It had been a long week of fruitless searching around London. Millions of people meant millions of dead-ends. It didn't matter how much Mitzeee wanted her life to be like a Hollywood rom-com; the convenient meeting at the supermarket wasn't a reality. The fact remained that there were almost as many people in London as there were in the whole of Ireland and those were not good odds when looking for someone.

But Mitzeee put her faith in the Hollywood director in the sky and as she sat in a fancy bar in central London burning her way through Brendan's money and sipping on her third extortionately priced orange juice, she finally got her break.

'Buy you another,' a smooth-talking, smooth-haired, young professional asked, settling himself in the bar stool next to him. He wasn't rough around the edges. He wouldn't be impressed by her past. He wouldn't like her because she was clever, or ruthless, or as blunt as a high school bully. He'd like her for her short dress and fancy hair style. He certainly wouldn't be impressed by a soon to appear baby bump.

'Sorry,' she smiled semi-politely. 'I'm taken.'

'Oh, yeah,' this guy didn't give up. 'Who's the lucky guy?'

'You wouldn't know him,' Mitzeee dismissed him, trying to turn away.

'Because he doesn't exist?'

She didn't like how pushy he was. She was sure she could slap his face off if it came to it, but this was the posh part of London where it wasn't acceptable to mace a guy for coming on a little too strong. She wanted to name Brendan. He was always her go-to-guy for fake relationships, but Brendan was out of her life now and before she could stop herself the name of man who she'd been thinking about for months came tumbling out of her mouth.

'Riley Costello.'

'Costello,' the man choked. 'The West Ham player?'

'Yes,' she answered without hesitation. This might actually be a lead. There couldn't be that many Riley Costello's in London, could there? And her Riley did play football and hadn't his dad been some kind of football professional? It was a slim chance, but it was a chance and she needed this hopeless-flirt to give her some more details.

'He's having a blinder of a season. Come from nowhere and now he's all anyone can talk about. He's got the world at his feet, that boy … and a beautiful girlfriend.' Smooth to the end. He just couldn't help himself. 'Well, it was a pleasure to meet you….' He trailed off for her to fill in her own name, but Mitzeee just smiled and said:

'You too.'

The second he left she began Googling on her phone: Riley Costello, West Ham. There he was, first hit. Riley's smiling face shaking hands with some bloke in a suit and holding a shirt with "No. 8 Costello" on the back. She just stared at his grinning face, his slightly crooked teeth and felt herself tear up. She'd found him.

::

The next day she found herself sat in her inconspicuous hot pink convertible opposite the West Ham training ground. Security types kept staring at her suspiciously. They probably thought she was a groupie, or a team-ie, or whatever the sluts that followed footballers were called. They weren't far from the truth. She was a slut at heart, and she was stalking a football player. But she had a bombshell to drop and nothing but love for him. It was that crazy, stupid, love that kept her sitting in the car park all morning and for most of the afternoon.

And then, she saw him. He was walking along with some other men. They were chatting and laughing and he looked happy; truly happy. He had a huge bag slung over his shoulder and the tracksuit he was wearing looked expensive, not the over-washed, hole-ridden stuff he would wear in his Estate days.

She just watched him for a moment. He looked so perfect. She didn't want to disturb it. He didn't need a pregnant ex-madam to ruin his life. But she was braver than that. And she wouldn't throw away a chance at love just because she was scared of getting hurt. She wasn't Brendan.

She'd just convinced herself to get out of the car when he phone began to ring. She wanted to ignore it, but she couldn't help the little glance down at the screen. The first thing she realised was that it was an unfamiliar number. The second thing was the +353 dialling code and the fact there was only one person she knew in Ireland and he'd promised to never call again. It was an emergency. It had to be. But Riley was right there and he was only seconds from his car and that was an emergency too.

It was a grey room with grey walls. It was cold and there was a faint smell of paint. There was a table and three chairs, a camera to monitor his every move. There would be a microphone somewhere but he'd given up trying to find it. He'd been waiting ages. They'd told him he had a visitor and he was expecting the door to open at any point and for a fat, probably useless, state appointed lawyer to turn up and ask him some questions. The lawyer would assume he'd done it. It would be obvious from the questions he'd ask, but that would be a sick kind of entertaining.

Brendan considered punching his lawyer in the head, just for fun. Or maybe he could go at the guy with his teeth and attempt to earn himself a Hanibal Lecter-style mask. He was going to spend the rest of his sorry life behind bars anyway, it didn't matter what he did anymore.

By the time the door opened, he was led face down on the table pretending to be asleep. It was the tactical move of a five year old trying to avoid bedtime, but his opportunities for rebellion in a cold, grey cell were severely limited and snoring in response to every one of the lawyer's questions would have a certain humorous charm.

'What the hell are you doing?' said the familiar voice. His head snapped up to find Anne stood in the doorway staring disapprovingly back at him. Her hands on her hips like an irritated mother.

'Took you long enough,' he scorned, sliding back into his chair. He'd called her almost two weeks ago.

'Hmm,' she hummed sassily. 'I'm sick of saying goodbye to you. You keep saying things like: "This is it. This is the end of Britzeee"…'

Even in his darkest moment, he had enough about him to mutter a firm 'No' to the nickname.

'… and then you phone me.' She dabbed her eyes dramatically. 'I'm an emotional wreck.'

Brendan just rolled his eyes. He refused to talk to Mitzeee. It wasn't long until Anne arrived, slipping into the seat ahead of him.

'How bad is it?' she asked.

'Bad as it can be, and enough evidence to put me away for life.' And: 'Don't look like that,' he scolded, when her face dropped in horror. 'We both knew this would happen eventually.'

'Not like this.' The determination he'd always admired in her shining bright. 'Not because of Walker.' She spat the name like the poisonous insult it was. 'He organised for you to get caught.'

'No. He made it up entirely.'

'Wait. You didn't do it?'

'No.'

'That's brilliant,' she beamed. 'We'll get you a good lawyer. We'll get you out of here and….'

'Anne,' he interrupted. 'They've got evidence. No lawyer will believe my story.'

'What evidence can be more compelling than the truth?'

'How about two dead bodies in the boot of my car?' He stated the evidence for the first time since seeing them. It was a scene that haunted his days and kept him from sleeping.

'You wouldn't,' Anne's face had drained of colour. 'You wouldn't go that far. You wouldn't have motive.'

'What about love?' He scoffed at the idea now in the same way that he had when the inspector had first suggested it.

'Not Ste,' Anne's horror almost made him smile.

'No, not Steven…. O'Shaughnessy.'

'The fat guy from the club? Why would they think you loved him?'

'And Macca.' He whispered the name. In spite of everything. In spite of his feelings towards the boy, he deserved better than to be used as a pawn in Walker's sick game or revenge. He deserved better than to be stuffed into the boot of a BMW, and Brendan didn't think he'd ever get over the guilt. O'Shaughnessy didn't deserve better.

'Don't look like that,' Brendan sighed as Anne's eyes began to fill with tears. 'You never liked Macca.'

'I didn't want him dead!'

'Neither did I. But he is, and I'm going down for it.'

He knew that for the nosy, listening police officer, he wasn't exactly coming across as particularly innocent, but he didn't feel innocent. He felt resigned to his fate.

'When was this supposed to have happened?' Anne asked. He could see the cogs turning, putting dates together. She'd assume she could be an alibi, but Walker had fixed every detail.

'The day I caught them together.'

'That was ages ago!'

'I've been storing them,' he quoted the inspector, and for the benefit of the hidden microphone, he added: 'allegedly. I was tipped off about the police coming to my home and was racing to dump the bodies … allegedly,' he added again.

'The night you and Steven borrowed my flat? You had the Blue Zoners with you that night,' she said triumphantly. 'There're loads of witnesses, surely.'

'None of which are loyal to me, besides,' he reached the real flaw in his defence, 'I sent them all out of the room, except….'

'Except?' she encouraged. 'Except who?'

'Steven,' Brendan groaned the admission.

'Perfect,' she beamed. 'He'll stand up in court.'

'No.' Brendan had already made this decision. 'There's a chance it wouldn't be enough and I'm not going to let Steven put a target on his back for me.'

'But….'

'I told him it was over,' Brendan insisted. 'I saved him from me, from Walker, from all of this. I won't put him back into danger again now.'

'You'll go to prison, Brendan.' She said it as though the thought couldn't possible have occurred to him, and she almost seemed shocked when he muttered:

'Maybe it's for the best. Steven, Chez, you. I've dragged you all down for too long. Especially you.' He ran a hand down his face. 'You're supposed to be starting a new life in London and I've dragged you back to Dublin.'

'You didn't drag me anywhere,' she flapped his insecurities away. 'Riley and I needed a few days away anyway.'

For the first time since Anne entered the room, Brendan felt genuine happiness flood through him.

'You found him?'

She nodded, crying through her smile.

'And the baby?'

'He's thrilled,' she grinned. 'That's why. I didn't answer your first phone call.'

'Or my second? I though Chez had somehow made you hate me again.'

'Have you told Cheryl? About all this.'

'I keep trying to call her, but … I just don't know what to say. I've left it too long now. Another week or two and the arrogant news reporter can tell her.

'Are you sure that's the way you want to end it with her?'

It wasn't, but nothing had ever been the way he intended when it came to his sister. This was just his final betrayal.

He changed the subject.

'Soooo,' he drawled. 'You and Riley need a weekend away?'

'Paparazi,' she sighed, flicking her hair over her shoulder in full Mitzeee mode. 'They just don't give us a second of peace.'

'The paparazzi, really?' He doubted that she'd crawled her way onto the z-list ladder already. But apparently, that Riley-kid had turned his passion for kicking a flat football around the Blue Zone streets in the persistent drizzle into a job.

Anne beamed at him when she talked about Riley. She had the same look in her as as Cheryl wore when she spoke about Nate. Brendan envied the pseudo-normality of it all. She had so much to look forward to, but he could content himself with the fact she'd finally managed to carve out a normal life for herself and achieve that long-neglected dream.

Cheryl could forget about him too. She could move on with her life and stop worrying about her "misunderstood", older brother. And Steven; Anne had promised to make sure he was doing okay. He might be locked away for the rest of his life, but he didn't want Steven to suffer any more than he already had because of Brendan Brady.

He didn't have many regrets, but what he did to Steven would haunt him until his grave. He wouldn't bother any of them anymore.

Chester: July 2014

'Happy Birthday Dear Lexi, Happy Birthday to You.'

Callum's little prostitute was growing up fast. She was even starting to pick up a few of her father's traits; a cheeky smile and a taste for beer. She got her alcohol fix by dipping her dummy into glasses and sucking the drink free. It might have been cute if Ste hadn't been determined to hate her.

'Stop scowling,' Rae whispered in his ear before pressing a kiss to his cheek and a beer bottle to his palm. 'You're bringing the whole mood down.'

'Sorry.' He wasn't. He was miserable and he wanted the world to know it.

He had no right to be. Mitzeee had put him back in touch with Rae, had given him the money to fly them both to Manchester. She'd even bought a flat in Chester for them and given the a cheap deal on rent.

He didn't want to think about why, all he knew was that when she left him for the final time, his ties with Brendan had been severed.

'Hey, what's up?' Rae asked, putting a hand to his cheek.

'Nothing. Just work, you know.'

'You shouldn't let Tony work you so hard,' she scorned.

Tony was the head chef at the local restaurant where Ste had found a job. He'd been impressed by Ste's work ethic, but working for Tony was child's play compared to cooking for The Estate.

Rae had found a job as mystery shopper, though she constantly referred to it as an acting opportunity. It was everything he should have wanted and yet he was constantly miserable.

'Rae!' That was Hannah-the-Slag's exasperated voice. She was a stressed-out mess this evening, which cheered Ste up a lot. 'Could you look after Lexi a moment? She's just split wine down my dress and….' She pointed to a deep red stain soaking into her white outfit. She looked like she'd been stabbed in the ribs.

Ste tried, and failed, to hold back his laugh, which earned him a glare from slagface and a backhand to the chest from Rae.

Lexi giggled at the slap and Ste found it immediately easier to hate the brat.

'Excuse me,' he said, pushing himself to his feet. 'I'm not drunk enough to be laughed at by a baby.'

He made his way to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge. He took the lid off using the kitchen worktop as a bottle opener with a bang. He raised his beer to a crowd of Callum's new mates from the office who looked disapprovingly in his direction.

The whole party was made up of Callum and slag-face's friends, unless of course Lexi was dead mature for her age and liked handing out with ambitionless twenty-somethings.

'Everything okay, mate?' Callum asked, appearing at his side.

'Yeah, great. I love kids parties, me. I'm just looking forward to the jelly and ice cream, maybe we could have a go at musical bumps.'

'Happy as ever, I see,' he chuckled. 'Job getting you down? Hannah told me you're working long hours.'

'How the hell does slagface know?'

'Ste, that's my wife!' Ste didn't care. 'Rae told her,' Callum explained. 'They tell each other everything, they're virtually inseparable.'

'Gross,' Ste muttered under his breath and took a sip of his beer. 'It's not the job, by the way,' he explained as an afterthought. 'I love my job.'

'So it's Rae?'

'No, she's alright,' which was as accurate a description as anyone had ever possibly given Rae.

'Wow, try not to gush too much there, Ste,' Callum deadpanned. 'You'll make a man blush.'

'You're such an idiot,' Ste smiled. 'And don't be like that, I love Rae. I just….' He trailed off. He didn't know how to voice the end of that sentence. And he didn't know how to answer Callum's next question of:

'You just what, Ste?'

'I dunno,' he shrugged. 'I'm drunk…. Or not drunk enough. I could do with a whiskey.'

'A what!' Callum exclaimed, which was a natural reaction from the supposed best friend who'd only ever seen him chug down beers, Frosty Jacks or - during their annual gate crashing of Manchester Uni's "fresher's week" - jug after jug of snakebite.

'Ireland,' Ste shrugged, which had become his standard response every time he did something Callum was surprised by. Everything had changed.

'Do you have any? Whiskey, I mean?'

'No,' he scorned, as though Ste had never asked a more ridiculous question. 'Johnny might though.' He nodded towards the crowd of work mates.

'Which one's Johnny?' Ste asked, watching the group of phone centre douchebags with distrust.

'I introduced you to them all earlier.'

Ste knew that. He'd shaken all their hands and endured their unfunny joking, whilst silently hating every single pompous hair on their heads. He certainly hadn't bothered to learn their names.

'Tall one in the suit,' Callum sighed, but there was a fondness. They were still brothers, even if they were drifting apart quicker than a poorly constructed raft.

'He looks like a right tool.'

'Oh Jesus. Come on.'

Callum dragged him over to the group, and integrated them into the conversation with an awkward:

'What's going on here then?'

It would be up to Ste to single Johnny out and turn them into whiskey drinking buddies, but all thoughts of whiskey deserted his mind when he finally tuned in to what they were saying.

'Did you hear about this?' One of Callum's more arrogant workmates said, showing his friends something on his fancy iPhone. 'Some poof who killed his boyfriend and his boyfriend's lover.' He snorted. 'Look at the picture,' he thrust it into Ste's face. 'John reckoned he doesn't look gay but look at that 'tache!'

Ste couldn't answer. He just stared at the picture, and Brendan Brady stared back. There was a hurtful sneer on his face; even in his mugshot he looked defiant and angry. He looked dangerous and intriguing. He looked sexy.

But the image was soon gone and the bloke was showing some chavy girl with huge hooped earrings and bright pink drag-queen makeup:

'It's like the village people that,' she snorted loudly, fiddling with her chunky gold-coloured necklace. 'Some people have no style.'

And maybe it was the five bottles of beer he'd chugged down, or maybe it was seeing Brendan's face, or hearing the news. Maybe it was a combination of everything but Ste heard himself say:

'Like you, you mean. You cheap slut.'

He ducked the girl's slap, but he wasn't so sharp with the punch to the gut from the guy next to her. Ste doubled over, gasping for breath but it didn't hurt, not really, not compared to agony he'd been feeling every day for the past few months.

'I don't know how you know Callum,' the guy with the quick fists hissed in his ear. 'But you don't belong here, you get me. You don't belong here.'

And Ste had never heard anyone speak truer words.

::

'Given up on the party?' Callum asked coming through the door. Ste wanted to yell at him to get out, but it was Callum's party and Callum's bedroom and Callum's bed that he was sitting on so he settled with a non-committal grunt and another deliberate swig of his beer.

'Hannah told me what happened with Paul. I'm sorry he hit you man, that's not cool.'

'Don't matter,' Ste shrugged, because it didn't. Nothing did.

'Aw come on mate, don't be like that. I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding.'

'He told me I didn't belong here,' Ste said coldly.

'Oh.' That was all Callum could manage. Four years of friendship, four years of risking everything for each other four years of brotherhood and that was all Ste got now, a pathetic: "oh".

'It's okay,' Ste said. 'I know he's right.'

'What are you talking about?' Callum laughed, high-pitched and lying.

'We're not the same you and me.'

'Well, nah,' Callum agreed. 'I'm better looking.'

Ste didn't laugh. He didn't feel like laughing and Callum quickly reassessed the mood and said something else:

'Come on, Ste. I don't get all this,' he gestured pointless towards Ste. 'You've got a hot girlfriend, a place to live, a job – it's everything you ever wanted.'

'No, it's everything you ever wanted. I never wanted this life, the dull life you never see in films or hear about in news. I don't wanna be another worker, doing my bit to pay bills until I die. I can't follow the rules, Callum. I can't just live the life that's mapped for me.'

'So why come back?'

'I had nothing. I lost all my friends, I lost my home, I lost all my clothes. I lost everything and it wasn't my fault. Someone else organised the whole thing and do you know the worst thing? Do you know the very worst thing?'

Callum just shook his head.

'I was completely, and utterly in love with the man who did it to me.'

::

'I don't understand,' Callum said for the millionth time. 'You're not gay. How could you be in love with a man?'

'It just happened,' Ste shrugged because that was the truth. He hadn't planned it, hadn't questioned it, hadn't even had chance to think about it. It just happened, over and over again, until all he could think about was Brendan and all he wanted was Brendan and all he had was Brendan; and that was enough. Just Brendan, it felt like enough.

'How can something like that "just happen"?' Callum asked. 'You must have felt something like this before, with other blokes?'

'Not really,' Ste said. 'But I don't think I've felt something like this ever, with anyone. You know, I wanna kill him half the time.' He thought of the way Brendan used to wind him up, the things he said and did that contradicted all the angry insults he'd blurt out. He couldn't stop the smile pulling at his cheeks. 'But the rest of the time….' He trailed off. There were no words for what he wanted to say; or at least no words that Ste could think of.

'You've got it bad, man,' Callum smiled. 'But it sounds to me like you're better off well out of it. He killed his ex-boyfriend, it's all over the news.'

'But that's just it, I don't think he would.'

'You said it before,' Callum pointed out. 'He messed with your head, you didn't know if you were coming or going. He destroyed you and you still sit there defending him.'

Ste ran a hand over his face, pinching a little against his eyes. He couldn't explain it, couldn't explain any of it but that was what his thing with Brendan had been about. But, ever since that conversation with Brendan at his sister's house, he'd felt different. He'd felt stronger, like their feelings were more equal because Brendan had shown him, in his own, weird way that he cared, really cared. "I wanted to be your everything." And that had played on Ste's mind every single day since.

But that was too complicated, so he put it into straightforward terms.

'Hannah's a slut,' he stated firmly. 'She cheated on you loads at the beginning and there's serious doubts over whether Lexi is yours or not.'

'Why would you say that now?' he groaned angrily.

'You already know all that,' Ste continued. 'You know it, and you accept it, because you love her and you're willing to forgive her anything.'

Callum closed his eyes in defeat, but Ste finished his point anyway. He had to now. He just wanted to say it aloud.

'It wasn't some sordid affair to me. It wasn't a belated college experiment. I loved him.' He sighed with the painful truth: 'I still love him.'

'And Rae?'

'She's….'

'… alright,' Callum finished for him.

'She wants this,' he gestured around him at this happy, home life. 'And I want….'

'Stubble rash?' Callum thoughtfully suggested. For the first time all evening, Ste's face cracked into an actual smile, which had Callum smiling too. 'Alright gay-boy,' he sighed, defeated. 'Tell me what I need to do.'

'Nothing,' Ste shook his head. 'There's nothing I can do now.' He clenched his fists determinedly. 'I never wanna see his stupid moustache-face ever again.'

'Okay,' Callum gave half a nod and stole Ste's beer from his hand to take a long swig. 'In that case, tomorrow night: You, me, Canal Street. We'll see if we can find you a new stubble rash.' He swung an arm around Ste and pulled him into a weird kind of sideways, half hug. 'You bloody poof.'

'Flirty, ain't they?' Callum chuckled, handing over Ste's beer and ordering a large pink cocktail with fruit and umbrellas for himself.

'What the hell is that?' Ste nodded to the drink in disgust.

'No idea,' Callum shrugged, sipping on it happily. 'The bartender bought it me.'

'The bar tender?' Ste repeated incredulously, glancing over to the man in question as Callum waved and thumbed-up his appreciation for his drink.

Ste was reminded of his own nativity in Barcelona, when he'd done exactly the same to the open-shirted guy who'd bought him a drink. Well, Brendan may have taken amusement from Ste's ignorance, but Ste was kinder than that moustachioed murderer.

'He fancies you,' he scorned. And was surprised when Callum answered:

'Well, yeah.' He was not naïve. 'But we're not here for me. Now,' he looked around the room meaningfully, 'from his mug shot, he looks a bit like the copper from the village people.'

'No!' Ste protested on instinct, but on reflection: 'Maybe a bit.'

Ste wasn't sure how to feel about this place. Callum was waltzing around, playing gay and searching for a Village People Copper look-a-like. Ste was feeling increasingly less gay. Maybe what he'd said to Doug was true. Maybe it was only Brendan, maybe it was all Brendan and would only ever be Brendan. But Brendan was a life-destroying psychopath who'd murdered his ex and his ex's new lover.

He was sure he'd been forced to make the right decision in the end. Rae was the smart choice. He could love her. He could be a father if that's what he wanted and he enjoyed working at the restaurant with Tony. It was time to go home and give up this fleeting fantasy where he could somehow replace Brendan.

'This is my mate, Ste,' Callum said, tapping him on the shoulder. Ste spun on the spot and looked up at the tall, muscle queen, with a shaved head and trimmed eyebrows. 'Ste,' Callum continued, 'this is Noah.'

'Nice to meet you,' Noah smiled, holding his hand out and jutting his hip at a girly angle.

'I've got a girlfriend, me,' Ste replied, before turning on the spot and marching towards the club's exit.

Callum didn't understand and Ste wasn't able to explain. Eventually they just decided that next time they'd go to a pub and have a chat over a pint and check out birds.

Rae was watching the news on television. Ste had had a generous tip and a bit of a bonus after Tony's restaurant had thrown a big exclusive party for the wife of a Manchester City football player and she'd taken a bit of a shine to him. Or at least that was what he'd told Rae.

There had been a party, there had been a decent tip (and she had fancied him), but there certainly hadn't been a large bonus from tightarse-Tony. However, there had been a late-night delivery at the local electronics shop and Ste had taken a 32", HD opportunity with Sky.

'Look at this,' Rae said, turning up the TV. It was her day off, Ste didn't really have one of those, but that suited him.

'What is it?' he called, throwing clothes around their bedroom as he searched everywhere for his uniform.

'Brendan's plea hearing is today.'

'Today?' he stopped searching. The black and white trousers suddenly losing all importance. He walked out into the sitting room. There he was. He looked cool and calm as he strolled towards the courtroom. He was wearing an expensive suit and a smile of indifference.

'I can't believe he's a murderer,' Rae said. 'He was always so nice to us.'

She was totally ignorant to the real Brendan. She'd known nothing about how The Estate worked, which was apparent when she continued: 'Mitzeee, on the other hand … firing me for nothing.'

Rae didn't know Mitzeee was their landlady, there was a lot she didn't know. Ste should probably have felt guilty about it; he didn't.

'He's just pleading to the charges today,' Rae repeated immediately after the TV. It sounded like a bad echo. 'He'll plead guilty, won't he?' she asked as Ste went back to his fruitless uniform-hunt.

'He'll plead not-guilty.' Ste was sure of that. There were his trousers.

'You don't think he did it?'

'Dunno.' He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He'd know, if he was in a room with Brendan, he'd know if he was telling the truth. But he'd expect Brendan to protest his feigning innocence regardless, because: 'He'd like the drama of a trial. It's all about the show. How do I look?' he asked, posing in his outfit.

'The trousers are a bit creased.'

'Mm-hmm.' He ignored her, kissing her on the top of the head.

'You could let me run an iron over them.'

'I'll be late,' he shouted as he headed out of the door. She was turning into a proper little housewife. It was all so boring.

Ste flirted with the delivery boy so that he could steal some lamb for the evening. He made himself and Rae a special meal when he got home and she gushed about what an amazing boyfriend he was. Despite Rae's wishes, Ste Hay just couldn't be completely straight.

xXx

It would be another two weeks before the trial began. It was all a bit of a farce though. The judge had refused him bail and sentenced him to spend the time waiting for the trial in Portlaoise Prison, which made a mockery of the old "innocent until proven guilty".

It was a matter of hours before he'd been violently introduced to three burley blokes claiming they were mates of Walker's.

'Once the media calm down, Brady, we're coming for you,' one promised.

'Everyday,' the second agreed. 'Until those shoe laces start looking mighty tempting.'

The third guy mimed hanging himself, which was probably unnecessary. He'd heard the message loud and clear: "There was no escape from Walker's spidery reach" that was enough ammunition to keep him at that trial for as long as possible.

His useless lawyer had spent the last few days berating him for not pleading guilty and Brendan was now in the visiting room waiting for round 4 of McGinn's tireless game of "What the hell did you do that for?"

Brendan's answer was always the same:

'I'm Irish. I like a brawl.'

'Even one you can't win?'

'Where's the fun in only picking fights with Carrig O'Neal?' Then he'd explain that Carrig O'Neal was the weedy, red-headed kid who lived on his street when he was wee. Everyone had picked fights with Carrig O'Neal.

But when the door finally opened, it wasn't McGinn. It was:

'Chez?'

'Don't "Chez" me,' she glared. She was spoiling for a fight. He was her older brother, he knew the signs: nostrils flaring, pushing up her bra, death in her eyes. It was a look that usually preceded a few hefty punches to his chest.

'How could you do something like this?'

'Chez, I didn't.'

He tried to reach out for her, but she stepped away. He regretted putting her name on his visitors list. He'd just felt a bit lonely only writing "Anne" and his lawyer.

'Chez?'

'I don't know you at all,' she mumbled. There were tears in her eyes.

'Fine, don't know me, just believe me.'

'Believe you,' she scoffed. The very idea that he might be capable of the truth was apparently laughable. 'How can I? You lied to me before. You stood in front of me and I asked you … I asked you!' She let out a kind of weird growl before continuing: 'I asked you if you were gay and you said "no". You promised me.'

Her screaming would be alerting the Garda. They would be coming to her to rescue her at any second, but she wasn't done yet.

'You promised me you would never lie to me and you did and it was massive. That was a massive lie, Brendan.' She sighed. 'If you can lie to me about that, if you can keep up a fake life with Mitzeee, you can lie about anything.'

The young Garda appeared and offered to escort her from the room. The sobs were starting to pinch her breath and halt her words, but she nodded. She ignored him as he begged for a chance to explain and he was left in the room, cold and desperate and he was hit by a sudden realisation. This wasn't The Estate anymore. This wasn't a theatre to amuse himself. This was real life and this trial, these images, the detail in the so-called evidence would destroy Cheryl. This wasn't a game anymore.

When the Garda came to drag him back to his cell, he said:

'Get my lawyer on the phone, I want to change my plea.'

Thanks for reading! xx