A/N anyway im back and heres a two part fic for you all to enjoy.
The year Lucien Blake committed murder was an eventful one. It was the year that Matthew Lawson's car finally gave up the ghost. It was the year Rose Anderson took over the paper. It was the year I befriended Alice Harvey. It was the year that Danny Parks returned to Ballarat. It was the year I gave up on my religion. It was the year Jean Beazley died. It was the year I became a dirty cop.
I was the one who found him. The air was cold on my face, it stung my cheeks and my nose was running like it had somewhere to be. I wasn't wearing a coat or even a jumper. I was wearing my pajamas. A thin t-shirt and pants that revealed more than was probably decent. I wasn't even wearing any socks. There was no rain, which I was grateful for at the time, but I'm not anymore. I think it might have helped if the rain had washed away his sins of that night.
I must have looked like a madman, I was running to the neighbours, and then on the street to the city. I found him walking back from there, his coat was missing and his undershirt was covered in blood. He had fallen into a gutter and had I not found him he would have laid there all night, and he would likely have died. He didn't seem to recognize me as I pulled him to his feet and tucked an arm around my shoulder. He smeared blood on my face and shirt. He called me Jean. I didn't correct him.
I first realized we had a problem when we got home. There was blood, for one. I didn't know who it belonged too, but when I prodded him into the shower it became clear to me that it wasn't his. Lucien had more scars that I knew what to do with, but they were all old, bar a couple of bruises and one scratch on his chest. I dressed him and put him to bed and I feel like a teenager doing the same for my mother so long ago.
I took his bloody clothes to my room and hid them in my hamper, along with my now bloody clothes. The only other person who lives here is Danny and I know that he would never dare to look through my things. I changed and went back to watch him sleep. I sat there for a long time before I heard someone in the kitchen, I imagine it was Danny. I went to see him, but it was Jean, standing at the sink, washing blood from her hands.
"I didn't know people had so much blood in them." She said, still facing away from me as I approach the door. "Did you?"
"No." I lie.
"Your dinner is in the fridge. I made your favourite. Chicken, with lots of stuffing." I enter the room and she turns to look at me. Her face is pale and dirty, and one of her eyes hangs to her chin. I scream.
"Charlie?!" She demands, "What's wrong? Charlie? Charlie? Charlie! "
I'm awoken by Danny, who is shaking me back and forth violently. Lucien is still asleep, useless bastard. I looked at him and then buried my face in my hands and I did my best not to cry. Danny took my hand and led me into the bathroom on the top floor. Far away from Lucien. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale and tired looking, and what parts that weren't white were red and splotchy. Danny sat on the rim of the bathtub while I dabbed uselessly at my face with a square of toilet paper.
"You had a nightmare." He told me like I didn't already know.
"Yeah."
"Were you first on the scene."
"Yeah." I repeated, crouching down to examine the contents of the cupboard. I opened a fresh bottle of Bex, and tipped our toothbrushes into the sink. I swallowed the water and the Bex in a single mouthful. I let my eyes dance to him. Danny looks as pale and as sad as I did. Jean was my friend. She was his aunt. I sat next to him on the rim of the tub. We didn't have anything to say, but I think he was glad that I stayed. I don't know how one person could manage to keep the doctor under control. Eventually, sitting on a thin piece of porcelain hurt the back of my thighs and I had to stand. Danny did too. I went to my room, and he went to his and I considered that there is so much tragedy in the world.
…
I was called into the station in the early hours of the morning. I've been avoiding the night shift lately, and I think that Frank has been letting me. He's an interesting sort, Frank Carlyle. I don't hate him, but I don't particularly like him either. It's not his fault, he's just not Matthew Lawson. He's talking to Ned by the door. He grimaces at me when he looks up. I don't reply until I get closer. He looks rather pointedly into the room in question. It stinks of blood and alcohol. Edward is face down on his desk, and there's a lot of blood.
Rose has her camera, but she isn't taking pictures, she's standing by the door glassy eyed. Frank touches my shoulder.
"Can you go interview the people who found the body?" I nodded, and my mind drifts to the bloody shirt Lucien was wearing when I found him. He called me from a phone booth, speech slurred and difficult to understand, asking if I could come find him. I nod the memories away, and wander to Rose, who is chewing on her thumbnail and looking otherwise concerned.
"I always knew he was gonna kick it before I did, but I didn't think I'd have to see it." She says, looking from the body to me. No one has shooed her away from viewing the body and I'm not interested in being the first.
"Hm." I said, letting her interpret that however she wanted. She was wearing that orange cardigan she likes so much, and a shirt that showed just the right amount of neck. Or it would have, had her scarf not been in the way.
"What time did you discover the body?"
"When I arrived at six." I wrote that down in my notepad.
"And did you touch anything?"
"Of course not." She doesn't seem mad about my obvious questions, just mildly annoyed.
"I have to ask." I clarified. She let me continue the interview without incident. As I turned to leave, she stopped me with a hand on my arm.
"You know they're going to suspect Lucien, yeah?" I offered a weak smile.
"Yeah," I said, finally.
Edward was the prime suspect in the hit and run death of Jean Blake three months ago. Eight days before she was due to be married to Lucien Blake. Nine before she was due to go on her honeymoon. Personally, I had no idea if Edward did it or not, just that his car had blood on the front fender (only detected by luminol), no alibi other than drunkenness, and frankly, there was nothing to say that he didn't.
Lucien was wearing a bloody shirt last night. And he did call me from a phone box that was plausibly in walking distance from this building. What kind of friend am I? Knowing Lucien he could have got that blood from helping an injured dog. I let out a long, long sigh, and moved away from Rose's outstretched hand.
Doctor Harvey has arrived, her hair is not styled and she is bare faced. She was as pale and drawn as I am. Her fingers were shaking as she does her onsite examination.
"Davis!" I looked up, "Arrange for transportation of the body." Frank looks annoyed, he's probably thinking about the beauricratic paperwork involved in this sort of thing. He's thinking about who he should put on this case. He's thinking about Patrick Tyneman, and who will tell Mrs Tyeneman. Days like these, I really think about how love/hate my relationship with my job truly is. I really think about how much I don't want to be in that position. But I do my job. I always do.
…
It wasn't until much later that Doctor Harvey called me into the cold room. I tastefully didn't mention that this is much more of Edward than I had ever wanted to see. She looks weary. I felt weary. It took a long time for her talk, I think she might have been afraid of offending me.
"I think someone from the military did this."
She never did beat around the bush, Doctor Harvey.
"How do you know?" I asked, out of morbid curiosity.
"Do you see these slices?" She asks, indicating with her little finger. I nodded. "I believe that only someone who knew what they were doing could have made them." She paused, and pulled the sheet down, "These marks were made by a paper weight on the table, he was stabbed with it. These wounds were fatal, the others were applied post mortem."
"That's…Weird." She looked at me.
"You know that Lucien has a motive.
" But that just makes the perp a doctor, not…Our doctor." I insisted.
"I've done enough autopsies to know his handiwork." She says, "But would an army man like Lucien really do something like this?" With Lawson out of the picture, Mattie in London, I am the next in line of people who know Lucien Blake.
"That's what I was thinking." I reply, "He's my friend. He's a good man!"
"Even good men do bad things when they're drunk and sad." I couldn't accept it. I stormed out on her.
I thought I knew him, but the truth was: no one knew Lucien Blake. He was unknowable. Unpredictable. Dangerous if provoked. A man like that has enough secrets to fill a grave. But I didn't see it. Lucien was Good, not some low down and dirty criminal who murdered. He couldn't be, could he? And would he leave so much evidence even if he did? I'd always kind of believed Lucien was a spy, and would a spy leave so many clues? I didn't have any answers. I went back to the station, determined to prove that there was no way Lucien could have done it.
The evidence was as follows:
1. The weapon used was a scalpel of the non disposable variety. The paper weight was on site.
2. The victim has more than enough enemies in town who would be glad to see him dead. (including plenty of people I knew)
The evidence for Lucien was this
1. The victim was suspected of killing the love of his life.
2. If he wanted to kill someone, I have no doubt that he would
3. He was drunk, and drunk people don't have a lot of self-control
4. He is a military man.
5. He was covered in blood
6. I found him somewhere within walking distance of the courier, and we still haven't located the car.
Even I had to admit that things were not looking good, and I went straight home from the hospital. I needed to deal with the shirt. I needed to make sure the doctor hadn't suffocated himself. I needed a nap. I don't think the house will ever feel right. I mean, how can it when someone who played such a major part of our lives was gone, be it gone for three months, or for ten years. Everything just felt and still feels, off.
I have always considered grief an old friend. Grief sat by my side in school, while I struggled through missing my father. He came to visit me whenever I saw him in myself, dressed up in my black on black on black uniform. He drifted from person to person when I told them that they would never see their loved ones again. I know grief, and I know the ins and outs of it.
It doesn't mean that it hurts any less.
Jean's coat was and still is hanging on it's rack. The good one, that is. I didn't bother taking off my blazer, and stepped through the doctor's office. He was sober and drawing something on a slip of paper.
"Charlie." He says, finally. He sounded tired.
"Doc." I sat at the desk and put my elbows up, resting my chin on my balled up hands. He moves his hands so I could see the image, I knew it, it was a sketch of a picture that's been sitting on his desk for eight months now. Lucien, Jean and myself, all grinning in front of the house. Rose took it to test her new camera, Lucien kept it because he claimed he didn't have any photos of me. I don't know how true that may be, but I appreciated the sentiment.
"It's good." I said.
"Just trying to keep busy." He replied, "Thank you for…Uh, Looking after me last night." I shrugged in reply. I don't mention the murder.
"It's fine."
"No, it's not. I-I know that it's not." Pause, "I woke up this morning, didn't remember anything and decided that I should cut back on the whiskey.
"Well that's uh. What I wanted to talk to you about."
"Oh?"
"I just. I was worried when I came home and you weren't here."
"I don't remember leaving."
"You just went for a walk in the back garden."
"Did I?"
"Yeah. You fell in that creek."
"Oh."
"I was worried you drowned." I said, "If I'd worked the late shift with Danny, you would have."
I am a liar, liar pants on fire.
But I didn't see any need to worry him, not yet. After all, it could be animal blood. It could be red paint for all I knew. I sat with him for a while longer, before I went to my room. I knew I should have gone back to work, but after I sat on my bed, my limbs just felt too heavy to get up again. I wish that there was some kind of way to fast forward grief. A timeline, maybe? You can be devastated for so many days than you can move on kind of thing. But that's not how it goes.
I lay back on the bed, feet on the floor head on the mattress and looked at the ceiling. White paint, with a fitting in the middle that sort of reminded me of a drop of water on the tap that is about to drip but is not quite there yet. The air in here is always slightly musty no matter how much time I spend trying to air it out. It's not ideal, but anywhere was better than the boarding house so I was wise enough not to complain about it.
Despite myself, I felt the tiredness crawl up my body. I hadn't been sleeping lately. How could I? When I did sleep, I found myself traveling through nightmares with no answers in them. Even so, my eyes drifted shut, and for at least a little while, I got to rest.
…
I woke up to the phone ringing. Wiping saliva off my face, I wandered down the stairs and grabbed it off the hook. Lucien was asleep, I could hear a faint snoring. Danny was sitting in the living room staring into the fireplace blankly, holding a tumbler with whiskey in it. I was worried about him, losing a family member is never easy.
"Hello?"
"Charlie?"
"Yes."
"It's Lawson." Just what I needed.
"I know."
"Listen, do you want to come over for a drink?"
"No."
"Well, I think you should. I need to talk to you about Blake." I looked over at Danny. He has not moved.
"When?"
"Now." I drummed my fingers on the table the phone is on. I sighed, knowing I had no choice in the matter.
"Alright. See you in forty minutes." I hung up the phone and went to the living room. Danny finally looks at me.
"She was so happy, these last few months."
"Yeah."
"It's not fair, Charlie."
"No, it isn't." I didn't know what to say, if there was even anything that I could say. I didn't think there was. Grief is just something you have to walk through. The best I could do was let him know he wasn't alone, even if it seemed like it. Jack and Chris were in town for the funeral, but they left as soon as they arrived, and no one was any poorer for it. It baffled me how a woman like Jean could have one repulsive child and one as personable as a plank of wood. Then there was they mystery known as Danny Parks.
"Matthew wants to see me." I say, finally. The gap between has never been thicker. To me, he is Matthew and I would die for him. To Danny, he is Lawson who was his boss.
"Does he?"
"I haven't seen him in months." Pause. "I miss him." Danny scoffs, and tosses back his drink. I left without saying goodbye. I figured, as I burrowed Lucien's car, that I should maybe take up more shifts at work, Danny was coping less than I was. That might be the worst thing about grief, it makes you selfish. I like to think that I'm not selfish, but I know that I am, and recently, excessively so. I am disgusted with myself, but it's nothing getting black out drunk with Matthew won't fix.
…
Matthew was not in the mood to get black out drunk. Matthew looked at me, and he looks tired. We were all tired. Matthew welcomed me into the living room, and I dropped onto his couch.
"We need to talk about Lucien," Matthew says, and he pours whiskey into a glass. He offers it to me, but I have to drive home so I shake my head no. Instead, I folded my arms over my chest and suck air into my lungs, as much as I can. Matthew sat down opposite to me, and looked me up and down in that way that he does. It made me self conscious. Eventually, having, I presume, deemed me worthy, he spoke.
"Lucien called me last night."
"Okay." I didn't need to be a mind reader or fortune teller to predict where this conversation was going.
"He was very drunk." I was tempted to inquire as to how that was different to Lucien on any other night, but it seemed cruel, so I didn't.
"Yes."
"He told me to call you, because he'd done something very bad."
"What do you think that was?" I asked, hesitant and out of place. I don't know how to even begin to look at this. It's confirming my darkest fears.
"I think he killed Edward." I let out a breath, and looked him right in the eye.
"I'm going to get up, and walk out of your house. I did not hear what you just said to me." I told him,
"Good choice." He told me back. I left, hurrying along as I did. I climbed into the car and drove off, maybe a little too fast, down the street. Halfway between my place and Matthews, I pulled off to the side of the road.
What was I doing? I'd never ignored evidence before. Even in times where Lucien was under suspicion, the truth set him free. Now it was something else, something so, so much worse. And I was a part of it. If I, the worst mystery solver, could solve a mystery, then so could the others. After a few more long, quiet moments, I started up the engine and I drove home.
As I stepped in the front door, I went straight for the phone in Lucien's office. There is a pad on Jean's desk with phone numbers written on the top. Dr Harvey was one of the first ones. I plugged in her number and hoped she was still up. I was right, she was.
"Doctor Harvey."
"It's Sergeant Davis here. I was wondering if you could run a test for me."
"Now?" She asked, she didn't sound like she had been asleep, but she had certainly not been one hundred percent awake. I felt bad about ruining her night, but this really couldn't wait.
"Please." I don't know if it was because she cared about the case, or because she was able to hear the desperate pleas of a man divided, but she conceded.
"I'll meet you at the lab." She said, ad hung up without saying goodbye. I walked out into Lucien's office, to his sink, and splashed water out of the creaky pipes and up onto my face. It was cold, and it stuck to my eyelashes. I looked up at myself, and then back to the sink. For a moment, I thought I was going to be sick, but I wasn't. I dried my face with a hand towel that had seen better days, and tossed it aside before I walked out into the hall.
Danny is still in the sitting room, contemplating what may well have been the same glass of whiskey as before. I didn't bother talking to him. I don't know what Lucien is doing, but I don't think it's sleeping. I made my way up to my room and dug through my waste basket for a paper bag. I followed that by digging through my hamper for the bloody clothes. I stuffed them into the bag and rolled up the top. After a second, I stripped out of my uniform. I tossed them aside without hanging them up, suddenly I was less concerned with the wearabilty of my shirts, and desperate to prove Lucien innocent.
Lucien was a good man, and good men did not commit murder. Hell; Lucien solved murders for a living. He was the opposite of a bad man. Yet here I am, I thought.
…
I arrived at the hospital.
No one questioned me as I made my way to the lab, bag under my arm. To this day I don't know why. Maybe God was smiling one me. Maybe I was just lucky. Whatever the reason, I opened the door to find Doctor Harvey inside, waiting for me. I swallowed and set the bag on the table. She looked at me, with those penetrating eyes, before giving in and tipping the contents onto the table.
The shirt fell onto the table, along with the tie and pants.
"Are these?" It seemed like she didn't even have the strength to finish the sentence. I nodded.
"He was wearing them on the night." Alice took them, and produced a pair of tiny scissors.
"I can test if it's human, and see what blood group it is."
"Okay." I say, but I'm not confident that it's animal. Deep down, I knew that it was Edward's blood. Doctor Harvey seemed to be in the same boat, but we were both desperate to be proven wrong.
She performed the test.
It came back as human, and it came back as the same blood group as Edwards. Neither of us knew what to do after that. We stood there, looking at it, in shock. My blood was pumping so hard that I could hear it. My hands were shaking furiously. I lay them on the table, finger spread to try and stop it. Doctor Harvey looked at me. I looked at her. She had her still perfectly filled in eyebrows pressed together
"Something isn't right, Sergeant Davis."
"I know." I replied. She looked back at the shirt. I wonder if she is thinking what I'm thinking. "I don't want him to go to jail." I said, after several long moments.
"Maybe he won't have to. I'm sure someone can pull strings. Or the courts will be lenniant. Something."
"But what if they aren't? I don't know if he could stand it, being locked away again." I whisper. "He told me once he was a prisoner of war." Doctor Harvey looked down at the shirt.
"Then we get rid of it."
"What?"
"Are you Deaf? We burn it. Get rid of it."
"I can't. I'm a cop."
"Do you want your friend to go to jail?"
"No."
"Then you know what you have to do. I'll call you tomorrow. Find anything else incriminating you can."
I walked out the door, leaving the shirt with Doctor Harvey.
…
The following day I looked at fingerprints. There were three sets at the crime scene. Edward, and two unidentified. I was put on fingerprint duty. As much as I hate it, I'm good at it and that is the worst bit. I ran the prints through the process.
Like I thought, there were Lucien's prints, clear as day. The other is mostly obscured, but the ridges are quite unique. I wish that I could put this into a machine that could do it for me. But I do it by hand, and using pieces of unobscured fingerprint I was able to create a half of one. Enough that If I had a full one I could compare it.
Frank asked me for an update. I lied to him and showed him my half of a fingerprint only. He said I was doing good work, and invited me to the lock in after work.
"You'll have a good time."
"I…Think I'm just going to spend the night with Lucien. Make sure he doesn't drink himself out."
"Alright. Well, have a good evening." I wasn't gonna, but I still smiled and I left early. I took the copies of Lucien's finger prints with me.
Doctor Harvey called me late. Around ten. Matthew was coming to get me. Funny, I thought. But I can see why she might involve him. Matthew is stable, something that could be held. I would want him on my side. Maybe he told someone else. Maybe he contacted her. I never asked, and as a consequence, I never found out. Time inched past while I waited. Lucien was waiting in his office and he offered me a drink, which I turned down. He was yelling at Danny when I arrived, but I thought nothing of it. Why would I? We all fought with those we love at times. Danny seems to be on the verge of tears when he shuffled past me. But I didn't question it.
Matthew pulled into the drive. Lucien looked out and to me.
"Going out?"
"Something like that." I shrugged. "Matthew is taking me and Rose to the pictures." Hang them from a telephone wire I thought but didn't say it out loud.
"Really?" He sounds surprised. I am slightly offended, but I didn't say that, either.
"Yeah. One Hundred and One Dalmations."
"Isn't that an animation?"
"Rose is writing about it for the paper," I say, hastily.
"The arms in the back row go up," Lucien says, with a sneaky smile. He is remarkably sober. I blushed, and because I am so pale it was incredibly noticeable. "You are a hot blooded young man after all." He said, turning back into his office. "Have a good time." He was more right about my night than he probably thought he was.
Matthew looked at me when I slung myself into the backseat. Doctor Harvey was sitting in the front. We drove for a long time, none of us spoke for over thirty minutes. I was thinking about who that finger print could belong too, and if I could pin the blame on them, should the need arise.
I thought about Edward Tyneman. It's no secret that I thought the guy was a wanker, but did I think he deserved to die? After all: He was a sexual predator. He coerced women into having sex so he could humiliate them. I don't have any time for that kind of behavior. It's cruel. It's disgusting. Then, what about his writing? He was actually a talented writer, when he wasn't stealing Rose's work, this much I will give him. Did that excuse his actions? No. But: Did he deserve to die?
I could imagine the scene in my head, Edward, dying from bloodloss, slumped over his desk, bleeding from a stomach wound. He can't even get up. He knows better than to dislodge the paper weight, he would bleed out too fast, but he can't get up either. He tries to scramble, but just falls to the floor next to his desk, he chokes on his own blood, it mingles with his spit, and after that, with the carpet. It's horrible.
Edward was a bad man, but even bad men don't deserve to die. Or perhaps, bad men deserve to have their murder's solved, not covered up. But what about the greater good? Lucien was going to solve many murders I could feel it. What about them? Did they not also deserve to have their murders solved? But what makes one life more valuable than another? Being friends with me?
"Where are we going?" He asked, finally.
"Out back." Matthew replied. "Where no one will look." That seemed like over kill to me. We could easily just throw them into Matthew's fireplace. But he would be the expert, of course.
The place Matthew had selected was a small clearing with bush on all sides. I could hear animal noises on all sides, and above our heads, the trees rustled. The area was lit by Matthew's torch. Doctor Harvey stumbles occasionally, her shoes are not fit for this kind of thing.
Matthew has set up a pit, and he gestures for us to dump our crap. We did so, the shirts and the finger print pictures both land softly. Matthew doused the whole thing in some kind of liquid, I think it was petrol, judging by the smell. Doctor Harvey has a lighter on her, one of the good metal ones with an inscription on the front, but it was so dark I couldn't read it. There are logs nearby, or, hunks of wood I suppose. I took a seat on one, it was slightly damp from the rain and I can feel every curve and bump on the back of my thighs.
"No going back." Matthew said, looking at me. I look at the firepit. I could take them, and run. I don't think either of them would chase me. But I don't. I've let Lucien down before, and I don't intend to make a theme out of it.
"No going back." I echoed. Doctor Harvey set a scrap of fabric on fire, and tossed it onto the shirts and paper. They didn't go up quickly it was too wet out. Matthew and Doctor Harvey joined me on the log.
I kept thinking about my father, for whatever reason. He was a good man. He loved his kid, he loved his wife. My mother has six children, including me. She wanted a girl her whole life, but all she got was boys. After I was born, my father refused to have any more children, why would he? He had a son to carry on the Davis name, he had a wife to cook him dinner. He had a steady job and went out to the pub with his mates. He couldn't predict the future any more than I could. He kicked it in the war. I wonder, is this the best he has? Am I someone to take pride in, carrying the Davis name like a burden?
He has no other childen. My mother remarried twice, but I changed my name back to Davis the day I turned eighteen. Was I something worth being proud of? Maybe once, when I was next in line for detective training, maybe once, before I got mixed up in Ballarat and it's skewed sense of justice. We waited until the fire burned down to only coals. Matthew tipped water over it to make sure we didn't start a bush fire. We still didn't speak. Instead, the three of us trouped out of the bush, and towards the car.
…
The three of us arrived at Matthew's place about thirty minutes later. I was meant to be going to the pictures with Rose for real, she had to write an article. Was being the key word. She had a cold and was miserable in the living room. She didn't seem to care about mine and Alice's presence so we moved through to the kitchen.
Matthew has poured three glasses of something and knocks his back quickly. I heard somewhere that you're meant to savor it, but it seemed he wasn't in the mood. Alcohol tends to make me spin and gives me a headache so I offered him mine too. He doesn't question me. I don't question him. Doctor Harvey is sipping hers, and looking generally unimpressed by it. The phone, of course, started to ring. Murphy's law, right? I think Jean might have had the same problem once. I rubbed my face and took the milk bottle out of Matthew's fridge. I made myself a glass of milk. Doctor Harvey gave me a look that was somewhere between annoyance and confusion.
"It's good for the bones," I said, after a second. She rolled her eyes and took another sip of her drink. Matthew returned to the kitchen.
"Frank needs you at the station."
"Why?"
"A break in. Their understaffed. I said that you would show up in my car and I'd send you when you got home."
"Oh."
"You should take Doctor Harvey home, than drive to the station in the car." Matthew says, finally. "Looks like you actually went out."
"Oh." I repeated, dumbly. That was an apt word to describe how I felt then. Dumb. Really fucking dumb. I was giving up my career for a man who committed murder. Yeah. It's fucking dumb. But I nodded like the obedient child I am. The good doctor set her glass on the table, and nodded to me, ready to leave.
…
We piled into Matthew's car. It's old and it stinks of cigarette smoke.
"Did we do the right thing?" I asked, as we turned a bend.
"We can't go back." She replied.
"But was it right?" She sighed and turned to look at me. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, I was driving, after all. "I mean, we broke the law."
"The law is not always right, and what's right is not always lawful." I knew that one.
"Yeah." I said, but she didn't speak after that. I wondered what her mind was saying about this situation. Did she feel like me? Did she feel at all? I didn't, and still don't, know.
I thought about God, and what he must think of me now. I wondered, would he see that my intentions were good? After all, it was God who said murder was bad, wasn't it? I looked out of the window to my left, and turned a corner at the doctor's direction. I haven't stepped foot since I came to this forsaken town, mostly because I can't be bothered to find a new Church to attend. I did other Catholic things. Baptism. Communion. Mass on holidays with Mrs Beazley. Waited until marriage. All that kinda stuff. But the whole murder thing…That was a pretty important commandment. I decided to think about it some other time, when I was in a better frame of mind. Maybe go to confession. (I knew I was only saying this to satisfy myself for the time being, I had zero intention of telling anyone.)
I pulled up to her house within fifteen minutes. Doctor Harvey looked at me for a long moment, and then put one pale hand over the top of mine, which was clutching the steering wheel as tightly as I could. My knuckles were threatening to burst free of my hands.
"Drive safely." She said, voice unusually warm. She was trying to comfort me, and I appreciated it.
"Have a good night, Doctor Harvey."
"You can call me Alice." I paused.
"Have a good night, Alice." She smiled.
"And you, Charlie." She watched me drive away from her driveway.