Être Vivant
"How are you?"
Wow. Loaded question. She looked away, studying the soft silver pattern on the curtain.
"Getting better," she said eventually. From previous experience she knew a dismissive 'fine' wasn't going to cut it.
Mainly because it didn't. Physically, she was still waiting for two broken ribs to heal, and breathing wasn't too much fun. At least twice a day, she found herself coughing so hard it felt like she was choking, like she was suffocating –
Emotionally... well, she was fairly stable. Other people seemed constantly worried about her, which she thought was unnecessary.
She wanted to go back to work, but she couldn't while her damn ribs were still healing. And apparently she needed a counsellor to see her regularly, assess her mental state.
Sitting across from him, she didn't feel particularly like baring her soul.
"Let's talk about revenge," he suggested.
Oh no. Not again.
***
The soft, inky darkness of her lounge room at night became a haven. Her bedroom faced the street, and was always too bright for her to sleep. Each night she did the same thing; she changed into pyjamas, climbed into bed, turned off the light – and remained wide awake. Maybe three hours later, around one, she would mutter quietly about getting something productive done, and push herself away from the mattress.
Sometimes she would grab her dressing gown or slippers before making her way down the hall. In the kitchen she flicked on a classical radio station, then headed for the cream reclining lounge. Dark, but not quiet. There, she slept.
***
But sometimes she didn't feel like sleeping. It didn't bother her. She had enough things that she could think about; thinking took up a lot of her time now.
Ray Walsman. She wasn't sure she had ever hated anyone as strongly as she did him. Pure hatred wasn't something she had thought herself capable of. Then she wrote the first list and started to wonder how much she knew about herself.
Blow up his house.
Blow up his island.
Blow up the gaol in which he currently resides.
Drop a nuclear bomb onto him.
The longer the list grew, the wilder her ideas became. It didn't matter if they didn't make sense – of course she would never try to implement any of them. But writing them down got them out of her head, and it left her free to think about less hateful things. So she wrote.
Shoot him.
Chest.
Head.
Neck.
Groin.
Spine.
Repeatedly.
Stab him (see above).
Lure him into an abandoned mine, then block the entrance/exits.
Give him to Josh (I'm assuming he has a list, too).
Or Pete.
Or Mike.
Force him to eat a grenade. Pull pin out. (In that order.)
Set him on fire.
Drop a two-tonne slab of concrete on him.
Or five-tonne.
...
Poison him.
With Ursula Morrell's Bright Island crab toxin.
***
"Kate? You alright?"
"Fine."
"Talk to me. I'm here for you. Do you ever think about revenge?"
"I... no, not really. Hardly ever."
"Who do you blame?"
***
That was not as easy a question as one might think. Walsman, of course, was a good suspect. He had ordered the placement of the bomb.
But then there were others to consider. The girl who had unwittingly set it off; but then, she hadn't profited from it – she was dead – so maybe it wasn't fair to blame her.
The man who had given it to her.
Whoever had made it.
Walsman.
Buffer, for not killing Walsman when he had the chance. At the time, she had been relieved beyond measure to find both of them alive; she hadn't wanted to think of him as a murderer. Instead, ten innocent people were dead. Including Kate's best friend.
***
"Do you ever blame yourself?"
Another not-so-stupid question. It hadn't been her fault, but...
"I'm trained to deal with emergency situations. It was an emergency. I didn't react fast enough."
And that about summed it up.
***
"How have you been sleeping?"
"Fine."
"That's not an answer."
"I've... been getting to sleep every night. And sleeping for a few hours. Enough."
"Any nightmares?"
"Not really."
What he was really asking was, any nightmares about what happened? Do you imagine yourself back there? Are you suffocating, feeling like you're being crushed?
Maybe once or twice, earlier on, but no, not really. But sometimes she would dream of Nikki – both memories and imagined scenes. Pleasant dreams, which half the time ended in Kate crying into the soft armrest of her lounge with her chest aching and her throat dry. Once fully awake, her mind would turn to lists; an organised schema for revenge. The hate would burn through her and after she'd written it all out again, she would go back to sleep.
"Before you can go back to work, Kate, I need to give you a positive assessment. I can't even try until you open up to me."
"It doesn't matter yet."
He sighed. "Then I'll see you Wednesday."
***
The crew were clustered around the galley, peering down, grinning. Bomber was growling to herself, while Nikki crawled on hands and knees towards the fridge. There was a high pitched squeak, then the officer was pushing herself upwards, hands clasped protectively around something.
"Get it out!" Bomber ordered.
"It's just a baby!" Nikki replied, trying not to grin as she opened her fingers to peek at the creature held inside. Before she could close them again, there was a flash of coffee-brown and the mouse had leapt from her hand and scrambled back underneath the fridge.
Kate watched, smiling to herself. This was what they got for buying 'fresh' fruit on Samaru – a three centimetre stowaway.
Samaru. Walsman. Her eyes snapped open, and she could already feel a trail of wetness running down one cheek. She couldn't remember whether the mouse in the galley was a memory or just a dream.
And then she realised her thoughts weren't even on Nikki, but on the mouse. The mouse.
A mouse sat, petrified by the sudden glare, it's whiskers twitching, it's silky brown fur just touching Kate's leg. She struck out at it, and it scampered off into the darkness.
Where did it go? she wondered. Did it die? Did it find a way out or... was it not looking for one?
She suddenly, desperately, wanted to know. There was one example of a creature who spent every living moment scared because at any second its life could end. No warning, no mercy. For a few hours, Kate had known that fear. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she looked around the completely dark lounge room. Her mind ticked into list mode, and she stood up, heading for the kitchen. She kept the path to the lounge room door clear, because she frequently traversed it in complete blackness.
She flicked on the light, wincing at the harshness of the bulb. Maybe she should get a dimmer. Or learn to write lists in Braille, so she wouldn't need the light on at all.
Her notepad was waiting, blank page staring up at her. The paper was white, and reflected the light too strongly. Looking at it made her feel sick. She grabbed the pen.
Caring
Willing
Honest
Optimistic
Outgoing
Accepting
Persistent
Good conversation
Understanding
Patient
Considerate
Forgiving
She didn't get any further. Her hand was shaking so badly the last few words were illegible. It was so obvious now that she was standing in her kitchen at four in the morning... Why hadn't she been able to say it then?
Taking several deep breaths, she forced her hand to steady. Her mind was suddenly full of positive things, but she wouldn't be writing them down. Not tonight, at least; she didn't doubt she would be going through this list again. Instead, she wrote a simple title at the top of the page.
What I Like About You.
Then she pressed her face against her arm, closing her eyes tightly to try and shut out the light. All she could think about was soft brown fur and sensitive grey whiskers, as tiny tears batted against her eyelids.
***
"How are you this morning?"
She barely held in her snort of derision. He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed inwardly, searching for an answer. She couldn't say fine, and she'd said 'getting better' last time.
"I'm..."
"Stop trying to say what I want to hear. You could just tell me how you really feel."
Oddly enough, she'd never even considered that. Now that she did, she knew why she hadn't; she didn't want to tell Mr Psychology-With-Honours how she felt.
"You don't want to be here."
This time the snort escaped. Wow. He must really have earned that certificate.
"I don't need to be here."
"Your Commander says you do. And if you wanted to contradict him, you wouldn't be here."
Looking almost longingly at the door, she wondered what he'd do if she tried to leave.
"Time will pass faster if you talk to me."
She sighed heavily. "Fine."
"Let's start simple. How do you feel today?"
"That's not simple," she retorted. "I feel about the same as I did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. There are things I should be feeling, and things I am, and I can barely distinguish between the two. I don't want to know how I feel, let alone talk about it."
By the time her short speech came to an abrupt halt, her chest was heaving painfully, and she struggled to breathe deeply, properly. It wouldn't be the first time she'd fallen to coughing in the middle of a conversation. He held out a glass of water, which she ignored.
"That's a start," he said approvingly. "Now, answer the question."
She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, and almost cried. Never before in her life had she had to confront her own emotions. Feelings were dangerous. They could hurt. Avoiding them was the only way she knew how to deal with them. Now, whether or not she was allowed to resume her career depended on her being able to discuss them with someone else.
"I... I'm... tired."
He nodded once. "Have you been sleeping?"
"Yes," she replied, then forced herself to continue. "So long as it's dark."
"How many hours a night?"
"I don't know. Four."
He didn't comment on the contradiction in her answer. These were the same questions he'd asked a dozen times already; but for the first time, she was answering both truthfully and completely.
"Any nightmares?"
"No."
"Any dreams?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
And to her great and utter relief, he didn't ask.
***
Light itself wasn't a problem; it was only electrical light that scared her. Natural light wasn't inviting or pleasant, but neither was it as cruel or hard-edged as what came from a lightbulb. She never found herself noticing it. Thus daytime was fine. She left all the houselights off and opened the curtains wide.
But night, every night, was a living hell. Even though she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep until she escaped from her bed to the lounge, she refused to change her routine and go straight there. Going to bed was an act of normalcy, one she wasn't going to give up just yet.
Sleep itself was no escape. Many times it threw at her dreams that were worse than the reality.
"They'll be right."
Will we?
Oh, for the days when she had nothing more to worry about than whether she'd be able to get drunk without submitting to Mike's blatant charm.
What if Mike had been inside when the bomb had gone off? Nikki wouldn't have come over to talk to her; she would have been with ET, who would have gotten her out. What would it have been like, Kate wondered, trapped under the rubble with Mike?
Her throat closed, and she forced her thoughts away from alternate scenarios. She'd already learnt that they only made her feel worse.
One hand went to her chest as her breathing grew ragged.
Stop thinking, she ordered herself. Automatically, she tried to breathe deeply, there was a flash of pain –
She panicked. Every time she inhaled, the pain grew worse, so bad she could barely think. Each breath seemed to give her less and less air, and her chest was heaving desperately, which made the pain worse and relaxing harder –
Stand up, her brain commanded. Move.
Her legs felt like putty. For a second, she thought she would fall over; then she managed to put one foot in front of the other, and take a step away from the lounge, towards the door. The darkness didn't matter. She knew where she was going. But she still couldn't breathe. Spears of pain shot through her chest every time she inhaled, and each time she got less and less air, so her lungs were pushing furiously against her ribs –
Falling into the chair at the dining room table, her hands fumbling around for the phone. She didn't know what time it was. She didn't care.
Her fingers closed around something large and plastic. She knew his number off by heart, but her hands were shaking so badly it took her two tries to dial correctly. He answered on the second ring, and if she hadn't been so close to panic she would have realised this meant he hadn't been asleep.
"Kate?"
She tried to speak. No air.
"Kate, relax."
"I can't breathe," she choked out. She could no longer tell whether the pain was coming from her ribs or her lungs or both.
"Breathe slowly. It's alright, it's alright... There's plenty of air..."
He continued to talk, knowing exactly what to say. This wasn't the first time she'd called him. After a minute she found herself breathing; still roughly and painfully, but at least there was air. Tears burned her eyes.
"Thanks, Buff," she whispered. There was a warm silence.
"I'll come over tomorrow," he said, and she smiled shakily. "Try and sleep."
***
"How do you feel?"
Again. She was trembling. He was going to keep on asking until she answered.
There was silence for a long time. The room was well designed, not too spacious and not too crowded, a simple, pleasant decor, good temperature and lighting; but most noticeably, there was no clock. It was quiet. No ominous ticking reverberated through the silence, and she felt that as long as she needed time to think, she could have it.
"I feel ashamed," she said suddenly. He didn't press, knowing that once she had made up her mind to talk, she would – in her own time. "I can't do anything. I can't control... anything. Or myself."
"Does that scare you?"
She breathed in, slowly. "Yes."
***
In sleep, she relived the explosion and subsequent entrapment twice.
"I promise, Nikki, it's going to be alright. We're going to be fine."
She couldn't accurately call it a nightmare. It was a memory. She remembered the humidity, the dust and dirt in the air, the pain coming from absolutely everywhere. She remembered the feel and later the sight of blood on Nikki's leg.
"It's not too bad. Just a scratch. You'll be right."
That 'just a scratch' had killed her.
The second time she dreamed it, she subconsciously started counting. Again, she woke with tears on her cheeks, this time thinking, She was wrong. It was eight, not five.
***
Of sixteen people buried in the Cairn's pub bombing, six survived. Kate was one of them.
"Have you ever tried to seek out one of the other survivors?"
"No."
"See how they're dealing with it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to."
He studied her for a minute. "Sure? What about Peter?"
It took her a few seconds to convert the name to the title; Buffer.
"Let's not talk about him," she said tightly.
"Why not?"
Ten years of intense discipline kept her from rolling her eyes or growling at him. She may not like it, she may not like him, but she wanted to be back at work as soon as her ribs healed; and some suit-wearing tool in Canberra said she needed to be psychologically assessed first.
"Do you have feelings for him?"
She started, surprised. "No. He's a friend."
"So do you talk to him about what happened?"
Biting her lip, she looked away. He waited. Somehow, every time, he knew the difference between a silence that meant she wasn't going to answer, and one that meant she was just working around to it.
"No." There was another minute of silence; calm, thoughtful silence. No pressure, just a comforting invitation. "Not about what happened. But we talk sometimes."
***
Knowing that Hammersley would continue to sail without them was a further reminder of everything that had changed. There was nothing Kate and Buffer would have liked more than to be able to bury the memories and the grief under physical activity or even the mind-consuming task of paperwork; but it would be at least another month before that was possible.
"What happened last night?"
"Dream," Kate muttered, and Buffer nodded.
"You tell the shrink about it?"
"No."
He didn't say anything, and she looked up. It was early evening. Most people would have turned a light on by now – assuming it hadn't been on all day – and his face was shrouded, expression unreadable.
"Mine helped, a bit," he said after a few minutes, making his way to the lounge. Before he sat down, however, he paused, his head tilting to one side as he tried to work something out.
"Don't," Kate said tightly. He glanced at her, surprised and confused.
"It's not straight," he said. She knew what he was hinting at: in her house, everything was neat. The picture frames were square, the chairs were tucked in under the table, and the lounge was flat against the wall. Or, it should be.
"Just leave it," she instructed. Already he was peering around the back. "Buff, please, just... don't."
His fingers closed over a small object and as he stood up, Kate turned away. He studied her, bewildered, recognising what he was holding; it was her mobile phone.
"Why's it back there?" he asked.
She turned slightly, just enough to glare at him. "I said don't."
But he continued to investigate, pressing buttons in a slow, deliberate manner. Kate swallowed. For a moment, she hoped that two weeks behind the lounge would have been long enough to kill the battery.
But then a soft jingle, and a ray of light fell on Buff's face. Kate found herself shivering and could see, almost as if she was back there, a dirty, tear-stained face staring back at her own.
"Why?" Buffer asked softly.
"The messages," Kate muttered. She was both pulled and repelled by her knowledge of what was on there, and as he navigated through menus and buttons, she found herself drifting closer.
His mouth fell open into a silent 'oh', and she knew he'd found the first. His fingers moved faster, trying to understand what had happened, what she had done with this phone, and when Kate was finally close enough to look over his shoulder, she couldn't suppress the sob that crept up through her throat. Three words stood gleaming, and Buffer had frozen, unable to move onto the next message.
Nikki says 'hi'.
A torturous ten seconds later, the light faded and the screen dimmed.
Kate stepped away, her chest shaking with small sobs. For once, she wasn't feeling the agony of her cracked ribs, and by the time Buffer had pushed himself past the message to read the next, tears were trickling down her cheeks. Every time she tried to gather herself, a new wave of shame and sorrow swept over her.
Giving up, she brushed past him and sat on the lounge. That was why she'd chucked her phone behind the lounge in the first place.
"Why not just delete them?" Buff asked softly, sitting down beside her.
"I can't," she said, sighing. "Her... her last moments. I can't just delete them. But I can't bear to look at them."
He nodded, one hand resting lightly on her back. This was why she was able to talk to him: of the entire crew, he was the only one who really understood what she had gone through. When everyone else wondered why she should suddenly dislike electric lighting, he didn't even ask. He already knew, even if he didn't feel as strongly about it himself. And when it came to dreams, he knew that it wasn't the nightmares that caused the most pain. He didn't hesitate to calm her down if she rang him in a panic, like last night; he knew what they were like, too, and she'd answered his call more than once.
"Do you think I should have killed him?" he asked suddenly.
"Who?" she asked evasively, but her eyes widened a little, giving her away; she knew exactly what he was talking about.
"Walsman. If I'd killed him, it wouldn't have happened."
And she'd still be alive. He didn't need to say the words for her to hear them.
"You're better than he is," she said eventually. "You're not a killer."
"That's what the counsellor said," Buffer said flatly. "Maybe if I hadn't pretended I was going to kill him, he wouldn't have done it."
Kate bit her lip, thinking. She didn't believe it was true, but neither did she know how to reassure him of that.
"Would you kill him now?" she asked eventually.
It was a long time, maybe ten minutes, before he answered. In the meantime, there was just that same open silence she felt in her counselling sessions.
"No. It wouldn't change anything. You?"
During the pause she had shifted into a more comfortable position on the lounge. It was fully dark outside, and the only light in the room came from the hall. Her eyes felt heavy.
"I don't know," she mumbled. "I want to hurt him. But I..."
Neither of them ever found out but what. Buffer smiled as her breathing slowed, then he stood up and headed for the door. As he passed it, he flicked off the hall light.
***
When she woke in the morning, she noticed that the lounge once again rested flush against the wall. For a moment, she didn't understand; then remembered. Buffer had pulled out the phone. She glanced over the lounge, expecting the mobile to be lying discarded somewhere. She moved cushions, checked the floor.
It was gone, and she couldn't work out whether she felt relieved or disappointed.
***
"Let's talk about Nikki."
Kate's eyes flashed. "No."
"Do you feel guilty?" he prompted.
"About what?" she snapped. He'd never pushed her on this subject before, though he'd raised it once or twice. This time it didn't look like he would be deterred.
"She died, you survived. Was that fair?"
"Fair? This has nothing to do with fair. Of course it wasn't fair."
"If you could change it so that you died instead of her, would you?"
Kate hesitated. It wasn't even the sort of question she could dodge around with a noncommittal "fine".
"She had... so much more to live for. Than I do." She hesitated, then glared at him. "But I can't change it. So there's no point in asking."
"There's a point to everything, Kate. I need to know."
"I spent so long... promising her we'd be okay. Both of us. I lied."
"You didn't go to the funeral."
She couldn't help but sound defensive. "I was in hospital."
"I know. Would you have, if you could have?"
"Yes."
***
It's so hard to be positive when you feel like you've only got a few hours left to live.
Her eyes snapped open. Trails of sweat were running down her forehead. Her heart was racing. Her lungs were burning. Her ribs were screaming. No air.
Tiny, hiccupping sobs added to her frantic gasps, and the whole time the pain continued to build. She tried to stand, to get to the phone – her legs gave way beneath her. She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. No air. She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak.
She was going to die, curled up on her lounge room floor, mute and helpless.
Trying to breathe made the pain worse. The pain stopped her from breathing. She needed air. Her mouth was open, her hands pressed against her ribs, and there still wasn't air.
There was a pounding in her head. Blood struggled to move through her brain. She blacked out.
As soon as she was unconscious, there was no more pain, and her body automatically relaxed. Her mouth closed, her nostrils opened, and sweet air filled her lungs.
***
"How did you sleep last night?"
She bit her lip. Whether it was something he'd been trained, or just instinct, he knew when she wasn't going to answer, and so this time didn't wait.
"Any nightmares?"
"No. But... dreams. Memories."
"About Nikki?"
"About being trapped. With Nikki."
"Anything in particular?"
Instead of answering, she looked him in the eye and asked her own question. "Did she know she was going to die?"
He breathed in slowly. "I don't think so."
"She was... she was scared. Because she thought we were going to die. I kept telling her we'd be fine... and she wasn't."
"No, Kate, she didn't know. She couldn't have. You were both scared, and were both dealing with that fear in the best way you knew how."
***
"Do you talk to yours?" Buffer asked. "The shrink?"
Kate shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "A bit. I need to, or he won't let me go back to work. Why? Do you?"
He nodded, the movement so subtle she almost missed it. "It... helps."
"I don't –" she began. Her chest suddenly burned, and she started coughing. Deep, hacking coughs that seemed to pull her lungs inside out. Her ribs had been steadily healing, but they still sent spears of pain through her as her chest heaved. And she couldn't breathe –
There was a soft contact on her back, something warm and calming. Buffer's hand. The coughing fit slowly subsided, and she found she could breathe again. Weakly, she continued what she had been about to say.
"I don't need someone inside my head."
***
"I need to ask, Kate."
Her lips thinned, and she nodded curtly. "Fine. Ask."
"Do you ever feel suicidal?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
He studied her for a minute, and she resisted the urge to growl at him. She'd fought so hard to escape with her life, she was totally focused on recovery – to the point of attending these stupid sessions – and he was asking if she wanted to throw all that away?
"You have trouble sleeping sometimes," he stated. She nodded. "You ever take sleeping pills for that?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She glared. "I don't want to."
"Are you scared of what will happen if you do?"
"I – no."
"Just take one to help you sleep. What if you can't stop yourself? Maybe three would stop the nightmares. Four would stop the dreams."
The familiar sensation of panic slammed into her mind, and she sucked in a breath. Why was he saying this? He wasn't supposed to scare her. He was supposed to help her!
"I don't want to die." Her voice was cold. It was the only way she could keep control; remove herself from her feelings entirely.
"But do you want to live?"
"I want my life back. So yes."
He nodded. "Alright."
***
The weeks had blurred. She wasn't aware of the slow healing process within her, but one day noticed that her ribs didn't hurt as much. Standing in front of her mirror, she saw that the skin appeared flat. There was no sign of the injury that had tormented her for the last two months.
Breathing in slowly, deeply, there was a dull ache, but one she was able to ignore.
As for the internal pain, it also seemed to have lessened; on average, she now slept for six hours a night rather than four. The dreams didn't torture her so much. At this point, all she wanted was an all clear on the psych evaluation and to get back to work.
***
"Revenge."
"Again?"
"You haven't talked about it, yet."
"I don't want revenge. It wouldn't change anything."
"Very logical. But what you know and what you want don't necessarily tally."
Again, a glare settled easily onto her face. He didn't so much as blink.
"Glares don't work on you," she muttered, eventually lowering her eyes.
There was no visible reaction to her words. "When I'm in this room, Kate, I don't exist. I don't have an opinion and I don't pass judgement. I don't have fears or grievances. This is about you."
There was a long silence. Finally, she nodded. He said she needed to talk about it? Fine.
"Do you think about revenge? Though maybe you call it 'justice', or 'payback'. Someone was responsible for what happened in November; for killing your friend, for killing other innocents, for putting you through all this fear and pain and grief. Not only that, you know who – and yet there's no way of proving it. He's already in gaol for other crimes, but there's absolutely nothing to tie him to the murder of everyone who died in that pub. So maybe you want to take matters into your own hands – to find some way of making him re–"
"I don't think he'd survive long enough for me to do to him everything I want to," she hissed suddenly. Feeling her self control slipping, she knew she should stop. She had to stop. She couldn't tell him what she really thought – that certainly wouldn't make her look sane. If she lost it now, if she told him, she would never be given her life back.
"Do you want to kill him?"
Her eyes flashed. "I want him to suffer. I want him to feel what it's like to be choking, to be crushed." Her hold finally snapped, her breath hitching as she fought off tears of rage. "I want him to feel what dying is like, not for a minute or even an hour, but for a whole night, and then every single night after that. I want him to know the fear of not knowing whether he's going to live or die, and knowing that there is nothing he can do to change what happens either way. I want him to have to spend that entire time struggling to reassure someone else, someone he cares about, even though he has no idea what's going to happen, and then I want him to try and deal with the guilt and the pain of not being able to change what has happened."
She stopped, not because the anger had drained away but because, even though they were mostly healed, her ribs couldn't deal with that level of harsh breathing. Concentrating on sucking in as much air as she could without moving her chest, she didn't notice the first tear fall, or the second. Shame flooded her when she finally realised she was crying – in front of him, of all people – and the salty drops did nothing to cool the burning in her cheeks.
He didn't move forward to comfort her, and he didn't say anything. By the time she had climbed back onto her iceberg of self control, she had figured it out, figured it all out. He wasn't here to make her feel better, or to help her get over it. She had to help herself, to work out her thoughts herself; he was just going to push her in the right direction whenever she felt lost.
Also, he was the one who would have final say about whether or not she was going to be able to keep it together if she went back to work. She couldn't help but think she had just blown any chance she'd had – a grieving woman who wanted to torture and kill someone? Give her a gun and say she's the 2IC? Not a chance.
"I wish Buffer had killed him."
***
"You won't die slowly," she promised, a primeval growl sounding in her throat.
"I'd do it again," he replied, spitting at her. She lashed out, her fist slamming into his jaw with a wet thud. A thrill rushed through her at the feel of his mouth rearranging beneath the impact; followed a minute later by intense horror. This wasn't her.
She pushed him away from her, pushed sideways –
– rolled sideways off the lounge and hit the floor with a thud. She shivered, and before she even processed the decision she had lifted herself up and headed for the table. It was dawn, and delicate pink light was shining through the window, so she didn't bother to turn on a light.
Notepad. Pen. Hand shaking, she started to write a list.
And got no further. I want to see him suffer, she repeated to herself, but her mind felt shockingly clear. Flicking back over the notepad, she saw all her other lists, some only a few lines, some taking up more than a page.
Lists: neat, organised plans for revenge, carefully charted methods of torture and murder. She shivered.
Nothing would change; not the past, and not him. Maybe her, but only for the worse.
***
"When I couldn't sleep... I'd write lists." He remained silent as she pulled the notepad out of her bag. "Several a week."
She fidgeted for a minute, her gaze flicking rapidly between the door and the sheaf of papers, before reluctantly handing it to him. The silence as he looked over them – dozens of pages in total – was more uncomfortable than anything she'd ever felt in this room before. He had asked her so many times whether she thought about revenge, and until a few days ago she had always told him no.
Here was proof that she had lied, every time.
He paused, looking at the hastily scrawled 1 at the top of the last page. "What happened?"
"Last night... I... couldn't. Before I always felt... like writing it out would help. Last night was different." She was quiet for a few minutes, thinking of how to explain what had gone through her mind. "I don't want revenge. It's not me."
Nodding, he waited a moment longer.
She sighed. "I can't blame Buffer for not killing him. Not after I was so glad to find he hadn't."
***
She'd passed. Her entire life was so structured around rules and strict edges, she couldn't help but think of the past two months as some kind of test. And she'd passed.
Now that she knew she would be going back to work, back to the patrol boats she had against all odds come to love, she had a new respect for the sessions she had attended. She had had to fight for the right to live, just like a mouse would fight for life every day. Fear and pain had lurked within and around her mind the whole time, and she had learned not to run from them.
There was no silver platter involved. Life hadn't been given back to her; she had earned it.
***
"It's not over, Kate." She sighed, hoping he was speaking in metaphors. "There's something else I need to talk to you about, before you go back."
"What?"
"Have you thought about what challenges you will face back on board?"
She hesitated. "Not really. I mean, I..."
"Things won't be the same."
Inhaling sharply, she understood. Of course things wouldn't be the same –
"Nikki won't be there," she said shakily.
He nodded. "You need to think about it now, Kate. You need to think about what exactly that will mean. You need to prepare yourself."
"She won't... be there."
"She won't be sharing a cabin with you. She won't be sleeping near you. She won't be there when you wake up or fall asleep." Kate swallowed nervously, but he wasn't done. "There will be someone else navigating. You'll hear announcements from someone else. 'Nav' won't mean Nikki anymore."
Her chest tightened. "I knew that. I... I did know."
"But had you faced it?"
She shook her head, unable to answer. Would she be able to deal with that? What if Nikki's homely touches still decorated their cabin; she would have to choose between leaving them there – a constant reminder of what was missing – or taking them down, and she wasn't sure she was strong enough to do that. It was the issue with her phone all over again; but she could hardly call Buffer in to change the decorations.
The room suddenly seemed too small. It was hot. Her breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
What if the new navigator was female? What if Kate had to share a cabin with her, watch as Nikki's replacement cut a niche into a stone that had already been perfectly carved?
"The rest of the crew will have been dealing with the new navigator for two months. You'll have to adjust. They won't be the odd one out – you will be. Kate, breathe."
He added the last two words so casually that Kate obeyed without even knowing what he had said. The dizziness was fading away before she noticed it. But she was still noticeably shaking.
"What else?" she asked, realising he hadn't finished. Oh gods... not more. There can't be more.
"The rest of the crew, Kate. You have to think about this, if you want to be able to control yourself in front of them." He waited until she nodded sadly before continuing. "By now they could be used to whoever has been filling in for you. They won't know you, or they think they won't. You have to ask yourself, have you changed?" He stopped suddenly, knowing the abrupt silence would make her answer immediately.
"I... haven't changed. Much. But I think about things differently."
"Do you act differently?"
"A little. Probably."
"They will notice that. They will be looking for it. Do something even slightly different to the usual, and the crew will pick up on it. Maybe not consciously, but they will. So you have to be in control –"
She nodded. That was what she wanted, after all.
"– and you have to set the tone. Maybe they'll be nervous around you, as they try to work out how you're different, whether you're coping, and if you're likely to be volatile. Or they might try to be extra nice, do little things for you – if you wouldn't have stood for that four months ago, don't stand for it now. Conversely, what if they try to take advantage of any weakness they think you're displaying? How do you stop them, and then make it perfectly clear you are no different?"
"I am different."
"But you have to prove that you are still capable of leading them."
"Okay," she agreed. That, she could understand. If she was hurting, then she couldn't let that interfere with how she did her job. That was how it had been before, how it had always been.
***
"You're braver than I am," Buff said quietly, not meeting her eyes.
She frowned in confusion. "What?"
"You're going back."
"I'm... Buff, please. Don't –"
"I know there was a time, I was there... But I can't remember what Hammersley was like before Nikki. I don't want to have to relearn."
Kate swallowed, fighting to keep her face impassive. What was it with him and not listening when she said 'don't'?
"You can't leave," she protested weakly.
He met her eyes, layers of guilt staring back at her. "I've already asked for a transfer."
Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she tried to settle into that feeling of cold, icy cold – the only thing that would keep the tears inside. She was going back to work now. She couldn't afford to burst out crying every few minutes.
"It's not just that she won't be there. Everyone will have changed," Buffer continued, his tone almost pleading.
Kate didn't reply. Everyone would have been affected, but she could only think of one person who would have been drastically changed.
What the hell am I going to say to Josh?
***
Did she know she was going to die?
Kate lay in bed, staring at the ceiling above her. She was supposed to be getting better, therefore there was no reason she couldn't sleep in a bed, like a normal person, on her back, like she used to.
Except that she couldn't. It was nearly one in the morning.
"If I don't make it out of here..."
Pessimism or premonition?
"Tell Josh..."
She shuddered. The words in her memory were so clear, it was like hearing them being spoken again; a reminder that she still hadn't fulfilled her promise.
Light from the streetlamp outside filtered into the bedroom, and she clamped her eyes shut. Sleep. Just sleep. But she couldn't sleep; Nikki's words wouldn't leave her head.
"Tell him I'm sorry that I made us wait, that I'm sorry I gave him a hard time, and that I was being immature, and that I really cared about him and wanted for us to be together. And that if I'm not there, he should move on."
How the hell do I tell him that? she wondered. "Hey ET, before she died, Nikki asked me to tell you..." Surely that would only hurt him more? By now he, like her, would have to be moving on, or at least coming to terms with it... but a message from her last few hours of life? Wouldn't that just serve to freshen the pain? Kate felt her breathing hitch. Truth or mercy.
Previously, she would have said truth, every time. Had she thought that would be kinder in the long run? Or was she just that insensitive? Before her posting to the Hammersley, she wouldn't have had a clue about how to approach something personal. Was she any better now?
Pushing herself out of bed, she wished there was someone she could ask.
***
"Nervous?"
"Yes."
"You've thought about what you'll be facing?"
She breathed in, deeply. There was no pain in her chest, only a residual tightness, and she wondered whether that would ever fade.
"I want to go back. I will not run away."
He studied her impassively for a few minutes, then his lips curved into a smile. It was an expression she had never seen before, and she couldn't help but smile back.
"Then I'll see you next time you have shore leave." She blinked, and his smile grew a little wider. "You didn't think you'd get away from me that easily?"
"I had hoped," she said wryly.
"Mental stability is an ongoing concern. There are problems you could have that no-one's even thought of yet."
Sighing, she nodded her agreement, mentally kicking herself. By now she should have learned; life wasn't that easy.
***
She steeled herself for the worst, though she wasn't even sure what that would be. Nikki's things still there? Nikki's things not there? At least she knew that the cabin was her own for now – though there was no telling if it would stay like that.
The door was how she remembered it – which was saying something. Until now, she hadn't realised she knew the door that well. But she had expected it to open as soon as she applied pressure to the handle, and it did. As soon as it reached a seventy five degree angle, it stopped, and watching it do so was comfortingly familiar. A step and a half before she was inside and all she had to do was apply a slight pressure to the door to close it again.
Then she allowed herself to look at the interior.
Before, she would have gone so far as to call it cramped. Now it felt sparse and empty. Slowly lowering her hat onto the desk, she struggled to remember what exactly had made it so cosy before. It hadn't exactly been professionally decorated, but something – maybe a photo pinned to the wall or a book waiting serenely on the desk – was missing.
She dropped her bag next to her rack. It was like moving in. Soon enough, she would have re-etched her mark, and once she had it would be much easier. But until then...
Feeling suddenly weary, she sat on the edge of her rack, her head automatically ducking to avoid the rack above. She knew from experience how dark it would be once the light went off at night, and there would never be total silence when on board; even moored in the calm harbour, she could hear the water lapping at the edges of the Hammersley, the dull growl of motorboat engines outside, and the occasional cry of a hungry seabird. Whether the rack itself would be any good for sleeping in, she didn't know, but there was a good chance it would be; it was about the same width and texture of her lounge.
Well, she thought tightly, the cabin can be lived in. And slept in. Now there's just the crew to deal with.
On cue, there was a knock on the door. Kate jumped up, grabbing her bag so that by the time the door had slid inwards she had something in her hands and it didn't look as if she'd been sitting there just thinking –
"How are you feeling?"
She dropped the bag. Damn. Great start. Then she calmly raised her eyes to his.
"Fantastic. How about you?" At least she could still throw him off balance.
"I'm good, I guess. I'm sorry I haven't been to see you lately..."
"It's alright. I've been busy... resting."
"Oh, well... it's good to have you back." There was a tense pause. "Maybe... you should continue to take it easy. The uh, the new Buffer, he's not bad."
"Yeah. Fine."
She knew what he wanted. Until she had proven that she was capable, she wouldn't be leading any boarding parties. It was almost amusing to see his reaction to her calm acceptance, and maybe a while ago she would have found it funny. Now she could only gaze at him sadly, and wonder whether she'd ever be able to pass on her fictive message of forgiveness. Then again, maybe it wasn't such a lie – when there were people like Walsman in the world, it became very hard to hate Mike Flynn.
Before the lengthening silence could grow any more awkward, Mike gave her a tight smile and backed out of the room. With a sigh, Kate closed the door again.
"If you wouldn't have stood for that four months ago, don't stand for it now."
Five minutes in and she was already ignoring his advice. I'm too tired, she thought defensively. And Mike's different. He's right, too – my ribs might have healed but I haven't regained all my strength yet.
Trying to ignore the uneasiness she felt as she made excuses, Kate began unpacking.
***
As she stood in the bridge, Kate tried to remember what exactly she was supposed to be doing. Charge and Swain had both greeted her warmly, but she felt distinctly uneasy standing there with nothing to do. The changes in the bridge were even greater than she had expected. Not only were Nikki and Pete gone, but there was a new R.O., and a seaman at the helm she'd never seen before.
After a few minutes she fell into quiet conversation with Swain, who seemed to sense she didn't want to talk about herself and instead chatted happily about Chloe.
Over the next few hours, something incredible started to happen. By forcing herself to act natural, supposedly to make the crew more comfortable around her, she found her uneasiness fading away. Compared to the last three months at home, life aboard the ship felt shockingly easy.
Until lunch time.
It shouldn't have surprised her. It shouldn't have scared her. She should have been expecting it.
She was walking down the corridor by the galley when a figure came out of the junior sailors' mess. He turned, and she stopped a second before they would have collided. ET.
For a minute, maybe two or three, they both stood there, unconcerned by the movement of the ship as they stared at each other. Still undecided about whether to pass on Nikki's message, Kate only knew that now wasn't the time. What ET saw when he looked at her, she wasn't sure. Did he blame her? Did he wish she had died instead?
Of course he did. Her nostrils flared, which in any other situation might have been a sign of anger. She hoped he couldn't see that she was fighting tears.
"Ma'am," he said suddenly, ducking his head. He stepped sideways so she could pass, and she was only too glad to escape a confrontation. Caught off guard, she hadn't had a chance to paste an unconcerned look onto her face, and she wasn't even sure he would be taken in by it.
He had set the tone for the voyage; she was his senior, and he would show her the respect due her rank. But only that, and nothing more.
***
"Any problems?"
"No. It all went... surprisingly well."
"Were you sleeping all right?"
"Yes. Quite well. I did find the... the red lights at night were... a bit off-putting."
"Any panic attacks?"
She paused. "One. But I wasn't on board."
***
Bright sunlight was dripping onto both the ocean and the pier. Kate sighed, as close to content as she had been in months. As much as it irked her to see the boarding party bouncing over the waves without her, it was also the one thing she couldn't bring herself to argue about. Everything else was fitting together smoothly, and all she wanted for now was the peace that work could bring her.
Seeing Mike striding across the gangplank behind her, Kate hoped he wasn't going to invite her out for a drink. Wasn't that how this had started? She didn't know if she'd ever be able to go into a pub again. She didn't particularly care. Now, however, wasn't the time to find out.
Before he could come close enough to say anything, however, her attention was caught by the sight of a middle-aged man walking purposefully towards her.
"Kate McGregor?" he called out, and despite the questioning tone it was obvious he knew exactly who she was.
If there had been some way of running from the man and his oh-so-casual jeans and button-up shirt, she would have been gone in an instant. Her pulse was skipping erratically, and no amount of deep breathing seemed to help. But though her stride faltered, she kept walking forwards, trying to avert her eyes. In two strides, she had passed the stranger; but then heard him turn after her, jogging to catch up.
"I'm not a reporter," he promised. A muscle in her jaw twitched. "Please, Lieutenant McGregor, I just want a quick word..."
She stopped abruptly. When she turned to face him, she had her strongest glare in place, one that would make even Mike quail. But though he hesitated, he didn't make any move to apologise or back off.
"My name's Spencer Doore. I... I'm not a reporter."
"What are you, then?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mike start towards them.
"I just wanted... to talk to you. About what happened in November. I'm writing a book..."
Something snapped. Maybe it was her self control, maybe her sanity. But right now, she wanted nothing more than to chuck this guy over the side of the pier. The way-too familiar feeling of panic flooded her system – she couldn't lose it, she couldn't or she would lose her job, and she had just found out how much she really needed that...
"A book?" she repeated. Ice, she told herself. Snow. Wind. Rain. Cold. Think cold. Be cold. Pain is hot, fear is hot. Be cold.
"Well, an article, on various –"
"Get away from me," she hissed. No! Anger is hot, be cold, be cold... Before he could say anything else, she had turned and continued walking. The squeak of sneakers on tarmac did nothing to alleviate the rage simmering in her chest.
"Please, I don't want to upset you... Kate! Can I call you Kate?"
"No, you can't," she growled without turning her head, but loud enough that he would hear.
"Oh well, I meant what I said, I just want to know... how you feel about –"
Her ribs were screaming, her lungs were heaving, and she never even had a chance to stop herself. She knew what the consequences would be, she knew exactly what she was throwing away, but she just couldn't make herself care.
A primeval growl sounded in her throat as her entire body twisted unevenly towards the man. He took a step back, seeing the destruction burning in her eyes –
But before she could get close enough to touch him, a pair of strong arms had wrapped around her body and hauled her backwards. She kicked out blindly, but found herself unable to move, unable to breathe.
"Kate, Kate." The grip around her chest loosened, and she sucked in a breath. Half of her wanted to chase the hastily retreating figure of Spencer the Writer, the other wanted to break down and cry.
Suddenly recognising the smell and warmth of Mike, the latter half won – sort of. One tear escaped, but then the feeling of wetness on her cheek broke through her battered mind, and she pushed herself away from the captain.
"I have somewhere to be," she muttered.
***
"I lost control. I can't afford to lose control."
"You want to work on it?" he asked. She nodded. "Alright. We can do that."
"What about Josh? What am I going to do about Josh?"
He studied her carefully. "When the time is right to tell him, you will."
***
She disliked the gravesite for a multitude of reasons, and the fact that Nikki was buried here was just the starting point. It was bland and tasteless, there was an uneasy silence hovering over the entire acreage, and there was something chilling about the way mankind liked to show off the burial sites of their dead. It was a maze of narrow, overgrown paths, and she couldn't help but shudder. To visit her dead friend for the first time, she had to walk past the graves of a thousand other people's dead friends and family. Why was that? Someone wanted to remind her that she wasn't the only one suffering in the world? She already knew that.
The grave still had that air of freshness about it. The stone was smooth, the carved letters perfectly clear. The weeds hadn't yet dared to trespass –
Kate suppressed a moan. Here she was. Her eyes skimmed over the name at least a dozen times before she finally squeezed them shut, and there the solid font shone from the back of her lids.
Nikki Caetano.
She stumbled forwards, one hand skimming over the carving. At least they didn't call her Nicola, she thought wryly. Nikki was Nikki, and nothing else.
And she was so much more. Was, Kate repeated silently. She had so much more to live for than I did.
Loved.
Kate slowly dropped to her knees, so she was face to face with the words. She wondered whether she should have brought flowers; what were they supposed to represent, anyway? That the grave with the most bouquets was the resting place of someone really popular? A dead person didn't need flowers. They probably didn't really want them, either.
It's not what she would have wanted, she growled to herself. She didn't want to be dead at all.
There was no saying how long she kneeled by the headstone, thoughts and memories sweeping through her like windblown raindrops. Eventually, she noticed that the air was cold, and the tears on her cheeks were cold. She was shaking, too, though that may not have been the temperature.
What should she say? Anything? Nikki wouldn't hear it. No-one would hear it. The words 'I'm sorry' hovered on her lips, but she swallowed them.
So she continued to sit there, head bowed, an increasingly cold wind flying past to grab her hair at regular intervals. Here was the grave of a woman, an intelligent, kind woman, whose last few hours could be described as a whirl of pain, fear, false hope and a delusion of safety.
His presence lingered at the edge of her consciousness for quite a while before she acknowledged it; and even then she didn't look at him or make any sort of greeting. He had already declared their relationship as purely professional, and she wasn't going to intrude on his grief. It came as some surprise when he spoke.
"You look cold."
She didn't know what to say. It wasn't exactly a question... it sounded more like something he would say to instigate conversation, but she still doubted he wanted that.
"I don't feel it," she replied eventually.
A second later the temperature dropped another degree, and she shivered. The action didn't even register in her brain, but it did in his – a second later, she felt a beautiful warmness on her bare arms as he draped his jacket around her shoulders.
She glanced up, failing to hide her utter shock; but his eyes were no longer on her. He dropped to his knees beside her, two fingers brushing Nikki's name exactly as Kate's had done. There was an unnatural pallor to his skin she hadn't seen before, and she wondered how, while trying to deal with his own pain, he could still notice things like goosebumps on her arms.
"Was it bad under there?" he asked quietly, his gaze remaining on the grave in front of them.
Kate swallowed. "Yes."
For another few minutes, they were both silent. It wasn't awkward so much as expecting – there were things they needed to discuss. She knew it and he probably suspected it. Now was the time.
"We were... she and I... talked. A lot. It was all we could do." For a moment, both words and lungs failed her. Then, she forced herself to breathe deeply, calmly, and continue. "We both knew... understood... we could die. And a part of us was okay with that. Not a big part, but..."
When he turned his head she felt it. Knowing those sad blue eyes would be staring into the side of her head, she couldn't bring herself to look at him.
"We talked," she repeated. "She was the one who... She told me what to tell you, if she... didn't make it out."
If I don't make it out...
It took ten minutes for Kate to pass on the short message. She was trying to say it word for word, and had to stop every few seconds to gather herself, breathe, and convince herself to push onwards. And as she spoke, she could feel some residual angry knot unravelling and falling away.
When she was finished, her hair had come loose, her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks were streaked with pale lines, and ET's arms were wrapped around her. She had no idea whether he was also crying, but it didn't matter.
Life wouldn't be magically easier for having told him. Working with him probably wouldn't be any different; in their case, grief would only bring them together this once.
But it was the last step towards healing.
Closure.
***
"Now is it over?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Oh no. It will never be over. It will always be there, but there'll be other things, and you won't feel so trapped."
She closed her eyes, breathed in. "And so?"
"What do you want?"
"To be alive."
"How are you?"
Her eyes flickered open. "I'm doing okay. How about you?"