This fic copyright Santanico, I don't own anything in the DCU
(unfortunately), titular poem by Dorothy Parker, yadda yadda yadda
lawyercakes. Contains swearing, adult themes and whatever could be
considered the opposite of "holiday cheer". And, hey, if it turns out that
Soames is the one who got killed in the altercation with Tad, disregard the
fic entirely.
_You Might As Well Live_
By: Santanico
Three o'clock in the morning. No sun yet, nor would there be for hours to come, maybe even days. Sirens wailing somewhere deep in the Bludhaven night, gray fog all around for miles, and all the tiny, huddled, shivering figure on the bridge could see down below her was the reflected, gaudy glory of hundreds of glittering Christmas lights. The city by the river. Her home, but now impossible to think of it as her home. Everything was brand new now that it was nearly over; the clothes she wore seemed not to be her clothes, the dark, greasy strands that blew across her vision were not her hair, the dying, sick skin she wore was not her skin.
She couldn't even see her own reflection any more. Hopelessly obscured by the filthy, choppy waters below, all she could make out was a rail-thin white wisp, and even that was swallowed by the glare of the lights and the blinding smog. Barely able to see her own limbs moving, she placed one bruised leg up onto the ledge before her, planting her foot as firmly as she was able. Pain, physical in form but springing from someplace beyond her fragile flesh, almost doubled her over; she almost lost her nerve as her eyes began to sting, but she steeled herself. She'd been a coward all her life. It was nearly over now. Nothing to be frightened of any more. Soon there would be only her falling body, light as air, and then the cool embrace of the water, and then nothing, blessed nothing. Taking as deep a breath as her lungs would permit, she hauled herself up, holding onto a girder for support, and then she was standing upright, high above Bludhaven's dark mirror image in the water, high above everything. She felt dizzy; her throat was dry; she swallowed, and felt the tears come again.
"You know, they say it's not the impact that kills ye."
The voice that spoke up beside her was quiet, soft, a gentle Irish lilt; but the shock of hearing any voice at all almost caused her to lose her grip. Instinctively, she clung to the girder, eyes wide in the gray haze, body tensing away from the source of the sound. She tried to speak, but the tears, treacherous and unwanted, choked her.
A scraping sound; a bright spark; then a tiny flame, bright and clear even in this thick gloom, flaring and dying, transferring a little of its light to a minute coal. The coal glowed, and then, accompanied by an exhalation, died. "Pardon the habit, darlin'. In my condition, I'm really not supposed to smoke a'tall. Tends to make me choke. But, hell, there's worse ways to die than with a nice cancer stick in yer mouth, right?
"Speaking of," the voice continued conversationally, "The way ye're about to do it - I wouldn't recommend it, meself. See, as I was saying, it's not the impact that kills ye when ye jump - actually, you generally die from a heart attack on the way down. Picture it, won't you? Soaring down through fathomless leagues of nothing but air, having all that time to _think_ about what you're doin', why you're doin' it, and then all of a sudden wishin' you were back on land, safe with both feet on the ground, and realising that it's not gonna happen, that this is it, _this is really it_..."
The voice paused to take another drag on its unseen cigarette. She found her voice, and said, in a way that she hoped sounded brave and defiant: "What about it?"
"Well," said the voice. "I dunno about you, darlin', but it makes me blood run cooler just thinkin' about it. Nah, if ye're gonna go, do it with a bit of style. A bit of flair. Do it in a way where there wouldn't be any time for regrets, any time for remorse. A bullet to the brain might be reasonable," it went on, musing. "Or a hangin'. Very popular around this time of the year, from what I remember. Didja know that over ninety people committed suicide by hanging last Christmas in Bludhaven alone? I'd show ye the police report, but, well..." A snort. "I'm not really privy to that kind of information any longer."
She ground her teeth. "Look, asshole," she snarled, anger giving her the strength to speak, "I don't know you. You don't know me. So mind your own fucking business, okay?"
"My, my. Somebody's low on holiday cheer." The fog was beginning to clear; she could make out the vague, blurred shape of a dusty trench coat, the body inside of which was leaning casually against the ledge upon which she stood. "Still, not that I can blame yer. This never was me favorite time o' the season. The first Christmas after I came over here from the Emerald Isle, I missed the ol' country something terrible. Never mind that I'd spent me whole life up until then just achin' to leave it behind.
"See, I'd grown up hearin' all these great things about America. Land o' the free. Home o' the brave. Ye know the sort of general bullshit I mean - hell, you've probably been force-fed it since ye were born. But I swallowed it. I swallowed it whole. Came over here on the boat and never looked back, even when things..." The voice faltered. "Well, even when things weren't quite as fantastic as I'd hoped. But then, things never are, are they?"
"Listen," she growled, brushing savagely at the tears gathering once more in the corners of her eyes. "I know what you're trying to do, okay? You're trying to get me to trust you. Get me to think we're alike. Just so's I won't jump. But you don't know anything, okay?! You don't know shit about me or my life and I don't _give_ a shit about you or your life! So just get lost, okay?"
A long pause. "Ye drink?"
She paused, taken aback. "I...What?"
"Do you drink?" the voice asked patiently. The fog was fading fast now, and she could make out his form leaning down to retrieve a plastic bag by his side. "Me own little Christmas Eve tradition," he said ruefully. "Some men spend the season with people they love, or havin' a brilliant time at a party. I useta spend it horizontal on the couch slugging back Jack Daniels and watching _Columbo_ reruns." Another snort of bitter laughter. "Actually, come t' think on it, that more or less describes the other three hundred and sixty-four nights of the year for me, too. So." His gloved hand emerged from the fog to wave a bottle before her. "Ye drink a'tall, darlin'?"
She licked her lips, unwittingly. A laugh, this time sounding more genuinely amused. "Evidently ye do. Take it. I should probably cut down anyway, before I turn meself into a bad Irish stereotype." A pause. "Well, not that I'm really typical of anything much any more..."
Not waiting to think about his cryptic remark, she snatched the bottle from his hand, had it unscrewed in seconds, and was gulping down the contents with almost frightening fervor.
"Here, steady on," he interrupted, gently prising it from her grasp. "Ye'll be shickered before you take yer next breath if you chug it down like that."
"What difference does it make?" she muttered, easing down into a sitting position on the ledge, accepting the bottle back from him once again. "I'll be dead soon."
"Well, that's up to you, really," he said reasonably. "And God knows I couldn't blame ye. Ye're a 'Haven resident, I take it?"
She gave a sullen nod.
"Lived here a while?"
"All my life."
"Good lord, darlin', I'm astounded ye've lasted this long."
She took a swig from the bottle. "How..." She ventured, uncertainly, "How long have you been here?"
"Um..." A silence. "Christ. Darlin', you know somethin'? I can't even remember. Frankly, me whole life before I joined the force is a blur to me now."
She started, began to shy away. "You're a cop?"
"Ah, no." Laughter. "No, definitely not. Useta be, but that was before I had me little accident."
"What accident?" A pang of curiosity.
"Wait, ye can't...? Oh, right, this bloody fog." A sigh. "Ah, well, I shouldn't be surprised. Ye haven't run off screamin' so far. That's a dead giveaway that ye haven't seen me yet."
"Should I run screaming?" she asked, a tiny smile edging its way across her chapped lips.
"You could. You indeed could. Christ knows I'd run as far and as fast away from meself as I could, _if_ I could. Unfortunately, I'm trapped. And to be honest with ye, I've been trapped for some time. Entirely me own fault. Nobody but me to blame, really. Oh, sure, I can pin me current condition on Desmond and Nightwing and all the rest," he went on, seemingly talking only to himself now, "But everything that came afore that rests entirely on the shoulders of Inspector Dudley Soames."
"Is...that your name?" she asked.
"It was," he said darkly. "Not so much these days. But how about you? Got a name yerself?"
She looked down. She could see her feet now, bare and bloodied as they were; strange, she must have cut them at some point, but the pain was so remote she couldn't even feel it. Half dead already. "Hannah," she said quietly.
"Hannah what?"
"Hannah None Of Your Business."
"Fair enough." He took one last drag on the cigarette, and flicked it into the sea. She watched it sail through the dark, its firelight spiralling into the distance, then swallowed up by the ocean. "It's a palindrome, ye know."
"A what?" she asked, distracted.
"A palindrome. Yer name. Spelt the same forwards and backwards."
"Huh. Oh, yeah." She gave a tiny laugh, despite herself. "Never noticed that before, I guess."
"Palindromes are sort of me hobby these days," he said, settling back against the ledge. "Helps keep me sane. Though some might disagree with such an assessment."
Hannah peered through the lightening fog. Strange, she could've sworn he was facing the bridge, not looking out to sea. It must be a trick of the light, and her own state of mind probably wasn't helping matters. God, maybe the dementia had set in already...Jesus, she'd sworn she'd end it before that happened. The idea of losing her mind was much more horrifying than that of losing her life.
"Your own name kind of rings a bell," she said slowly.
"So it should. Some cops become famous because they're so good. Lookit Kate Riordan, for instance. But some cops become famous because they're so damn bad. And that would be me.
"I don't mean bad at what I did," he said quickly. "If anything, I was too good. And I was never really that bad anyway. I mean, I was bad, but..." He took a breath. "I was never a monster," he said firmly. "Some of the other guys at the station did stuff that'd make yer hair curl. I did some questionable things, sure. I took money from people I wasn't supposed to...Killed people when maybe I wasn't supposed to. But I wasn't...I...Well..."
He lapsed into silence. A moment later, he lit another cigarette. "Okay, look," he said quietly. "I wasn't much of a cop, but I wasn't dead inside either. But it was so hard, love, so damn hard to be good, and after a while it didn't seem to make much sense to try. America's all about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, right? Well, that's what I was doin'. Pursuing happiness. And I was happy for a while. I was. I had money. I had power, or at least I was friends with people with power. I had status. I had it all. The American fucking Dream, that's what I had."
Another lapse into silence. Finally, Hannah dared to enquire: "What happened, then?"
"Huh?" It seemed he'd drifted away somewhere, away to someplace deep within his memory. "Sorry?"
"How did you lose it all?"
A beat of silence. Then a sigh. "Lass, actually, if I can be honest with you...Even before I got this way, things weren't...Well, they weren't quite wine an' roses. I was okay in the daytime, I remember that much. Useta busy myself with work - both me official work and me own little ventures. At night, though, at night...
"Had this little shoebox apartment. Pretty funny, eh? All that cash I was rakin' in on both sides o' the street, and I still lived like a pauper. And every night I'd come home from work, and there'd be nothing waiting for me but bills to pay, beer bottles and cigarette butts everywhere, and a cold single bed. And I'd wonder why I'd been so damn eager to get back here from work in the first place."
"No girlfriend or anything?" Hannah asked.
The same mirthless laughter. "You offerin', darlin'? Sorry. Not much interested in that sort of thing any more."
"I couldn't if I wanted to," Hannah said softly, but he didn't seem to hear.
"It did get me down sometimes back then, though. This time of the year, most definitely it got me down. I'd go along to the office Christmas party, even though I hate parties, just because I kept thinkin' I might meet somebody nice. Naturally enough, nobody nice wanted to be within fifteen feet o' me, and I always went home alone.
"I useta ask meself, 'Why not me?' I wasn't bad-looking. Dressed okay. Mind like a steel trap, or so Desmond useta tell me. But somehow, it just...never happened for me. Bloody hell, even Chief Redhorn managed ta get himself hitched, and he was no bleedin' prize."
A sigh. "Ah, I dunno, darlin'. It just...Ye get sad sometimes, ye know? Ye just get sad."
He picked up the bottle and took a large gulp. "Not to mention drunk."
The fog was almost gone by now, and her curiosity was burning. Hannah inched a little closer, peering harder - and, without meaning to, without even knowing that she had, she shrank back, the eyes in her ghastly face huge.
"The dementia's set in," she said aloud, her voice too high, unnaturally sharp.
"Eh?"
"You're not real. You can't be real. My mind's gone. My mind's gone." She leaned forward, cradling her head in her arms, rocking against her knees.
"What the hell are ye on about?" he demanded irritably.
"I can see you," she whispered.
Soames looked down, as far as the neck brace would allow him to. "Ah," he said softly. "I s'pose ye'd be wantin' to run away now."
Hannah looked up again, sharply. "Your head's on backwards," she blurted.
Soames bent his right arm over his shoulder, raising the bottle to his lips. "So I'm told," he said dryly.
"How...?"
"Long story, darlin'. Ye wouldn't care to hear it. Even I don't care to relive it." He shook the bottle in front of his torso; behind him, his lips grimaced. "Empty. Damn it." He turned around, and tossed the bottle into the water.
Hannah gazed at him in silence for what felt, to both of them, as if it were a very long time. Soames fidgeted, self-conscious now. The only sounds were the rough, churning water below, and the faint twittering of birds beginning to awaken in the dark blue light.
"I have AIDS," Hannah said simply.
Soames' face, fixed out to sea, never changed its expression. "For how long now?" he asked eventually.
"I don't know. A while, I think. Only found out a month ago."
Soames took a drag on his cigarette, a smooth motion which she supposed he must have had to practise. "How'd ye get it, then?" he asked, voice husky, still trying to sound tough. "Sharin' spikes, or ridin' bareback?"
"I don't know," Hannah said. "Either one. Both, maybe."
Soames coughed, tossed the cigarette out to sea. "Been doin' it kind of rough, then?"
"Guess I have," Hannah said, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the morning air.
Soames turned to her, spine and head facing towards her. In the dawn light, he could see now everything that had been concealed by the fog. The bruises and cuts on her legs. The track-marks along her arms. The KS lesions on her face. The dark, dark circles around her dark, dark eyes.
"I see," he said, voice soft.
Hannah stared back at him, not breaking her gaze until he turned away again.
"Ye still plannin' to jump?" he asked, looking down over the ledge.
Hannah shrugged. "I don't know." Pause. "What would you do?"
Soames raised his head, staring out to sea. "What would I do," he repeated quietly. "Darlin', you say that as if killin' meself's never occurred to me before." A beat, and then: "Hannah, I'm broken. Look closely at me and you'll remember me the rest of your life as the most broken man you'll ever meet. Still, I don't intend to die. I've got no reason to live, but I've never needed one. Living's what you do when there's nothing else you can do. It's the consolation prize. But like most consolation prizes, it's better'n nothing at all."
He shrugged. "I dunno. If ye still want to jump, by all means, jump. Not for me to say. Not for anyone to say but you."
Hannah turned her gaze out to sea, following Soames' line of vision. "I only know one poem off by heart," she said. "I learned it in school before I quit. Do you wanna hear it?"
Soames gave a nod. Robotically, Hannah recited:
"Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful,
Nooses give.
Gas smells awful -
You might as well live."
Soames smiled, and so did Hannah. Slowly, methodically, she lowered one leg back down onto the ground, and then the other, unbalancing slightly at first, then straightening up. Soames didn't look at her, just kept gazing out to sea.
"It's Christmas morning, ye know," he said.
Hannah gave a nod. "I know."
"I'd just about forgotten."
"Me, too."
"Ye got anywhere you can go?"
Hannah shrugged. "There's a girl I know from rehab..."
"Go to her."
"How about you?"
Soames smiled again, and turned to look at Hannah. "I'll be headin' home shortly. I just want to see the sun come up, is all."
Hannah lowered her eyes to the pavement, knotting her hands together. Then, looking up quickly: "Merry Christmas," she blurted, and ran off, tearing a path through the remaining wisps of smog on the bridge, vanishing from sight.
Soames watched her run, waiting until she was only a blurred dot on the horizon. "Aye. Merry Christmas," he responded softly, drew his coat tightly around himself, and turned back, resting his elbows on the cool stone of the ledge, watching silently as a watery golden sphere, slowly but surely, began its ascent into the purest of blue skies.
_You Might As Well Live_
By: Santanico
Three o'clock in the morning. No sun yet, nor would there be for hours to come, maybe even days. Sirens wailing somewhere deep in the Bludhaven night, gray fog all around for miles, and all the tiny, huddled, shivering figure on the bridge could see down below her was the reflected, gaudy glory of hundreds of glittering Christmas lights. The city by the river. Her home, but now impossible to think of it as her home. Everything was brand new now that it was nearly over; the clothes she wore seemed not to be her clothes, the dark, greasy strands that blew across her vision were not her hair, the dying, sick skin she wore was not her skin.
She couldn't even see her own reflection any more. Hopelessly obscured by the filthy, choppy waters below, all she could make out was a rail-thin white wisp, and even that was swallowed by the glare of the lights and the blinding smog. Barely able to see her own limbs moving, she placed one bruised leg up onto the ledge before her, planting her foot as firmly as she was able. Pain, physical in form but springing from someplace beyond her fragile flesh, almost doubled her over; she almost lost her nerve as her eyes began to sting, but she steeled herself. She'd been a coward all her life. It was nearly over now. Nothing to be frightened of any more. Soon there would be only her falling body, light as air, and then the cool embrace of the water, and then nothing, blessed nothing. Taking as deep a breath as her lungs would permit, she hauled herself up, holding onto a girder for support, and then she was standing upright, high above Bludhaven's dark mirror image in the water, high above everything. She felt dizzy; her throat was dry; she swallowed, and felt the tears come again.
"You know, they say it's not the impact that kills ye."
The voice that spoke up beside her was quiet, soft, a gentle Irish lilt; but the shock of hearing any voice at all almost caused her to lose her grip. Instinctively, she clung to the girder, eyes wide in the gray haze, body tensing away from the source of the sound. She tried to speak, but the tears, treacherous and unwanted, choked her.
A scraping sound; a bright spark; then a tiny flame, bright and clear even in this thick gloom, flaring and dying, transferring a little of its light to a minute coal. The coal glowed, and then, accompanied by an exhalation, died. "Pardon the habit, darlin'. In my condition, I'm really not supposed to smoke a'tall. Tends to make me choke. But, hell, there's worse ways to die than with a nice cancer stick in yer mouth, right?
"Speaking of," the voice continued conversationally, "The way ye're about to do it - I wouldn't recommend it, meself. See, as I was saying, it's not the impact that kills ye when ye jump - actually, you generally die from a heart attack on the way down. Picture it, won't you? Soaring down through fathomless leagues of nothing but air, having all that time to _think_ about what you're doin', why you're doin' it, and then all of a sudden wishin' you were back on land, safe with both feet on the ground, and realising that it's not gonna happen, that this is it, _this is really it_..."
The voice paused to take another drag on its unseen cigarette. She found her voice, and said, in a way that she hoped sounded brave and defiant: "What about it?"
"Well," said the voice. "I dunno about you, darlin', but it makes me blood run cooler just thinkin' about it. Nah, if ye're gonna go, do it with a bit of style. A bit of flair. Do it in a way where there wouldn't be any time for regrets, any time for remorse. A bullet to the brain might be reasonable," it went on, musing. "Or a hangin'. Very popular around this time of the year, from what I remember. Didja know that over ninety people committed suicide by hanging last Christmas in Bludhaven alone? I'd show ye the police report, but, well..." A snort. "I'm not really privy to that kind of information any longer."
She ground her teeth. "Look, asshole," she snarled, anger giving her the strength to speak, "I don't know you. You don't know me. So mind your own fucking business, okay?"
"My, my. Somebody's low on holiday cheer." The fog was beginning to clear; she could make out the vague, blurred shape of a dusty trench coat, the body inside of which was leaning casually against the ledge upon which she stood. "Still, not that I can blame yer. This never was me favorite time o' the season. The first Christmas after I came over here from the Emerald Isle, I missed the ol' country something terrible. Never mind that I'd spent me whole life up until then just achin' to leave it behind.
"See, I'd grown up hearin' all these great things about America. Land o' the free. Home o' the brave. Ye know the sort of general bullshit I mean - hell, you've probably been force-fed it since ye were born. But I swallowed it. I swallowed it whole. Came over here on the boat and never looked back, even when things..." The voice faltered. "Well, even when things weren't quite as fantastic as I'd hoped. But then, things never are, are they?"
"Listen," she growled, brushing savagely at the tears gathering once more in the corners of her eyes. "I know what you're trying to do, okay? You're trying to get me to trust you. Get me to think we're alike. Just so's I won't jump. But you don't know anything, okay?! You don't know shit about me or my life and I don't _give_ a shit about you or your life! So just get lost, okay?"
A long pause. "Ye drink?"
She paused, taken aback. "I...What?"
"Do you drink?" the voice asked patiently. The fog was fading fast now, and she could make out his form leaning down to retrieve a plastic bag by his side. "Me own little Christmas Eve tradition," he said ruefully. "Some men spend the season with people they love, or havin' a brilliant time at a party. I useta spend it horizontal on the couch slugging back Jack Daniels and watching _Columbo_ reruns." Another snort of bitter laughter. "Actually, come t' think on it, that more or less describes the other three hundred and sixty-four nights of the year for me, too. So." His gloved hand emerged from the fog to wave a bottle before her. "Ye drink a'tall, darlin'?"
She licked her lips, unwittingly. A laugh, this time sounding more genuinely amused. "Evidently ye do. Take it. I should probably cut down anyway, before I turn meself into a bad Irish stereotype." A pause. "Well, not that I'm really typical of anything much any more..."
Not waiting to think about his cryptic remark, she snatched the bottle from his hand, had it unscrewed in seconds, and was gulping down the contents with almost frightening fervor.
"Here, steady on," he interrupted, gently prising it from her grasp. "Ye'll be shickered before you take yer next breath if you chug it down like that."
"What difference does it make?" she muttered, easing down into a sitting position on the ledge, accepting the bottle back from him once again. "I'll be dead soon."
"Well, that's up to you, really," he said reasonably. "And God knows I couldn't blame ye. Ye're a 'Haven resident, I take it?"
She gave a sullen nod.
"Lived here a while?"
"All my life."
"Good lord, darlin', I'm astounded ye've lasted this long."
She took a swig from the bottle. "How..." She ventured, uncertainly, "How long have you been here?"
"Um..." A silence. "Christ. Darlin', you know somethin'? I can't even remember. Frankly, me whole life before I joined the force is a blur to me now."
She started, began to shy away. "You're a cop?"
"Ah, no." Laughter. "No, definitely not. Useta be, but that was before I had me little accident."
"What accident?" A pang of curiosity.
"Wait, ye can't...? Oh, right, this bloody fog." A sigh. "Ah, well, I shouldn't be surprised. Ye haven't run off screamin' so far. That's a dead giveaway that ye haven't seen me yet."
"Should I run screaming?" she asked, a tiny smile edging its way across her chapped lips.
"You could. You indeed could. Christ knows I'd run as far and as fast away from meself as I could, _if_ I could. Unfortunately, I'm trapped. And to be honest with ye, I've been trapped for some time. Entirely me own fault. Nobody but me to blame, really. Oh, sure, I can pin me current condition on Desmond and Nightwing and all the rest," he went on, seemingly talking only to himself now, "But everything that came afore that rests entirely on the shoulders of Inspector Dudley Soames."
"Is...that your name?" she asked.
"It was," he said darkly. "Not so much these days. But how about you? Got a name yerself?"
She looked down. She could see her feet now, bare and bloodied as they were; strange, she must have cut them at some point, but the pain was so remote she couldn't even feel it. Half dead already. "Hannah," she said quietly.
"Hannah what?"
"Hannah None Of Your Business."
"Fair enough." He took one last drag on the cigarette, and flicked it into the sea. She watched it sail through the dark, its firelight spiralling into the distance, then swallowed up by the ocean. "It's a palindrome, ye know."
"A what?" she asked, distracted.
"A palindrome. Yer name. Spelt the same forwards and backwards."
"Huh. Oh, yeah." She gave a tiny laugh, despite herself. "Never noticed that before, I guess."
"Palindromes are sort of me hobby these days," he said, settling back against the ledge. "Helps keep me sane. Though some might disagree with such an assessment."
Hannah peered through the lightening fog. Strange, she could've sworn he was facing the bridge, not looking out to sea. It must be a trick of the light, and her own state of mind probably wasn't helping matters. God, maybe the dementia had set in already...Jesus, she'd sworn she'd end it before that happened. The idea of losing her mind was much more horrifying than that of losing her life.
"Your own name kind of rings a bell," she said slowly.
"So it should. Some cops become famous because they're so good. Lookit Kate Riordan, for instance. But some cops become famous because they're so damn bad. And that would be me.
"I don't mean bad at what I did," he said quickly. "If anything, I was too good. And I was never really that bad anyway. I mean, I was bad, but..." He took a breath. "I was never a monster," he said firmly. "Some of the other guys at the station did stuff that'd make yer hair curl. I did some questionable things, sure. I took money from people I wasn't supposed to...Killed people when maybe I wasn't supposed to. But I wasn't...I...Well..."
He lapsed into silence. A moment later, he lit another cigarette. "Okay, look," he said quietly. "I wasn't much of a cop, but I wasn't dead inside either. But it was so hard, love, so damn hard to be good, and after a while it didn't seem to make much sense to try. America's all about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, right? Well, that's what I was doin'. Pursuing happiness. And I was happy for a while. I was. I had money. I had power, or at least I was friends with people with power. I had status. I had it all. The American fucking Dream, that's what I had."
Another lapse into silence. Finally, Hannah dared to enquire: "What happened, then?"
"Huh?" It seemed he'd drifted away somewhere, away to someplace deep within his memory. "Sorry?"
"How did you lose it all?"
A beat of silence. Then a sigh. "Lass, actually, if I can be honest with you...Even before I got this way, things weren't...Well, they weren't quite wine an' roses. I was okay in the daytime, I remember that much. Useta busy myself with work - both me official work and me own little ventures. At night, though, at night...
"Had this little shoebox apartment. Pretty funny, eh? All that cash I was rakin' in on both sides o' the street, and I still lived like a pauper. And every night I'd come home from work, and there'd be nothing waiting for me but bills to pay, beer bottles and cigarette butts everywhere, and a cold single bed. And I'd wonder why I'd been so damn eager to get back here from work in the first place."
"No girlfriend or anything?" Hannah asked.
The same mirthless laughter. "You offerin', darlin'? Sorry. Not much interested in that sort of thing any more."
"I couldn't if I wanted to," Hannah said softly, but he didn't seem to hear.
"It did get me down sometimes back then, though. This time of the year, most definitely it got me down. I'd go along to the office Christmas party, even though I hate parties, just because I kept thinkin' I might meet somebody nice. Naturally enough, nobody nice wanted to be within fifteen feet o' me, and I always went home alone.
"I useta ask meself, 'Why not me?' I wasn't bad-looking. Dressed okay. Mind like a steel trap, or so Desmond useta tell me. But somehow, it just...never happened for me. Bloody hell, even Chief Redhorn managed ta get himself hitched, and he was no bleedin' prize."
A sigh. "Ah, I dunno, darlin'. It just...Ye get sad sometimes, ye know? Ye just get sad."
He picked up the bottle and took a large gulp. "Not to mention drunk."
The fog was almost gone by now, and her curiosity was burning. Hannah inched a little closer, peering harder - and, without meaning to, without even knowing that she had, she shrank back, the eyes in her ghastly face huge.
"The dementia's set in," she said aloud, her voice too high, unnaturally sharp.
"Eh?"
"You're not real. You can't be real. My mind's gone. My mind's gone." She leaned forward, cradling her head in her arms, rocking against her knees.
"What the hell are ye on about?" he demanded irritably.
"I can see you," she whispered.
Soames looked down, as far as the neck brace would allow him to. "Ah," he said softly. "I s'pose ye'd be wantin' to run away now."
Hannah looked up again, sharply. "Your head's on backwards," she blurted.
Soames bent his right arm over his shoulder, raising the bottle to his lips. "So I'm told," he said dryly.
"How...?"
"Long story, darlin'. Ye wouldn't care to hear it. Even I don't care to relive it." He shook the bottle in front of his torso; behind him, his lips grimaced. "Empty. Damn it." He turned around, and tossed the bottle into the water.
Hannah gazed at him in silence for what felt, to both of them, as if it were a very long time. Soames fidgeted, self-conscious now. The only sounds were the rough, churning water below, and the faint twittering of birds beginning to awaken in the dark blue light.
"I have AIDS," Hannah said simply.
Soames' face, fixed out to sea, never changed its expression. "For how long now?" he asked eventually.
"I don't know. A while, I think. Only found out a month ago."
Soames took a drag on his cigarette, a smooth motion which she supposed he must have had to practise. "How'd ye get it, then?" he asked, voice husky, still trying to sound tough. "Sharin' spikes, or ridin' bareback?"
"I don't know," Hannah said. "Either one. Both, maybe."
Soames coughed, tossed the cigarette out to sea. "Been doin' it kind of rough, then?"
"Guess I have," Hannah said, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the morning air.
Soames turned to her, spine and head facing towards her. In the dawn light, he could see now everything that had been concealed by the fog. The bruises and cuts on her legs. The track-marks along her arms. The KS lesions on her face. The dark, dark circles around her dark, dark eyes.
"I see," he said, voice soft.
Hannah stared back at him, not breaking her gaze until he turned away again.
"Ye still plannin' to jump?" he asked, looking down over the ledge.
Hannah shrugged. "I don't know." Pause. "What would you do?"
Soames raised his head, staring out to sea. "What would I do," he repeated quietly. "Darlin', you say that as if killin' meself's never occurred to me before." A beat, and then: "Hannah, I'm broken. Look closely at me and you'll remember me the rest of your life as the most broken man you'll ever meet. Still, I don't intend to die. I've got no reason to live, but I've never needed one. Living's what you do when there's nothing else you can do. It's the consolation prize. But like most consolation prizes, it's better'n nothing at all."
He shrugged. "I dunno. If ye still want to jump, by all means, jump. Not for me to say. Not for anyone to say but you."
Hannah turned her gaze out to sea, following Soames' line of vision. "I only know one poem off by heart," she said. "I learned it in school before I quit. Do you wanna hear it?"
Soames gave a nod. Robotically, Hannah recited:
"Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful,
Nooses give.
Gas smells awful -
You might as well live."
Soames smiled, and so did Hannah. Slowly, methodically, she lowered one leg back down onto the ground, and then the other, unbalancing slightly at first, then straightening up. Soames didn't look at her, just kept gazing out to sea.
"It's Christmas morning, ye know," he said.
Hannah gave a nod. "I know."
"I'd just about forgotten."
"Me, too."
"Ye got anywhere you can go?"
Hannah shrugged. "There's a girl I know from rehab..."
"Go to her."
"How about you?"
Soames smiled again, and turned to look at Hannah. "I'll be headin' home shortly. I just want to see the sun come up, is all."
Hannah lowered her eyes to the pavement, knotting her hands together. Then, looking up quickly: "Merry Christmas," she blurted, and ran off, tearing a path through the remaining wisps of smog on the bridge, vanishing from sight.
Soames watched her run, waiting until she was only a blurred dot on the horizon. "Aye. Merry Christmas," he responded softly, drew his coat tightly around himself, and turned back, resting his elbows on the cool stone of the ledge, watching silently as a watery golden sphere, slowly but surely, began its ascent into the purest of blue skies.