A/N: I'm suffering from a crippling case of writer's block right now, so in an attempt to dislodge it, here's another story in response to a prompt. This one comes from Skewbald, who expressed a general desire for more Beck/Trina stories, and made a few specific suggestions, among which was:
"Beck and Trina are married, and have two kids. However, one of the kids is killed when he/she drowns while trying to swim to the middle of the lake, which is located on Beck's estate. Beck is a very wealthy businessman, or director, or author...and the kids are younger."
So, here we go.
Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.
It is a beautiful, sun-drenched morning, a remarkable thing for northern England this early in the year. On the secluded estate of Beck and Trina Oliver, the thrushes sing as they flit from tree to tree. Light ripples over the surface of a crystal-clear pond, beside which two men stand in heated discussion. One is a landscaper from Newcastle, a heavyset, affable fellow with a thick Geordie accent. The other is one of the most successful directors in the world. Normally he is unflappable, his only facial expression an enigmatic, bemused smile. But not today. Today he is a seething cauldron of grief and fury.
"So, let me get this clear," the befuddled landscaper says. "You had us put the pond in only six months ago, and now you want it taken out again?"
"You're damn right I do. Drain it, cover it with cement, whatever – I don't care what you do, just get rid of it!"
"Calm down, mate. It's just a bloody pond. What harm can it do you?"
Beck wants so badly to punch this man in the jaw. So badly. But there was no malice in the words, only ignorance.
"Just…please get rid of it," he whispers.
Staring out over the water, he relives that terrible moment for the thousandth time. Trina's faraway screams in his ears. Dropping his briefcase, running out of the house. His wife on her knees at the water's edge. And then the horrible recognition – the small, pale body, face down, floating gently as a leaf.
The other man may not be able to share in this image, but he can't miss the sorrow in Beck's eyes. "Right. I'll call in the boys and make a start this afternoon. Should have it completely dredged come Friday."
They shake hands. As the man is leaving, Beck asks, out of the blue: "Do you have any kids?"
"Eh? Yeah. Three. Why?"
"Do me a favor, huh? Don't ever take them for granted. Not even for a moment."
The man looks him up and down, sees that he is shaking. "You want to go get a pint, mate? You look like you could use it."
"No…but thanks."
Since it happened, he hasn't touched a drop of alcohol. He longs for the comfort it would bring, the oblivion; but he knows too well that if he starts drinking, he'll never stop.
"Right, then. I'll see you later."
"Goodbye."
It's not until the man has disappeared and Beck hears the noise of his truck starting up that he allows himself to turn to the pond again, and to whisper to the imagined, floating form:
"Forgive me, baby."
/
Jacob Oliver, age three years eight months, is busy in his playroom, stacking blocks and then knocking them over with a careless swipe of his tiny hand. His governess, a blonde girl of barely twenty, watches him from a rocking chair with hawk-like eyes. She has sworn to herself that no harm will befall this child.
Trina shuffles slowly into the room. She puts a hand on her son's head and tousles his thin strands of brown hair. He looks up, beaming.
"How did it go?" the governess asks.
"Everything's set for Sunday afternoon. We've picked out a spot – on the hill to the north. It's covered with lilies of the valley. They were her favorite-" Trina's voice cracks. "-her favorite flower."
"Mommy?" Jacob asks.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Where's Susie? I wanna show her the finger painting I made."
"Remember how we talked about this? Susie had to go away, baby."
"I remember. When's she coming back?"
"She's not."
He scrunched up his nose. "Don't be silly, mommy. She wouldn't go away and not tell me."
"She didn't want to go away, sweetheart, it's just…sometimes…things happen that…"
Trina has rifled through every book on child psychology there is in the past few days, and she still has no idea what to say. She looks at the governess in utter despair and helplessness. The girl nods in understanding.
"Jacob? It's time for your animal crackers and juice now." She reaches down to scoop the little boy up.
"But I was talking to mommy-"
"Your mum's very tired, and she needs to go lie down. You can ask her questions later. At supper maybe."
Trina's lips form a silent "thank you" as the girl carries a still complaining Jacob to the kitchen.
When the playroom is empty, she curls up in a ball against the wall and presses her head to her knees. I've failed, she thinks. I'm a bad mother. I let my little girl down, and now I don't even know how to tell my baby boy the truth.
She, too, relives the moment. The breathless phone call from Cat: "My brother swallowed a cricket!" Walking off, trying to talk sense into the redhead – well into her thirties now, but just as ditzy as she had been in high school. Ten-year-old Susie in her bathing suit, turning cartwheels through the lawn sprinklers – "Look at me, mommy!" Her offhand remark over her shoulder, not even looking: "That's nice, baby."
Coming back fifteen minutes later, Cat having been suitably appeased. "Susie? Susie, where'd you get to?" Still at a distance, trying to figure out why one spot in the pond didn't reflect the sunlight as the rest did…then coming closer, making out the outlines of the shape…kicking off her heels, sprinting barefoot through the grass, hoping against hope that she was still in time…and being met with a drifting rag doll, a lifeless heap of flesh and bone that had once been her only daughter.
It was her fault. Her selfishness, her neglectfulness – they were the reason Susie was gone.
And she was sure that she would hate herself until the day she died.
/
A mist descends over the hill as Beck climbs it. The unseasonable warmth is gone, replaced by an all-permeating chill. The thrushes no longer sing, and the leaves on the trees seem to have withdrawn back into their buds.
When he reaches the top, he is surprised to see his wife standing beside the grave. They rarely speak now, except for terse conversations about household business. Jacob still doesn't understand, but he can sense the tension between his parents, and he's responded by withdrawing into his shell, rarely leaving the side of his governess.
She hears his approach and turns. At first neither of them speaks.
"You should be wearing a coat," Beck says at last. "It's cold up here."
"Didn't feel like it."
"Look, Trina, if you're trying to make yourself suffer – do some kind of penance – don't. It's not what she would have wanted."
"It's not about penance, Beck. It's just…she's down there, under the cold earth, and for me to be up here and be enjoying warmth and comfort…it felt wrong."
"You're not making any sense."
"Yeah, I guess not."
He can't stand her shivering any longer. He takes off his own jacket and slips it over her shoulders. She barely notices.
"You know you're not to blame," he says softly. "You couldn't have watched her every minute of the day. And we told her over and over not to go swimming alone."
"I keep telling myself that. And it never helps, y'know? Not one. Damn. Bit."
"…Yeah. I know."
She realizes the implications of what he's just said and looks up, startled. "Are you trying to tell me that you feel guilty too? That's ridiculous! You were busy with work. I told you I'd spend the afternoon with Susie. There's no way that you can think that you're responsible for what happened."
"I'm…I was…her father, Trina. I was raised to believe that fathers should protect their families. And here I am, jetting off to Monaco or Hong Kong or some other damn place every other week, leaving you alone – and when I am here, I bury my nose in paperwork or shut myself up in the screening room to go over dailies. I was so distant that sometimes I think I never even got to know Susie. And now…now I'll never have the chance…"
As he begins to sob, she instinctively grabs him and holds him tightly. It's the first time they've embraced since their daughter died. Soon the tears are flowing freely from her eyes too, wetting the freshly dug earth.
"Promise me," she begs him. "Promise me you'll go on. No matter how much the guilt hurts. You can't give up – Jacob and I need you."
"Only if you promise me too," he replies.
They hold each other close as the rain begins to fall, and the thirsty lilies of the valley drink it in. And somewhere, high above the gray clouds, a ten-year-old girl looks down upon them, and smiles.