by Maureen Tan
“Welcome back, Jane. Sorry, but I’ve gotta run. Ginnie’s waiting dinner on me.”
I glanced at the open pizza box, saw three small squares of pizza in the middle of a much larger greasemarked circle, and hoped that Ginnie hadn’t gone to too much trouble.
Tommy left through the back door, which was apparently off the alarm circuit. And then Alex and I were alone. I sat down in the chair Tommy had vacated, leaving a chair and the remains of the pizza between us.
Alex picked up another can of beer. Instead of opening it, he examined its label, an activity that apparently required all his attention.
“How was your flight?” he said, not looking up.
“Ill-advised, apparently. You invited me back. But based on this reception, I assume you’ve changed your mind.”
He put the beer can down, turned his head, met my eyes.
“You’ll leave me again.”
A statement. No doubt in his voice. No self-pity, either. The lines around his mouth were hard and angry, the hurt in his eyes difficult to miss. He was protecting himself. From me.
I considered how I could overcome his defenses, sought the most effective way to get what I wanted. The truth, I thought suddenly. He would help me if I told him the truth.
I nodded and matched my tone to his.
“Probably.”
“Then why come back at all? And don’t give me that crap about needing a safe place to stay.” He lifted his chin, indicated my injured arm. “I won’t even ask how that happened. But I’m sure MI-5 has a marvelous health plan and lots of nice, secure places to send damaged agents.”
I picked my way carefully through unfamiliar territory.
“I came back because I need . . . a friend. We are friends, aren’t we?”
He shook his head, tightened his lips briefly, then replied.
“Friends trust each other. They’re honest with each other. Your job won’t let you do that. You won’t let you do that. So, no. We were lovers. Never friends.”
Hard to argue that. I didn’t try. Instead, I briefly touched my left forefinger to my arm.
“This has bought me time. A few weeks at most. That’s how long I have to remember what I saw on the day my parents died.”
“I always figured there was something odd—”
He stopped, glared at me as if I’d tricked him into speaking.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to finish his thought, I said: “Mac has set a trap for a politically influential man. He wants me to be the bait. He says the fellow murdered my parents. I’m not sure I believe him. I don’t like going blindly into any operation, much less one like this. Recalling that day will increase my chances of survival. So I need someone with specialized . . . skills . . . to help me remember. If Mac is telling the truth, I’ll return to England, do my job, and serve as bait for his trap.”
Alex didn’t look sympathetic.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why come back here? Why bother me? You’re describing an MI-5 operation. You folks are hardly blushing innocents where interrogation is concerned. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? It seems to me that human rights violations are something of a specialty in Northern Ireland.”
I was too tired to be provoked. Besides, Alex’s opinion of British internal security was less than surprising. Irish-Americans tended to view the IRA as vaguely patriotic, its violence an understandable response to historical injustices. Which made us the bad guys. I didn’t speak my thoughts aloud, but I did spend a moment thinking about the elderly black man who’d driven me from the airport. He, too, could lay claim to historical injustices. Doubtful that Alex would consider his grievances justification for setting off a bomb in downtown Savannah.
“With the right techniques and access to the right drugs,” Alex continued, “it wouldn’t take one of your cronies more than a day or two to get the information you’re after.”
He was right. But the thought of another session like the one I’d had with Mac encouraged the headache already blooming behind my eyes. My muscles tensed at the reminder of the helplessness, the loss of control I’d suffered at his hands. But the shortcut was worth exploring.
“If I got the drugs and showed you how, would you administer them?”
Alex lifted his jaw, looked squarely at me.
“No. I’m a cop, not some fucking inquisitor.”
I sighed, thinking that there had to be another way to get what I wanted, one that didn’t involve the strain of dealing with Alex. I considered walking over to the phone, calling a cab, and catching the next plane out. I could go to some exotic resort. Rest in the sun. Build up my strength.
But that wouldn’t get me answers. And there was no one I trusted as much as I trusted Alex.
Wearily, I wiped my left hand over my eyes and my clammy forehead, suddenly aware of how much my arm hurt, of how grueling the intercontinental flight had been. When I moved my hand from my face, I was startled to find Alex leaning toward me, hands outstretched, expression concerned.
Our eyes met.
He looked quickly away, straightened, balled his hands into fists. Caring, but trying not to.
Something I understood.
“Why me, Jane?”
I felt like a lawyer presenting closing arguments to a hostile jury.
“You’re a skilled interrogator, your instincts are good, and you know me.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I responded by sharpening my voice.
“Don’t underestimate yourself. You have a talent for getting past my defenses. You always have. When I’m with you, I find myself remem—” I shook my head sharply, dismissing the thought. “You certainly know me well enough to be able to . . . push . . . when I’m least likely to resist. Most important, you’re not one of my cronies. I can trust you to ask only the questions that need to be asked. And I know you won’t use the answers to harm me.”
Then I made my final appeal, knowing that protecting and caring for people was a reflex for Alex—it didn’t matter whether they were friends or relatives, lovers or strangers. That impulse made him a good cop, a good man. It made him easy to manipulate. Easy to betray.
I took a deep breath, reached out, caught the fabric of his sleeve in my hand, allowed headache-induced tears to overflow my eyes and trickle down my cheeks.
“For most of my life, I’ve run away from that day, terrified. But now, not remembering terrifies me even more. Please, Alex. I need you.”
Even as I spoke the last sentence, his expression softened.
I’ve won, I thought, though I couldn’t tell whether I felt more relief or triumph. I didn’t allow either feeling to show. I looked at Alex with eyes wide, lips slightly parted, my entire posture emphasizing my defenselessness.
Wordlessly, he stood. He pushed aside the chair that stood between us, encircled me with his arms, and pressed his lips to the top of my head.
I huddled against him.
Safe, I thought. He’ll keep me safe.
It was then that I discovered I couldn’t stop crying.
16
A strong cup of tea can fix all manner of woes.
Sometimes, a stiff drink works better.
Scotch was my drink of choice. After downing a shot, I felt adventurous enough to risk a bite of cold sausage-and-mushroom pizza.
Some things, even a stiff drink can’t fix.
Alex was neatening up the kitchen and turned away from the counter in time to see me drop the soggy slice back into its box.
“I can fix you something real to eat.”
I shook my head.
“I’m not really hungry.” I closed the lid over the pizza. “That was a moment of weakness.”
He stepped over to the table, scooped up the pizza box, folded it in two, and jammed it into the wastebasket. After detouring briefly to lock the back door, he lingered beside my chair, looking at me, his head tilted and an eyebrow cocked in the direction of my bandages. I recognized the silly half-smil
e that played across his lips as a prelude to teasing.
He began to say something, then his lips tightened as he thought better of it. He turned away and walked over to the kitchen sink.
“You want another shot? Or some coffee?” he said over his shoulder.
“No, thanks.”
He turned on the faucet, squirted dishwashing liquid into the running stream. The dishpan began filling with hot water and suds.
“I’ll try to hit the grocery store tomorrow,” he said, picking up a stack of plates from beside the sink and immersing them in the dishpan. “I can pick up some fresh produce, maybe some yams. Anything special you want? I’ve got steaks and chicken in the freezer, and sliced Kentucky ham in the fridge. ’Course, we can always eat out.”
Alex’s chatter didn’t seem to require a response. And the running water made conversation difficult. Which, I suspected, was his intention. I sat staring at his back and asked myself how, exactly, I was going to handle this? How, exactly, I was going to regain his trust?
I’d always learned quickly. I offered him more truth.
I waited until he turned off the water, then spoke as if he had just asked about my arm, pitching my voice just loudly enough to be heard over the clatter of the dishes.
“If anyone asks, the official story is that I injured my arm fox hunting on the day after Christmas. That’s Boxing Day, which is the highlight, really, of the hunting season. Five minutes into the hunt, my horse was spooked by a grouse breaking cover, and I was thrown. A branch caught me on the way down.”
No indication that Alex was listening, but I kept talking anyway.
“The real story involves a kidnapping, a daring rescue, a horrid young bastard with yellow eyes, and a jagged bottle. If you’re interested, I’ll fill you in on the details.”
Alex stopped sloshing around in the soapy water. He pulled a dishtowel from a nearby rack, carefully wiped the water and suds from his hands, dropped the towel onto the counter, and turned. His expression was part surprise, part curiosity, mostly relief.
“I’d like that, Jane.”
* * *
We sat in the living room, on a sofa that was old, but too comfortable to part with. Reupholstering might have helped, but Alex had solved the problem by covering it with a cream-and-brown afghan and stacking it with wheat-colored pillows. Another, smaller afghan—one his mother had crocheted—was folded over one of the sofa’s tall arms.
I told Alex about Winthrup Manor, about Hugh and where his yellow eyes had led me. I told him about the drugs Mac had used, the fire in my flat, and Mac’s conversation with Sir William. I kept the narration factual, appealing to the part of him that was strictly cop.
Dusk turned to night. The shadows in the living room deepened, grew solid. The air cooled. We ignored the darkness, shifted in closer, sat with knees touching, eyes locked on each other’s face.
“. . . so at this moment, Sir William—or someone—is working on a plan to kill me. And Mac is waiting impatiently for his bait to return to the trap.”
Alex’s reaction was predictably male and reassuring.
“Those fucking SOBs. Don’t worry, Jane. We’ll work it out.”
* * *
I was nested into the corner of the sofa, my injured arm supported by a bolster pillow. My shoes were off, my legs pulled up onto the cushions. Comfortable.
I shut my eyes. Just for a moment.
Alex was still beside me, still talking softly, telling me . . . I didn’t know what he was telling me. I’d stopped listening to his words. Heard only the comforting rise and fall of his voice.
Tension drained away and left my muscles limp, my limbs too heavy to move. I rested my cheek against the cushioned back of the sofa.
He stopped speaking, and the cushions moved as his weight shifted.
I felt something soft around my shoulders.
Afghan, I thought.
I snuggled into its warmth and slept.
* * *
Kitty-mou jumped, crashed through the fiery branches, landed in the center of my robe.
I folded it around her, crawled from beneath the Christmas tree.
The smell of petrol hung in the air.
Thick, oily smoke stung my eyes.
Heat and flames consumed the room.
But I wasn’t afraid.
I grasped the bundle to my chest and ran from the Great Hall.
Grandpa was waiting just beyond the heavy doors.
I cried out his name, ran to him.
I wanted him to scoop me up in his arms, to protect me from the fire.
He stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring down at me.
“You let her die.”
I shook my head.
“No. I didn’t. See? This time, I saved her.”
I held out the bundled robe for his inspection, watching his face eagerly.
He bent forward, used thumb and index finger to pull aside the layers of quilted fabric. He frowned.
I lowered my eyes to the center of the bundle.
No Kitty-mou.
I held a raggedly amputated foot. It wore a polished black boot.
* * *
I woke up, doubled over and retching violently. Clapped my hand over my mouth as I flung myself from the sofa. I ran across the foyer, into the bathroom that adjoined the guest room. I made it to the toilet just in time. Vomited. Remembered the foot. Alex came into the bathroom, pulled my hair back from my face as I vomited again.
“I’m okay.”
I choked out the words, then pressed my lips tight and held my breath, willing myself not to gag again.
He closed the lid on the toilet, then steadied me as I sat down.
I rested my head against the cool porcelain of the tiny washbasin as I groped for the cold water faucet.
Alex’s hand was there first. He soaked a hand towel, wrung it out, and gave it to me.
I pressed my face into the cold fabric, blotting my tears, cooling my skin, and soothing my temples. Finally, I lifted my head.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
He took a paper cup from the dispenser beside the sink, filled it with water, and held it in my direction.
I took the cup, swished the water around in my mouth, and spat into the basin. The bitter, burning taste remained at the back of my throat. I repeated the process, felt better for it.
“Finished?”
I nodded.
* * *
Alex brought me a mug of tea loaded with sugar.
I held it briefly, then leaned forward from the sofa and placed the hot mug on the coffee table.
Alex watched, frowning slightly as I rearranged my grip so that I could lift the mug to my lips without spilling the contents. Then he settled back onto the other end of the sofa.
I took a sip and then spent an anxious moment wondering what effect the hot, sweet liquid would have on my stomach. When nothing violent happened, I hazarded another sip, then another.
He waited until I’d polished off half of my tea.
“Bad dream?”
I nodded, knowing my nightmare was likely betrayed by nothing more revealing than rapid eye movement and labored breathing. I didn’t talk in my sleep. Individuals with that particular habit rarely completed training—unconscious murmurings were too likely to jeopardize the operative, the mission, the organization.
Alex tipped his head.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Tell me about it. That’s what I would ask Brian when he awakened with eyes full of remembered horror, crying out “No! Stop!” Please, I would say, tell me about it. Please, let me help you. He never had. He’d never trusted me enough—
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was almost mid-night. A devil of a time for amateur psychoanalysis, a devil of a time to invite a stranger to tour my subconscious.
Alex was not a stranger.
I’d asked for his help.
“I think the dream
was more than imagination,” I said.
I described it.
He watched silently as I stared at my lap, using my hands and fingers to define an object that wasn’t there.
“The bone is jagged and very white. There are tiny bone fragments where the flesh is . . . torn. But it’s not as bloody as you’d expect. Just above the ankle, there are curly black hairs. And there’s a knot in one of the laces. Like it was broken, then tied back together. Whoever relaced the boot did it carefully, so the knot wouldn’t show.”
“Do you know whose boot it is?”
I dug back through the shards of my childhood and found a memory I trusted.
Stavros was beside the limo, down on one knee, tying his shoe. He tugged at the laces, broke one, and cursed.
I thought that he was very funny.
Detachment became more difficult, but I managed it.
“It belonged to Stavros. He was our driver. I suppose it makes sense that the bodies were blown apart. I know the car caught fire and then exploded. I was told that. One of the men who . . . questioned me . . . showed me photos. To help me remember.”
I laughed then. A quick, short release of something that had little to do with humor. And detachment slipped.
I told him about Stavros, about the sidewalk cafes and washing the limo and games of hide-and-seek around the embassy compound.
“I never dared tell my grandfather, or anyone, that I missed Stavros more than I missed my parents. But I did.”
Alex reached out, touched my cheek with the back of his fingers, then gently stroked my hair back from my face.
“Why wouldn’t you miss him? It doesn’t sound like there were any other children around. And it seems as if your parents were very busy people. Stavros was your best friend, wasn’t he? Maybe your only friend.”
I thought about it, nodded.
“Yes, I suppose he was.”
Alex’s fingers moved lightly over my right arm from shoulder to wrist. Along the way, he brushed past my breast.
“How bad is it?” he said. “Your arm, I mean?”
It was impossible, really, to feel his fingertips through layers of cotton and gauze. Impossible, but my body responded to the mere suggestion.