Hey all this is a crossover between Burn Notice and Broadchurch. It takes place well after Burn Notice ends and after season 2 of Broadchurch… and During season 3 of Broadchurch so.. SPOILERS AHEAD. This does not have a set timeline in that the 'chunks' of story take place in a some-what linear progression but not always. I used the age of the character 'Charley' to help iron that out (ie if there's a time jump I write out that Charley is 13 or 10 or whatever).
I think you would benefit from knowledge of Burn Notice but you might be able to survive this story without it. Maybe.
Onwards and Upwards fellow readers:
**** #
Paul looked up from the grave he was attending as Irish accents filled the air. The McBrides moved to Broadchurch almost six months after Danny's death. They were an odd family of three: Fi and Michael were Irish through and through. Paul sometimes thought that Fi was from the Republic despite both claiming Edenderry as their home. The child, eleven year-old Charley, was American. Charley called them uncle and aunt. Paul had never asked but the small-town rumour mill quickly concluded that Charley's birth parents had emigrated to America and been killed in a drive-by. The McBrides never confirmed nor denied this.
Paul had never thought of the family as particularly religious. They were better than most of the town coming to mass once every month or so, but Paul's impression was that it was largely thanks to Fi's religious up-bringing. There were times when she looked angry after mass. Michael would always smile in that bland way of his and lead her off.
Michael was a hobby farmer. He got along well with almost everyone he met and having a stall at the summer market helped him meet a lot of people – locals and tourists alike. Paul bought beets and potatoes from him regularly.
Charley was not with his guardians that day. Fi had a firm grip on Michael's upper arm as if she were a school matron and he a miss-behaving pupil. He wasn't really struggling to get away so Paul didn't feel too insulted.
Fi was angled un-erringly towards the chapel. Paul raised his arm to wave the pair over. They finally got close enough for Paul to hear their conversation, "…I'm fine. I don't need a priest."
"Don't lie to me Michael. You haven't been sleeping or eating in almost a month! What if Charley finds the one-shot you made? Or one of his school friends? It's been eight years: if you're not moving on its time to get help."
"And what's Paul going to do? He's a priest not a therapist."
"Because you'd trust a therapist, would you? After –"
"Don't say his name." Michael cut off his wife. They arrived at Paul's headstone. In an instant the wrathful look was wiped from Michael's face, replaced by the bland smiling politeness Paul was so used to seeing. "Hi Father Paul. How are you this morning?"
"I'm alright. Just tidying up the yard a bit." Paul nodded towards the bucket holding his garden gloves and trowel. Would you like to come in for a cuppa?"
"That sounds lovely," Fi said quickly before Michael could open his mouth to beg off, "We have something private we'd like to talk to you about."
"I thought as much. When couples come to see me this early its often about a private issue." Paul led them into the rectory kitchen. As he filled the kettle he could hear them shuffling behind him. He turned slowly around after he heard a smack. It was hard to tell but the slightly shocked look on Michael's face made him think, just for a moment, that Fi might have hit her husband. The kettle boiled.
"So, what can I do for you today? Marriage counselling?" They were settled at the kitchen table Fi and Michael together with their backs towards the corner and eyes towards the windows.
"No, nothing like that, Michael and I worked out those kinks a long time ago." Fi smiled. "The problem is Michael cannot let go of the past and it's causing some issues."
"Fi," Michael's voice cut across his wife, "this is something Paul and I should talk about in private." Something about his body language changed from the meek, eager to please Irish farmer who often provided Paul with home-grown produce. Now he sat straighter, looked at his wife more sharply, and spoke with the soft authority of someone who was used to his commands being followed.
"What part of your past is unknown to me, Michael?" Fi protested but Michael gave her a hard look. She sighed but nodded and rose to her feet again, "Alright, I'll go check on Charley. Little blighter thought he could get away with sneaking out, so he's re-planting the flower bed." She explained to Paul, "You are not allowed to get out of this Michael."
She stood and glared at the two men for a moment before seeing herself out.
"I'm sorry about that Father." Michael smiled ruefully, "Once Fiona gets an idea in her head she can be hard to dissuade."
"That's quite alright, Michael, why don't you tell me what all this is about?"
Michael shifted in his seat and clutched his tea protectively in front of himself. They were silent for a moment. "How seriously do you take the privacy of confession?"
"Well." Paul paused and thought hard, "If one of my young parishioners were to confide in me that they were being abused I would be obliged to report it to my superiors. Nothing my parishioners said to me would go to the police. If I were to go to the police I could be defrocked." He paused for a moment, "I take my job very seriously." Anglican confessionals weren't mandatory in the way Catholic's were. That said confession is sacrament to both branches of Christianity. Anglicans (and many modern Catholic priests for that matter) didn't require a booth. Any conversation between a priest and a parishioner could fall under the umbrella of the sacrament.
Michael frowned a little, "Do you have any training in therapy?"
"I have a little. After Danny died I took some courses in grief counselling and social work. I don't have any other specialized training though.
"May I ask what this is about?"
"I had a rough childhood." Michael said euphemistically, "Up until about eight years ago I, well I wasn't the nicest person in the world and the people in my life were even worse than me." He clutched his tea and drank deeply, "Fi thinks I have PTSD. I think she's overreacting but I can see it in Charley's eyes. Sometimes he's scared of me."
"Right, okay. Not that I don't want to help you but why not see a therapist about this?"
Michael chuckled humourlessly, "One of the people I used to know was a therapist who got inside my head and twisted." He mimed squeezing something between his fists while twisting them violently in opposite directions. "No, I've had more than enough of people like that. Then there's that little issue with the law. Most of the activities in my life were on a questionable side of the law." Michael kept his hands loose on the table before himself. His eyes cast toward them. "I can't, I can't disclose anything if it will put my family in danger." Michael begged Paul to understand.
"Alright." Paul said after taking a sip of his tea, "Why don't we start small. We can take this slowly and evaluate as we go. You might need more than I can offer after all." Paul wondered if that was the right move. He knew his skill set was lacking and this gave the both of them an 'out' in the future too.
"Okay," Michael nodded. He dipped his head down into his chest and ran both hands through his ear-length hair. "Okay. Small. Where do I begin?"
And that is how Paul began his weekly counselling sessions with Michael McBride: The Surprisingly Complicated Irish Farmer.
Michael never spoke about his childhood in Edenderry despite the obvious way it affected him. Paul wrestled with the euphemistic language Michael used for about a month before the two agreed to pretend Michael was a member of a gang for nearly twenty years and spent seven years trying to leave it before moving back home to County Tyrone – the village of Dromore this time – with Fi and Charley. All of which took place eight years before their first counselling session.
The more Paul knew about Michael's past the more dangerous the Irishman seemed. Somehow at the same time Paul knew Michael would break the world in half if it had half a chance of helping someone else.
"Oi!" Michael McBride stomped up to the school yard. Sara Ballard quickly jogged to intercept her pupil's guardian. She wasn't quite quick enough, McBride pulled James Minchin off Charley McBride by the collar of his shirt. "What's after happening now?" He glared between the two thirteen-year-olds expectantly.
"We was just playin' Michael." Charley whinged.
"Jus' playin, was it? That's why you'll be spending the night stitching your jeans?" sarcasm dripped from McBride's lips with every syllable.
"Mr. McBride let go of my students please!" Sara gasped out as she finally reached the gathering crowd. McBride didn't react right away. Charley finally got his uncle's attention by tugging his upper arm out of the man's slack grip.
"You two, to the head's office. If you'd like to accompany us, Mr. McBride?" Sara left the question hanging. McBride nodded and followed the students.
Charley wasn't a bad kid in Sara's opinion but, even after a year, he didn't fit in very well in Broadchurch. He had a funny accent. He didn't live with his birth parents. He uncle was strange. Along with the way children behaved towards newcomers it was hardly surprising Charley had a few issues in school. It didn't help that he struggled with writing. And reading.
He excelled at maths and any hands-on tasks such as science experiments and the building projects Mr. Jones thought up but he really struggled at the more academic pursuits. All of that resulted in Michael McBride knowing his way to the Head's office. Sara peeled off to tell Mr. Jones where she'd be for the rest of the break and get him to check on her afternoon class in case this meeting went over.
Sara paused before turning the last corner to the office. She could just hear McBride's accent float down the stuffy hall.
"Your da and I were always getting into issues at your age. There's nothin' wrong with it but you promised your aunt you'd keep your trousers neat. Is that what you call neat trousers?"
"You got into trouble?" Charley completely ignored his uncle's admonishments.
McBride laughed loud, quick and harsh at that, "When we got caught. They still caned us back then. I wouldn't be surprised if I still had the marks from some of those."
Sara rounded the corner as the Head's door creaked open.
*** #
"So Fi and I,"
"Was Sam there too?" Paul cut across. They were walking along the cliffs. Michael hated being inside, caged. Paul had seen more of his parish lands since these sessions started than he ever had before.
"Yeah Sam was there. We were working to take down the bastard." Mob Boss Paul translated in his head. "The Garda messed everything up. It took me quite a while to realize that they always did. I was about to be killed by the thugs when Jesse shot us both." Michael rubbed his left shoulder. Paul had seen that move before. Two months ago Fi got into trouble with DI Hardy over her driving. Michael put himself between the two quickly enough. Unfortunately Hardy grabbed Michael's arm and tried to wrench the taller man around. Michael easily overpowered the still-recovering Hardy and looked just about ready to dislocate the DI's arm before Paul, with the riotous help of Fi, brought Michael out of his mind and back into the here and now. While Paul dealt with Hardy Michael rubbed at that exact spot.
"I thought you and Jesse are friends?" Paul asked.
"We are. Now. I did some things that resulted in a change in Jesse's life. Uh. Let's see. He was a member of the Garda but then I accidentally made it look like he was mmm, selling secrets to the gangs. It got him fired." Michael grasped for words that fit into the fiction of their creation.
"Before he knew it was my fault Jesse swore he'd put a bullet in the man what burned him. That got him fired." He chuckled, "We used to joke that he kept that promise."
"Oh okay," Paul nodded his understanding.
"I still dream about that shooting. If Jesse had been two inches off his mark either the bastard would have lived or we both would have died." That hand kept rubbing at his chest.
"You've told me about other times you were shot, what makes this time so much different?"
"I don't know." They gazed across the choppy water, "I just, I don't know."
"Hmm." Paul discovered early on that tricks like letting a silence stand didn't work for Michael. It was best to ask questions, "Do you think it bothers you because Jesse was someone you considered a friend?"
"I doubt it." Michael said after a moment's contemplation, "I've been shot by friends before. Hell Fi stabbed me two months ago."
"Wait. What?"
"hm?" Michael glanced at Paul and away again, "Oh didn't I mention that? Yeah we were, um, arguing and one thing leads to another and I have a new scar. Not a bad one. We've gotten good at stitching over the years." He shrugged like it was nothing to worry about. Paul didn't press.
*** #
Becca Fisher poured a second pint of Caffrey's. She started out just getting in a few of the Tall Boys but those McBrides drank like fish. She now had a keg coming in on every second shipment. It helped that the younger crowd willingly tried the Irish brew. She settled the beers next to the pot of tea for young Charley on her tray and carried it over to the corner table. It was, in Becca's opinion, the worst table in the house. If she didn't think a big empty space would look god-awful she would have removed the squished table years ago. Now she thought of it as the McBride table. It wasn't that they were regulars exactly but they always sat there and only there.
"What can I get for you tonight?" Becca chirped after settling the drinks on the table.
Michael smiled indulgently at Charley. Sometimes Becca thought he was a little bit spoiled but given the poor bird's background… Becca wrote down his surf-and-turf order. Fi ordered the pie of the day – Chicken and Leek – how that woman kept a slim figure with the way she ate was a mystery. Maybe she only ate dinner. Starved herself the rest of the time.
"Just chips for me tonight." Michael smiled shyly. No surprise there. The poor bird never ate too much. Becca made sure there was extra on his plate all the same.
Becca made the way to the kitchen with the chit as Hardy stomped in. He made a bee-line to the McBride table. Becca watched as they exchanged strained smiles. Hardy was gone by the time Becca made it back to her bar. An empty pint glass was all that remained of Michael McBride.
****#
"I knew we had to catch him. If we didn't get him that day he'd disappear. Nuh… My brother. I – I sent him away. I was so angry and I sent him away." Michael burred his face in his hands. Today Paul and Michael were sitting on the beach not too far from where Danny died. They had been walking but Michael's legs gave out under him near the beginning of today's talk. Paul didn't know the names of Michael's family members but knew that Charley was his brother's son.
"Why did you send him away?" Paul asked gently.
"He ordered take away." Michael didn't offer to clear up that confusing statement.
They sat in the damp sand in silence for a while. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" Paul broached.
"Uh I- I sent him away but then the therapist. He-" Michael cut himself off as a group of laughing teens stumbled onto the beach. Paul sighed to himself: Michael was done talking for the day.
*** #
PC Bob Daniels lit up the front of the car. He pulled Fi McBride over for speeding. She was a bit of a lead foot really. They both were but Michael at least acted contrite.
"Bob!" she crowed, "If I'd known ye'd be workin' I'd've raced you a bit first." She shot him an exaggerated wink.
"Mrs. McBride, evening." Bob grumbled back. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"You couldn't stand to be apart from me?" Bob sighed and lit up the back seat. He jumped.
"Flirting with me when your husband is a sleep in the back?" Bob asked as he regained his composure.
"Life in Broadchurch is boring: a girl has to get her thrills somehow."
"Look Mrs. McBride, take your ticket and get home to your kid safe." Bob thrust the stub through the window and stomped towards his car. He thought he heard Michael's voice mutter 'do you have to antagonize them Fi?' as their car pulled away from the shoulder.
*** #
"Mark you know Michael, right?" Paul asked.
"Right you're Charley's dad aren't ya?" Mark was still struggling with the loss of Danny but he found some small measure of comfort from training the football team.
"Uncle actually but aye, Charley is ours." Michael and Mark exchanged handshakes.
"Is there something I can help you with Mark?" Paul asked. The father happened upon Paul and Michael during a brief break in their counselling sessions. Once every five or six weeks the two had coffee in town. They didn't ever speak about Michael's issues on these 'coffee dates' as Fi called them. She even joined them sometimes.
"I was just hopin' you might have a few minutes to talk." Mark shrugged meekly.
"Well, Michael and I are in the middle of something right now, how about we meet at the church later? About three?" Paul offered.
"No that's okay." Mark shuffled a few steps away as Michael rose.
"Tell you what, Mark, I need to head into the city to pick up a few things for the wife. Why don't I go now and let you have the Father for a little while?" Michael ambled into the café – no doubt to pay for the coffees as usual – before Paul or Mark could blink. Paul frowned: he knew Michael loathed going into the city and Fi normally went on her own.
Considering the amount of violence in Michael's past the priest was honestly shocked Michael wasn't a gibbering mess of over-protective machoism.
*** #
"Father Paul, what a nice surprise!" Fi stepped across her door and embraced Paul. She kissed his cheek, "Come in. come in. Charley's at a friend's for the night." She grabbed Paul's arm and tucked it into her elbow as she led him into the den.
"Would you like some whiskey? I can whip you up a mean mojito if you'd like?" Fi deposited him in a squishy leather armchair near the extinguished fireplace. Books littered every surface in a few different languages but mostly English. A quilt was folded haphazardly across the sofa under the bay windows.
"Ah, tea please?" Paul asked: the McBrides didn't know he was in recovery. Fi told him to sit, she would call Michael in from the shed and return with his drink. Paul glanced at the art on the walls. It was largely impressionistic bright whites splashed with harsh reds and oranges.
The books were mostly history with a few romances and the first Born Identity. Paul picked it up: he'd always meant to read them.
"That's Charley's," Fi said as she passed Paul one of the mugs of tea in her hand. It was strong stuff but good.
"Oh, I always meant to read them, is it any good?" Paul asked.
"Well it's not very realistic but if you don't treat it like an instruction manual it can be a fun bit of escapism." Fi shrugged, "Michael's right in the middle of something in the shed. He said he'd be a few minutes."
"Well I did drop in unannounced I suppose its all my fault." Paul's self-deprecation startled a laugh out of Fi.
"You really aren't like any of the priests from my childhood." Paul sat back in shock, "No dear that's a good thing. I hated those holier-than-thou pricks." Fi rushed to reassure Paul, "They tended to preach fire and brimstone far more than anything pleasant." She cocked her head to the side, "That probably had a lot to do with the political climate back home but." She shrugged and sipped her tea.
"Would you mind if I asked you something?" Paul asked hesitantly.
Fi eyed him carefully, "Sure but I mightn't answer."
"That's fair." Paul shifted forward and set his tea carefully on the coffee table, "Fi are you. Maybe, uh. Are you from the Republic?" He watched Fi agitate for a moment before the tension rushed out of her shoulders.
"I am. Michael and I met there." She nodded slowly. Her eyes didn't leave Paul's for a moment.
"And Michael? He talks about his trouble with the Garda, they're only in the Republic."
"Oh, aye we had a few brushes with them over the years," Fi nodded again, "But no. Michael wasn't born in the Republic."
"Why do you tell everyone you're both from Edenderry?" Paul knew that relationships between the north and the south weren't exactly rainbows and butterflies but to lie about her birthplace in a different country seemed a bit extreme.
"If Michael's past is hard to explain to the cops," Fi thought carefully before she answered, "Mine is impossible.
"We love each other and Charley and we just want to live in peace. For a little while County Tyrone was a quite place for us to settle but," She shrugged her hand up before clutching her mug again, "well sometimes being close to home but unable to see it is the hardest part. England is easier."
"I don't want to speak out of turn but Charley's accent is probably fits in a bit better here too." Paul ventured.
It wasn't Fi who responded though, "Accents are easy," said a strange American voice behind Paul. The Vicar spun around to look for a visitor. Michael stood in the door with a pot of yogurt in his hand. "Its all about pronunciation after all." This time he sounded Russian, "Charley's original accent is American but he could fit in back home if he wanted to."
Paul frowned but nodded anyway. There was that Doctor Who actor that spoke with an American accent despite being Scottish. He turned his gaze to the yogurt: black current. Once, a few weeks after counselling started, Paul asked about the yogurt: Michael was never too far away from a cup of the stuff. "Fi jokes that I eat yogurt so that I don't drink myself to death. The truth is far more boring. I spent most of my life foreign countries or without a lot of food. My GI track is never that happy with me and my gut health needs all the probiotic help it can get. I could eat a whole lot of sauerkraut or pickles but Fi isn't a fan. Yogurt works just as well." Paul wasn't sure he was happy about asking after that.
"Not that we're not happy to have you here, Father, but why are you here?" She asked.
"Ah, our coffee date was interrupted today I wanted to apologise." Paul paused, "It's just, Mark. He's still grieving, he doesn't quite grasp that the rest of the world is still turning. Doesn't help that he thinks he found Danny's killer." Fi made an enquiring sound.
"Joe. He was arrested and he confessed but plead not guilty and he won the case. After that he changed his name and disappeared." Paul shrugged and sipped his tea.
Michael looked sideways at Fi, "No Fi. No I'm retired. If we start up again then we'll just fall into our old patterns." She hissed, "What would be the point of everything we went through if the company found us now?"
Fi rolled her eyes and sighed, "fine. I doubt DI Hardy would thank us anyway." She shrugged and sipped her drink.
"I'm sorry what?" Paul frowned.
"Michael! you haven't even covered your job? You've been doing this for more than a year. Maybe we should find you a therapist." Fi berated her husband.
"We speak in euphemisms" Paul explained.
"Euphemisms? Seriously. Well alright then. Michael and I and a few others used to help people who asked for it. Sometimes they'd pay us, sometimes we paid them."
"And this help," Paul asked carefully, "is it part of why you and I chat?" he locked eyes with Michael.
"Yes, partly. You remember me telling you about the hacker, Eve who drugged and kidnapped me?" Paul nodded, "we were helping a friend's brother. Eve stole money that he was supposed to be safe-guarding and managed to frame him for it."
"Just like that so many things about you clicked into place." Paul settled deep into his chair, "You can't help but help people. I noticed it, Sara noticed it, hell even Hardy noticed it."
"When did he notice that?" The McBrides tried to stay away from the detectives. They didn't much like authorities and Hardy wasn't the most reasonable of authority figures.
"You picked the lock for Tom Miller late last year."
"Oh right, he forgot her key, I happened to be walking by." He chuckled to himself, "I was pulled in on every break in or theft for the next three months. Even the bikes that were too small for Charley to ride."
"You did that even though you knew it would put their hackles up."
"It was pissing down that day. I could nay just leave him out to catch his death!"
"We're not saying you should have." Fi admonished, "Paul was complementing you ya daft bugger." Her affectionate words were accompanied by a smack to Michael's shoulder. Michael sent her an affronted look and rubbed at his arm. Paul remembered finally broaching the topic of abuse with Michael during a walk in the forest one fall day. Yellow leaves floating down as the morning sun streamed through the branches. "I want to ask you something and I don't want you to take it the wrong way." Paul broached the subject carefully.
"Okay?" Michael stopped walking and turned to face Paul fully.
"I've noticed that Fiona hits you from time to time."
"Uh-hu." Michael crossed his arms defensively. He stared into Paul's eyes with a hard look, daring the vicar. Paul didn't know what the dare was.
"Is there – do you think she may be abusing you?" Paul had had this conversation a few times at previous parishes but always with women and never in Broadchurch.
"You think I'm battered?" Michael's voice tripped through accents. It happened sometimes when he felt stressed. Today it jumped from Irish to the local West-Country accent.
"It's not your fault if you are, I can help you and Charley if you need it." Paul took a step towards Michael to offer his support.
"I'm not. She isn't. It's not. I'm sorry, I really don't know how to respond to this." Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly, "How." He sighed, "This goes no farther than the two of us." Michael waited until Paul agreed and, in as few words as possible, disclosed his wife's violent streak. Turns out she's a little sadistic in the bedroom and, thanks to her own ties to Irish criminals, has a bad habit of resorting to violence as a general means of expressing herself.
Never towards children nor those that she didn't know intimately – unless, Michael hastened to add – a stranger posed a threat to a child or innocent person. "Punching is just how she shows affection" It sounded like a bad joke. Michael's home life was abusive and cycles of abuse sometimes looked a little lopsided. Paul dropped it after that though.
Paul gazed into his tea and wondered what it was about Broadchurch that muddied the waters so much. "Any way I just wanted to stop by and apologies."
*** #
"What's this then?" DI Hardy asked Paul and Fi. A short way away Michael was taking Charley through some basic hand-to-hand moves. Hardy and Miller were there about the case.
"The recent attack finally convinced Michael to teach Charley." Fi explained. "If you ask me he's keeping things too basic." Paul stifled a snort as Hardy whipped around to stare at the Irishwoman.
"Too basic? What would you have him learning?" Miller asked curiously.
"Well if the laws weren't quite so restrictive I'd be showing him how to shoot. It's a good skill for a person to have. Look at this town: a murder and at least one rape in three years. This place is supposed to be peaceful."
"She has a point, detective." Paul tried not to wince at the town record.
"Oh don't you start." Hardy whined.
"Was there something we can help you with Detectives?" Michael asked as he walked with Charley to the trio. Charley was breathing heavily and Michael had a bruise forming on his right cheek. Fiona exclaimed happily and high-fived Charley in congratulations.
"Yes, actually. Given your home's proximity to Axehampton House, we need to know your family's movements last Thursday night." Paul sighed, he had become used to the accusations over the last three years. Fi growled angrily, not at the unspoken accusation but at the violent act itself. Michael pulled thirteen-year-old Charley into his chest.
He knelt down to his nephew's height, "Do you remember us talking about reasonable authority figures?" Charley nodded, "This is one of those times. Now your aunt and I need to speak privately to DI Hardy and DS Miller, I might need to go out later but it is nothing to worry about. Why don't you head over to Victor's place?" Charley didn't look reassured but he went without protest.
"What was that about reasonable authority figures?" Hardy's Scottish accent really lent itself to indignity in Paul's opinion.
"Just that sometimes it is important to do as they ask. It makes a short list of things easier in the long run." Michael smiled in his bland way. Paul bet it had more to do with getting unwanted attention away from oneself. "Fi and Charley were at an open day: We're thinking of sending him to Kings of Wessex now that he's 13. They stayed the night in Cheddar. I was here all night." Paul knew Michael actually spent the night in his shed working on the wreck of a car hidden there. Paul's insomniac wandering led him to the McBride homestead at about 3am.
"Right. Mrs. McBride do you have any proof of your movements?" Millie requested. Paul didn't think she much liked the Irishwoman but Ellie was a professional. She wouldn't let her personal feeling cloud her judgment.
"Of course, why don't you come in: I'll get the folder." She ushered the whole party into the small house, Paul fiddled with his hands for a moment, he wasn't entirely sure why he was there. Fi exclaimed from the 'library' (really more of a family room with two desks: one for Fi and Michael, one for Charley and three filing cabinets) and emerged with a thin manila folder. She handed it to DS Miller who flipped through the comprehensive compilation of receipts and even a few printed photos.
"It's an actual folder." Paul muttered in shock.
"Old habits and all that." Michael waved off Paul's concern, "We used to have a few annoyingly nosy reasonable authority figures in our lives. Police, auditors, and – you know." He stuttered to a stop with a glance at Hardy. "Euphemisms."
"What?" Hardy squinted at the other man.
"It's nothing detective." Paul attempted to lead the detective out but didn't quite manage it.
"There's still the little problem of your alibi, McBride." He stepped deeper into the little house. Paul made to follow but Fi waved him off.
*** #
"So, Mrs. McBride," Ellie began her interview. They were settled into the den with a tea tray between them, "Are you aware of Axehampton House?"
"I know it exists, if that's what you mean." Fi frowned at the DS, "I've never been to it: no real point." She shrugged, "But I've driven past the lane a few times."
"You're aware of what happened there?"
"Yes. If you need me to shoot anyone just let me know dear." Fi grinned. Miller believed she was not only willing, but fully capable of following through on that promise.
"Thank you, Mrs. McBride but we do try to get our suspects to trial here." The jab at Fiona's nationality was hardly subtle.
Fi laughed, not a fake chuckle meant to throw someone off track but a real, head back, full-bellied laugh, "Oh Miller, if only that was the case when I was a child, maybe my sister would still be alive."
**** #
Hardy watched as Michael McBride, known break-in artist, shifted restlessly in his chair. They had been in interview room 4 for nearly three hours. McBride hadn't said too much in his own defence but he hadn't said much that Hardy could use either. He wasn't squeaking yet.
"Once again. You were home alone, reading," he practically spit out the verb, "when just a few kilometres away a woman was being attacked."
"I'm not God." McBride growled, "If her fellow party goers didnay know about the attack how on earth would I?"
"Are you a religious man, Michael McBride?" Hardy queried, "It's not often someone from Ireland brings his family to an Anglican church."
McBride chuckled, "You know that's not a requirement, right? It's literally Paul's job to support anyone who lives within the Parish lands regardless of his or her beliefs." McBride settled back in his chair, "To answer your question, no I'm not particularly religious but my wife is."
"And you're teaching your boy self defence now? What about his mum?"
"Charley's mum is an addict. She lost custody when the boy was three. Fi is his aunt and she can take care of herself."
Hardy hummed. Miller gossiped about Charley's guardianship a while ago but it was clearly a sore spot for the family.
"And how did he come to your care?" McBride didn't answer, "Talk to me McBride. You don't have an alibi, I know you don't mind breaking the law, and your wife had suspiciously pre-prepared her alibi. Does she know about your proclivities?" Hardy rolled his tongue over the final word.
"What the fuck are you saying?" Michael slammed his open palm onto the stainless-steel table that separated the two. The harsh BANG echoed in the small space. "I have never. I couldn't." Michael's hands gripped at his chest and he gasped like he couldn't get enough air before jumping to his feet, both hands covering his mouth. For a second Hardy thought the man would be sick.
He wasn't though. Instead he pulled out his phone – an old flip phone that had seen better days – and pressed 1 on speed dial.
"Speaker please." Hardy requested. He couldn't force the man – this was only an interview after all – but most didn't realize that. Michael nodded and hit a few more buttons. Hardy expected Fi to be on the other end so he was taken aback when it was the vicar's voice that rang out.
"Michael what's wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"I'm, I dunno, I'm in a room?" Hardy barely hid a snort at that.
"Do you remember what to do? Three things?" Paul Coates' tiny voice encouraged. The vicar was as calm as always. Despite Hardy's best efforts, Paul had always been hard to set on edge.
"Three- Three things I can see."
"That's right but first three breaths. Breath with me Michael. In…. Out…. In…." Michael took exaggerated breaths at Coates' command. "Good, now three things you can see."
"The table, uh Alec Hardy, and my phone." Michael squinted around himself as if he were gazing through a thick fog. They breathed together again.
"Hardy's there. Great. Okay, now three things you can hear." Coates prompted again.
Michael took longer this time, "I can't tell. I Think I hear shouting outside. And a clock and a back-firing car but I don't know." The whole time McBride took ragged, deep breaths. Hardy didn't head any cars let alone one back-firing.
"That's okay, take your time, am I on speaker? Okay Hardy, I know you're listening. You are going to stay calm and, now this is really important, you are not going to touch Michael and you're going to let me into the interview room as soon as I get there.
"Now Michael do you know what you can hear?"
"Your car door slamming. Hardy breathing. A clock ticking." Michael said, "Feel now right?" Coates confirmed, "The hard chair, my hand is tingling, and I'm cold." Michael looked up from his hand as a commotion started up outside the room.
Hardy pulled himself slowly from his seat, trying hard not to spook his suspect, and opened the door. Outside Coates struggled to slip passed Desk-Sargent-What's-His-Name (not to be confused with SOCO What's-His-Name), "Hardy let me back there!" Coates demanded loudly.
For thirty seconds Hardy contemplated denying the vicar access. In the end he reasoned that Coates could likely get to the bottom of what ever that episode was more quickly and in rape cases (most cases actually) time was a major factor.
By the time Hardy returned to Interview 4 with Coates in tow McBride had taken to pacing. He looked normal again though. He had on that bland, stupid smile that infuriated Hardy. "I'm sorry about that detective. You see I don't much care for being accused of rape. What I like even less is the implication that Fiona Gleh- My wife would not only be okay with me raping a woman but would help." Michael's voice didn't so much as waver as he dressed down the DI. Frail as Hardy's heart may be he didn't even flinch.
"And that was enough to, what, bring on a break-down?" Hardy pressed. Hardy always pressed. When Paul felt charitable towards the other man he could acknowledge it was a good trait for a detective to have.
"It was a flashback." Michael admitted. The anger ran out of him and he slumped back down onto his seat. "It was a flash back." His eyes sought Paul's, "Just a flash back."
"What exactly is your relationship with Paul Coates?" Hardy asked suspiciously.
"I." Michael opened his mouth and tried to force the words past his throat but Paul could see the way he gasped for air. It was an odd phenomenon: when Michael accepted Fi's diagnosis of PTSD he lost the ability to verbalize it. That, and a few other recurring issues, chased Paul into night courses at his old uni. There he learned the 'trick' he used to ground Michael in the present. It worked best when he was physically present but they'd done it over the phone a time or two.
"I-I-I what McBride?" Hardy demanded, Michael's eyes sought Paul's.
"Would you like me to tell him?" Michael nodded and averted his eyes. He kept them on the door, "Michael has PTSD. Though we've never discussed exactly what you described I wouldn't be too surprised if something in his past caused that reaction."
Paul ploughed through Hardy's shocked exclamations, "We have been working on this for the last two years but a half-century of trauma is a lot to work through."
"Edenderry a particular violent village is it?" Hardy no longer knew what to make of the farmer. Miller eventually convinced Hardy that the lock-picking is something a lot of people picked up – it was a way to pass the time and some thought it could impress girls. For some reason. Now Hardy had to wonder about that again. What in Edenderry of all places could cause the sort of trauma that would take more than two years to sort out?
What ever it was, it would have to wait: there was a rapist to catch.
**** #
"Hey Charley, your aunt about?" Nige asked the thirteen year-old.
"Nah, she and Michael are in Cheddar. She left a note for you though." Th McBride homestead hadn't been new since before Nige could remember. Its fixtures hadn't been updated in nearly as long. It didn't take too long for Fi to get fed up with the flickering lights and the shoddy rads before she called Nige. At first Fi, as with most homeowners, was present every time Nige stopped by to work. Recently, though, the electrician found himself on his own more.
It wasn't that odd but after Hardy's antics during Danny's investigation the good people of Broadchurch had turned their back on the electrician. It felt nice, being trusted.
Nige, I know we talked about working on the half-bath next but there is something wrong with the dryer. We hardly use it but with the rain recently we haven't been able to use the line. Could you look at that today?
Nige read the note carefully and nodded to himself. He had everything he'd need to check the dryer and it wouldn't take too long.
"What are you up to then?" he asked Charley. The only answer was a despondent shrug, "Why don't you help me out? It's a good idea to know how to use your hands after all."
It turns out the dryer was worse off than the note would imply. Whoever used it in the 15 years since its install clearly hadn't read the manual. The lint trap was bursting. The highly flammable fibres had worked their way throughout the under-casing. Nige and Charley spent three hours pulling the thing apart and carefully vacuuming up the lint. By the end of it they were tired and sore from crouching behind the machine. Charley poured them both tall glasses of American iced tea while they took a well deserved break at the kitchen table.
"Now then, why don't you tell me what's on your mind?" Nige asked, he'd been around the McBride household enough to know that Charley was being unusually quiet, "You can tell me, ya'know." Nige tried to be a good person. He wasn't the best at it but no one – not even Hardy – could fault him for trying. He remembered being Charley's age. They weren't too different. Both adopted. Both unsure of their place in the world.
Charley sighed, "It's nothing. Fi and Mike are just shipping me off to Kings next year and there's nothing I can do about it. They didn't even ask me. I wanted to stay here with Steve and Victor and, and – it just sucks." Charley's voice rose and rose before suddenly trailing off.
"Have you tried talking to them about this? Your aunt is a reasonable lady I'm sure she'd listen to your concerns." Nige said after a short silence hung in the air. It wasn't the best advice but it worked as a starting point.
"I don't know what to say. Whenever I have to confront someone I just forget every argument I practiced in my head." Charley buried his head in his arms on the kitchen table.
"You got a pen and paper somewhere?" Nige waited until Charley ran off to rub his eyes tiredly. He was committed to helping the kid now.
A half an hour later Nige got a call about another job and had to leave Charley to his notes but they made good head-way. Charley worked out a rough list of arguments and was working to flesh them out. A lot of it had to do with being close to family and rested heavily on the shoulders of old arguments Nige wasn't privy to but it felt really nice to help out. To be needed.
**** #
Paul raised his hand in greeting as he approached the small family in the woods. It was close to Christmas and the McBrides were preforming an old family tradition: stringing a tree up with fruits, nuts, popcorn strings, and home made suet balls. They invited Paul, Becca and a few of Charley's friends to join them.
There was a thin layer of icy snow under foot but they'd had a regular year. Apparently this tradition was from Fi's family line.
"Paul!" Michael sounded genuinely happy to see the vicar, "glad you could make it. Here help me untangle these cranberry strings." The two carefully pulled the tangled twine apart trying not to nock the delicate fruit off the strings. Paul pulled off his gloves to aid in dexterity; his sticky fingers didn't thank him.
Finally the tree was decorated. Slices of orange hung from loops of twine, suet balls formed into candy-cane shapes pulled their branches down, pinecones rolled in peanut butter and seeds dropped their load in a gentle shower in the breeze, and wrapped around the whole thing were strings of popcorn and cranberry bringing bright, clean colours to the dark wood and needles of the tree.
Fi fished out a few thermoses from her bag, "Hot chocolate for the children, mulled wine for the adults." She explained as she gathered the little camping mugs and filled them.
"Aunt Fi," Charley whinged, "We're 15. That's old enough for some spiced wine." Fi pretended she hadn't heard her nephew as she passed out the mugs.
Paul decided that if he ever had children of his own he would carry on this tradition, the giving tree, Fi called it.
**** #
Time passed, Charley ended up attending Kings despite his best efforts. Based on his arguments, though, Fi and Michael made a point of bringing him home for a weekend at least once a month. They took pains to keep his Broadchurch friendships strong.
The rapists were found and appropriately punished. Paul seriously contemplated leaving Broadchurch and moving onto a different parish. It was hard. Faith was not a prerequisite for his helping people but the only ones in Broadchurch who seemed to know that were the McBrides and Paul wasn't sure he was actually helping Michael at all.
In the end, after talking to senior church members about the situation he chose to stay 'for a little while'.
One day a stranger appeared in the town. "Hi, I'm looking for a family of at least three. I don't know their names but the oldest child – if there is more than one – will be 17 now." Paul looked at the stranger. His dark skin and bald head making him stand out even more than his American accent in the startlingly white town of Broadchurch.
Paul didn't say anything right away he just raised his eyebrows and let the silence speak for him.
"Look some friends of mine moved a few years ago. I now at the time it was just Charley and his aunt and uncle. In the last six or so years that might have changed."
"And how do you know the family?" Paul asked.
"I used to work with Mike and Fi." The stranger said after carefully searching the empty graveyard for prying ears.
"Alright." Paul said after a moment's thought, "They live nearby, why don't we walk over together?" The McBrides eventually gave up on fixing the house and bought a little semi-detached in town. They renovated the farm house before renting it and the land out to another family.
Paul knocked lightly on the door. Michael opened it soon enough. He smiled at Paul but was soon distracted by the stranger, "Jesse." He whispered.
~Fin
Just wanted to clarify: Broadchurch is not BAD for being mostly white: my hometown in Canada – VERY close to the multi-cultural capital of Toronto – had a grand total of two black kids in my school (a larger number of Chinese and Pilipino though). This did not make the town racist. It was just a small Canadian town settled by the English that had lots of POC tourists but not many POC residents. I see Broadchurch the same way.