Title: Vacant Spaces
Author: coolbyrne
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The characters of Tony Hill and Carol Jordan belong to Val McDermid. I write them because I love them, not because I'm making money from them.
A/N: Just a short little piece that came to me after seeing the first episode of the fourth season; a season that is missing Carol Jordan.
Summary: How would Tony feel with his emotional anchor- the person who makes him acceptable in social eyes- gone?
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The key slides into familiar grooves and with a twist, the door swings open and my empty flat cheerlessly greets me. Of course it's empty –I live alone. And yet this particular moment of quietness stands out among the thousands that have preceded it. A job well done would usually be rewarded with a glass of wine and your company. But you're not here. And I mean that in the most extreme sense possible. You're not even on the same bloody island. South Africa!
I click the door shut behind me and drop my blue bag against it. History has taught me that if I put it anywhere else, the morning becomes a frantic Easter egg hunt. Kicking off my shoes and hanging up my coat, I pad into the kitchen and peer into the fridge. Success. I pull out the bottle of wine and open the cupboard. Habit makes me reach for two glasses and I hesitate at the routine.
Ignoring the taunts of my subconscious, I gently place the two glasses on the coffee table, and with equal care I tip the bottle and fill the empty vessels with rich red liquid. I drop into a well-worn chair and gaze down into my glass before silently saluting it in your vacant direction. Pretending things aren't the way they are. Lord knows I could write volumes on that subject, couldn't I, Carol?
Quiet moments create a breeding ground for contemplation and in the past, I would welcome it, because I have tempered the desire to turn that focus on myself. A case, whether it is through the university or the police, is my accomplice in keeping that spotlight away from the dark places in my own psyche. But tonight, the cavernous yawn of my flat surrounds me, oozes between the cracks of my meagre armour and settles behind my eyes, flickering images on a mental screen. I know that closing my eyes will only make the images sharper, so I will them to stay open. I search vainly for a diversion, but am betrayed by my treacherous subconscious once again, and my gaze falls to your wine glass.
The fine line between empty and vacant. The hollow difference between what isn't there and what is missing. I'm not afraid to admit I am lost without you, Carol. The bridge between who I was and what I wanted to become is gone, and I don't know how to move forward; and I don't want to go back. You carried not a spotlight, but a warm candle into my dark corners and you filled the spaces of my fractured self. Now, the façade of "being human" is crumbling again.
And how are you doing, Carol?
I raise my glass and tilt it towards your ghostly form. This time, I propose the toast with mirthless cheer. "To us."
-end.