Breakdown (24 page)

“I’m not proud of what I did to him, but I’d do it again. He deserved it. He would have killed Kay.” Chris paced among the stumps, saw the ax, bent to pick it up. He held it, stood still again, and put a hand to his face. “In a way, I did kill him. He got an infection when he was in hospital and died there.” He kicked a piece of wood off a stump and sat down suddenly, his back still to her. He let the ax fall.

“How do you know?”

“Kay told me. I don’t think Cooper knows.”

“But it was self-defense—”

“Right, whatever you want to call it.”

“It doesn’t change anything. I knew there were things you didn’t want to tell me. Of course I wouldn’t expect you to go because of that.”

Chris pushed himself up and turned to her finally. “Cooper’s been lucky. He has no idea what goes on in some places. He thinks he does. He thinks he’s clever. But shampoo, tobacco, an extra petrol ration...That’s nothing, Pauline. Pointless shit. He has no idea. I hope he doesn’t fall in with people like Marcus, because it will be the end of him. He gets by on fawning and fakery and petty bribes. He brought me a gun—did you know that? I suppose he has one, too. But it will only get him killed if thinks he can flash it about. He hasn’t got the balls to use it, because he’s never had a gun pointed at his head by a man who doesn’t give a damn about anyone.”

Pauline took a deep breath, hoping to calm her stomach. “Okay, calm down. Let’s go inside, to the study, get a little calmer, and talk this out. Okay?”

“No.”

“There’s more. I know there’s more. You can tell me. I think it will help.” She dropped the hatchet she was still holding and stood, taking a step toward Chris.

Chris was shaking now, holding himself stiffly. “I can’t be your patient anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see it?” His voice quavered. “I don’t want to be the stupid drunk picking fights in the pub with the unlucky chap who happens to sit next to you.”

“You’re nothing like that—”

“We’re done, Pauline. We have to be. I can’t tell you anything that might upset you, because seeing you upset hurts me too much. I despise Cooper for the way he treats you. He shows up once a year and expects you to welcome him into your bed, as if that’s enough for you. I know that’s not enough for you. I want to hurt him because he hurt you. Do you see what’s happened? I thought I could ignore it. I’m good at ignoring feelings, right? I’ve spent the last five years perfecting the art. But Cooper saw through it, even if you never did. Did he tell you that? Did he point out that I’ve fixated on you?”

It was like a blow to her gut. She had to catch her breath.

“I never saw any sign of that, not in you,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

“He did tell you. He saw it.”

“He’s jealous of you, that’s all.”

Chris barked a humorless laugh at that. “Look, you tried to warn me. You did your best. It doesn’t make you a bad doctor.” He stopped and swallowed. “You really helped me; I know that. I appreciate that. But we’re done now. You know what happens next.”

“No, I don’t.”
Was that her voice, sounding so forlorn?

He had his jaw clenched, staring at her, but he didn’t look angry. He looked desperately sad. He shook his head at her and turned away, stripping off his work gloves. He walked away down the driveway, out to the road, and kept going.

* * *

When Chris came back, he found Pauline in the barn, mucking out a stall.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do that,” he said.

She jerked her head up as if she hadn’t heard him come in. “I’m nearly done. It’s okay.” She bent to the task. “You missed tea.”

“I was with Freddie and Wes. I wanted to say good-bye.”

Pauline stopped, held still, then faced him. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I have to go.”

“Maybe we should talk about it more.”

Somehow, the vault he’d built had cracked open, rusted through, worn away with time and talk and comfort. He couldn’t lock it anymore. He couldn’t close the door and spin the dial and keep everything unseen, unfelt. He wanted that back. He’d got used to not feeling anything. Now it just hurt.

“What’s to talk about? I was always going to go. I should have left in the spring. I shouldn’t have stayed this long. All I’ve done is hurt people.”

“You haven’t hurt anyone. How can you say that?”

“I’ve hurt Wes. He tried to act tough, but he’ll cry when he’s alone.”

“Because he cares about you.”

“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”

“If I hurt, it’s because of how I feel, not anything you’ve done.”

I’ve hurt myself.

“Look, I’ve thought about it, about what Michael told you, and why he told you. I was wrong, before. I said he only told you so you’d be...suspicious or scared. But, no. He told you because he really is worried about you. He really does care. I know that. He thought it was the right thing to do. I’d have done it. If I were in his place, I’d have warned you. You should know what I’m capable of. I should have told you.”

“I already know. You’re capable of standing up for what’s right. Of defending yourself and others you care about. Of feeling, caring, and
loving
other people.”

He was too close to her, an arm’s length. He stepped farther back. “And making a hash of everything.”

“No. Don’t say that. We can work this out. Stay—awhile longer anyway—and work it out.”

“How, Pauline? I can’t be your patient anymore. Can’t you see that?”

“Not as my patient, then.”

“As what? Your pathetic, besotted pet? Do you know how many—what did you call them?—‘unhealthy expectations’ I’ve had the last few months? How many times I’ve had to resort to counting backwards in bed at night because I couldn’t stop thinking about you? How
jealous
I was when Cooper walked in that door and hugged you?”

Her breathing had got short and choppy as he spoke. She blinked.

And then she was in his arms. He didn’t know if she moved first or he did. He hugged her as hard and as tight as he dared, his face in her hair, his eyes shut tight. Her body pressed against his set off a raging heat he’d been denying for too long. He must have groaned, or made some sort of noise, because she said, “It’s okay,” muffled against his shoulder.

“How is it okay?” he protested. This was everything she had warned him against. Besotted, yes, that’s what he was, drunk on her smell, her skin, the small of her back and her breasts and her hair. Despair fought with elation. Elation won, and he kissed her lips, just as soft and sweet as he’d imagined them. He explored her mouth with his tongue, explored her body with his hands. He was falling past the point of no return. The only way to stop was to hold her tight, crush her against him, count backwards until his pounding need subsided.

“Oh, crap,” he whispered when he was able.

“Don’t go,” she said. “Stay.”

“I can’t think now,” Chris said. Somehow he let her go, stepped away, kept his eyes off her. “I can’t think. Go away and let me think.”

“Will you come in for supper?”

“I—okay. Yes. Just go away now, please.”

She tried to touch him again, a hand on him, but he sidestepped it. She left him, wiping at her eyes.

Chris went into the little tack room. He sat at the bench where George mended the harness, put his head down on his arms, and tried to bring Sophie back.

CHAPTER 21

T
he clanging of the supper bell roused Chris from something close to a trance. His eyes hurt. He stood, overwhelmed with fatigue, and made his way out of the barn. He pumped water and washed his hands and face at the tub, taking longer than he needed. He stood with his hand on the doorknob.
Autopilot.

Grace and Marie were putting the dishes of food on the table. Pauline did not look at him.

“Here he is,” Marie said.

“Sorry, I had a wash outside,” Chris said, and took his place. Grace said a quick blessing, and they began the meal, passing the various dishes around the table. Chris went through the motions, disconnected from the everyday conversation happening in front of him. The food had no taste. He kept glancing at Pauline, but she never looked at him. Her silence stood out to him, but it did not seem as if anyone else noticed. When they were nearly done, he put his fork down and took a deep breath. Grace looked at him.

“Is something wrong, Chris?” she asked. “You’ve been quiet.”

He spoke quickly, before he lost his resolve, staring at the water pitcher in the middle of the table. “Something Coop—Michael—said started me thinking, and I’ve decided it’s time for me to go to Bath. I need to know about my family. I thought I’d go tomorrow.”

He could tell they were looking at him, except for Pauline. She was staring at her plate.

“Well, this is sudden,” Grace said gently. “But of course we understand, Chris. We hope you find them well and happy.”

“Thank you. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate the way you’ve taken me in,” Chris said, his voice catching in his throat. “I won’t forget it.”

“Well, we certainly hope you’ll have a chance to come back and visit us sometime,” Marie said. She glanced at Pauline.

“How will you go?” Pauline asked, her voice not quite a monotone.

Chris made himself look at her. “Michael said there was a bus route about eight miles from here.” She did a good job of keeping a normal face. He hoped he was doing as well. “I might be able to take buses most of the way.”

“You don’t want to take a few days to plan things out?” George asked.

“Well, I need to get there before my card expires in a fortnight,” Chris said. “I’ll get a new one there. I don’t want to cut it too close.”

George nodded. “You don’t want to get caught without a valid card.”

“So we have just this evening to get you ready,” Marie said, and started to clear the dishes.

“I don’t have much to pack.”

“We’re not sending you off with nothing, dear,” Grace said. “We’ll have to get some food together for you, and a few other things.”

“Thank you,” Chris said softly. He sat at the table, his hands in his lap, staring at the knife and fork crossed on his plate until Pauline’s hand came to take it away. She put her other hand lightly on his shoulder, briefly, as she leaned in. He caught the scent of her hair, saw the gleam of it out of the corner of his eye, and the dark blue of her shirt, and then she moved away.

Chris stood, pushed his chair in carefully, and left the kitchen. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, glanced into the sitting room, where they had all spent so many cozy evenings, where George had taught him to play chess, where Marie had tried to teach him to knit, where he had come to think of Grace almost as his own mum. Then he thought of his own family: his mum and Jon. He thought of Brian and Fiona. He went up the stairs to his room to pack his duffel.

The tiny room held little that was his. He remembered the day he’d arrived: Pauline leaning against the doorframe in jeans and a pale-green shirt. He shook his head, got down, and fished around under the bed until he found his duffel. It had become dusty in the time it had been under there. He brushed it off and put it on the bed.

He got the bundle Michael had given him out of the top dresser drawer and the old towel he had arrived with, which Pauline had rolled her eyes at, then washed for him. It had been in the drawer ever since. He rewrapped the gun in the towel and put it in the duffel, carefully wrapped the bullets in the piece of rag and put them in too, and added a few pairs of clean underwear and socks.

From the second drawer, two shirts, an extra pair of cords, and a jumper—the clothes he had arrived with—filled most of the space in the duffel. He gathered the rest of his things: his torch—dead now, but maybe he’d have a chance to recharge it—his journal and pencil, his penknife, his comb, the pack of cigarettes from Michael. The manicure set from Grace made him smile, as did the knit hat from Marie. His work gloves were outside somewhere. He stood with the ivory chess piece from Pauline in his hand. His castle, his stronghold of memories. He tucked it inside the cap to protect it.

The top drawer was empty. He looked again, felt a small stab of panic. Something was missing. He opened the second drawer, took out the clothes Pauline had given him—Jim’s clothes—laid them out on the bed, put them all back. He didn’t find it. Then he unzipped the side pocket of the duffel, and there it was: a small, soft, pale-yellow animal that he’d long ago concluded must have been intended to be a horse. It had been Rosie’s favorite thing in her short life. She had sucked on the nose of the poor creature enthusiastically, her little fingers grasping the soft loop coming out of its back. He’d lost the pictures in London, but he still had the little horse. He fingered it briefly before zipping up the pocket.

Chris sat down on the bed. It had taken him all of fifteen minutes to pack.

He glanced down. He had kept a few books stacked under the chair next to the bed: a couple of novels and a book on the conquest of England he had found on the shelves in the sitting room. The novels had been forgettable, and he’d never finished the conquest. He picked them up to take them back downstairs.

He encountered Pauline coming up the stairs. He stood aside to let her pass. She had some things in her hands.

“I hope you have plenty of room,” she said with a wry face. “Mum and Marie are planning big. This is just the start.”

He followed her back to his room, where she put the things she was holding on the bed: two plastic bottles of water; a small box of matches; two candles; an empty tin can; a spoon, fork, and knife; and his ration book.

“My bag’s almost full,” he said.

“They’re worried you might have to camp out overnight or something. They want you to be prepared. And who knows,” she continued softly, “what you might find once you get there. You might need some things.”

“I’ll put these back, and I’ll go see.” He hurried downstairs, slipped the books into the bookshelves in the sitting room, and went into the kitchen, where he argued good-naturedly with Grace and Marie about what he could and could not fit into his duffel. They reached a compromise, and he went back up to his room.