You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (best fiction novels .TXT) 📕

else to blame when it all goes wrong. Step up and take ownership for your actions. Admit that you knowingly engaged in risk-taking behaviour. Don’t point the finger at two young men who did nothing wrong. Don’t ruin their lives because you broke one rule too many.

8

JESS

Saturday mornings are busy, with back-to-back classes mostly populated by corporate types whose long work hours make it difficult to come during the week. Each Saturday they arrive with a week’s worth of frustration and angst. An hour later, they’re red-faced, sweating profusely and realigned for the week ahead. Jess finds the transformation gratifying.

‘One, two, rip … One, two, hook … Pick it up … Fast hands. Great work … Swap it over. Let’s go.’

Each class operates on a rotation system. Five people per station: punching bags, skipping ropes, agility ladders and squatting against the brick wall. Rounds of two minutes, with short breaks to get from one station to the next. The usual soundtrack: the thwack of gloves making contact, the whistle of the skipping ropes, grunts and moans, Rihanna playing at full blast.

‘Whoever’s on the right moves first. Don’t cross your feet over. Try to catch up with each other. Quick feet.’

Jess smothers a grin as she observes the disarray on the agility ladder. Performance tends to be directly related to age. The younger ones are nimbler and scurry along the rungs without having to stare at their feet the whole time. For the older ones it requires more concentration. Five push-ups are the punishment for tripping up.

‘Pump it up. Keep it tight. Last thirty. Faster. Nice work. Swap it over.’

Saturdays attract more women, in vests and leggings and hitting the punching bags with such ferocity you’ve got to give them credit. The men tend to be grey-haired, mostly in their forties and fifties. Many are overweight and unfit. Some are decidedly weak. A few weeks of training, and the improvement is substantial. Improvement in the serious fighters is more subtle, and they’re not as grateful for it.

‘Has everyone been twice around the circuit? Okay, let’s get on the floor and do some core work.’

A flurry as they unwrap the strapping from their hands and spread out on the mat. The more experienced ones grab a balance ball.

‘Everyone on your elbows and toes. Push down your lower back. Now hold the plank. Twenty more seconds. Hold … Ten … Hold …’

Sun is spilling through the large corner window on to the blue exercise mat. Twenty people are on the floor, holding their plank position with varying degrees of success. Their faces are set with concentration and resolve. Vince is sitting at the desk, tapping at the keyboard with two fingers, catching up on admin. He glances up and points to the kettle. Jess nods: she could kill for a coffee. Vince is always looking out for her, in small ways and big. He’ll have her coffee ready at the end of class and she can sip it while chatting to everyone. Eventually, this lot will leave and the next lot will arrive. Full of angst and surliness. Another transformation to begin.

Jess’s shift finishes at lunchtime. There’s a text waiting on her phone from Alex.

Job bigger than I thought. Won’t be home till after five

She and Alex left home at the same time this morning: 5.30 a.m. He dropped her to the station on his way, his stubble scratching her face as they kissed goodbye. Saturday mornings are busy for him, too: working mums and dads keen to get stuck into their gardens, seeking help with mowing, weeding and pruning. He thought he might be finished by early afternoon, but a job turning out to be bigger than expected is a common occurrence. They’re meeting friends for dinner tonight; still plenty of time to get ready if he’s home by five. A shower, an optional shave, any old thing to wear. Alex’s lack of vanity is one of the things Jess loves about him.

She pops her phone into her backpack before slinging it over her shoulder. ‘I’m off, Vince. See ya Monday.’

The gym is closed on Sundays. Vince is old-fashioned like that. In his view, Sunday is a day for rest, families and religion. If it were left to Jess, she’d open up in the morning at least. For the people who don’t want to rest or visit their families or go to church. For people like her.

Vince glances up from the computer screen. His gaze is bleary and affectionate. ‘Take it easy, Jess.’

The roller door is at half-mast; Jess ducks underneath. When she straightens, Megan is there, right in front of her. She stifles a scream: not the best greeting after all this time.

‘Shit! You scared me.’

‘Sorry. I was just about to knock.’ Megan glances dubiously at the roller door.

An awkward silence, where they size each other up. Megan has put on some weight: her face is round and glowing with health. She’s in her paramedic uniform. The navy suits her. She looks clean, crisp and competent.

‘Sorry,’ Megan says again. ‘I should have texted. I came on impulse.’ She looks around at the other warehouses, most of which are closed for the weekend. ‘Look, is there somewhere we can go and talk?’

‘There’s a coffee place on the main road. This way.’

They fall into step. It’s like walking next to a stranger, a wary silence and distance between their bodies. Jess hasn’t spoken to Megan since her father’s funeral, but the friendship was gone long before that.

‘Here we are.’ The café is nothing special. Clean and utilitarian. Metal tables and chairs, which are uncomfortable if you sit on them too long. Basic menu and order at the counter.

‘What do you want?’ Jess asks, more brusquely than intended.

‘Just a tea, thanks.’

There’s no one else in the café. The order is placed and Jess is sitting back down in less than a minute.

‘A detective came to see me,’ Megan says carefully.

Jess hurtles back in time. Detectives hammering her with questions, different ways of