Hubris

C/W: referenced child abuse, referenced domestic violence, mentions of blood, violence, a couple f-bombs, just general police-led violence and all that ensues so please be careful with that. This guy is a little heavier.

The day Barty locked his handcuffs around his own son's wrists and loaded him into the back of a riot van was the day he sealed his fate. Thirty years, Junior got, and only ten of that was for the crimes he'd committed. The other twenty served as an example; a way to deter others from committing the same. The irony was that their main man and six of his co-conspirators got away. For an operation eighteen months in the making, it sure didn't have a lot to show for it. Twelve drug mules and five low-tier gang members. It would have almost been funny if Junior had just been a mule but no, he had the tattoo and all. His involvement was well and truly documented. The whole time Barty had been running the operation, one of its members had been housed under his own roof!

When his team had first radioed through with the IDs of the people they'd apprehended in the raid, Barty had thought it was a sick joke, meant to shake him and make him lose focus, but the face that had stared back at him, twisted with hatred and dripping with spittle, was indeed that of his son. Everything – the sirens, the flashing lights, his officers yelling back and forth over the din as they marshalled people into vans – had dulled, sinking into the background. It was like time stilled, staring into Junior's eyes like that, and then the handcuffs had clicked into place and everything – the lights, sounds, smells - had all come back. He'd pushed his son's head down and into the van with three other handcuffed gang members and a riot officer, and shut the door with a solid thud. The next time he'd seen Junior was in a detention cell before the trial.

As head detective for the case, Barty was to be the one presenting evidence against the accused. Normally they kept the detained in a separate wing to the prosecution and the defence, but Barty had needed a word with the court prison officer on duty. It was a mistake, and Barty had left with no memory of what the officer had even told him, meaning the whole trip had been useless.

The holding cells behind the court rooms were in the old part of the courthouse, and so the bricks were crumbling and the floor was dusty, but nobody ever stayed there long enough for that to matter. Prisoners were brought to the adjacent watch tower the night before their hearing (or within hours of the session for the higher profile ones) and marshalled across the street by a couple prison officers and often accompanied by one or other of the local beat. No-one involved in the trial was ever made aware of when prisoners were being transported, to prevent any conflict of interest. That law had come into practice after a witness had intercepted two prisoners being transported and had beaten both them, and the two officers with them, with a metal rod. Two of the four had died on the way to hospital, and the other two sustained serious and debilitating injuries which had left them with severe damage for years after. It was no surprise when the law came into being quickly after that.

And so, it followed that on the day of Junior's trial, Barty had had no clue when he was being transported, and so was quite shocked when he came face to face with him when he turned from the prison officer to the cell behind him. Immediately, he forgot what he was doing and time slowed. Junior looked up at him through greased, scraggly hair, a snarl shimmering with spittle etched across his face.

"Father," Junior had acknowledged with bite in his tone. "Come to gloat, have you?"

Barty composed himself and set his gaze on a brick over Junior's left shoulder so he wouldn't have to see that snarl again. "You have done this to yourself, boy. The hand of the law is all the gloating I need."

Junior drew a breath and spat a great glob of spit at his feet. "Bullshit. You know who's really at fault. Or have you forgotten all the beatings you so lovingly enstowed?"

Barty drew in a harsh breath. "Watch your tone, lad."

"Or what?" Junior laughed sharply. "I'm already locked up. What more can you do to fuck up my life?"

Barty hadn't responded to that. Instead, he'd taken one last look at his son, and then he'd walked away. He still regretted not saying goodbye.

The trial went as expected. There was too much evidence for Junior to not be convicted and, at the end of a nine hour session, a guilty verdict had been called and Junior's sentence decided. Thirty years. The words had rung through Barty's ears, his mind blank. At the time he hadn't heard the rest of the sentence; too distracted by the cries of his wife in the stands of the atrium. The daft woman had sat through the entire session still believing there was some way to save her son, not that Barty could fault her for that. At the end of the day, when all was said and done, thrity years was a lifetime stolen, regardless of which way you said it. For Verity, seeing her son cast away, doomed forever, was the worst moment of herlife. For Barty, that was just the beginning.

In the months that followed, Barty was demoted, five times; belittled constantly by men who used to answer to him with respect; treated with contempt by the wife he'd loved and cherished for twenty-five years; mocked by the people he used to call friends, and was barred from not two, but three local pubs for being 'too aggressive'. It truly was the downfall of man. Barty had flown too close to the sun, played too much with the golden touch, ridden his horse to the gods; this was his hubris, and his torment.

A black and white picture of Verity on their wedding day sat framed on his desk. It was the only thing in this new office that wasn't stained. After the fifth demotion, Barty had resigned himself to desk jobs for the rest of his life, and had stopped caring about keeping his desk spotless. It wasn't as if anyone ever stopped by anyway.

The sign on his door no longer said 'Detective Chief Superintendent', and he no longer had his own room. Instead, the rusty plaque read 'Detective Constable' and the room housed five desks, all populated by a circulating roster of dead-beat cops masquerading as detectives until the station decided to move them elsewhere. Barty was the only one who never seemed to move.

The first demotion hadn't been as bad. He'd believed he just needed to work harder to prove himself worthy of regaining his position; of course the Met would question whether he could do the job after botching their biggest case in fifteen years and letting the main target walk free. But after the second (doesn't play well with others), and then the third demotion (inefficient spending of police resources), Barty lost hope of ever regaining what he once had. He'd laughed in the faces of the gods, and gotten what he deserved.

It didn't help that his personal life was swiftly becoming unbearable as well. Friends of ten plus years were no longer looking at him the same way, and as time went on, their jibes about him being so devoted to a case he couldn't see his son's involvement developed more of a bite. His colleagues, the men he once sat amongst respected, grew distant and flaky. No longer was he being invited to after-work drinks, and they even held a retirement party for his old Commander without telling him. It was more than a man could take, and so, Barty sat, day in, and day out, filing traffic reports and minor theft so that the 'real' detectives didn't have to and all the while, he cursed the bastard son of his wife for his last insult to his family legacy. Everything Barty worked for; torn asunder by nothing more than a whelp.

Eight months into Junior's sentence, Verity approached Barty for the first time since his third demotion. Barty was sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of Carling when his wife emerged from the spare bedroom she now slept in and sat in the chair next to him. Quietly, she said, "I want our son free."

Barty took a swig of his beer and swallowed harshly, refusing to look at her. "Your son."

Verity looked at her hands in her lap. "Yes, my son."

Barty considered what she'd said spitefully. He took another swig. "He's not coming out for a long time."

"Yes, I know that, Barty," Verity snapped at him. Then she looked down, ashamed.

Barty felt a pang of pity. He reached out and gently took her hand into his. "I know it hurts, but you have to let him go." Verity yanked her hand away and Barty moved his back to his beer with a shrug. "Whatever crazy idea you've brewed up isn't going to bring him back, Verity. Sooner or later you're going to have to realise that our son is long gone. If he was even in there to begin with." Barty muttered that last part into the last drops of his beer and spilled the rest down his throat. The bottle hit the table with a clink and Barty stood up, scraping his chair along the floor, determined to fetch another beer.

Verity's frail hand shot out to grab Barty's wrist and he spun around with his palm raised out of instinct. Verity flinched and Barty dropped it to the back of his neck, wincing apologetically. He didn't have the energy for a proper apology; he didn't have the energy for a lot these days.

His wife's scared eyes looked up at him, tears shimmering in the corners, refusing to fall. Quiet, but determined, she said, "I want to break him out."

The visitation paperwork went through a week after Junior's sentence let it, only held back by Barty's wavering resolution to sign it. Eventually, he did, led on by the pleading eyes of his wife, and the first part of her plan was set into motion. The day was set for sometime in the middle of June and Barty had managed to pull enough strings to get them a whole room to themselves. He wanted nothing to do with the specifics, but he'd go along with whatever Verity had planned. He didn't really believe she'd go through with anything, but it might do her some good to see the boy.

The day rolled around quickly and soon enough they were being escorted through the visitor hallways of Newgate Prison and ushered into their monitored visitation room. Verity sat with her hands twisted up in her blouse while she anxiously waited for the clock to tick down. The longer they sat, the more tense Barty got. He hadn't originally wanted to come along, but Verity had begged him to, and now he was regretting that decision.

Finally, the door opened and two prison guards escorted a chained and handcuffed Junior into the room. They pushed him into the chair across from his parents, and bolted his handcuffs to the table. Then they left.

Barty looked at his son. Nine months in prison had done him no favours.

His already skinny frame was now even more so, and his sallow cheeks spoke of being bruised often. There were bruises up and down his arms and Barty's only thought, as his wife started up conversation with Junior, was that he wished he'd been the one to put them there.

It was then that the idea started to trickle into Barty's brain. An inkling of a thought; the meanderings of a doomed man rattling about in his brain.

Maybe, if Junior died, then all of that would go away. Maybe Barty could get his life back, and finally move past this ridiculous little blip. Maybe he would be respected again, and maybe he'd be invited to after-work drinks again, and he wouldn't have to endure snippy comments from the neighbours, or his friends, or his friends' wives. And maybe his wife would talk to him again, and look him in the eye, and fuck him like she used to when they were young and dumb.

He stood up without realising, and the chair made a chilling metallic scrape along the stone floor. Verity stopped talking abruptly and looked at him. Junior's icy eyes flicked over to him from under his fringe.

Word on the street is you beat the kid bloody.

Barty walked round the table, coming to a stop next to Junior's chair. Junior strained his neck to keep eye contact.

"Barty? What are you doing?" Verity asked, shrill with alarm.

Bam!

Junior's head snapped back, his hands spasming in their restraints. Verity started shouting, shrill protests falling on unhearing ears deaf to all but echoes.

Oi, Crouchy! Botch any high-profile cases recently?

Bam!

Oh, the retirement party? Invite must've gotten lost in the post.

Bam!

Apparently, your son's in prison. I'm sure that was nothing to do with you, don't you worry.

Bam!

Blood pumped through his fists, fashioning the pain into a blunt buzz. Junior didn't fight it, falling limp. Verity leapt over the table, grabbing for Barty's arm as he raised it for another punch. Barty spun around and Verity's eyes widened. Junior finally jolted to life, yelling, "No!"

This is your fault! You should've kept him safe!

Bam!

The door burst open and three guards ran in, rushing to restrain Barty. He turned to them and swung, landing a solid blow to the first guard's cheek before the second tackled him to the floor. He swung wildly, landing glancing blows this way and that, before his hands were restrained and pushed roughly into the floor. His chest heaved with exertion and slowly, the fog in his mind cleared. Verity was wailing, and Junior was spitting expletives and cursing his father.

Barty heard them being escorted out the room, and the sound of Verity's cries faded as she was led down the corridor. Barty went limp, and the guard on top of him shifted his weight off him slightly to lock handcuffs around his wrists. Properly restrained, he removed himself and roughly pulled Barty into a sitting position. Restrained and breathing heavily, Barty looked down at his hands covered in his wife and son's blood with only one thought on his mind.

What have I done?

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Semi finals for QLFC season 10

Team: Montrose Magpies

Position: Captain

Prompt: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe - Write about a character facing temptation.

Word count: 2457

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A/N: So, temptation. Barty wants everything to go away. The temptation of that life he had beckons him to do what many would consider the unspeakable. We don't know the extent of the injuries he inflicted, but not all wounds are physical.

Another note, we don't have a canon name for Mrs Crouch other than...Mrs Crouch. So I made one up. Don't come at me.

Other than that, I hope you enjoyed :)

ooh see if you can spot the three myths I referenced!