Burnt Paper Sky by Gilly Macmillan Read Free Book Online Page A

place they moved her to, and they moved a lot, so she was in the habit of it.
    Once she told me about the slavery, I couldn’t get it out of my mind and then I realised how much of the city’s noisy, nervy history is in your face, especially where I live. You’ve got the Wills Memorial Building, pride of the university, towering over the top of Park Street: built on tobacco profits. The Georgian House, perfectly preserved, and a very nice bit of real estate: sugar and slaves. Both of them are less than a quarter of a mile from my flat, and I could name more.
    I think about it sometimes because I don’t think cities change their character too much; even after hundreds of years it’s still there as an undercurrent. Now, when I look out of the window each morning, and watch Bristol wake up beneath me, its messy, complicated past is right there as a little bit of a jittery feeling in my bones.
    I’d slept well the night before even though it was obvious that there’d been some serious weather overnight. It was still dark when I finished my coffee, and the flat felt cold and draughty. Outside, rain was pelting down and the tips of the trees were getting pushed and pulled in all sorts of directions. A plastic shopping bag was blown up from the street below and went on a crazy dance over the treetops before it got snagged.
    Before I got out the board to iron my shirt, I brought Emma a cup of tea. She was still in bed. She always got up a bit later than me.
    She was lying in a mess of bedding and hair. She wasn’t a neat sleeper. It was a contrast to the controlled and purposeful way she lived the rest of her life, and one of the rare occasions I was able to glimpse her with her guard down. I felt privileged to be close enough to her to see it.
    ‘Hello,’ she said when I put the tea down.
    ‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked her.
    ‘Mmm. How about you?’ She blinked softly, sleepily. Then she stretched and rubbed her eyes, her movements languid. Emma didn’t rush things. She was watchful and clever, and poised, a cocktail of characteristics that I found addictive, especially when mixed with her beauty. Emma turned heads. I was a lucky man.
    ‘Solid eight hours,’ I said. I got back into bed beside her. It was warm and comfortable and I couldn’t resist it. Monday morning could wait a few minutes. Emma nestled into my shoulder.
    ‘I could stay here all day,’ she said.
    ‘Me too.’
    She draped an arm across my chest and I watched her tea going cold and saw the face of my clock count nine minutes before I forced myself to leave the gentle rise and fall of her sleepy breathing. As I pulled the cover away, she roused herself and pulled my face to hers and we kissed. ‘I’ve got to get up,’ I said.
    ‘Boring,’ she replied, but I knew that if I hadn’t said it, she would have. Emma was always punctual. She smiled, as if to acknowledge my thought, and then she sat up and reached for her tea, grimacing at the first tepid gulp.
    I put the ironing board up in front of the kitchen window and watched the red and white lights of the commuter cars coming into the city as I did my shirt.
    ‘You cycling in?’ Emma asked when she appeared in her work clothes, hair smoothed and tamed into a thick ponytail.
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Trying to build up your celery legs?’ she said. She loved to tease. This wasn’t a side of her she readily showed people either. It made me smile.
    ‘You love my celery legs,’ I said. ‘You should just admit it. You driving in then?’
    She was wearing a business suit, fitted and shapely, and a pair of low heels. She had bright eyes, and a quick smile that morning. She was ready to take on her day.
    ‘That’s correct, Detective Inspector Clemo, an excellent deduction. See you later.’
    Emma and I travelled separately to work. Police officers are allowed to have relationships with each other, it’s not forbidden, but the reality is that it can be frowned upon, because it could complicate things