Hugh Mallory dangles from James's right arm, a lethal height above the ground. James's left hand grips one of the stone pillars that divide the double window. Over the rasp of his own voice, the girls' whimpers, and the buzz of the crowd below, he can hear the chirrup of sparrows in the eaves of the roof. For an instant, he swears he can smell river water. Impossible. The Cherwell isn't that close, and the wind's blowing in the wrong direction. Can't think about it now. His arms, shoulders, and back are burning with the kind of pain he hasn't felt in years. There's a life at stake, perhaps a soul. And bugger if he'll let Mallory further traumatise the two innocent girls who call him 'Daddy'
He shoves the pain aside, and with it the temptation to pull Mallory up now. He won't do it until the man admits he wants to live. In that final moment of relief and triumph, James catches the impossible scent of the river.
It's at the pub, gazing across the placid Thames, that he finally makes the connection. He hadn't felt pain like that since uni. Competitive rowing is more gruelling than outsiders realise, straining every muscle from neck to toes. His coach used to admonish the crew: "If it doesn't hurt, you're doing it wrong."
He returns to the present. Lewis is saying, "I was afraid you'd drop him. Not on purpose, but Mallory's no featherweight, and you were holding him with just one hand. It must've hurt something fierce."
James buys himself a few more seconds by taking another swig of beer. He's tempted to say he's fine, but he can feel the weight of Lewis's attention upon him. This is the man who stepped between him and the Chief Super's wrath; the DI who was willing to sacrifice his own career to save his impetuous bagman. The very least that Lewis deserves from him is the truth. Even so, he can't say it directly. Maybe it's the public school boy in him, maybe it's the distant echo of his father's voice. ("Stop whinging, or I'll give you something to whinge about.") He starts to shrug, suppresses a wince. "It hurt a bit."
James sees the moment when Lewis grasps the reference. There's understanding in his eyes, but not pity, thank Christ. "Shouldn't you take something for it?"
He raises his glass. "I am taking something for it, sir. And I intend to take more." Alcohol is a muscle relaxant, after all. A doctor would feel obliged to disapprove, and his rowing coach would have given him a verbal flaying, but James knows his body. He knows that there's no actual muscle damage. The swelling has decreased, and the worst pain will be gone by morning. If he wakes up with a throbbing head, no matter. He'll still have his job and rank. More importantly, he'll still have Lewis as his governor. That thought makes him smile. Just a bit.
THE END
Author's notes: I recently read "The Boys in the Boat" by Daniel James Brown, about the American rowing crew from the University of Washington that won gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. It made me aware just how relentlessly painful competitive rowing is, and what kind of determination it requires. That gave me some new insights into the character of James.
"The Pain Contest/" a video on YouTube made by rowers at Durham University (UK) made it clear to me that, though training methods, rowing techniques, and boat design/construction have changed in the nearly 80 years since the Berlin Olympics, pain is still a constant.