WLKRAS

The nightclub was indeed only down the street, it was a pretty grungy place, down in the basement of what used to be a hotel by the looks of it. There was a bit of a kerfuffle at first when two well-built bouncers barred the way and refused a group as big as ours entry. In fairness, there was over thirty of us, so I could see why they would be concerned. There was also some concern about the ages of some of the younger players, but in the end, I managed to talk the bouncers into letting us in. Letting slip the fact that we were footballers seemed to have done the trick. The players immediately separated into several smaller groups, either heading to the dance floor or the bar. Some of the younger ones made a beeline for groups of females, while the coaching staff and myself found a quiet corner to lurk in. But there was no trouble thankfully. At ten to midnight, I sent Sweeney to round up the troops and we returned to the bus with about two-thirds of the team. The rest would have to make their own way back home. The next morning at breakfast, a glaring omission from the attendees was Joe Grey. A quick check revealed the twenty year old striker wasn’t in his room either. Just as I was about to ring him and lose my temper, I heard a car pull up outside the camp we were staying. I walked outside just in time to see Grey getting out of a red Mini Cooper. But not before snogging the face of the good-looking blonde behind the wheel. He was exceedingly cheerful as he walked in. “Morning gaffer! You said no curfew right?” he chirped “I suppose I did. I also said to make sure you’re fit for training this morning. So I hope you didn’t overexert yourself in the night…” I replied. The mile-wide smile on his face gave away the fact he had and didn’t particularly care… As it happened, Grey managed no better or no worse than the rest of the team in the afternoon conditioning training and although a few players ended up hanging on to the boarding around the pitch, I don’t think any of them threw up, so I guess the level was pitched just right.

I had a sudden idea on the bus ride back to camp in Sunderland. Back in my playing days, we’d always been big on team building and getting everyone pulling in the same direction. And one of the best things for that was nights out with the whole team. It might not fully work with the strict fitness regimen I was trying to impose, but at the same time, it showed them the gaffer wasn’t a total hardass. So I stood up at the front of the bus and grabbed the microphone. “Listen up guys. First up, well done today and all week so far really, I’m happy with your efforts and I expect to see more of it going forward. I’ve got a couple of announcements. After squad dinner tonight, we’ll be going out in Sunderland town for a few drinks and whatnot.” This was met by cheering followed by Featherstone shouting from the back “Are you paying for the drinks boss?!” this evoked more laughter “First round’s on me, after that, you’re on your own, Feathers” I shot back. “We’ll take the bus into town and it’ll be going back at midnight. Anyone not on it will have to make their own way back. There’s not going to be a curfew and morning training is cancelled, however, I expect everyone fit and ready for afternoon training” This was met by louder cheering and some whooping. “Also, if you are under the legal drinking age, I’ll make sure you get into places, but DO NOT try to get served. And don’t any of you older lot buy booze for the kids, because you can explain it to their mothers! Just make sure you behave yourselves, all of you” There was a little bit of chuntering from the kids, but all in all the message was well received. The atmosphere at dinner and on the bus into town was a cheerful one. We filed out of the bus and into the nearest Wetherspoon’s where I took some of the senior players aside, Featherstone, Ferguson and Callum Cooke, and made sure they understood the assignment, have fun, but keep everyone in line and behaved. And keep an eye on the kids. I also shoved a few hundred quid into the skipper’s hand and told him to make sure everyone got what they wanted, before retreating into a quiet corner with a coke. A few minutes later, Goodlad and Sweeney joined me, along with Danny O’Conner, the physio. All three of them had a pint of Guinness in their hands. “On the soft drinks, boss?” queried Sweeney. “Seems strange, considering this drinking night was your idea” “Thirteen years sober, Ant. I like to keep it that way” “Benefit of getting locked up I guess” Goodlad remarked, although his face immediately showed he wished he hadn’t. “Sorry” he said suddenly. “Nah, you’re absolutely right, that’s the only reason” The conversation drifted along as we exchanged war stories from our playing days, recapped the day’s friendly and looked forward to the rest of the training camp. We’d be back on Tuesday before a long trip to Leamington for an away friendly on Wednesday. At around ten o’clock, Featherstone and Ferguson appeared at the table. “We were planning to move on to the nightclub down the street, boss. We’ll keep an eye on the kids of course, but dunno if you’s wanna head that way too or if you’re planning on staying here?” I looked questioningly around the table and they all seemed keen to join, so we followed the players outside and down the street.

Finally, time for some actual football! 8th of July 2023 Suit Direct Stadium, Hartlepool Hartlepool United vs Tranmere Rovers (Friendly) The team bus took the short journey down the A19 from our temporary Sunderland base back to our home ground. It left me just enough time to give a couple of quick instructions to each of the starters about how I wanted them to play. While the players changed and got themselves ready in the dressing room, I wrote out the formation on the large whiteboard. It showed a 4-2-3-1 formation. Dixon was the man in goal, while the back four consisted of Hendrie on the right, Wallace and Lacey as the centre backs and Ferguson at left back. In central midfield it was Featherstone and Cooke, with Mancini as the attacking midfielder ahead of them. On the wing were Seaman and Hastie with Umerah getting the nod as the sole striker following his training ground hattrick. “There’s places up for grabs all the way through pre-season, so show me what you’ve got” was the instruction I sent the team out with and they didn’t disappoint in the slightest. The game was barely two minutes old when we had a throw in on the left, halfway in the Tranmere half. Ferguson took it, finding Featherstone, who returned the ball to the left back along the floor. Ferguson took a touch, steadied himself and sent a hanging cross over towards the six yard box where Umerah outmuscled his marker and thumped header into the net at the near post. 1-0 Pools. The ball was in the next again ten minutes later. Hastie and Cooke combined through the left side of centre and the latter slid a inch perfect pass into Umerah to convert. This time though, the flag was up as the striker had strayed marginally offside and the goal didn’t count. Nevertheless, it was a promising start. Tranmere struggled to get on the ball and Mancini forced a save from their goalkeeper minutes later before Hastie got bundled over by an enthusiastic challenge. He looked in some pain and after trying to shake it off, he shook his head to the bench, forcing me to turn to Ndjoli to replace him. The change in personnel did little to slow us down and just after the half hour, Ferguson was at it again. Another floated cross from the left bypassed everyone apart from Seaman at the back post. The loanee from Doncaster managed to get his head to it and nodded it home for a two-nil advantage. We kept the ball on the deck and continued to play some decent football, but just before half-time there was a lapse in concentration from Lacey. First he missed his header, allowing Tranmere the ball in our area. Then, despite doing well in forcing the attacker to the outside and nicking the ball off him, he made the worst faux-pas you can commit as a defender. He tried to clear it across his own goal from the back line. Tranmere striker Norris simply stuck out a foot and without having to do much else, the ball cannoned off it and past a beaten Dixon, who never even had time to react. After half time, the game slowed right down as both teams started to substitute with regularity. We got a third just past the hour to reinstate our two goal advantage when Crawford intercepted the ball in central midfield and played in Mani Dieseruvwe. The substitute striker lashed it at goal from twenty yards out and the ball skidded along the turf like a daisy cutter, leaving Tranmere goalkeeper y no chance. There was still time for a final defensive mishap as young substitute rightback Louis Stephenson did all the hard work making a vital clearance, but then stuck out a leg that deflected a Tranmere cross into his own net. It wasn’t the greatest way for him to celebrate signing a pro deal, but it didn’t matter much as we held on for a winning start to my tenure. Final Score Hartlepool 3 (Umerah 2, Seaman 33, Dieseruvwe 65) Tranmere 2 (Norris 41, Stephenson (og) 83) Att: 1795;

There was good news and bad news while we were ‘at camp’ in Sunderland. The good news was that youth players Finlay Wilshaw, Max Storey and Campbell Darcy all signed professional deals. All three of them had caught the eye for Ian’s team when facing off against the first teamers. After a brief chat with Ian and Mark Goodlad, we moved to offer pro-deals to a few of the youngsters and Wilshaw, Story and Darcy were the first to accept. Wilshaw was a striker and although far from the finished article, he was strong in the air and had a decent first touch. His movement and finishing needed work, but at 17, he had time to grow. Storey was a left winger, who already looked close to the first team. A good technical player with decent dribbling skills, he just needed a bit more stamina and to look up for a teammate occasionally. Darcy was a big lad, well over six foot, but still lanky. He needed to fill out his frame a bit. But he was already good in the air and strong in a tackle. The bad news came from captain David Ferguson. He approached me after one of the cross-country running sections that we’d put in for the pre-season fitness schedule. “Got a sec, boss?” “Sure David, what’s up?” He shuffled his feet for a few seconds before carrying on. “Look, it’s nothing personal and it’s nothing to do with your appointment, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while now…” he let his voice trail off. “Yes?” I said, getting impatient. “I want to see what else is out there. So I don’t know if I’ll renew my contract when it’s up” he almost looked embarrassed. I rubbed my chin in a pensive manner, trying to compose myself before taking my captain’s head off. “That’s your right of course. But since your contract still has a while to run, and I’ve not made any plans on renewing deals as yet, I have to say I find your stance somewhat premature. Why don’t we pick this conversation up in a few months and we’ll see where we both stand?” I tried my best to keep calm, but inwardly I was raging. Less than a week ago, I’d given them ample opportunity to walk out if they didn’t want to stay and now my captain of all people was already getting cold feet about his decision. At least Ferguson seemed happy enough with my response and went back to training with renewed vigour. I shook my head. We had a friendly tomorrow against Tranmere Rovers. A League Two side. We had to be on our game, friendly or not. A good start would hopefully help to get fans aboard.

While Lord and Lady Castlereagh were having their little discussion about yours truly, I was facing an array of journalists in a room at Maiden Castle. Monks was present, but the chairman was nowhere to be seen. Probably didn’t fancy answering questions about my past. I can’t blame him. I wasn’t too keen myself. I recognised my old nemesis from my time at Bromsgrove, Robbie Abraham in a seat at the front, but press officer Jacob Howell started proceedings with the local journalists. They seemed less interested in my past and more interested in what I would bring to Hartlepool. “What made Hartlepool the club for you?” was a question from a dark-haired lady of maybe forty. Howell had given me a seating plan which had her down as Alice Newman from the Northern Echo. “I think there’s potential here. The club wants to get back to League Football as soon as possible and I managed to convince the chairman I could deliver that” I replied with a smile “Hartlepool have been on a downward trend for some time now, so what makes you think you’re the man to change their fortune”. This question came from the third row, from a kid who looked barely old enough to shave. “Look…” I paused to look at my cheat sheet. “Jordan. I think a fresh look and a healthy dose of playing experience at the highest level is going to reinvigorate this club. The players are good enough, they just need a spark. I’m hoping to provide that” There were more football-related questions from BBC Tees and The Chronicle until Abraham finally managed to get his questions in. “How have the players responded to having a convicted murderer in charge? And who the hell came up with the bright idea to appoint you?” Everyone turned to look at Abraham, then to the little podium behind which we sat. They’d all thought the question, but none had been willing to ask. To my surprise, Monks covered my microphone with his hand and whispered “I’ll take this one” in my direction. “I’m not sure I like the tone of your question…” he began. “But I shall humour you. The players are looking forward to working with someone who has played at the top level, as Chris has. He’s not the first person in football to make a mistake and he won’t be the last. But he has served his time and like others before him, he’s keen to get back in the game. And we are keen to provide him with an opportunity to redeem himself. And that is all we will say on the matter”. The last sentence was said in the tone of a headmaster telling of a naughty pupil. But Abraham was not easily dissuaded. “I have it on good authority that some of the club's major sponsors are considering pulling out since your appointment” he pressed. This time I got in there before Monks did. “You’d have to ask someone in the commercial department for an answer to that. But if no one has any further football-related questions, then that will be all, thank you” I said, standing and walking out of the room. After the media scrimmage, I watched the first team take on the kids in a training ground. Goodlad was in charge of the first team, while U18s manager McGuckin took the kids. I simply observed and made notes. The seniors won 4-0, thanks to a Umera hattrick and Ndjoli adding a late fourth. A few of the kids had caught my eye and they’d get plenty of chances to prove themselves in the pre-season. All in all, I was pretty satisfied as we prepared for a ‘training camp’. In Sunderland, of all places.

4th of July 2023 Maiden Castle Training Centre, Durham Conveniently for me, Hartlepool’s training ground was not far from the Parole Office. Maiden Castle Training Centre near Durham was part of Durham University grounds and opened in 1965. It had been used by the Soviet Union team during the 1966 World Cup. Since then Keegan’s Newcastle United trained there during the 90s and Hartlepool has been using it since 2008, with a brief break towards the back end of the 2010s for renovations to take place. It was fully up to modern standards, not just for football, but a variety of sports played at the university and while we did have to share the facilities with their students, it also made an easy opportunity to scout the best players there! Antony Sweeney and Mark Goodlad were already on the pitch. “Morning boss” Sweeney called out. Goodlad hesitated. “Something on your mind, Mark?” I asked. He looked around before speaking “I think yesterday was a good idea, boss. I know I appreciated you taking the time to hear our questions and explain to us and I think a lot of the players feel the same way. So thanks for that” “That’s good to hear” I acknowledged. Then I looked at the bag of balls they’d dragged out. “We won’t be needing those” That was met with dismay from both coaches. “The lads won’t be too happy with that” quipped Sweeney. “I wouldn’t expect them to be. But there’ll be plenty of time for ball-based training later in the season. I like a possession game and I like a lot of passing and movement. So the lads are going to need to be fit as fiddles to do that. So pre-season is going to have to be very fitness-oriented. It’ll pay off in the long run” As expected the players weren’t too impressed, but they got on with it anyway. There seemed to be little in the way of apprehension now at my appointment, or maybe they were just good at hiding it. Time will tell. ====================================== Castlereagh House, Wynyard Park “I read the papers too you know” … “Well yes, the Times was rather less sensationalist than that, but I take your meaning” … “Quite” … “Yes, I agree. I don’t think we want to be associated with that” … “You’ll make the arrangements?” … “Yes, I’d appreciate that” … “No, that’ll be all, thank you” Daniel Vane-Tempest-Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh terminated the call and put his mobile back down on the side table. He looked over at his wife who staring at him inquisitively. “Who was that?” Ellie asked. “Bertrand” her husband replied, picking up his paper again and starting to read. His wife was undeterred. “What did he want?" This drew a sigh from the Viscount as he lowered his paper again. “Some PR issue with one of the companies. Bertrand is dealing with it. Nothing for you to worry about dear” “Daniel…” “Fine. One of the subsidiaries of Lorne-Stewart Construction sponsors Hartlepool United. They just hired some convicted murderer as their manager while he’s out on parole. It’s not the sort of thing we want to be associated with” Ellie swallowed hard. “What?” it was the viscount’s turn to be curious. “He didn’t do it…”

A rare double post, seeing as that one was a short one... 3rd of July 2023 Suit Direct Stadium, Hartlepool The coaching staff and players gradually appeared for an informal meeting on Monday. There was some apprehension for some of them to meet the new boss. By 10 am, we had all gathered in the meeting room where Director of Football Joe Monks introduced me to the team. It wasn’t an enthusiastic one. The phrases ‘scraping the bottom of the barrel’ and ‘the best we could do’ came by and not in a sardonic way. I took my cue when he finished talking. “Thanks, Joe” I said, standing and looking all the guys in the eyes. “We’ll get to the how and what of footballing matters tomorrow. How I like to play, what I’d like to see, that sort of thing. That’s not what today is for” I began. “A lot has been written about me already and plenty more will be written about me. If that’s a problem for you, then you are free to leave. The club will pay off your contract. If you are concerned about my past, there’s the door” I continued, pointing at the exit for reinforcement. “I won’t keep anyone here who doesn’t want to be. But this is a one-time offer. It expires end of the day today. After that, I expect each and every one of you to be fully committed to the club. That includes accepting me as your manager. Regardless of the past. If you stay, then my past is no longer your business. You will not discuss it with the press. Ever. If you want to moan about not playing or how we play, I can accept a certain amount of it. Non-footballing matters are off-limit” I paused for effect. I certainly had their attention. “But I cannot expect you to accept me just on my word. I’m going to have to earn your trust. And I do that by placing my trust in you. So today is your chance to ask me anything about the past. Anything you need to know to make up your mind. You can ask me now, or later in private if you prefer. I will do my best to answer your questions. But I’m going to trust you that whatever I say does not go beyond this club. If it does, then we’re going to have a problem” I stared hard at them all. They seemed to get the message. Some seemed relaxed, others eager. But none of them left straight away. “So. Any questions?” There were many…

Thanks Sherm, as a Hartlepool local, I'm keen to see how it pans out. The Mail On Sunday, 2nd of July 2023 PAROLED KILLER TO MANAGE HARTLEPOOL UNITED By our reporter Hartlepool United are sensationally poised to appoint paroled murderer Chris Browne as their next manager. While no official statement has been made by the club, sources close to the boardroom at the Suit Direct Stadium have confirmed to the Mail On Sunday that Browne’s appointment will be formalised in the next few days. Former footballer Browne was released on parole in April after a thirteen-year stint in HMP Frankland for the murder of Evelyn Scott. Hartlepool United remain in a perilous financial position after narrowly avoiding going into administration several times in the past ten years. Current owner Raj Singh is said to have put the club up for sale, but no offers have been forthcoming as yet. With this latest appointment, it remains to be seen if potential investors are going to be willing to put their hands in their pockets to fund a known killer. An unnamed source was quoted saying “The club is in no position to be choosy with who it can appoint. There just isn’t the money at this point and the thinking seems to be that appointing Browne will at least bring publicity” The Mail on Sunday reached out to both Hartlepool United and several of the club’s sponsors, but they all declined to comment on the developing situation. There was a blurry picture of a man entering the Durham Parole Office on the side of the article. It wasn’t hard to recognise myself. Abraham was already out for blood it seemed.

Great start to Division One!

1st of July 2023 Suit Direct Stadium, Hartlepool Leon did his best to backtrack once I called him with the news, but eventually, he conceded he would speak to the club and try and work out a plan. My twice-weekly meetings at Durham would not be ideal if we were playing an away game but he agreed to some flexibility in my schedule as long as I kept in regular contact. In the end, he seemed swayed by my suggestion that allowing me this opportunity could prove the perfect example of how the parole system was supposed to work in reintegrating me into society and meaningful existence. It’s amazing what nonsense you can come up with if you want something. My contract with the club came with various good behaviour clauses as well as the agreed break clause in case the club was sold and the new owner wanted to be rid of me. To my surprise, the contract was for two years, not just one, but the message contained within was very clear. Promotion to League Two was an absolute must if I wanted to even entertain the second year. The wages were also surprisingly good, considering there was so little money available. There was no transfer budget to speak of and only marginal room in terms of the wage budget. I was given a list of backroom staff and players, but I wouldn’t be meeting them for a few more days. The staff was on the light side, with only assistant manager Mark Goodlad and coach (and former Pools player) Antony Sweeney as actual coaching staff. Ian McGuckin was the Acadamy manager, which also entailed managing the U18s. Other than that, we had Ben Daniel (performance analyst), Jordan Bennet (Doctor) and Danny O’Connor (physio) on the books. All of them had self-styled as ‘head’ of whatever department they were in, but since they were also the only ones, I didn’t see the point in reinforcing that. With no scouts on the books, I was going to have to try and get Director of Football Joe Monks to help out in that regard, but we hadn’t started well in our working relationship. Seems to be a running theme with me and Directors of Football. The playing squad also had some holes in it. Wingers and central midfielders seemed in short supply, while defender Daniel Dodds was out of action for the next eighteen months at least with a cruciate ligament injury. On the plus side, there were a few promising youngsters on the books and they may well get some time in the middle as we go. I scribbled some notes in the margins of the two lists, sat back in my chair and looked around the office. I was in another 6x10 box, but one of my choosing this time. And I was gonna work damn hard to make sure I stayed in this one.

It took a few weeks of phone calls, visits, leaving messages and politely making a nuisance of myself before I got somewhere. By that point, Sarah, the lovely lady manning both the phone and the ticket office at Hartlepool United, was sick of the sight and sound of me. But all the same, I had an appointment with Raj Singh, chairman and owner of Hartlepool United and Joe Monks, Director of Football. It wouldn’t be easy, but I had to plead my case. I decided to walk down to the ground, where I was due to meet the pair in the executive lounge. The walk was only twenty minutes or so, taking me down Church Street, past the statue of Ralph Ward Jackson. The founder of West Hartlepool, as it was known then, was also the town’s first member of parliament for The Hartlepools. The name finally changed when the two towns merged in the 70s. From there, I had to navigate my way across a busy intersection to Clarence Road, past Morrison’s to get to the Suit Direct Stadium. I’d played here once with Bolton, back when it was still Victoria Park. Must’ve been an early-round cup tie. I didn’t remember the result, which probably meant we won. I’d have known if we got knocked out by a club below us on the ladder. I made my way to the ticket office. Sarah was nowhere to be seen today. Probably for the best, she might’ve chased me off! Instead, I announced myself to the kid behind the desk as having an appointment with Mr Singh and Mr Monks and he looked me up and down. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition, which was probably good. He just nodded, put out a sign that said ‘be right back’ and showed me up. Two minutes or so later, he showed me to the executive lounge. Singh and Monks were already waiting for me. It was the latter who spoke almost immediately upon seeing me. “Oh hell, THAT Chris Browne” I ignored his outburst and approached with my hand extended. They shook it, but I could see obvious apprehension on their faces, especially Monks’. “Gentlemen, thank you for seeing me” I began. “I appreciate you may be surprised to see who I am, but I’ll get right to the point. I need a job. You need a manager. And you need him on a budget. I’m cheap, available and I’ll draw crowds. They may not all be friendly, but as my former chairman at Bromsgrove once said, as long as they pay for their ticket, they can hurl abuse for 90 minutes for all I care” Monks started to speak, but Chairman Singh held up his hand to shush him. “That’s very frank of you, Mr Browne. And while I agree we need a manager, I’m not sure hiring a convicted murderer would fit the ethos of our club. You might draw crowds, but you’ll also draw a hell of a lot of bad press. And I can ill-afford bad press while I’m trying to get a buyer for the club” “It could also help you find a buyer. And I’m willing to agree to some sort of termination clause in my contract so that a new owner would not be stuck with me if they didn’t want to be. But if you want to get back into the football league, I’m your best bet. I am more than capable of doing that as a manager. And people forget the bad things you’ve done if you get results. That happened at Bromsgrove. And it happened to Lee Hughes, Luke McCormick and I’m sure others whom I’ve forgotten. If you’re good enough, people forget” My tone was halfway between supremely confident and pleading, but I could see the cogs turning in Singh’s head. “There are tens of managers who can do the same thing, without the baggage” Monks countered. He turned to the chairman. “Raj, this is a terrible idea. We shouldn’t even be having this meeting” But Singh had started to break out in a smile. “Alright then, Mr Browne. I like your style. Your case is not particularly compelling, but I like the redemption arc. We will have to work out the details and I’m sure the parole office will need to be involved given your situation, but I think we can work that out. Of course, given the current financial situation of the club, there’s not going to be much in the way of funds for the squad and your wages will have to be limited also, but you already stated that would not be an issue. Once we get the paperwork sorted and the club’s lawyers are satisfied, we can make you a formal offer” he extended his hand again and I shook it. Monks looked like he was told he had to drink a jar of ****.

I got to work on the phones the following day. A call to FA revealed that my coaching credentials were indeed still up to scratch for a job in management, although the lady answering the phone seemed sceptical about my chances of getting a job anywhere with my history. I wasn’t about to argue with her. The next call went to Leon Edwards, who seemed ambivalent to the idea. “Look, Chris, I appreciate you’re a football man, but are you sure it’s a good idea?” he asked. “What have I got to lose? The worst thing that happens, is they say no and I carry driving an Amazon van. I just need to know that you’re gonna ok it if I can manage to land an interview” I countered “I would have to advise against it. Putting yourself in that sort of limelight, with your history could make you more likely to go off the rails and re-offend” he urged “I’m not likely to re-offend! I didn’t even offend in the first place!” I cried. “So you keep saying, yet here we are. You’re not on parole for a traffic violation here, you know” “Please, Leon. Give me a shot. You won’t regret it” I almost begged down the phone. “Fine. If you can get the job, I’ll sign off on it”. I could tell by the tone of Leon’s voice he was just humouring me. He thought I had no chance. He wasn’t far off. The next part would be difficult.

sent and hereby claimed

Ellie dropped me back to the B&B. She said she’d get my car back to me once I was somewhere more respectable. She didn’t fancy its chances outside the B&B and I couldn’t argue with that either. The crowd was rough and even a “hardened criminal” like myself could feel unsafe just walking down the street. The next week, I went to the local housing office, which had already received a bunch of paperwork from Leon Edwards and had pre-selected a few places for me. The spread was thin, the housing market was tight and there wasn’t much in the way of options for a single guy with no current income. I ended up with a one-bed flat in Hartlepool. It would be a bit of a trek to the Durham Parole Office, but that was one of those things. At least there was parking for the beemer. From there I went to the job centre which found me some menial labour jobs. I applied for a bunch of them and got a job as an Amazon delivery driver. Not great, but it paid the bills. Or at least, some of them. By mid-May, I was settled in my new place. The car was back with me, although Ellie was still the registered keeper. I hadn’t seen her much since her husband returned from Dubai. I suppose it made sense. Aristocracy doesn’t want to mingle with convicted murderers. So be it. We kept in touch by text, but I celebrated my 50th birthday alone, in my flat, with a curry and a bottle of non-alcoholic beer. I was thirteen years sober. I wasn’t going to **** that away now. The TV was playing in the background. The screen flashed a breaking news banner and cut to Jeff Stelling animatedly talking. “...This is just in and I have to say, it’s a bit of a shock. Hartlepool United manager John Askey has resigned from the club citing the continued uncertainty of the club’s future as his main reason. Hartlepool were of course relegated into the Vanarama National League a few weeks ago after finishing twenty-third in League Two and the club has been up for sale for months now, with owner Raj Singh looking to offload the stricken and debt-ridden club…” Stelling was visibly unsettled. Unsurprising as Hartlepool’s most famous fan. The club looked to be heading for a perilous future. Penniless, managerless and hopeless. Maybe. Just maybe, they were desperate enough…

Nominated and there hasn't even been any football yet I'll have a look through everything for votes later

True to her word, Ellie picked me up the next day and took me shopping. She was still driving my car and gunned it up the motorway to the Metro Centre in Gateshead. She bought me half a wardrobe, some bits and bobs and an entry-level smartphone, programming her own number straight into it. “Anything you need, just call” she added as she handed me back the phone. I still had no idea why she was doing all this, but I just went along with it. She offered me a brew back at her place, firmly reminding me that she was married and not to expect any “funny business”. I frowned at the remark but just went with it. We drove into a well-to-do neighbourhood on the outskirts of Hartlepool. The houses and cars outside them got more and more expensive as we navigated our way through. We seemed to be following signs for ‘Wynyard Hall Spa’. “You live at a spa?” I queried. “Not quite. You’ll see” she chuckled and kept driving. We turned into a drive at signs for the spa. The view was incredible. There were acres of neatly maintained lawns with a massive stately home sitting in the centre. “Jesus ****” I stammered. “Oh, that’s just the spa. Most of this doesn’t belong to us any more” she said as she turned into a smaller road off the main drive marked ‘Private, residents only’. A barrier blocked our way, but as the car got closer, the bar automatically raised. The private resident's area was shielded from the main spa by a shroud of trees and when we emerged out of the trees I cursed again. The drive turned to gravel, culminating neatly around a fountain in front of another massive stately home. “Not bad for little Ellie from Colchester, innit” she laughed in an Essex accent. “Who exactly is your husband?” I laughed. “Daniel Vane-Tempest-Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh. And future 11th Marquess of Londonderry. Amongst other titles” “Bloody hell…” I just about managed to say. “Does that make you a viscountess?” I looked at her open-mouthed as she parked the car in front of the house. “I guess it does. Come on, let me show you the place” she said, getting out of the car and walking up the steps to the front door. “What about my things” I asked hesitantly. “Oh don’t worry, one of the servants will get everything out and park the car”. As if on cue, an immaculately dressed butler opened the door and held it. “Lady Ellie, welcome back” he smiled warmly. I let out a sigh. From being locked in a six-by-ten box to hanging out with aristocracy with servants. My life had certainly taken an upturn. Over a cup of tea (or coffee in my case) poured by the butler, Ellie filled me in on her last thirteen years and how she ended up married to a wealthy viscount. She had met him while she was at university in Colchester. Daniel, by then already Lord Steward, was studying at Cambridge. The pair had both been on their respective uni’s debating teams when they’d faced each other and despite a fierce and feisty encounter had taken an instant liking to each other. Ellie freely admitted that she quickly lost interest in her degree when she found out who he was. He was the typical smitten kitten and after a whirlwind romance, the pair got engaged in late 2011. The actual wedding had to wait a few years because the 9th Marquess passed away in 2012 and settling the estate took a while. But Ellie had been happy to wait. By 2015 they had married and Daniel had joined the family business, which had interests all over the world, including in shipping, construction, chemical manufacturing and pharmaceuticals. They had lived all over the place, including at the family’s estates in Londonderry, New York and Dubai, but a year ago they had returned to Wynyard Estate. She explained that most of the estate had been sold to Sir John Hall, former owner of Newcastle, in the late 80s, but the family had retained several private acres including the house we sat in now. “And there you have it” she finished. “Well, good for you Ellie. I’m pleased for you. I still don’t fully understand why you’re helping me though?” I said with a confused expression on my face. “You know, for a clever guy, sometimes you can be an idiot” she laughed again. “If we hadn’t met, circumstances notwithstanding, I’d never have gone to uni. I’d never have met Daniel. Without you, I wouldn’t be where I am now. Call it Serendipity or whatever, but either way seems only fair that while I have the means, I say thank you. Meeting you changed my life” I was stunned again. I couldn’t argue with her logic. And I was grateful for her help, that was for damn sure.

Thanks Sherm, glad to have you aboard. I think the extended league structure broke the original save, hence we'll be starting in a more conventional place this time. Remarkably, I had managed to say it with enough venom that they didn’t hand me a beatdown. I went inside and showed my paperwork to a clerk who looked like a boxer. Flattened nose and his ears nearly attached to his shoulder. But he didn’t look like the sort of guy you messed about with. He was massive. Probably the reason why the council picked this place. No one was gonna mess with this guy. He apparently worked with the probation office as he gave me their ‘welcome pack’ for the lack of a better word to go with my room key. He gave me instructions for breakfast and directions to the probation office where they’d expect me the next morning. I headed to my room, locked the door and treated myself to my first private shower in over thirteen years. Then I fell onto the bed and slept like the dead. The next morning after breakfast, I headed out following the guy's directions back to the Town Centre. About forty minutes later I found myself on the narrow cobbled streets of Durham opposite the Probation Office. That’s when I saw him. He was older now, but he still had the hawkish nose and wore the same style of grey clothing. His notepad and pen were already out. “Mr. Browne!” he exclaimed gleefully. “I’ve been waiting to find you here” “I bet you have Abraham. Did you come all this way for a no comment?” I growled at my erstwhile nemesis from the Bromsgrove Evening Standard. “Not so far to go actually. I cover the North East for the Daily Mail now” Robbie Abraham smiled in return. “Why am I not surprised to find you with the gutter press” I said. “Anyway. I have nothing else to say to you” I continued before pushing past him and into the Probation Office building. Thankfully he didn’t follow. But I did hear the click of a camera. Great… Inside I signed myself in at the reception desk and was asked to wait for a while until a tall and skinny guy with a London accent appeared. “Mr Browne? Leon Edwards, I’m your Probation Officer. This way, please” he said, leading me through a series of corridors to what was his office. He showed me to a seat and then put himself on the other side of the desk and started tapping away on his keyboard. “I’ve already familiarised myself with your file so that we can skip some of the basics. Did you get a chance to read our welcome pack?” he said the last part with a wry smile. “I kinda flicked through it” I replied. “Right. Ok. Well, there are a few things we need to sort out. First of all, there are the conditions of your release. You must attend weekly meetings here, we’ll set that up later once I’ve looked at my schedule. You must not be late for these. You must also inform us, immediately, of any change in circumstances such as a change of address or contact details. If you’re staying somewhere other than your registered address for the night you must tell us” he tapped away at his keyboard. “I see the board did not see the need for an electronic tag or curfew, however, I must remind you that ANY lawbreaking activity will see you sent back to prison for the remainder of your term” he added sternly “Your current lodgings are temporary, so we’re going to need to find you somewhere more permanent. I understand you didn’t own any property before your incarceration?” “No, I lived in rented places” “Ok. Now there are a few places in the North East we can place you, local council wise, or you can find yourself accommodation. However, they would all need to be approved by me, which is why the council might work the easiest. As I said, you can stay with friends or relatives overnight, if you notify us beforehand” “I don’t have any of those either” I admitted. “Ah. Right. Well, I can make you an appointment at the local social housing agency for next week to see if we can get you sorted. What about skills? We’re going to have to find you a job so that you can provide for yourself. Again, these will need to be approved by me” he seemed almost embarrassed to ask. “Another short list, I’m afraid. I have a full set of football coaching qualifications, but I don’t think anyone would be daft enough to hire me in that capacity, especially with only three months of experience in the job at a lower-league team. So I guess whatever unskilled work I can find” “Right. Well, I guess we’ll have to get you into the job centre as well then. See what they’ve got. We have a pre-approved list of types of jobs that might be suitable” he continued tapping away at his keyboard, occasionally clucking or whistling in between asking me a variety of other questions. I went through the motions, not caring about what was going to happen here. Que sera sera…

Her words hit me like a hammer blow. I couldn’t believe it. The big guy had dragged me out of the gutter fourteen years ago. He was the reason I was still alive. And now he was gone? I was silent for a long time, the car making its way through the narrow streets of Durham Town Centre and back out the other side. “What happened?” I eventually asked. “Pneumonia technically. But it was Covid that put him in the hospital. He never was the healthiest of people to begin with and it just raged through him” she just said. By this point, we’d arrived at the address on my paperwork. A dingy B&B on the outskirts of Durham. A group of ropey-looking folk were standing on the pavement outside the door, smoking or vaping. “Tony and I became friendly during the trial. We kept in touch, sorta thing. You know, texts at birthdays and Christmas, but not much else. Then when the pandemic broke out, we messaged more often. I think he was lonely with not having anyone in the pub. He messaged to say he was in the hospital, but by then it was already pretty advanced. With the way things were, there wasn’t much of a funeral” she said sadly. I shook my head. I still couldn’t believe it. I looked out the window. A few of the smokers were getting pretty interested in the car. “You should probably go” I said, opening the door and climbing out of the car. I was about to shut it when she called after me. I leaned my head back into the car. She was smiling. “Listen. I know you’ve probably got stuff on tomorrow at the parole office, but I’ll come pick you up on Saturday. We’ll go and get you some stuff. My dime” she smiled “Ellie, I can’t do that. You’re already done more than I could expect” I replied “Oh shut up you proud fool. You’re gonna need some clothes and a phone and stuff. My rich-ass husband is in Dubai until Sunday making another small fortune. I can afford it and you can’t right now. You can pay me back when you’ve got yourself sorted if you insist” she scowled the last part as if it offended her. “But you don’t have to” she added softly. “Fine” I said, still reluctant, but realising I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. “Pick you up at 11” she said. I shut the door and the M3 roared off down the road. I turned towards the B&B to find all the eyes of the smoking crowd on me. I scowled at them as I had at countless wingers back in the day. “The **** are you reprobates looking at?”

6th of April 2023 HMP Frankland Prison, Co Durham I struggled to see against the spring sun, which seemed especially bright to my eyes as I walked out the front door of Frankland Prison, some thirteen years after I’d first been sent here. It turns out, it is a bit like the movies. You walk out the door, holding the few trinkets that you had with you when you got locked up. In my case, not many, as I was first arrested stark naked and covered in blood. I had a couple of quid and a letter with the address of where I was going. I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and to look for the bus stop when a sound made me stop and turn. It was the throaty growl of a three-point-two-litre straight-six engine springing to life. One I used to know very well. I broke into a smile. Tony had salvaged my car. He was a good guy. The silver BMW M3 rolled up beside me and the driver’s window came down. “Hi babe. Remember me?” It wasn’t Tony Keats behind the wheel. It was a woman, maybe thirty years old, her hair blonde. The face was older, but I recognised her instantly. It was hard not to. And she was the only person ever to have called me “babe” “****… Ellie?” I breathed. “That’s right. And no, we’re not doing that again” she giggled and flashed me her left hand, showing a pair of rings on her third finger. “I’m married now” “Congratulations, I guess” was all I could say. She wasn't the same lost puppy girl from before. This was a woman, supremely confident in herself. And why not? She looked stunning. She was dressed in what you'd call designer casuals. Her hair was perfectly styled and yet looked effortless. In her ears sparkled a pair of diamond-encrusted earrings. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, driving your old car” “I think my brain is still reeling too much to get that far, to be honest” I replied. She laughed again, louder this time. “It’s a long story. But I figured you could use a lift before the vultures turned up. Get in and I’ll tell you” Her tone suggested that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer anyway, so I did as I was told. It was strange sitting in the passenger seat of my own car. Although thinking about it, it was probably not my car anymore. “How did you…” I started, but she cut me off. “I bought it at auction. Well, my husband did. It spent several years in an impound lot before the police decided to get rid to raise some cash. I guess there was some sort of asset forfeiture in place or something which meant they could do it” “But why?” I asked. “Why would you want it” “Oh, babe. I didn’t. But I figured you’d want it back eventually when you got out” she chuckled again as she downshifted and floored the accelerator, roaring off down a country road. “And I can see why, it’s a nice car” I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. “I was hung up on you for a while. You know, like a lost puppy sorta thing. I even set out on a uni course to prove your innocence and everything. But then I grew out of it, I guess. Criminology wasn’t my thing it turns out. And then I met a guy, who made me forget about you. Well, not completely, you never forget your first, but you know…” she said with a smile. “I still don’t know what to say. Other than thank you, I guess” I stammered. “Don’t worry about it. I know things were weird between us back in the day, but I was just a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing. But you’re not a bad guy. And I can imagine your list of friends is short, after all that’s happened” “Company of one I think. Just Tony Keats” Ellie slowed and stopped at a traffic light. She turned and looked at me, her giggling and smiling all gone, replaced by a sad, downcast face “Yeah, about that… I’m sorry, but Tony’s dead…”

The Daily Mail, 5th of April 2023 MURDEROUS FOOTBALLER TO BE RELEASED ON PAROLE From our reporter Disgraced former footballer Chris Browne is due to be out on parole in the next few days after successfully applying to be released early. Brown was sent to prison for a minimum of almost thirteen years for the murder of Bromsgrove woman Evelyn Scott, 28, back in 2009. Browne, who will turn 50 next month, has always denied killing Scott, but it took a jury just 45 minutes of deliberation to send him to prison after hearing testimony from officers who found the former left-back naked and covered in blood next to his victim. At the time of the murder, Browne had been manager at now-defunct Bromsgrove Rovers, hoping to redeem his reputation as a manager after his career as a footballer came to an abrupt end. According to local journalist Robbie Abraham, Browne had made a decent start as a manager, with Rovers only losing one game under his short tenure, but had ruffled some feathers within the club due to his controversial past. Many will remember Browne’s playing career was cut short in 2006 after an unprecedented four-month suspension for his horror tackle on talented young winger John Crisp. Crisp was only nineteen at the time and Browne’s assault left his leg mangled. Browne escaped a criminal investigation on that occasion but was sued in civil court and had to pay damages of around five million pounds. The conditions of Browne’s parole would make it difficult to allow a return to management and in any event, it seems unlikely that any club would want to take the chance after events of the past.

Just caught up with all of this, great work!

Two weeks later, my solicitor came to visit me. He handed over a sealed envelope. It was stamped with the logo of the parole board. I didn’t waste any time tearing it open and reading the letter. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t a lot of explanation. “It is the opinion of the Parole Board that Chris Browne is no longer a risk to the general public. His application for parole is therefore granted and he may be released on license once a parole officer has drawn up the conditions he must abide by. Failure to abide by the conditions of his release on license will result in Mr Browne being recalled to prison to serve the remainder of his term, standing at seven years and two months from the date of this letter” “Well **** me, I wasn’t expecting that” I murmured to myself after reading it twice, just to make sure. I looked up at the lawyer. “You already knew?” I asked, referring to his grin. “The word spread quickly through unofficial channels. The downside is, the media will have it too. But congratulations Mr Browne. This time next week, you’ll be a free man” “Free is a relative term of course. I’m sure there’s going to be a whole load of conditions that come with being allowed out” “Well yes, that goes without saying. But it beats being locked up, surely?” he asked. “I grant you that. So what happens next? Where do I go from here? I presume it’s not like the movies where I get thrown out of the prison front door and left to make my way somewhere with not a penny to my name” I asked. “You’ll be put up in a hotel or something similar for the next few weeks by the local authority and you’ll have to apply for council housing or find yourself somewhere private. The latter may be more complicated given your history. The council has to house you, but you don’t get a lot of choice on where you go. You will be assigned a parole officer who you will need to check in with. There will be other stipulations of course, but that’s the main thing” he said, digging in his briefcase and pulling out a wedge of paperwork. “Oh joy” I groaned as I began flipping through the pages.

First of all, thank you all for following along, I hope it doesn't disappoint 15th of March 2023 Parole Board Office, Durham I looked at myself in the mirror. Not too bad really, considering the last thirteen years. The face was older and lined, the hair had started to do that graceful hint of grey around the temples that was slowly spreading backwards. But the eyes still showed a spark. And my old suit still fitted just fine. Benefits of a lot of free time to exercise, I guess. I was probably as fit as when I retired from playing football. I adjusted the tie one last time and turned to the guard, who had been watching my every move. “Ok, I’m ready” He nodded, opened the door and led me out of the bathroom towards the meeting room. The parole board would be waiting. My solicitor waited for me outside the room, briefcase in hand. “How are you feeling, Chris?” he asked me. “Not gonna lie, I’m nervous as hell. And I can only see this going badly. Despite what the system says, I was never a danger to the public in the first place. And I’m worried that maintaining my innocence is not going to go down too well with a group of people who want to see me show some sort of remorse for my alleged crimes” I replied. “Leave that bit to me. You just go with what we agreed” he said, flashing a toothy grin as he opened the door for me. I couldn’t help but feel he was just happy for the paycheck. The guard followed us in and took up station near the door. You know, in case I decided to make a run for freedom from a parole hearing that was hopefully going to set me free… The proceeding was mainly a rehashing of the facts of the original case. The assistant warden gave his assessment, declaring that I had been a well-behaved prisoner, despite aggression from other prisoners initially. He quoted from a report from the prison psychologist that suggested I was extremely unlikely to re-offend. Things seemed to be going in my favour until a wild-eyed man in his late thirties burst in. He was out of breath and perspiring. “Sorry!” he blurted out. “I hope I am not too late. My cab was stuck in traffic. Had to run the final half-mile”. He was holding a piece of paper full of scribblings. The lady who’d been introduced at the start of proceedings as the victim coordinator stood and showed him a seat. “Not at all, Mr Scott. Right on time, in fact. If you don’t mind, Mr Chair. Graham Scott, Evelyn’s brother would like to make a statement” The chair nodded his assent. My heart dropped. Scott cleared his throat and began. “I miss my sister. We’d drifted apart, as you do when you get older, but I still miss her. Thirteen years has done nothing to ease the ache I feel. Taken by an animal who had no regard for her or her life. He might protest his innocence, but most of us have seen, on live TV, what Chris Browne is capable of. What he can do when things don’t go his way. He snapped some young kid’s leg because he couldn’t bear getting beat. And I guess he did the same to Evelyn when she turned him away. And now I’m the only one left. My mother died not long after my sister, of a broken heart. My dad, always a worrier, succumbed to cancer after that. And now this monster wants to be set free? He’s responsible for three deaths, not just one. He should stay in a cage, where animals belong” The venom in his voice was clear for all to hear. He hated my guts. And frankly, I couldn’t even blame him. “Mr Browne. I understand you have a statement of your own” said the chair, turning to me. I nodded in return and he invited me to read it out. I drew the piece of paper from my inside pocket and unfolded it before me. I smoothed it out with the palm of my hand and cleared my throat. I hesitated and looked up at the three-man board before me. They looked at me, expectantly. I picked up the paper and scrunched it up into a ball. Then I turned to Mark Scott. “Look, I had something prepared about how I’m no longer a risk to society and whatnot and it’s all legal crap” I said, focussing myself on him. “Maybe I deserve to be locked up. I’ve brought immeasurable grief upon your family. No apology is going to change that. Or bring Evelyn back. I miss her too, but I know that’s not the same.” I took a deep breath. Steeling myself for another seven years in a box. “I know I didn’t kill her, regardless of what the law says. I’ve made mistakes in my life, more than I care to remember. And I’ve always owned up to them. I copped to everything I’ve done. And I’ve paid the price for my transgressions. On the pitch and off. I’ve taken my punishments: suspensions, fines, whatever. I didn’t kill her, but I am responsible for her death. What happened to her happened because of me. Because of my involvement with her. And for that I am sorry. If spending the rest of my life behind bars would bring her back, then I would do that. Because it wasn’t her fault. She was just trying to be a nice person to a guy with more problems than days. If I could go back and change it all, I would. But I can’t. So this is the best I’ve got.” I looked up at the ceiling. Perhaps overly dramatic given the circumstances, but it felt right. “I’m sorry”

Game info: FM 2024, England National League and up and top leagues from France, Germany, Italy, Netherlands, Scotland & Spain. The following story is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended. Please be advised that the following story may contain strong language, scenes of violence and scenes of a sexual nature, or scenes that readers may find otherwise disturbing. As such this story may contain parts that are not suitable for younger readers. If you are offended or upset by any of the contents of this story, feel free to contact me, either by commenting, sending me a PM or via email (address in profile). Finally, please drink responsibly. While it is not essential to have read the first part of The Outcast, you may find it helpful to familiarise yourself with some of the characters and happenings from the original story here This has been in the making ever since the original game died, but I've never managed to get more than a few games in on any of the previous versions of FM. But sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet and get it started. It'll take a while till we get to some actual football, so buckle in for a long haul. WLKRAS

22nd of March 2010 Old Bailey, London The courtroom was pretty packed. I sat in the dock, my barrister off to one side of me, wig and all. The prosecutor and the judge were all similarly attired in their robes and wigs. I’d have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire. The judge was rabbitting on, reeling off the “facts” of the case, mitigating circumstances and whatnot. I’d already been found guilty by a jury. Even if they hadn’t seen THAT tackle back in the day, they would’ve known that I was a bad guy. The press had made that clear enough back in the day and again in the past few months. I was doomed from the start. “Would you stand up, please?” The magistrate looked at me sternly, his fleshy jowls wobbling as he spoke. “Chris Browne, the sentence I pass upon you is one of life imprisonment with a minimum term of thirteen years and 122 days for the murder of Evelyn Scott. From that term will be deducted the amount of time you have spent on remand, which equates to 154 days. That deduction results in a final term of twelve years and 333 days. Once you have served that term, you will be entitled to apply for parole. However, you will not be released by the parole board unless they conclude that you no longer pose a risk to the public…” I sat in disbelief. I hadn’t killed her. But I was going to prison all the same. I turned around to see Robbie Abraham smirking a grin in the front row. Behind him, Tony Keats was shaking his head sadly. Next to Tony sat Ellie Sanders, big puppy eyes wet with tears. I very much doubted I’d see any of them ever again. At the back of the public gallery, I caught a glimpse of Steve Daniels and Daniel Grocutt. Both were sporting Cheshire cat grins. “That concludes these sentencing remarks, he may go down” the judge added with a final verbal swipe. I turned back as an officer of the court approached to lead me away. I’d already done the math in my head. February 2023 would be the earliest I could apply for parole. I’d be coming up fifty that year. But I still had a life. Better than Evelyn. Someone had taken hers and I was damn sure doing to find out who. I had all the time in the world anyway. My determination wilted within the first few weeks inside HMP Frankland. I was a famous enough face to be noted by the hardened criminals in there. They were keen on some prison justice. Rapists, alleged or not, were their main targets. And while I hadn’t been convicted on that count due to ambiguous evidence, there had been enough allusions in the media to tar me with the same brush. The first year became about survival. By whatever means necessary. It wasn’t pretty. It left scars, physical and mental, deep enough that they’d never heal. If I had found the means, I would’ve tried to end it all, but considering my failed effort last time, it was probably for the best that I didn’t. It could only have gone badly. But my fight was gone. I didn’t care any more whether I lived or died. Which took the fun out of it for my fellow inmates. They quickly lost interest and set upon newer ‘fish’, leaving me to my own devices. On the plus side, I suppose prison is as good a place as any for an alcoholic. I wasn’t going to get drunk and do something stupid while locked up in a six-by-ten box with only a bed and a toilet. Cigarettes were too valuable a currency to take up smoking again and drugs had never been my thing. Time passes both slowly and quickly when you have nothing to do for yourself. After sentencing, I didn’t get many visitors. Tony Keats visited maybe a handful of times, but Durham is a long way from Essex. And he wasn’t convinced by my pleas of innocence. There was a letter, early on, from Ellie. She said she was sorry for me, but nothing more than that. Hell, she was just a kid. She had no business getting involved with me in the first place. Another drunken mistake that I couldn’t fully shake. I expected to live my days out in Frankland. Eventually, I’d be eligible for parole. Who knows, the board might even find me safe enough to release me.