Author's note: all usual disclaimers apply.
I have always avoided writing stories that change the events from the series, but here I want to explore what might have happened if a particular scene had ended differently. So I have kept the scene verbatim but changed one key part for my purposes. I hope you don't mind. I should also say at this point, that while Helen 3 was quite personable and someone Tommy could easily love, I never recovered from the cold and surly Helen 2, and it is Helen 2 I have in mind for this story.
I am also writing in the first person as if it is Tommy's thoughts because the piece is an exploration of his feelings. For that reason, I have deliberately eschewed the Queen's grammar, as we do not usually think or speak in full, grammatically perfect sentences. We will see how that goes.
This story will not be to everyone's taste. That's fine. It has been running through my head since last Sep. I have perhaps gone beyond what the characters would have done, but I believe you never truly know until those circumstances arise. That said, I am, as always, interested in your feedback.
Oh, and if you think at the end of this chapter that you know what will happen, trust me, you don't, and you will need to read on.
I sat on the sandstone bench that overlooked the manicured lawns and ancient gardens of Hawthorne Manor. I tried to focus on the colours as a way of distracting my thoughts. Vivid yellow daffodils were just beginning to open in a bed under the oak tree. Mauve crocuses poked out from the curved garden around the fountain, and a faint scent of jasmine wafted up from the low hedge that partially obscured my view of the lake. Jasmine always reminded me of spring in Cornwall, and in the sun it was easy to close my eyes and imagine I was home, at Howenstowe.
I ached for a drink. It was beyond physical need. My soul cried out for peace. My mind wanted the jumble of painful memories to sink to the bottom of the mire of humiliation that filled my thoughts. After five days of detox, I knew a drink would make me ill, but I craved that first shot where I could still pretend that I appreciated the taste - the refined burn of a good single malt. But what I really desired was the escape. The detachment from the world. The floating feeling of that first rush where my mind stills as the nightmares recede and I have perhaps fifteen minutes of peace, like the eye of a typhoon. I know I would then drink just a little more and the world would spin again, backwards, faster and faster until I have to drink enough to pass out. Asleep I would dream. I would wake screaming but it would feel less real. The worst nightmares were always preferable to my thoughts.
My hands quivered, and I shoved them deep into my pockets. I had the urge to pace. It helped suppress the urges. So did screaming, but that would draw unwanted attention. The fog of three days on valium was just clearing. If I shouted and yelled and cursed the world, they would strap me back down and fill my veins with nothingness. Only it wasn't nothing. It calmed my body, confused my mind, but the hurt never goes. It lingers beneath my skin like boils waiting to break out. Even now, I'm afraid to scratch and release my demons.
"Lord Asherton."
I took a deep breath then turned to the voice. "Yes?"
"Doctor Clarkson asked me to find you. It's time for your session."
I smiled politely. Or as politely as I could manage. "Of course."
I stood and tightened the cord of my dressing gown then straightened the collar of my pyjamas. I was buying time. The nurse knew all the tricks so stood impassively waiting for me to collect myself. We walked in silence up the hill towards the surprisingly featureless Georgian manor.
Once the manor of Lord Maynard, the estate had been home to the Queen Adelaide Rehabilitation Centre for the last twenty years. Mother claimed it was a very discreet treatment centre, but at this point the last thing I cared about was my reputation. Peter had spent months here overcoming his addiction to heroin. It struck me as ironic that after years of dismissing him as being weak, I was now an inpatient myself, albeit an unwilling one.
I followed the nurse down the hall. "Red rum," I muttered to myself.
The nurse turned. "Pardon?"
"Sorry. Nothing. This... reminds me of the hallway in The Shining." The woman raised one eyebrow but said nothing. She turned and continued walking.
Dr Clarkson's office was in what had once been the library. Bookshelves full of dusty, leather-bound tomes still lined the walls. It was an imposing room, and no doubt selected to subliminally reinforce the impression of the doctor's knowledge and wisdom. Clarkson, a small rotund man, gave me a professional smile which was as inflated as his fees. "Tommy, how do you feel today?"
I shrugged. How do answer that? "Functioning."
"Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
I sat in his leather chair. I had refused at our first meeting yesterday to lie on his couch. I knew what I was, why I was here, but I did not want to feel degraded by being treated like a fool. Lying down did not calm me. I did not feel at ease. It did not help my nightmares. In fact, I abhorred lying down. I liked to pace, or to sit by a fire with a fine single malt. They were the only times the tight band that constricted my mind eased at all. I stood and walked to the window.
"Would you like some water?"
I sighed. "Not unless it has scotch in it."
Clarkson laughed. It was as sycophantic as his smile. "Sorry, Tommy, you know the rules."
"Only too well."
I knew them alright. I had been here seven days. Seven long days. The first few were blurry. I remember sitting in the police cell after my arrest. Disturbing the peace and being intoxicated in a public place were not exactly on a par with murder, but everyone's reaction had been so extreme. Nobody had bothered with me when I had been drowning in alcohol in the privacy of my home but set one drunken foot in public, and they lock you away in a remote part of Devon that even Google Maps has trouble finding. My family had me committed under the Mental Health Act. I think Mother would prefer it if I was insane rather than just a drunk.
"Sit down, Tommy. We need to continue our conversation."
"Why? You'll still get the fee regardless of whether I say anything."
"I want to help you, Tommy. I want to assist you to unpack all your issues and repack them in a way that enables you to cope."
"I don't have any issues."
"Don't you? You don't think nearly a year and a half of profound alcoholism is an issue?"
"No. It helped me." It was a lie, but I hated being lectured. I knew I was on a path to self-destruction. I did not need to be told.
"Do you want to die, Tommy?"
"Do I want to die?" I collapsed into the chair and ran my fingers through my hair. That was one hell of an opening question. I avoided his face, but I could feel his beady little eyes on me. I had to give him an answer. "I don't know." At least that was truthful.
"Why not?"
Bloody hell. Stop probing me. I decided to take the philosophical approach. "I think there is a subtle distinction between wanting to die and not wanting to live. Most days I think I'm the latter. Occasionally, I might be the former. Today? Today I am undecided but I expect the next hour in here might push me towards the former. Rather rapidly."
Clarkson chuckled then sat in a Chesterfield about five feet from me. He adjusted his glasses then switched on his tape recorder and placed it on the mahogany coffee table that sat between us atop a hideous green Persian carpet. "You don't think our sessions help?"
"No, because to treat addiction, the addict has to want to stop. That was the mistake I made with Peter. I assumed every addict wanted to stop; that no one wanted a substance ruling their life. But I was wrong. It makes life so much easier. Your days become focussed. Where to I get my next drink? Is there enough reserve? Do I have access to a toilet and a place to pass out safely? Anything else is unnecessary thought."
"Only it doesn't stop the thoughts and memories does it? The ones that distress you?"
I exhaled slowly. "No. They're always there. They don't go, but sometimes they become background noise, sometimes they just sit there peacefully, but other times..."
"What happens then?"
"They tear me apart. I want to yell at them. I want to change them. I want to go back. I thought my life was empty then, but it was so full in comparison to now."
"Do you understand why?"
I stood and began to pace. "My life has no future, no meaning."
"Without her?"
I stopped at the window and closed my eyes. I could see her smiling at me. I smiled back. I wanted to pull her into my arms, but her face vanished, and I was alone.
"Tommy?"
"Huh? Oh, sorry. What was the question?"
"You said your life had no meaning. I asked if you thought that way because she won't be part of it."
"Pathetic isn't it? Yes. I am not good at being alone."
"You have your family for support."
"They don't know me! Nobody really knows me."
"Even Lady Asherton?"
"Especially her. She. Had. Me. Sectioned. Do you know what that sort of betrayal feels like? Deep in here?" I poked my chest hard.
Clarkson sat looking pompously over the top of his glasses. "Have you thought about it from your mother's perspective?"
"Yes! She should have left me alone! I wasn't living with her. I needed to be alone. I needed to think it through not be locked away like I'm an embarrassment."
"She thought she was helping."
"She always thinks that but she is as selfish as the rest of her class. Barbara was right. We have a sense of entitlement and belief that we are better than anyone else. We're not. We can't even be honest with ourselves." I clenched my fists so tights that a jagged nail cut into my palm.
"Calm down, Tommy. Come back and have some water."
"I don't want water." I turned and moved across to look at the bookshelves on the far wall. "I did the same to Peter you know. Put him in here. Did he suffer like this?"
"Peter wanted to be helped. By the time he came to us, he was at rock bottom. He embraced it."
"I still think he hates me." I walked back towards Clarkson and leant against the desk that was beside the chair.
"Quite the opposite. Peter adored his older brother, but he hated what you did, how you made him feel. He was only seven, and he lost everyone. His father died, his brother ran away, and his mother lost herself in a new man. But he understands now that it hurt you too."
"Does he? I suppose one day I should talk to him."
"Yes, but right now I think it's time we talk through what happened that night."
"I think about it every day. I close my eyes, and it is there. It never leaves me. The sounds, the smells, the feel of gravel under my knees and blood seeping under my nails. It's the odd details that you'd never normally register that stay with you. They make it worse. People yelling... running... sirens... the ambulance... Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
"Are you a believer, Tommy?"
"Me? No. I'm not even Catholic. The paramedic was though; he said it in the ambulance. I think... I said it with him. I thought it might help. Silly really, but it stayed with me. Like a mantra."
"Like a prayer."
"A prayer to no one." I thumped into the chair.
"Tell me what happened. How you remember it."
I closed my eyes. "I watched it unfold in the full technicolour, slow-motion horror that is usually reserved for dreams. But this was not a dream. It was very, very real. And I see it on an endless loop."
"Where does it start?"
"With Helen wanting to help Nina Delic. Thinking she understood. Thinking she could do something. She rushed out after Nina. I should have waited until I knew Pavletic was out of the building before I told her.
"When Barbara rang me and told me she had proof, I had a premonition, but I didn't know what. I wanted to stop Pavletic before he left. I never thought Nina would be there. Winston and I raced through the door. Pavletic was next to the cab. Nina had a gun pointed at him. I felt sorry for her. Years of torment and rage boiled to the surface. She looked as if she was trapped between savage and frightening memories shrieking for revenge and what was right. I understood her anger but I thought she was going to lower the gun. Her hands were trembling..."
"It's okay, Tommy. Go on."
"Barbara's car screeched to a halt. She and Michael Wren were behind Pavletic. I tried to talk Nina into putting the gun down. We all did. Barbara, Winston, Helen. Pavletic was telling Nina he was not who she thought he was. Helen stepped between them. 'Don't ruin your life. He's going to gaol for the rest of his. Please.'. She was so certain she understood Nina. So certain she could talk her down even though the gun was pointed directly at her. It was brave, but she never believed Nina would shoot."
I raised my hands above my head then clamped my head between them as I lowered my face to my chest. My heart was thumping. Too fast. Too hard. I welcomed the thought of a heart attack to take me away from all of this pain.
"Tommy, have some water."
I took the glass from him. I sipped the water and screwed my nose up at its taste.
"I thought it worked," I said when I felt calmer. "I told Nina to put the gun on the ground. She was lowering the weapon. We all breathed out. A collective sigh. Then Pavletic couldn't help himself. 'No spine in Bosnians.' Helen turned to look at him.
Barbara saw it first. She somehow knew Nina would shoot. She could see what no one else did. She was good like that. She understood people. My intellect and her street smarts. We were a great team."
"Then it happened?"
"Yes. Nina fired." I put my hands over my ears to block out the sound, but you can't stop a noise that's already trapped inside your head.
"Tommy, this is good. What happened then?"
I looked across at him. He knew. Why was he making me tell him? "Barbara lunged at Helen. They both fell. I fell. The earth just gave way, and the three of us tumbled into the abyss. My legs wouldn't work. I was frozen as my mind recorded every detail. Heavy footsteps as people ran. Winston had Nina pinned, but she was staring at what she had done. Even Pavletic stopped laughing."
"Then?"
"Helen stood up. There was blood on her coat, and she looked at it in disgust. I'll never forget that look. I hated her for it. I hated her more than Nina. If she hadn't been so bloody-minded and foolish... but nothing could touch the mighty Helen."
"And Barbara?"
"Her eyes were open. She was looking at me. Only at me. I was looking at her. In the periphery all I could see was blood. Her blood. I had to get to her. I crawled, scrambling over the gravel. I scuffed my shoes. I noticed that later at the hospital. I pulled her into my arms. People were trying to help. I pushed my hand tight against her chest, over the wound. I had to stop the bleeding. 'Don't die, Barbara. Hang on.' I think she smiled. Her mouth barely moved but she knew I was there. I'm sure she did."
I stopped talking. I wanted to hit pause on my memories right there. It was the only spot of calm in the whole episode. A shared moment of understanding.
"Tommy, go on. You have to face this."
"Face it? I told you, it is all I see. Over and over and over."
"Tell me. What you saw. How you felt."
"They pulled me away when the paramedics arrived. They gave her something, an injection in her arm. Then a drip to replace fluid. The gurney had a squeaking wheel. As it bumped across the ground, it whined as if it objected. I hated that gurney. Barbara needed to get to the hospital, and it didn't want her to make it."
"You think that it is reasonable? Blaming the gurney?"
I shook my head. "No, not now, but at the time... I wasn't rational. This was Barbara. She'd been shot before, but this was far, far worse."
"Worse for her or you?"
I looked up at him. That was perceptive. "Both."
"Go on."
"They asked about next of kin. I remember Winston saying she had no one. I felt devastated hearing that. She had me. Someone had her wallet. Just as I thought she had me, one of the ambulance men called out 'Anyone know a Thomas Lynley? He's her next-of-kin.' It took a moment to register. 'I'm Lynley' I told him, and he took me back to her. They were loading her into the ambulance."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Confused in a way but it made sense. I was the closest to a family she had. We all carry In Case of Emergency cards. But I felt bad too because she saw me like family and I had let her down."
"How?"
"In so many ways. Perhaps because... Helen. I don't think Barbara approved of me getting back with Helen."
Clarkson chewed on the end of his glasses. "Did she say that?"
"No! Good lord, no. Barbara would never say anything. I just felt it."
"But Helen was your wife. Barbara must have understood you loved her."
"Who Helen? Did I? Maybe, maybe not. I thought I did when she came back. She seemed different. Softer. Kinder. But did I really love her? Yes, but not in the way I should have. I told Barbara once that I didn't know if I had ever loved Helen that way."
"What did Barbara say?"
"Something wise." I didn't want to tell him. That moment had been too precious. We lived for each other.
"So you got in the ambulance?"
"Yes. Helen tried to stop me. It was then I told her hated her for what she had done."
"What happened? Tell me exactly."
"Helen tried to take my hand. 'Tommy I need you. I was almost shot.' I looked at her and didn't know who she was. Not literally of course, but it was as if I had never known her. Barbara was dying, and she was only concerned about herself."
"What did you say?"
"I shook her off, but she persisted. So I told her I hated her."
"What exactly did you say, Tommy. It's important. It explains so much about what happened later."
"Something like, 'You are a selfish bitch, Helen. Barbara just saved your life, and now you want me to abandon her to comfort you. She's dying, and I won't let her die alone."
"And then?"
"Helen's words stung me."
"Why?"
"Because I knew it was true. Partly at least."
"What did she say?"
"Say? She spat the words at me. 'She didn't do it for me, Tommy. She did it for you. She thought you loved me. She wanted to save me so you could be happy. But you're not, are you? You wish I had been shot, not her.' I looked at her, and for the first time in so many years, I was honest with her. 'Yes. I do."
"And?"
"I knew then that was the end of us. Regardless of what happened to Barbara, Helen and I were over."
"Were you sad about that?"
"In a way, but it was also a relief."
"And Helen?"
"She was hurt, but that didn't change my mind. It was complex. I still loved what we had, years ago... as friends. I loved her historically. But... I had to go with Barbara. Helen stood watching me go. The ambulance door closed and she stood watching. We both knew it was over, but I never dreamt she would do what she did."
"Let's not focus on that today. We have time to discuss that later. I am more interested in dealing with the trauma of Barbara's shooting."
"She was so quiet. No groaning. Nothing. Her eyes were closed and I thought she'd gone. I asked the paramedic. 'No, but she's close,' he told me. I took her hand. I didn't know what else to do. 'Barbara, It's Tommy. I'm here.' I squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. It was weak but I'm sure I felt it. That comforted me. I was glad she knew she wasn't alone with strangers. The paramedic gave her morphine. He said he could tell she was in pain."
I stopped speaking and rubbed my eyes. I didn't want to cry. Not here. Not being watched. Being judged. Being analysed.
"Tommy, go on when you can."
I stood and stretched my back then wandered over to the window. I was tired. Although I relived everything in my head all the time, finding the words to articulate private thoughts and feelings was exhausting. I turned to Dr Clarkson. "The light was so bright in there yet outside, through the darkened window, it looked dull. Colours of the city flashed by. Red tail lights. A green neon sign saying open. The siren seemed to get louder but we were just passing under an overpass. Then he started. The paramedic. He... 'Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen'. The second time I said it with him. He stopped. I didn't. I said it over and over. For Barbara. For me. For Helen." I turned back to the window.
"Do you need a break, Tommy?"
"Is my hour up already?" I asked bitterly.
"No, But I think you need some time alone now. You could go back out into the garden. We will resume this tomorrow."
I nodded. "Fine." I had ceased to care. In my mind, all I could see was Barbara, and it tore me apart to know that it was all I had to hang onto."
