The graveyard was just as he remembered it, but as though a thousand years had passed. Each gravestone emerged bent, aged out of the ground, cracked and groaning like a maw filled with rotting teeth. So crumbling and overgrown were they that if ever there were any names upon them, they were lost long ago. Weeds upon weeds writhed their growth over the dying stones. The bitter-green stinging nettle, yellowed now but its bite still intact, clumped in the edges. The black bindweed slithered its steady progress around the grave, choking as it went. He could almost feel it as though it grew around his neck, strangling, suffocating. One solitary marble angel looked down upon the scene, a slug's sheening trail tracking down from its eye like a path of neglected tears. Its harp strings lay smashed at its feet.
Joe remembered the cemetery from the last time he was there. Then, it had been daylight of sorts, a grey flat morning; now, a hideous twilight, the moon gazed brokenly through the trees, washing everything in an empty lonely blue. Like then, he was looking for something, someone, only he couldn't remember who. Last time, Emerson had been with him. Emerson had found the thing they were looking for and Joe had been allowed to touch him again. To grab his shoulder and hope the squeeze of his fingers kneaded his meaning, his feelings, through jacket and shirt. To say 'well done' when really he meant 'I need you.'
But Emerson was not there now. Where was he? He would not desert Joe, not when he needed him, not unless he had no choice. He had to be there somewhere.
A flicker of movement in Joe's peripheral vision caused him to spin around. He felt surprisingly light on his feet, almost balletic. Usually, he was so weighed down with anxiety or tiredness that each step felt like a trudge through slime. But now he could pirouette two, three times without tiring, seeking out his new companion. Out of the skeletons of trees materialised four girls. Four faceless girls in pink dresses, the pale colour of their garments bleeding out slowly into a startled grey. The fronts of their heads were smooth blank ovals and they nodded at him dreamily as they swayed. The shoulder of the first girl glowed brilliantly with a white so bright it was almost inverted to a dazzling black, so painful in its beauty. It seemed to Joe that the last star in the sky had fallen and been laid to rest on this girl's shoulder.
The girls beckoned him forward, leading him deeper into the graveyard. He followed, his feet stepping by themselves in a hypnotic dance. There was no sound, not a single bird sang, not even the night-time frogs croaked. He saw a raven, perched watchingly on a branch but even its 'nevermore' was silent. All was voiceless, all was mute. Even so, Joe felt an inbuilt rhythm pounding, driving him incessantly forward with each footstep (doom, doom, doom). He shuddered, wishing Emerson was beside him.
"Do you know where he is?" he asked, addressing the first girl.
True to form, she said nothing, her head tilting in a way that could have been yes, but could have been no. The light on her shoulder flashed suddenly, enlightening the glade. Joe was suddenly aware that he stood before three freshly dug graves, a deathly triptych, and he gasped in horror, a breath that did not even touch the sides as he drew it down, as he saw what lay within them. There were the three faces that most haunted him – Morgan Lamb, the mirrored shard in her chest beaming with reflected brightness, Josie Eagle, her purity ring shining the same, and Emerson. He lay inert, just as he had the night he was shot. His face was tomblike and pale, his eyes glassy, open but sightless.
The silence was broken by the heave of a whisper winding through the trees. The whisper surrounded him in an antiphonal chorus, so he could not tell which of the seven bodies in front of him it came from.
Why didn't you save us, Joe? Why didn't you save us? You didn't save us. Save us, save us, save us.
The words hissed and buzzed in his head, crawling through the labyrinthine canals in his ears like tiny insects delving, burrowing, making their nests.
The sound throbbed louder and louder, taking on an insistent metrical pulse. The graveyard in front of his eyes faded into nothingness and Joe found himself in his own bed, the ghastly blues and whites replaced by warm shades, the cream of the bedsheets, the beige of the curtains, the yellow of the sunlight. The deep brown of Emerson's hair was sprawled waywardly on the pillow alongside him. His phone whirred next to him in its usual morning salutation, alerting Joe that it was nearly time to rise and ready himself for another day. The ragged entrails of his nightmare still clung to him, breathing down his neck, goose pimples racing along his arm in a clammy sprint. It was not the first time his dreams had been visited by visions of a mortally wounded Emerson, but this one had been more vivid than most. His chest tightened at the memory, his breath coming in erratic bursts. He felt engrimed with fear, as though a thick layer of dread lay slick upon his body, mixed in with the sweat and sleep and sheets.
Joe lay frozen until he sensed the soft movement of Emerson stir beside him. He was on his side, facing away from Joe, coiled in on himself protectively. Joe had shared a bed with very few people before Emerson, so he had minimal evidence to go on, but he suspected that a person's character was revealed in the way in which they slept. He, Joe, most often slept on his back, legs straight and trim, orderly even in slumber. The only hint of relaxation was in his arms, which might occasionally drape themselves languidly around Emerson's body. Emerson, meanwhile, had two distinct patterns. Either curled around Joe, clinging like a limpet to every spare bit of skin, or else rounded into the foetal position, a defensive circle. He always looked much younger somehow, whichever position he chose. It made Joe's heart swell in tenderness to watch him, motivated to keep him from harm. Looking at him now, feeling Emerson's leg move against his own, finally began to remove the last echoes of the nightmare. Relief washed over him, sluicing off the terror. Emerson was safe beside him, cocooned and secure.
Just to make sure, he reached over to brush a lock of hair out of Emerson's face. Yes, solid skin, smooth hair. The younger man smiled at the touch, the corners of his mouth stretching towards Joe's fingers. He was still asleep – the deep snuffling of his breaths spoke as much – but Joe could sense that he was teetering on the edge of wakefulness. His limbs were beginning to release him from their deathlike grip of night. He was becoming gradually more supple, more moveable, emerging back into his body like a bud opening, or a sunflower turning towards the light. With every breath becoming less like the tomblike vision of Joe's dream. Less like the comatose figure he had but lately been. Emerson rolled over into Joe's side, his arms searching, probing, seeking out Joe's body to cling onto. And Joe clung back desperately.
His breath ghosted over Emerson's hair, the strands dancing lazily in the warm breeze of his exhalation. Just having these mornings together made Joe feel almost, for want of a better word, blessed. Their bed became a hallowed space and all the rest, their bad luck with cases, the curses, the evil they had to grapple with, was cleansed away. Maybe that was why they called marriage a sacrament. It had been six months since he had married Emerson, the man who made him feel strong and weak, fearless and terrified all at once. Two people contracted, bound together, for better and for worse. That Joe had that with Emerson made him feel the luckiest man alive.
Emerson's eyes flickered momentarily, like the curtain of a shrine being pulled back only to drop shut again. Although still dulled with sleep, their brief glance was the final comfort Joe needed. A pilgrim would have to travel a long way to find a more perfect benediction than that.
"Em," he whispered against the cavity of Emerson's ear.
"Mmm?"
"We need to get up."
"Five'm're'minutes… this's'nice…"
"I know it's nice, but you've already had five minutes. I've snoozed the alarm once."
"Snooze it 'gain."
"Emerson," Joe said, attempting to sound stern, a hard task when all he really wanted to do was stay exactly as they were, crooked together in an eternal pause.
Emerson cracked open a single eye. "You're turning into a nag, Joseph Chandler."
Joe laughed, almost silently, his chest vibrating, jolting Emerson's shoulders so the two men juddered in unison. "Well, someone's got to get you moving in the morning."
"You mean like this?" said Emerson, heaving himself up and straddling Joe's hips, an indolent grin awakening his face.
In response, Joe extended an arm to gently brush the crusty remnants of sleep out of Emerson's eyes with his thumb. When he slept, at least when he was undisturbed by night visions or discomfort, Emerson tended to give himself over fully to it. He so completely dedicated himself to the act of sleeping that for some time after waking, slumber still pooled at the fringes of his eyes, blurring his irises and exposing his gaze. His whole body seemed softened by it. Joe was grateful that Emerson could have such nights, such sound restorative sleep that filtered through into his waking eyes. He had been through so much, borne so much, that he deserved all the rest he could get. He needed its dilution, to take the yoke of his travails and dissolve it. Emerson inclined his head into Joe's hand, a soft press of cheek to palm. The weight of his head seemed to act as a substitute for his whole self, and in that movement Joe felt entrusted to carry any burden Emerson asked him to.
Joe leaned upwards to join their lips together in a kiss. It still thrilled him that it felt so natural to do so. An electrifying routine, an extraordinary habit. And didn't that oxymoron just sum up their whole relationship?
"I love you Em. Happy birthday," he said.
Emerson's mouth took on a displeased twist. "Ugh. Don't remind me. I'm getting so old. And I swear the rookies are getting younger. There's a new PC at the station who looks about twelve."
Joe swung his eyes disbelievingly.
"Well," Emerson qualified, "they're probably twenty-something, but anyone who looks younger than me is 'about twelve', I've decided." He smiled. "Though I've officially outlived Jesus, so that's something."
Joe smiled wryly. Time had certainly moved on if Emerson was complaining about getting older. He remembered the young detective with apparently endless enthusiasm, his youthful ally who had not been wizened or disillusioned by the job. Looking at him, he saw how the boy had gone, beaten away by knife, fist and gun. In his place, though, sat a man, a little more life-sore, with a few more grey hairs, an occasional limp and shortness of breath, but still with the dedication and eagerness, and even some of the innocence, that Joe had loved (yes, loved, he could admit that now) from the start.
"If you're getting old, what does that make me?" said Joe.
"Oh, positively ancient," breathed Emerson flirtatiously, as he cupped Joe's face for one more kiss before clambering out of bed towards the shower. "You'll be turning up at weddings moaning about albatrosses next."
Joe's knuckles stretched white as he gripped onto the steering wheel. Emerson couldn't decide whether he looked more like he was holding on for his dear life, or to throttle the life out of it. Emerson shifted in his seat. He was tempted to reach out and stroke his thumb over the back of Joe's hand, but he was worried that Joe might startle if he did. The leather seat squeaked resonantly, and Joe threw it a look of distressed loathing as his fingers twitched fitfully about the rubber wheel. His face slid from a noxious green through fractious orange to livid red as the traffic lights changed in front of them. Uttering a chewed-off curse, he stamped on the brakes with hurried force as the car in front of them crunched to a halt sooner than expected.
"Joe, are you okay?" asked Emerson, quietly, as they came to a full stop.
Joe looked at him with a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Yes, I'm fine."
"Have I done or said something to upset you?"
"What?" Joe's head rotated sharply towards him. "No… no, it's not that. You're fine."
"So there is something bothering you?"
"It's nothing, Emerson." Joe's voice was harsh, gritted, like the crumbs of toast that Emerson was always careful to remove from the butter dish.
Emerson retreated into silence, swallowing the words he wanted to say. A silvery-sour sensation pricked his throat and he didn't trust himself to open his mouth. Turning to face his window, he watched the rain beat against the glass, its drops trickling down quixotically. One bead of water formed an erratic zigzag as it made its way down the window, each time leaving a little of itself behind until Emerson was sure it would perish before it reached the bottom. But the raindrop, stronger than it seemed, struggled on regardless.
The inside of the car glowed a sickly neon again, and they lurched forward with an angry howl. They were driving down Commercial Street now, staggering along in the sluggish traffic. Rain made idlers of everyone, it would seem, judging by the lack of cyclists and walkers on the sodden streets, and the roads were busier than usual. Christ Church, Spitalfields jolted by on their left, its spire rising sharply like a dagger. Back in his student days, Emerson had sung a concert there with his college choir. Little could he have known then that, over ten years later, he would be shot and beaten nearly to death on that very same street, within looming distance of the church. He saw Joe's eyes flick momentarily out of the car into the mizzley street, seeming to be drawn almost involuntarily towards the spot where Emerson had been found that night. His jaw set tighter, clenching still further when he realised that Emerson had noticed. Emerson knew Joe usually avoided driving in this way, but they had been running a little late and this was quicker than any alternative route.
Emerson wasn't sure what had happened, why Joe had abruptly changed mood. He had seemed so relaxed earlier, but now was distracted and agitated. The soft skin of sleep seemed to have been flayed from him leaving him exposed. Come to think of it, the dips under his eyes were darker than usual, his face ashen. His tie, although perfectly tied and straight, somehow gave the impression of being more of a noose than an article of clothing. Joe evidently had not slept particularly well. Emerson could have kicked himself for not noticing sooner. But Joe had been so wonderful all morning, surprising Emerson by slipping into the shower with him, dotting little kisses across the back of his shoulders, massaging his shampoo through his hair, holding him close as the warm water ran over the both of them. And if Emerson had sensed Joe might have been washing off more than just soap, the thought was quickly quashed by long fingers on his face, noses nudging tentatively together, lips pressing, slack-jawed, as teeth and tongues and the insides of their mouths connected. Afterwards they had dressed collaboratively, fastening each other's buttons with intricate fumblings. And as Joe had draped Emerson's own tie around his collar, he had knotted it tenderly, smoothing its tails down over Emerson's breastbone with care.
It had only been as they were readying to leave that a modicum of tension had sidled into the flat and settled, if not between them, then somewhere nearby, hovering expectantly.
"You know I don't really like you riding that contraption," Joe had said as Emerson reached for his helmet and grabbed the keys to his scooter.
"I'm a big boy, Joe. I'll be fine."
Emerson had noticed Joe's neck tendons clench, only slightly, but a definite tightening nonetheless. If he hadn't known what to look for, it would have been unnoticeable, but Emerson knew Joe now. He knew him when he was relaxed, soft as honey, when his voice hummed and his movements were gentle. He knew him as no-one else did. So he also recognised the creeping signs of stress when they first began to crack through Joe's limbs and tendons.
"Well, it's just… I've seen too many people come off those things," he had said. "And it's raining out. It might be slippery on the roads. You'll get soaking wet and you could develop pneumonia, or pleurisy… You know you're more susceptible at the moment."
Letting Joe read all the aftercare leaflets the hospital had sent home with Emerson had been a bad idea. Was it even possible to be a hypochondriac by proxy?
"Why don't you let me drive you in today?" asked Joe. "As it's your birthday. Think of it as part of your present."
"Fine," Emerson had said, replacing his scooter gear on the hall table. "You win. But I get to pick what we listen to on the radio. I'm not really in the mood for John Humphrys being grumpy at politicians today."
In the end, there hadn't been anything Emerson fancied listening to on any of the radio channels. They sat in a fractured silence, broken only by the tick of the car's indicators and the thump of the wipers. He drew his phone out of his pocket, realising that he had left it on silent with the vibrate turned off, hoping he hadn't missed anything important. It would be just his luck. Thankfully, as far as he could tell, there were no missed calls, though several text alerts filled his screen, a strange, imperfectly spelled noticeboard. As was to be expected, they were all variations on the theme of birthday wishes from his former flatmates, his cousins and his auntie, who seemed to have finally accepted that modern technology was typically a tad more reliable than psychic communications at relating everyday messages.
The most recent text was from Erica: [Happy Birthday Bambi xxxx]
Emerson pursed his lips in irritation. He really thought Erica would have got bored of that nickname by now. He jabbed at his phone screen in reply. [Kindly eff off. Or I'll tell Mansell what you were called at school. Happy bday to you too btw ;)]
Erica was always a prompt replier. [You should know better than to try to blackmail me Emmy. You better be free Fri night]
[Why? And don't call me Emmy either]
[Mum's coming over so doing dinner ours. You & J, me & Fin and Mum. Fin's cooking.]
[I'll bring the stomach pump then]
[Ha. Ha. So can I count you 2 in then?]
He turned to look at Joe, who was biting his lower lip in concentration.
"Joe? You up for dinner at Erica and Mansell's on Friday? We've nothing on, have we? Mum's coming over apparently, so we ought to see her really."
"Hmm?" Joe spoke distractedly, his eyes fixed gimlet-like on the road. His nose wrinkled slightly, a tiny tug between his nostrils and upper lip. "They won't want me there."
"What are you talking about?" sighed Emerson. "Erica asked for you specifically. Anyway, they get me, they get you – that's how it works. I'm not going without you. I'm telling her we're coming, okay?"
His fingers wove across his phone screen one last time to reply in the affirmative to Erica, before snapping the device shut and dropping it back into his breast pocket. He had more room in that pocket lately, since he had stopped keeping his appointment diary in it. He preferred now to keep his schedule locked away on an encrypted file on his computer which only he and Joe could access. That had been another of their small changes since Emerson's attack – Joe's idea, but one Emerson could live with. It seemed a bit extreme, perhaps, and occasionally inconvenient, when he needed to check a date and couldn't access the file. But better safe than sorry seemed to be their new motto. It wasn't edgy, but then again, when had they ever been?
"Em?" said Joe, a subdued mewl, which cut straight to the space between Emerson's heart and stomach, replacing his normal voice.
"If you're worried about spending an evening with Mansell, I understand," said Emerson, trying to lighten the mood. "But he seems pretty serious about Erica, so I think we're stuck with him."
"No, it's not that. I just… I don't think your mother likes me very much."
"What? Of course she does."
Joe tore his eyes away from the windscreen to raise his eyebrows doubtfully at Emerson. "She blames me for you getting hurt."
"Oh don't be silly, Joe. She might have been a bit suspicious of your intentions to start with, but she realised you were sincere when I was in hospital. Though why everyone seems to think I need protecting all the time, I'm not sure." Emerson huffed, aiming for joviality but falling somewhat short.
Joe's lips tightened in such a way that suggested he was biting back something, either laughter or pain. It unnerved Emerson that he couldn't tell which it was.
It had been one of those days, as it turned out. One of those nondescript days where the hours rolled into each other indistinguishably, like small waves colliding on a beach, washing away footprints and flattening the sand. A day where somehow Emerson was kept busy, but as the clock spun closer to five thirty, he couldn't quite work out what he'd been doing all shift. Criminals, apparently, didn't go out in the rain either.
He hadn't seen Joe much during the day. He had been in and out all afternoon going between tedious budget meetings, where Emerson knew he would have had to defend their every expense, right down to the new kettle they had acquired when the old one had exploded, and the posh biscuits Ed seemed to favour. If Joe had been tense before that meeting, he would be rock solid by the end, his shoulders cramped in a miniature Gordian knot. Emerson could see him now, scrunched at his desk in an uncomfortable-looking pose, frowning at some paperwork as though it had personally insulted him. Which it possibly had. Emerson massaged the back of his own neck in sympathy, looking forward to getting home where maybe Joe would allow him to do the same for him.
He didn't stare at Joe as often as he used to. Not like before, before he had realised that Joe felt the same way as he did. Back when he thought that looking was all that he would ever have, he had practised the fine art of observation until he became expert, had memorised and could envisage without sight the way that Joe fretted his cufflinks, the fit of his fingers around his pen, the arc of his spine as he leant forward in his chair. Emerson was frankly astounded that he had ever got any work done. Each illicit glance had felt like a tiny theft, albeit a harmless one in which nothing was stolen. Like overhearing a singer rehearse through an open window – the music had not been intended to be shared, but the act of listening did not remove nor damage a single note. It had sometimes made him feel a bit pervy, until he found out that Joe had surreptitiously been doing the same.
Now, though, Emerson had no need to steal glimpses of Joe, no need to savour every smile as if it might be the last, no need to wonder or imagine. He had license to look at him, all of him, whenever he wanted, at home. He had an intimate knowledge of all of Joe's cufflinks, having fastened and unfastened them countless times. And the less said about what he knew about the shape of Joe's fingers and the bow of his back the better, during work hours anyway. Still, on quiet days, Emerson would find that his eyes would sometimes migrate across the Incident Room and alight upon his husband's shoulders, or his neck, or his lips, and nest within their curvatures for a while. It was a cliché, but it felt like coming home.
Emerson's fingers twitched as he watched Joe reach for his Tiger Balm and massage the ointment into his temples, longing to do it for him. But it was not quite the end of the day yet, and they had to remain professional, buttoned back into their respective roles of DI and DC. The unpinning, and undressing, would have to wait. He was finding it increasingly hard to switch from being husband and lover in the evenings and mornings, to being subordinate officer during the day. At some point in the last few months all of his edges had become blurred, as though the bullets that had ripped through his lungs and stomach had also torn the veil that separated his two selves.
A bright ping wrenched Emerson's attention back to his desk. Opening his inbox, he found it was just a mass email from HR about professional development opportunities for officers in the Met.
The Metropolitan Police Service is dedicated to your growth and development within the force, and we encourage all officers to make the most of the available training opportunities. The following courses and temporary secondments are currently open for applications. You must seek approval from your commanding officer before applying.
Emerson wondered if he ought to start paying more attention to these emails. His mum had been on at him for a while about his prospects for promotion saying, quite correctly, that he had been a DC for over eight years and wasn't it about time he moved on? But if truth be told, he had never wanted to leave his unit. They had all become like family to him (Joe quite literally) and he couldn't imagine working without Miles' curmudgeonly but affectionate supervision, or Riley's maternal gossiping, or even Mansell's teasing. But lately, he wondered whether a move would be healthier for him – to transfer to a department where he wouldn't be directly underneath Joe. He had always fancied having a go at the Sergeants' exam. Many had been the time when he had almost decided that he would speak to Joe about it, but then he would catch Joe's eyes in his and not be able to bear the thought of leaving him.
As though Emerson's thoughts had suddenly become audible, he heard Joe's voice calling from his office. "Kent, would you come in here a moment?"
"Ooooh," whistled a sing-song voice from somewhere behind Emerson.
As he stood, he felt something light but slightly scratchy bounce off the back of his neck. He turned to see a ball of paper roll under his desk and Mansell, not quite quickly enough, lowering the arm which had clearly just thrown it at him. Instead of looking shamefaced, as Emerson would have expected of most adults caught wastefully flinging stationary around, Mansell grinned in an ebullient leer, and blew a series of sarcastic kisses in Emerson's direction.
"Best not keep hubby waiting," he said.
Emerson exhaled noisily. "Give it a rest, Mansell. Don't you ever get bored?"
"Nah, mate. Not when you make it so easy for me."
Emerson rolled his eyes, muttered there's a flaw in that logic somewhere, and strode into Joe's office.
"Sir?"
Joe picked up his watch from the table and strapped it to his wrist as he stood up from his chair. The squeak of the leather and the ticking of the timepiece together created a pleasing and synchronic rhythm that lent a dancing atmosphere to the small office. It bounced from wall to wall, uplifting as it went, elevating Joe's tense, day-worn mouth into a gentle smile.
"It's after the end of the shift, Emerson," he said.
"And?" Emerson raised his eyebrows.
Joe's brow rose to accept the challenge. Emerson could tell he was trying to look authoritative, or mischievous, or some mixture of the two, but there was a neediness apparent in the corners of his eyes and the bearing of his shoulders that marred the effect. Emerson might have laughed, if Joe's vulnerability didn't feel like a wrench in his heart every time.
With a movement like a wave crashing helplessly onto the shore, Joe pulled Emerson into him. Emerson felt himself submerged in the billows of Joe's jacket, the scent of eucalyptus washing over him.
"I've missed you today," whispered Joe.
Emerson hummed into Joe's neck, his words soaking as liquid into the muscle. "You're a massive softie, you know that?"
His scalp tingled as Joe smiled against his hair. "To my credit, yes I do know that," replied Joe. "I'm sorry I was a bit prickly this morning. I hope it hasn't spoilt your birthday."
"Oh never mind about my birthday. It's just another day. And you haven't spoilt anything. As long as you're alright."
Joe's torso jerked, just a tiny bit, an almost imperceptible tightening and release. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Emerson leant backwards and wiggled Joe's tie knot so that it realigned perfectly with the symmetry of their bodies, then did the same to his own. "You forget how well I know you, Joe." he said, "I can always tell when you're not."
Joe waved his hand dismissively, throwing a slightly distracted look over Emerson's shoulder. A short moment passed, wherein Emerson attempted to follow Joe's line of sight, but the grip of the older man around him prevented him from doing so. Eventually, Joe turned back to him, and with a "Happy birthday, Emerson," spun him around so that he was facing the outer office. To his utter amazement, the sight that met his eyes was that of all of his close colleagues, including Ed, Llewellyn and some of the uniforms, saluting him with drinks in their hands, clustered around a cake. Their chorus of the birthday song was as enthusiastic as it was out of tune. At least three different keys vied for supremacy, until the more ambitious singers realised, as they approached the highest note, that they had overstretched, and promptly dropped out for a beat or two, returning for the final line in tune with Miles, who had gamely kept going throughout. Mansell brought up the rear about half a bar behind everyone else. At the end, Emerson was amused to see all of them take a gulp of their respective drinks, as though toasting the fact that they had got to the end unscathed. It certainly looked as though the Met workplace choir would not be getting any new members from this department.
"Did you plan all this?" Emerson beamed at Joe. "Is that what was bothering you this morning?"
An attractive shade of pink gravitated upwards from Joe's neck as Emerson traced its path with his fingers. "Well, I thought that if we could have a divorce party for Mansell, I didn't see why I couldn't do this for you."
Emerson was so overcome by Joe's sudden demonstrativeness that he didn't notice that he hadn't answered his second question.
Ed was the first to wish him many happy returns, bustling up to him, bound pages in hand.
"My best wishes to you, young Kent," he said. "Or perhaps not so young now, eh? I must confess to doing some digging to find out the year of your birth – solely for the purposes of your gift, you understand. Never fear, I shan't reveal it. Some of the past's secrets are safer kept hidden."
"My gift?" Emerson sincerely hoped that it wasn't another hagstone.
Ed presented the document in his hands with a dramatic flourish. "I give to you a report, a dossier if you will, of a selection of interesting murders that occurred in the year in which you were born. I do hope that you find it enlightening."
Not a hagstone, then, although Emerson was pretty sure his face was forming itself into the same shape that Joe's had when Ed had hung the bizarre amulet around his neck. He pulled his muscles into a semblance of gratitude.
"Wow… er… thanks Ed," he said. "That's really… umm… yeah."
He was torn between feeling touched that Ed had gone to so much trouble for his present, and being slightly disconcerted by the nature of it. It was just like Ed, though. He was always so fervent about everything, so excited by knowledge, mining every corner for a new fact like an enthusiastic mole. And like a mole, he could sometimes be blind to the sensitivities of those around him. He meant well, however, which counted for a lot in Emerson's book.
"Thank you," he said again.
"You are very welcome," replied Ed. "I shall look forward to hearing your thoughts on it when I return next week from the True Crime Writers' convention in Edinburgh. In fact, my research for your gift was very useful preparation for my talk on Making Modern Crimes Ethically Entertaining."
One side of Emerson's brain, the half that still occasionally warped his features in mirrors, was briefly struck by the uncharitable thought that Joe evidently was not providing enough work for Ed to do if he had the time for all of those side projects, but he quickly squashed it down.
"Well, enjoy your trip, Ed," he said, the words only half sticking in his throat.
"Eddie, Eddie, Eddie!" came Mansell's voice, the DC bounding across the Incident Room with Riley in tow. "Don't hog the birthday boy. Some of the rest of us want to have a crack at him."
"Shouldn't you be with Erica?" asked Emerson, his shoulders locking as he braced himself for whatever Mansell had planned. "It's her birthday as well, remember."
"She's on her way here, mate," explained Mansell. "I'm taking her out for supper after this. Then it's back to ours so she can unwrap her own present, and have a bit of afters, if you know what I mean."
Mansell winked in a way that did not fail to turn Emerson's stomach. "Please," he winced, "never, ever say things like that in front of me."
Mansell shrugged. "Suit yourself. But don't expect me to keep quiet the next time I catch you and the Boss having a snog when you think we've all gone home."
Emerson's mouth battled with itself as he tried to decide how to respond. He settled, reluctantly, for allowing his face to blush furiously, once again frustrated that Mansell had bettered him.
"Oh leave them alone, Finlay," said Riley. "It's sweet."
If anything, Emerson's complexion became an even deeper crimson. Of course, he couldn't see his own face, but he recognised the blazing heat creeping across it, taking up residence just underneath his skin.
"So how old are you then, Kent?" asked Mansell. "Forty is it?"
Emerson's calculated and eloquent retort of 'Piss off Mansell' was overshadowed by the older DC's howl of surprise as he was smacked around the head by a dark haired woman who had crept up behind him.
"Hey, you watch it, Fin," said Erica. "You know we're only thirty-four."
"Oh sorry love," said Mansell, squirming around to kiss his girlfriend. "I always forget you two are twins. He's got a lot more grey hair than you do."
Erica and Emerson shared a roll of eyes. Hers rotated anticlockwise while Emerson's always went clockwise for some reason, in a sort of reverse image, like opposite antipodes.
"Nice try," said Erica. "But you're being a twat." She spoke lovingly, though, as she leaned her face briefly against Mansell's cheek.
That had been one of the things that had finally reconciled Emerson to their relationship – that Erica was clearly the one in charge. Stood next to her, Mansell took on the appearance of an oversized rabbit. And the way Erica looked at him – Emerson recognised the glow in her eyes from his own wedding photographs. He cared about her a lot, more than anyone else except for Joe. She was his twin, his oldest and closest confidante, but he realised that he had gone about things in entirely the wrong way when she and Mansell had first got together. Erica had always been the stronger of the two of them, the one to look out for him, the one who bore all his trauma when the Krays attacked him. And then when he was suspended, when it had felt as though his whole life was as torn to shreds as his flesh had been, she had found all the pieces and stitched them back together. She had done so much for him. So his reaction to her going out with Mansell had been some sort of delayed and misplaced machismo, perhaps, trying to prove to himself as much as to everyone else that he could be the protector as much as the one being protected.
"Oh, to be thirty-four again, eh Finlay," sighed Riley.
"Ah stop it," grunted Mansell. "You'll give me a complex. It's bad enough I've got to sit at the desk next to butter-wouldn't-melt over here."
Is he talking about me? Emerson mouthed to Erica. She shrugged and nodded at the same time, rolling her chin onto her shoulders in rueful but amused support.
Considering everything Emerson had experienced during his time in Whitechapel – the long hours, the threats, the woundings, the times when the fog in the streets seemed to be living inside him as he went about his duties – he was amazed that he had reached the age of thirty-four with his youthful exterior still, apparently, relatively intact. However he may have appeared on the surface, though, underneath his suits he was a patchwork of scar tissue, mended but not wholly healed. Mansell and Riley, and the rest of his colleagues, they didn't see that, or if they did they never mentioned it. To them, he was simply Kent, the youngest wide-eyed DC, diligent and guileless, if occasionally a bit moody. If he was honest, Emerson quite liked that he wasn't defined by his injuries – that they could ignore it. That they could know, but not know. Erica knew, and Joe knew. But they were his family, bound in blood and more than blood. They had both seen what the others never would. Yet deeper still, beneath his skin, more buried than bone, lay something that not even Joe was aware of. You could cut Emerson in two, lay him out on Llewellyn's autopsy slab and open him up with a Y-shaped incision, and still you would never find it, so tightly did he keep it locked away. You would locate it on no medical records, on no CV, not in any biography. But it was there all the same, a little kernel at his core that meant that any affectation of unworldliness was a mirage. It wasn't toxic, or destructive, but it was solidly there, a part of him and immovable. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wished others would notice it. But then he would have to explain it, and he wasn't sure he would ever be ready to do that. Until he was, he would just have to put up with a little bit of teasing.
Riley and Mansell had seemed to decide that the occasion of Emerson's birthday was the perfect chance for ultimate winding-up, and were competing to see who could embarrass him the most.
"I bet Kent's never done anything really naughty," smirked Riley. "He's much too young and wholesome."
Wholesome, seriously? thought Emerson, his head in his hands.
"Ah but he did shag his boss – that's gotta be a point in his (dis)favour," replied Mansell.
"Yeah but that doesn't count," rejoindered Riley. "He wiped the slate clean on that score when he married him. Face it, Finlay, you're a dirty old man next to Emerson."
Emerson snorted. "He's a dirty old man next to most people, Riley."
Mansell swung around to face Emerson, his index finger wagging accusingly. "Come on then, Kent. You must have some dark secret hidden away somewhere. I know you quiet types. There's always something."
"Nope, sorry to disappoint," said Emerson, a little too quickly. "No dodgy stories, no mysterious past, no dirty secrets. Nothing that I'd let on to you lot about anyway."
He purposefully avoided catching Erica's eyes as he passed her on his way to join Joe and Miles, although he felt her gaze burning a borehole into the back of his neck as he walked away.
Joe's car gasped to a halt with a relieved, end-of-day sigh as he drew it into their allocated parking space and turned off the ignition. Home. One more day done with. Joe had lived through far more difficult shifts than the one they had just completed, filled with much more stress, close-calls or monotony. On the scale of bad days, this one should barely have registered. But a patina of anxiety had sat upon him since leaving the apartment that morning, which had soured every minute. It had been an unpleasant surprise, to feel it oozing once again through his pores, after lying dormant for months. Joe knew how it worked, he should have expected it to make an appearance, just when he was at his happiest. But he had begun to hope that, maybe… He knew Emerson had noticed as well, which only made it worse. He didn't want Emerson to worry about him. And he knew he couldn't explain it to him – he could barely rationalise it himself. It was something to do with his nightmare, but it wasn't only that. That had been only a symptom. Everything was good, everything was good. It was. There was no reason for him to be feeling stressed now. But perhaps that was it – he had been complacent for too long. He had been too carefree, which was only another word for careless. He had been so consumed with his own happiness that he hadn't considered the dangers still out there. They still lurked in his every waking breath, his every footstep, reminding him of what he had nearly lost, and what he might yet throw away if he wasn't vigilant.
Not that the day would have ever ranked as a particularly good one either, even without Joe's festering fear. Budget meetings were not exactly what he had dreamed of when he joined the Police, even back when he had swallowed and regurgitated all of the management bollocks, all the handbooks on modern sustainable policing. Especially not budget meetings where he had to sit meekly in front of the Chief Super while he itemised every single expense Joe's department had made that was 'not proportional to their operating effectivity.' The upshot of which was that, unless their clean-up rate of bringing suspects to trial improved, their resources would be dramatically reduced in the next financial year. Only last week one more had slipped through Joe's fingers like quicksilver. A suspect charged with the grisly murder of three students had had a huge stroke whilst on remand and was now unfit to stand trial, and likely never would be. No one was blaming Joe personally, of course, not for this one. But he had been the one to inform the families of the victims that, once again, the scales of justice had overbalanced on his watch and their children's killer would never have to face what he had done. He had had to watch their last dregs of hope drain from them. The death in their eyes had been worse than any censure or approbation from a senior officer.
It had been getting harder and harder to disassociate himself from the cases. More and more often, Joe would find himself with a single-minded determination to bring down murderers, not just because he was a dedicated policemen and it was his job, but because he knew what it felt to grieve. He had fastened himself inside the skin of the victims' loved ones, the join between his flesh and theirs forming a scab at which he could not stop picking. Was there a special club for bereavement, where all mourners recognised each other and spent their time together as each sad second stretched to an hour? If Bousfield had succeeded in meting out Joe's punishment, if Emerson had died back in January, would Joe, as a fellow member of this club, have been better able to help those families? Would his more acute understanding of loss have meant that he could have offered more than just hollow comfort and recommendations of counselling? Or would he have already left Whitechapel, unable to live with seeing Emerson's face in every crime scene, smelling his scent in every corner of the apartment, watching every motorcyclist who passed him, just in case? In his experience, grief was a solitary companion. It played at being your friend, coddling you and wrapping you up against the world. But it was an abusive partner, forbidding you from your other friendships, bruising you every time you left the house, making you feel as though you would never deserve to be happy.
That had been the main reason why Joe had organised the surprise party for Emerson's birthday. As proof of life, fighting against the death that was only waiting for its next opportunity. Joe had never really been one for birthdays – why mark the passage of time in such an arbitrary way? – but this year, he wanted to celebrate, to rejoice, that not only had Emerson been born at all on some otherwise insignificant date thirty-four years earlier, but that he still lived and breathed with Joe. (To think, that Joe had existed on this date nearly forty times before he had realised its consequence. And to think that this date had passed through on the twelfth year of his existence without him ever being aware of the momentous occasion that had occurred on it.) The previous year, they hadn't been able to mark Emerson's birthday at all due to a big case. Emerson had said that he hadn't minded, when they had both emerged three days later, and it had not really seemed important. It was just a birthday. Another twenty-four hours in the calendar where the air still tasted the same, the sun still struggled through the rainclouds in its valiant, autumn way, and a bin lorry still blocked the end of their road with its acrid girth as they were leaving the house in the morning. That, as much as anything, had haunted Joe as Emerson had lain in his coma, in the gap between living and dying. The thought that he might have no more birthdays, and that they had wasted his last one. That Joe had missed his last opportunity to honour the chance randomness of the universe that had allowed Emerson to be conceived and born. He had decided then that if Emerson recovered, his next birthday would be something a bit more special. Something to prove that he was valued, cherished and loved. And something to show how thankful Joe was that Emerson was.
By the time the shift had spluttered to a halt, however, Joe already regretted organising the surprise party. By then, all he wanted to do was take Emerson home. He had sat in his office for the majority of the party, watching remotely, until Miles came to find him.
"What you doing cooped up in here, then?" Miles had asked. "Aren't you coming to join in?"
"It's not for me, it's for him," Joe had replied, nodding towards Emerson, who was enveloped in a crush of people, happy people wishing him well, who didn't want their boss shadowing over the festivities like a spectre at the feast.
"Doesn't mean you can't enjoy it. How about a bit of cake? It's not bad actually. I had to get it from somewhere else when the place Judy's sister recommended closed down. Got on the wrong side of some bad PR apparently. Who'da thought there could be such a hoo-hah over sponge and icing, eh?"
Joe had held up his hand, his palm a blockade against the paper plate Miles had tried to thrust his way. "No thank you, Miles. Though I am grateful to you for sourcing and fetching it."
"Well, if I can't buy a mate a cake once in a while…" grinned Miles. "Seriously, though, you don't exactly look as though you're enjoying yourself."
Joe creased his face and shoulders into a form of shrug, affecting nonchalance. He knew Miles would see through it straight away, but it was the attempt that was important. If he couldn't fool Miles, then maybe he could fool himself into composure. Miles coughed out a wheezy sigh, and sat down opposite Joe.
"You were the one who wanted to have this do for him. You came up with the idea in the first place, got us all involved. Why'd you do all that if you didn't want to?"
"I did want to. I do want to. I mean, I want it for him. After everything, he deserves something nice."
"And I'm sure he appreciates it. But I'm also sure he'd much rather just be with you than having all of this. I mean, look at him."
Miles had gestured towards Emerson, stood in the centre of the Incident Room with Riley, Mansell and Erica. His face rested, eyes down, within the bowl of his hands, looking like a child counting to one hundred in a game of hide and seek. Only no-one was hiding, except for Joe. And Emerson wasn't a child anymore, and it wasn't that sort of birthday party. Not that Joe would have been able to recognise it even if it had been. He had never been invited to other children's birthdays when he was a boy. Once, when he was eleven, a boy in his class had asked him along to his summer barbeque, but Joe had spent the entire time washing his hands and throwing suspicious glances at the sausages slowly burning to black over the fire. He had refused to eat anything that he hadn't personally seen prepared from scratch, and had gone home early when the other boys started playing football. He suspected that the boy's parents had made him invite Joe only out of sympathy for his father's death, and he hadn't been asked back.
"Go on, take him home," Miles had urged, as Emerson dismissed himself from the group and started to walk towards Joe. Emerson had taken no persuading to leave, making Joe wonder whether the whole thing had been another waste of time.
"Joe?" Emerson's voice broke through Joe's thoughts, dragging him back to the present, where he realised he was sitting in his car's driving seat, seatbelt still clinched around him, the door open and one of his legs already halfway out. "Are you planning on staying there all night?"
The seatbelt sprang open with a snap and a buzz as Joe extricated himself from the car. He followed Emerson into their building and upstairs to their apartment, locking the door behind them to seal themselves in. He was pleased with the new intruder-proof lock system he had recently had installed, and this, in combination with the familiar smell of the flat – pine and cloves mingled with something inexplicable belonging to Emerson – helped him to shed most of his anxiety along with his overcoat. (Perhaps it lurked in his pockets, waiting for him to leave the flat each day? He would have to get that coat dry cleaned now before he could wear it again.)
Emerson was already leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and living room as Joe entered.
"What would you like for dinner?" Joe asked, stroking his hand down Emerson's upper arm as he passed.
"Hmm," said Emerson, his eyes broadening, "I'm not really in the mood to eat anything at the moment. Not food, anyway." He wrestled his tie back and forth with his left hand, working it loose.
Joe had flicked open a box of matches to light the hob with, but at Emerson's words, he lay it slowly down upon the counter-top. "Oh," he said.
Emerson leisurely drew his lower lip between his teeth. His index finger followed the path of his incisors, dragging his lip down so that Joe could see the cherry-red interior of his mouth. All the while arresting Joe's gaze in his in an unmoving, brazen stare.
"Oh," breathed Joe again. He felt as though he had swallowed one of the matchsticks, that it had struck itself alight on the walls of his throat and now lay smouldering in his belly.
In one blaze of motion, as a flame rising up a chimney, Joe was across the kitchen. The two of them became all hands, flickering, unfolding, unfurling. Joe always undressed Emerson reverently – lifting his jacket off his shoulders, untucking his shirttails and slipping loose his tie had become a perfect ritual, a ceremony performed with breathless awe. Usually, this was a chance for Joe to adore Emerson, a slow meandering adulation, no less exhilarating for having been carefully rehearsed. But that evening, it felt different, somehow. As Emerson tugged him into the bedroom, Joe felt that there was an urgency that had not been there for a long time. A burning need to feel flesh on flesh and for their skins to shine together. To hold Emerson closer than close as they become one body.
If you had asked Joe before he was with Emerson what he thought about sex, he would have said that he understood people found it enjoyable, but that it wasn't an important part of life for him. In some ways, that still held true. Oh, he wanted Emerson, no-one could ever say that he didn't. But he didn't usually need. Not like this. But for once his body and mind worked in symphony, craving feverishly every fingersoft brush against the upraised hairs on his arms, every sharp bite and lick against his neck, every sub-breath swearing as the proximity of their hips revealed that Emerson was just as hard as he was. They were close, but not close enough. Something crackled between them – a jolt of static. Too many layers divided them, they were confined and constrained by stubborn material that had to be removed, metal and cotton and silk. Joe shifted in frustration and felt as much as he heard Emerson's melodic gasp against him.
He whimpered from the loss of contact as Emerson bent down to discard the remainder of his own clothing, then rose to unbutton, divest and disrobe Joe fully. They stood, facing each other, not quite touching. He could see Emerson's skin everywhere, elevated with goose flesh. His breath too was bumpy, as though his pores and his oxygen were holding each other, poised on the brink. Then something broke as he and Emerson crashed together. Seconds and breaths and pulses became one. Time ceased to have any meaning for Joe and became merely a sequence of separate moments, powered by heartbeats. Each moment stood independently of all the rest, yet could not be divided or unglued from those that came earlier or later. He was on his back, cushioned in bedding, as Emerson arced above him. Another moment, and Emerson was at his middle, doing something wonderful with his mouth. And yet another found him with his arms scrabbling around Emerson's shoulders, pulling him as close as he dared. A succession of icons, picture-framed friezes, yet somehow all was movement. And as the heartbeats pumped faster, the images flashed more frequently. He tried to concentrate on the sensations and not let his mind put a halt on him, as it so often did.
Their positions were switched now, and Emerson lay beneath and around and without of him, his face beautifully lax. All was movement – a shimmering tidal wave of reckless abandon. And all was sense and noise as Emerson teased a sighing incantation from his lips. He did not even care how rumpled the bed sheets were becoming. He would care, later, afterwards. He always did, once the glow had faded and each wrinkle and untucking seemed to sit in judgement upon him. The remembrance of future anxiety almost put a falter into his rhythm. Intimacy had always been tricky for Joe, for he struggled to just let loose and feel without thought. With Emerson it was both effortless and impossible. Effortless because, well, it was Emerson, and nothing felt more natural than seeing, touching, loving and being seen, being touched and being loved. Impossible because, well, it was Joe, and in his mind it was always their first time, all bound up with what Emerson had confessed to him then. He traced his fingers over the tattoo ablaze on Emerson's thigh as he pulled himself closer, trying to ignore the raised peregrination of scars that marked their route around the other side.
"Joe… stop… thinking…" said Emerson, his words sounding as though they were being protractedly wrung out of him, pulled from his lips like a magician's scarf. "Jesus… fuck."
Emerson's mouth formed into the shapes of silent expletives as they both escalated their motions. Joe had never quite decided what he felt about profanity in the bedroom. Screwing, shagging, fucking. There were a lot of words that people used to name the act of sexual union, ranging from the vulgar to the faintly ridiculous, none of which seemed to fit with Joe. For him, their conjunction defied language. Any attempts to put it into words fell woefully short. All he knew was that when he was inside Emerson, deep inside him, with his hand grasped around him, he felt that that was where he was meant to be. And if anything could make his mind go blissfully blank, it was that.
Yes that, there, like that.
And then they were liquid together. The room slid and the air boiled. Everything was both out of place and exactly where it needed to be. Joe cried Emerson's name as he came, the syllables all jumbled into the wrong order, vowels and consonants clambering over each other exultantly. His eyes were closed, but at the back of his brain he could see and feel and hear Emerson's own shuddering release.
For a while afterwards, Joe was content to lie loosely next to Emerson, half on top of him really, sipping blood-red kisses like wine from the chalice of his lips. Joe held them in his mouth lightly for safekeeping. Although Emerson offered them to him unconditionally, he still felt as though they were only borrowed, and that he would have to give them back. Hopefully not immediately, but he could see the clock behind Emerson's head flashing out its seconds steadily and uncompromisingly, while his own heartbeat slowed to meet it. Time was ticking again beyond Joe's wish or control.
Emerson had slipped asleep, his breaths still tangling with Joe's. A bead of sweat made a short procession from his brow onto his cheek, curving down and anointing the pillow. Joe brushed away the sheen left behind, leaving no trace of its dedicated path. The come-down was always bittersweet, a glorious aurora mingled with a feeling of something ended. As though eternity itself lasted only a day, infinity encapsulated within the confines of an hour. Outside of which was nothing. There was beauty in the ephemeral, it was more blessed because it faded so soon.
"Happy birthday, my Emerson," whispered Joe into the diminishing light.
That too had lasted only a day.