The Soprano, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also by the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Coming Soon
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Soprano
M.A. Williams
Copyright © 2022 M.A. Williams
All rights reserved.
The events depicted in this novel are fiction. Any similarities to any persons or events are purely coincidental. The author retains moral rights to this work and all elements within.
Also by M.A. Williams
Beware the Boy: A Life by Misadventure
For Crofty
CHAPTER ONE
DECEMBER 22ND, 2004
Sarah Green had been so engrossed in the music blaring through the headphones of her new iPod that it took a moment for her to register that the driver had pulled the taxi up to the curb, and was looking at her expectantly. They had stopped at the top of her road, more than five-hundred yards from her door. She removed her headphones so that Puccini’s O mio babbino caro broke out, a tinny whine against the powerful blasts of air blowing loudly through the vents – a vain attempt to keep the windscreen from fogging up against the bitterly cold air outside.
She pointed vaguely in the direction of her house. She wasn’t drunk drunk, but she’d had enough to make her feel a little light-headed.
“Yeah, it’s just down there,” she slurred, fumbling for her purse.
“Please, miss, I could drop you here? Your street, very busy tonight, and to make turn and come back out take, maybe, five minutes.”
“You’re joking,” she pressed. “Seriously? It’s fucking freezing! Please, can’t you just-”
The driver shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, miss, but town is very busy. I need to get back.”
Sarah looked at him for the first time, as his broken English and thick Indian accent swirled in the fog of her already addled mind. He was an older man, with soft features and wide, pleading eyes, and despite her annoyance at his assertion that she should get out and walk just to make his evening easier, she felt herself feeling more amenable to the idea when she eyed the number of layers he was wearing, and a pair of torn fingerless gloves that did little to protect him from the cold (he had brought them up to his lips and breathed sharply on them as he spoke, vigorously shaking his left hand - presumably to warm them up enough to continue his shift). He reminded Sarah of her father, waiting patiently outside the small hall in Aberavon where she had gone to choir practice every Tuesday and Thursday evenings, shivering through the winter months as he listened to whatever football match was on the radio (until she returned and made him switch to Classic FM - which he never complained about, even though he never got to hear the end of the game and the result), and the image of him instantly made her warm to the man in front of her. And, to be fair to him, since the council had blocked off the end of her road but failed to introduce sufficient controls to stop people parking wherever they felt like, it probably would take him a few extra minutes to turn and escape the cul-de-sac. Fuck it, she thought. It’s not worth the fuss.
She fished a tattered ten-pound note from her purse and handed it to him, and although she was annoyed at the prospect of walking another five-hundred yards in the impossibly high heels she had selected for the evening, she told him to keep the change and to have a good night.
“Bless you, miss. Thank you. And Merry Christmas.”
She flashed a soft, sweet smile at him before climbing out of the car, and was struck immediately by a blast of wintery air that squeezed her lungs and made her audibly gasp for air. She hadn’t dressed for the cold. Then again, she hadn’t dressed to be walking the streets. The emerald-green satin number had been the perfect choice for performing at the University’s annual carol concert on campus, followed by a brief appearance at the Choral Society’s end-of-term drinks on campus, but with its fitted bodice and thigh-high slit it was far too dressy for the club she had ended up in. And the slip of a jacket she had paired with it offered little - if any - protection from the elements.
Sarah watched as the taxi slotted into the throng of oncoming traffic and disappeared into the night. In stark contrast, the cul-de-sac was eerily quiet - which set Sarah on edge as she rounded the corner. The number of broken streetlights didn’t help and, for a moment, she contemplated stepping down from the six-inch heels and making a run for her front door. She told herself that she was being silly and that, looking around, it was clear that there was no-one else around. Besides, the amount of broken glass left behind by end-of-term parties meant it was probably a bad idea. Her heart raced as she wrapped her fingers tightly around the rape alarm her father had insisted on giving her when she left home for university a year before.
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, drowning out any other sounds. The strong winds buffeted the row of cars parked tightly against the kerb, making her jump more than once as she made her way quickly along the street. An icy blast slammed against her body and whipped the length of her skirt up behind her, billowing around her knees like a makeshift cape, and she yelped as a fat, ginger tabby darted out in front of her with a hiss.
“Fuck!”
She could see her house, just three doors down. The light above the vivid red front door wasn’t on. Rhiannon must’ve forgotten again, she told herself as she relaxed her grip on the alarm and fished around her bag for her keys. Rounding the swinging gate - which had been stuck open for months, if not longer - and entering the small enclosure laughably marketed as a “front garden”, Sarah reached out and slid the dull brass key into the red door’s lock, but never made it inside.
CHAPTER TWO
PRESENT DAY
Damien Owens had always hated pre-start site meetings. And those arranged on Mondays were even worse, although he understood they were a necessary evil. Getting into the centre of Cardiff for eight o’clock meant leaving the house at seven, just to navigate the traffic (which was close to returning to pre-pandemic levels) and to find somewhere to park. While obviously far from ideal, he had found the implementation of online meetings during the pandemic’s lockdown periods to be a significant improvement to his day. He had enjoyed the freedom of being able to roll out of bed, get dressed into something that looked relatively professional, make a coffee and join a meeting just minutes later, without the drudgery of the daily commute. But that morning he had no choice. His client - an insurance company acting for a large, high-profile construction company - had arranged a third (and final) mediation session, with the intention of not having to go to court on Thursday. Everyone from both sides - the company and the ground-worker who was suing them - had been instructed to attend. He knew he shouldn’t complain - the meeting would be over in less than an hour, and the bonus he would receive on top of his slightly inflated day-rate would keep his accountant happy. He just wished it could have been a little later in the day.
Having showered, shaved and donned his third-favourite black suit, Damien waited for what seemed to be an inordinate length of time for the coffee machine to warm. He surveyed the kitchen, tutting increasingly loudly each time he saw another dirty dish, cup or plate discarded on the counter, or worse - just left on the table. The latest addition, a butter knife left wedged in the tub of margarine - which had been left out of the fridge and begun to soften as the morning sun crept through the large window pane.
For fuck’s sake! How hard is it to-
His thoughts were interrupted by repeated beeps from the coffee machine. He was not a morning person, and he had to drink at least two cups of coffee each morning before he considered himself to be ‘functional’. He poured a large helping of the double-strength liquid into a stainless-steel travel mug, grabbed his keys, and pulled the door shut as he left the house.
The traffic he’d anticipated had failed to materialise, so Damien had arrived and been escorted to the open-plan site office by twenty-past seven. Even though he had been told that he didn’t need to anymore, Damien had donned a black fabric face mask from his jacket before getting out of the car, and was still wearing it as he was escorted into a small side office and shown to a seat. There wasn’t much room for social distancing, although every wall was plastered with posters and signs about the COVID rules to be followed on site. Ever since he’d watched a documentary on the spread of germs and viruses – many years before the pandemic had hit - he carried wipes and hand-gel in his ba g, and had become so fastidious about sanitising his hands after washing them that he noticed dry and cracked spots beginning to take hold at the base of his wrists. He had been so young seeing it that it made a lasting impression, when the initial guidance about thorough hand-washing had been issued by the government, he’d wondered why everyone wasn’t doing that anyway…
The Site Manager, Simon Johnson - a no-nonsense type who had little time for formalities and, by his own admission, “just wanted to get stuff done” – smiled as Damien sat across the desk from him. Simon had been a bricklayer on a house-building project when Damien had joined as a labourer at 17, and they had remained friendly even after they had gone their separate ways (Damien to university and Simon to another project). He was six-two and barrel-chested with arms wider than Damien’s waist, but softly spoken in spite of the number of swear-words he crammed into each sentence. Damien had once counted eight fucks in one sentence, but couldn’t be sure that was the record…
Simon pulled an e-cigarette from his desk and took a quick hit before squirrelling it away again, looking around guiltily and drawing an accusing look from the receptionist - who retrieved a large coffee jar from beneath her desk and rattled it in their direction. Far from coffee, it was filled with one and two-pound coins. Damien smiled at him.
“It’d be cheaper to just quit,” he said with a smile as Simon rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you fuckin’ start! It’s bad enough with this lot fuckin’ nagging me all fuckin’ day!” His face reddened, but Damien couldn’t tell if this was through anger or embarrassment. Nodding in the direction of the receptionist, he continued. “It’s her fuckin’ fault anyway - she moaned to the union rep about how us all smoking or vaping out by the door was making her want to smoke again, so now the brass have brought in this jar bollocks. Eighty fuckin’ quid last week. And sixty the week before! I tell you what, I wish they’d fuck her off somewhere else and just leave us with the other one. At least she’s nice to look at. Cracking tits. I’ll bet you a pint she keeps that money and spends it on her cats or some shit.”
Damien scanned the room, fearing that Simon’s rising volume would draw attention, but nobody seemed to have noticed. And, knowing Simon, he presumed that this was an often-repeated rant.
The site office had been established in a building owned by St. Cadoc's University as a new building - the Centre for Academic and Forensic Evidential Studies (or ‘the Cafe’ as it had been cynically dubbed) - formed part of a massive campus regeneration project rumoured to be costing in excess of a billion pounds. A far cry from the site offices Damien was used to, it was clean and warm, but the decor was dated and the harsh LED strip-lights that had been installed just prior to the office being established were too bright, making the open-plan area feel sterile and uncomfortable. The meeting suite, on the other hand, had been specifically installed for the project’s site team, so featured new carpets and furniture, integrated network and display ports, and - most importantly - air conditioning. Damien had struggled through countless meetings where the air was warm and still, which had proven quite useful in temporarily curing his insomnia. There were less chairs in the room than there normally would have been, and every other space on the large table had been fitted with a cross made from yellow and back hazard tape, allowing people to maintain a safe distance from one another - another pandemic hangover Damien would be sad to see the end of.
He plugged in his laptop and checked the connections so that by the time people arrived he would be ready to get started. It was one of his (many) pet peeves, meetings not being ready to start on time, so he always made sure nobody could ever levy that criticism at him.
Simon led a tall woman into the room, introduced her as Michelle - the mediator - and directed her to take a seat amidst promises of coffee and vague hopes that Sara, whoever Sara was, had not eaten all of the good biscuits. She took off her mask – which appeared to have been secured too tightly, as it had left deep indentations on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and began removing items from her bag. She set out a notepad and three pens neatly in front of her. A minute or so later, during which time Damien and Michelle had exchanged half-smiles and a brief hello but nothing more, Simon returned with a tray of teas and coffees, followed by a short blonde woman named Stephanie - who wore a smart jacket which, unfortunately, looked to be at least three sizes too big for her - and a large, heavily tattooed man, hunched over a walker and shambling noisily into the room. He grunted loudly with each movement and crashed into the door frame, the open door or the edge of the table before lowering himself gingerly into the seat next to Stephanie. Simon closed the door behind them and took a position at the head of the table, in front of a large wall-mounted television screen.
“Morning everyone,” he began. “Before we start, we’ve got someone new in the room, so I’ll do introductions.” He gestured to the man sat by the door. “You all know Kelly Robbins - one of our ground-workers, and the claimant in the case against us." The man looked to begin speaking, but Simon cut across him and continued with the pleasantries. “Kelly, you’re looking so much better than last time we saw you. I hope the physio isn’t being too rough. Next is Stephanie Lane, Kelly’s solicitor. Michelle Turner is our mediator, and this,” he gestured to Damien, “is Damien Owens. Damien has been appointed by our insurers to report on the particulars of his investigation into this case. Now, before I ask Damien to bring us all up to speed with what his investigation has found, can I ask you to give Damien a quick overview of the case, Miss Lane?”
Stephanie smiled - a large, toothy effort which set off a small sparkle in her deep, blue eyes. She turned her attention to Damien.
“Yes, of course. Mr Owens, seven months ago Mr Robbins was injured on site when he fell four feet into an open excavation, landing back-first on a steel frame. He suffered trauma to his spine, hips and pelvis. Our medical consultant believes that Mr Robbins will never walk unaided again and, seeing as he’s only 26, this leaves him with a lifetime of pain and suffering to look forward to." She handed Damien a file which, at a cursory glance, appeared to be a doctor’s letter.
“Thank you” Damien replied as he placed the document to the side of his laptop. “And it’s on that basis - that Mr Robbins here is unlikely to walk unaided or enjoy a reasonable quality of life - that you are suing for… Sorry - how much was it?”
“Two million pounds which, given that Mr Robbins had approximately 40 years of work ahead of him, and factoring in his pain and suffering; plus the cost of renovating and maintaining his home, has been costed by our team and accepted as reasonable."
She handed Damien another document - a spreadsheet which he glanced at before setting it aside. He nodded gently and reached into his jacket, retrieving an envelope which he handed to Stephanie.
“Thank you, Stephanie. My client has reviewed the documentation and has authorised me to make a counteroffer to Mr Robbins. If you wouldn’t mind?” He gestured for her to open then envelope, which she did quickly - a little too-quickly for Damien’s liking. He watched as her eyes narrowed and her cheeks rouged.
“Is this a joke?” Stephanie crumpled the piece of paper and threw it at Damien, catching him on the shoulder. Simon and Michelle turned to Damien, confused. Without missing a beat, Damien retrieved the crumpled page, flattened it and laid it in the centre of the table, where everyone could see it clearly.
Zero.
The Mediator was the first to speak.
“Mr Owens, what is this?”
“Based on the investigation report submitted to my client on Friday morning, this is the amount of compensation I am authorised to offer Mr Robbins. If I may?” Turning on the television screen, he continued.
Flickering to life, the first image on screen was a grainy, black and white still from a CCTV camera overlooking the far end of the site. Simon smiled. Without warning, the image began to move as Damien played the footage, offering commentary as it played.
