting up her laptop to work. Engrossed in her research, she wasn't sure whether it was minutes or hours when daylight began to fade, filtering down through the windows to cast a thin light across the room. She sipped at her glass of apple juice, laptop propped open on her knees, squinting in the dying light but too comfortable to get up and switch the lights on. Every now and then she jotted a name down on the pad of paper beside her, considering, and checked back at her screen with a frown.

She was halfway through scribbling out the latest addition to her list when the doorbell rang, and she went to answer it, hitting the lights as she went.

Standing illuminated by the porch light was Caroline. "I got your text," she said, stepping inside. "How's the headache?"

"All gone. How was court?"

"Excruciating." Caroline took her shoes off with a sigh and followed Martha through to the living room. "The judge was half senile and I'm fairly sure the defendant was drunk."

A huff of laughter. "Did you win?"

"Well, yes," she said, mock-offended, "but it's not exactly a victory worth celebrating."

A smile twitched in the corner of Martha's mouth. "Not even if I told you there's whiskey in the cupboard?"

"Ah, well, that's different. But first, Miss Costello, I was under the impression that you had something to share with the class..."

The smile that had threatened to emerge earlier broke out in full force, half smug, half triumphant, and she waited a beat before saying, "I resigned."

Caroline stared, then let out a helpless laugh. "Oh, oh that's brilliant. I was wondering what had pissed off our glorious leader this evening. How did he take it?"

"You know what he's like. Appeals to our friendship, emotional blackmail, tried to twist me round his little finger." She laughed, but it rang humourless. "Bastard."

"Indeed."

They stared at each other for a moment, then Martha pointed over at the cabinet in the corner. "Whiskey's in the bottom. You'll find a glass in the top." The papers half-covering the sofa she gathered into a pile, dumped on the floor, and set her laptop on the table before picking up her abandoned apple juice and sinking down onto the sofa. She patted the space next to her.

"That's step one of fixing your life, then," Caroline said, offhand, settling back on the sofa with her drink. She studied Martha intently, watching as her lipstick made a perfect section of a circle on the rim of the glass. She looked tired, worn out, but she was obviously thinking deeply about something; every couple of minutes, she looked up as if she was about to speak, then sipped at her juice and sank back into thought, and eventually Caroline gave up waiting. "Oh, for goodness sake, Martha, I'll bite. What the hell are you thinking about that has you so quiet?"

Martha bit her lip, an unconscious gesture of doubt, and set aside her glass, leaning forward just enough to put her firmly in Caroline's personal space. "What would you say," she began slowly, "if I set up my own chambers?"