Half a World Away

By S. Faith, 2009

Words: 17,335 (Pt 1: 6,193)
Rating: M / R
Summary: What if Bridget's release from Thai prison hadn't gone as smoothly as it had?
Disclaimer: Isn't my universe, though I do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time there.
Notes: Title, which came to me suddenly, is from the R.E.M. song.

I had wanted to do something along these lines for some time, though beast that I am, I wanted Bridget to be in for years and years, Mark working like hell all that time to get her out… but I was convinced out of this cruelty at the thought of the harsh life in a Thai prison completely changing the Bridget we know and love for the worse, and perhaps permanently.

Thanks to H. for guidance in English trials/sentencing and confirming the nomenclature of a certain breakfast food…

Of all the things she thought in that moment after he'd gone, it was, strangely enough, of her sofa. Or her bed, with its squishy blue duvet. Maybe some Ben & Jerry's; definitely some wine. Everything she wanted most after his departure was thousands of miles away.

Her flat. Her friends. Her family. Him.

There was nothing Bridget wanted more than these except for perhaps peace and solitude, and as she was led back down the hall by the guard, she realised that peace and solitude was about as far away as home was. She was met by the expectant faces of her multitudes of cellmates, each of them wanting to know why she'd been taken away, their dark eyes inquisitive, their heads bobbing to get a better view as they waited for her response. When she told them the good news—she would be released within the week—they were stunned and confused. She was sure she looked anything but elated.

It was true; she felt pretty low, but not as low as she felt once she started talking to the other women in the cell. These were women whose boyfriends had beaten them, gotten them hooked on drugs, forced them to work on the street… and here she was, complaining about something as trivial as feeling snubbed at the Law Council Dinner.

She had been the world's biggest fool to chuck him. He might have been a stuck-up snob who folded his underpants, reluctant to show too much affection and hardly a spontaneous bone in his body… but he was a good man, and most important, he had loved her.

She was certain that was no longer the case.

He had said she'd be out within a week, but the unemotional manner with which he'd delivered the news made her think he could not have cared either way, that he was conveying this information as a matter of course, that maybe they'd see each other in their overlapping social circles once she was back in London, but probably not.

Her friend Phrao—inasmuch as one could have a true friend after a few days in proper prison—seemed to feel her despair most acutely of all of them. Phrao quietly spoke in Thai to the other women in the cell, after which they started to nod sympathetically and move away from the pair of them.

"You look veyy sad, Bee-jit," said Phrao softly, sitting next to Bridget, taking her hand gently and holding it. "Your bad man no beat you or make you take drug at all, did he?"

After a moment's hesitation, Bridget began to shake her head.

"I sorry," she said. "Maybe he wait for you when you go home." Phrao brightened. "At least you go home, right?"

Wanly she smiled. She could at least look forward to her own bed soon, even if she was going to be all alone in it.

………

One week passed. No release. This stretched into two, then three. The small, dim light of hope shining at the prospect of returning home, to friends and family and even her mother, was growing dimmer by the hour.

Every day she grew increasingly more listless, both physically and mentally; sleeping solidly through the night was nigh on impossible with all of the other women there and the uncomfortable mats they slept on. The persistent unpleasant smell became less noticeable each day. The food was honestly not as bad as she was expecting, not great, but if she never saw another rice bowl again in her life it would be too soon. It wasn't as if they never got to shower—five minutes maximum—but she always felt filthy again within an hour, in part due to the ever-baggier clothes she'd been wearing since her incarceration being dull with dirt. At least Phrao had a contraband hairbrush that she let Bridget use so she could keep her hair from tangling too badly or matting. She knew she was dropping weight, not only from the way her clothes fit but the way her arms, legs and stomach looked, but not even the thought of being eight stone could excite her because she could only imagine how tatty she must have looked, pale, drawn and flea-bitten.

There was a lot she needed to learn at first about how things worked in the prison, which at least helped to take her mind off of the bigger picture; marching out for food and for a little exercise under the watchful eye of the guards; the money voucher system in the prison was explained by Phrao, how her sister had set it up for her and her cousins and family all pitched into it, and was nice enough to buy something for Bridget occasionally, but she felt like a terrible freeloader. She always felt especially lonely when other women's visitors came to see them; she had gotten no mail, no visitors, no word from home at all. Black holes exist, she thought. I'm in one.

………

Three and a half weeks after arriving at the Women's Correctional Facility, she was told she had a visitor, and was taken by a sour-faced guard to the meeting room. Waiting for her there was not in fact Mark (as she'd hoped) but Charlie Parker-Knowles from the British Embassy. She smiled as she joined him at the table and said tiredly, "Hello Charlie." He did not smile in return, which worried her.

"Hello Bridget," he said, nervously taking some papers out of his bag and squaring them. "Just wanted to let you know we haven't forgotten about you."

"I was beginning to wonder," she said wryly. "Last I heard almost a month ago, I was to be free within a week."

"I'm sorry about that." He dug into his bag again, and pulled out a small white box and an envelope. "This is for you. Some mail, and a couple of cucumber sandwiches and some biscuits. I've already cleared it all with the prison."

Not wanting to seem too greedy or desperate (even though she was), she accepted the box and daintily opened it, unwrapping a sandwich. She might have been stuck in a Thai prison, but she was still a woman of substance. Her heart pounded at the thought of her mail, a reminder that this place was not her only reality, but she'd save it for later. "So," she began after swallowing her first bite. "What terrible news have you come to bring me today?"

"What makes you think it's terrible?"

She pursed her lips. "You look pale and nervous, as if you're afraid I'll claw your eyes out. And you brought me a box lunch in bribe."

At that he smiled, which relieved her somewhat. "I just feel so terrible. I'm afraid due to a paperwork snafu on my part, things aren't moving as quickly, or as surely, as we first hoped."

"Charlie," she said dangerously. "I do not want to spend ten years in prison because of a paperwork snafu."

"We have the best and brightest on the case, I promise you." He dug into his bag again as she devoured her sandwiches.

There was one person who ideally would have been her 'best and brightest' but he had made it very plain that even just showing up to deliver good news had been more than he'd been inclined to do.

"Here," continued Charlie. "This is for you too." He handed her a chocolate bar. She felt her eyes mist up as she took the chocolate; he smiled sympathetically. "Chin up, ol' gal. We'll get you out before you know it," he said. "This is will all be behind you before you know it."

She didn't have the heart to tell him she was tearing up because of the chocolate, though it was awfully kind of him to bring her these things. "Thanks, Charlie," she said. "Please pass my gratitude on to your best and brightest."

He smiled. "I certainly will. I have to go, but I will do my best to keep you better updated."

"Charlie." She bit into the chocolate, savouring every chew. "Can we just keep talking for a little bit longer?" she asked. "So I can finish this?"

He took his seat again, his smile transforming into a melancholy one. "Of course."

………

The closest she ever got to being alone was at night when most of the women in the cell were sleeping, and it was at that time she decided to finally open her envelope, which she'd folded to smuggle back in under her wrap skirt without it being noticed; otherwise they'd climb over each other (and her) for a look at the letter, insisting that she read it aloud. She wanted, needed time alone with her letter. It was the closest thing she had at the moment to being with those she loved.

That night she got a coveted spot near the wall, and she sat up against it as she slipped her fingernail under the tape holding it shut. She was surprised when she opened it and found two letters in there. One was from Grafton Underwood; the other from London. When it rains, she thought, it monsoons.

The light was meagre, but she was able to read the printing on the envelopes nonetheless. She tore open the London one. It turned out to be from Sharon.

B.:

Don't worry. Taking good care of things for you. Goes without saying that we miss you beyond all reason. Clubbing together to keep your flat and bills paid up to date. Jude, Tom & I are taking turns with your housekeeping too. (Don't laugh.)

She laughed quietly, and was grateful for it.

Also clubbed together to set up one of those prison accounts so you'll have a little money to buy things. By the time this reaches you should be ready to go. We can work all that nonsense out later; money not important. Most important is that you have place to come home to, and whatever comforts you can buy there.

She wanted to cry. It was the best news she'd had in weeks.

When you get home—note optimism of 'when'!—we are treating you to big night at 192. Will buy you as many bloody ones as you like. Fingers are crossed for speedy return.

Love, Shaz and the girls

Bridget felt great welling of emotion in the centre of her chest. She set the letter back into its envelope, then opened the one that was probably from her mother.

It turned out to be a short and somewhat inconsequential note from her mother talking about the weather, her herb garden, and Una's suggestion about a trip to the south of France, but also present was a much-welcome note from her usually taciturn father as well.

Hello, dumpling—

Things are dreary 'round these parts without you. Miss your smiling face. You can cheer me like none other (don't tell your mother I said that). I am comforted in knowing that you have the very best working on your behalf, so I won't say anything else but that you can cheer me soon enough in person.

Much love from
Your dad

At this she began to cry; she couldn't help it once the tears started to slide down her cheeks of their own volition. Carefully she folded the parental letters back into their envelope, returning it to the larger envelope from Charlie, then folded it again and tucked it into her shirt to keep it safe. She then drew her knees up to her chin and buried her head into her folded arms in an effort to muffle her sobs. Even surrounded by all these women, she felt so very alone.

She woke the next morning curled up on her side, her cheek pressed against the mat that was her bed. Someone—she suspected Phrao—must have pulled her thin blanket up over her, as she had no memory of doing it herself. Of course, she had no memory of crying herself to sleep either.

"Bee-jit." She felt someone's toe dig gently into her back to prod her. That someone then muttered a Thai word she had come to recognise, reiterating in English, "Food."

Bridget scrambled to her feet. She was tired of the stuff they were fed, but it was better than nothing at all.

………

Although Charlie had kept his word and visited her weekly (bringing her boxed sandwiches, mail if she had any, and chocolate bars), there was no progress to speak of. Life in the prison had its own routine to which she was adjusting, adapting and coping. Although she didn't always spend it all, she was allowed a maximum of about four pounds sterling in coupons every day; hard candy sweets, shampoo, even cigarettes when she could, though she used ciggies mostly for paying the other women to do favours for her, or to bribe them to leave her alone when she needed solitude, like when her letters came. She was popular amongst (and well-liked by) her cellmates and mostly left in peace by the prison guards; she could even honestly say she had a few days she would describe as good, and she was now able to sleep undisturbed through the night.

Despite this, she tried to fight off a building disheartenment as the summer and autumn passed, her thirty-fourth birthday passed, and Christmas approached; Christmas, the season of warmth, friends and family, and tradition. She thought of her mother's yearly pestering her to come up to spend the week before the holiday with her, at which she had always rolled her eyes and refused to do. If she could have done so this year, she would have in a heartbeat.

She had mentioned the holiday of Christmas to her cellmates in the days approaching. They had listened with interest and curiosity, as they had heard of it through exposure to western media, but as Thailand was primarily Buddhist, they had no sentimental or emotional attachment to the day itself.

Waking on Christmas morning was the absolute worst. No paper crowns, no sacks of presents at the end of the bed, no terrible gifts from aunts, uncles and even Father Christmas she had to pretend to like; upon waking, upon realising all that she would be missing, she almost immediately began to cry.

"Oh, Bee-jit," said Phrao from her spot on the next mat over. "Is your Crease-mah Day make you sad?"

"Yeah," she said resignedly. "I miss my family. My friends. It's a very big deal for my people. Well. Most of my people."

"I so sorry for you," she said. "You innocent too."

"Yeah," came another voice, a woman with a pixie-like haircut that had become shaggy and grown-out in the time Bridget had been there. "Why they still keep you here?"

"I wish I knew," she said, thinking of Charlie's repeated claims that he had a top notch team fighting to get her out.

It was late afternoon Christmas Day when the guards came for her, saying nary a word as they escorted her out of the cell and into a private room. She was perplexed. It wasn't Charlie's scheduled day to come, and she was certain he would have been spending the day with his own family. She asked what was going on, but no one would say a word, only left her alone, locking the door behind her.

The room had a window, albeit high up and with bars, but a window nonetheless. She climbed up on the table there to get a look out, and had to squint at the hazy sunlight that met her eyes. The prison did not have a prime view, just a bleak and grimy metropolitan landscape, but she was happy for it all the same.

"Bridget. Happy Christmas."

She turned around. It was Charlie, and he was beaming a smile. Carefully she scrambled to the ground, smoothing down her filthy clothing as she approached him. "Happy Christmas to you too, Charlie," she said, pleased though a bit wary to see his grin. "It's nice to see you. What brings you here today?"

"Have something for you," he said. "Left it in the car."

She screwed up her face. What good did it do her in the car? "But Charlie—" She stopped suddenly, sucking in a huge surprised breath. "Oh my God, Charlie. Are you saying…?"

He nodded. "It's finally happened, and couldn't have happened on a more perfect day."

Tears came to her eyes, joyous ones flooding down her cheeks, as she threw her arms around him and gave him a hug, caring nothing for propriety. "Oh, thank you," she said, her voice unsteady. "Thank you so, so much."

"I just wish we could have gotten you out sooner," he said, prodding her gently from him. "I hope you can forgive me."

She shook her head. "You were doing your best, and I know you worked very hard for me."

He smiled wanly. "I was doing my best. I really was. We all were. Well." He cleared his throat. "The guards can go back in and get your things—"

"I'd like to do it myself," she said. "I want to say goodbye."

"Of course."

"Oh!" she said, suddenly inspired. "I want you to do another favour for me." She told him.

Charlie agreed with a smile.

She went back to the cell, accompanied by Charlie and two guards. Phrao looked alarmed. "Where they taking you?"

"I'm going home!" she said excitedly. "I'm free!"

A loud cheer rose up in the cell such that the guards had to command them to be silent.

"Bee-jit, such good news," she said, smiling. "And on day of Crease-mah."

"It is like a Christmas miracle, isn't it?" she said, hugging her friend. "I told Charlie to take the rest of my seventy-five pounds and give it to you girls… but a bigger bit for you." Phrao looked extremely touched. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Phrao nodded. "I will. I miss you. I learn so much from you."

"Me too," added Pixie-cut.

"Me too. No more bad boyfreh," added a third, amidst murmurs of assent.

Though thrilled to be leaving, a quick stab of pain shot through her at the thought of her so-called 'bad boyfriend', wondered if he was still seeing Rebecca, wondering how he was, and if he was still angry at her. She sighed, forcing a bright smile. "Goodbye, ladies," she said with a strength she didn't currently feel. In her own way, she would miss them, too.

………

Additional bureaucracy and the gathering of those things she'd had on her when she'd been brought in (like her passport, which she'd felt like kissing when she had it in her hands again, and her necklace, which the act of clasping around her neck again almost made her cry) kept them there another hour. She wondered if they didn't delay long enough on purpose so that they would be leaving after the sun had started to set. Walking outside in December in the early evening was still like being submerged in warm water, but at least there was something of a breeze, and at least it wasn't raining. It felt great to be outside.

Charlie led her to the vehicle, one of those long, fancy things with British flags mounted on the front fins, and they climbed into the back seat before the car shot off through the streets. "I'm sure you're anxious to get home," said Charlie—the understatement of the century—"but I'm taking you to spend the evening at the British Embassy. You'll be flying out tomorrow." He cleared his throat. "We have a physician to take a look at you when you get in, to make sure you're okay. Otherwise we all thought it best for you to have a good meal, a nice long shower, and a good night's sleep."

She wanted to cry, and resisted the urge to pinch herself.

"Oh. Right. I said I had something for you."

He reached over and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She opened it. It was stuffed with what she could only guess were Christmas cards. She felt her lower lip quivering, and she bit on it to stop it. She'd be seeing them all very soon.

When she arrived at the Embassy, it was full dark; she wondered now if this had been not specifically arranged by the Embassy in order to keep her arrival a little more hush-hush. She was immediately escorted to an exam room of sorts, in which she was given a once-over by a very pleasant female doctor who also drew a little vial of blood. She explained it was for testing in order to make sure there were no parasites or the like to crop up and cause Bridget later issues. She wanted to cold-cock Charlie for failing to mention the blood test, but instead only gave him a dirty look upon emerging from the exam room. She supposed it was a necessary evil, after all.

She was next taken by Charlie to a private suite. He advised to take her time in the fully-stocked loo, and to ring downstairs when she was ready for some supper. "I'm afraid the Christmas festivities are long over," he said with a hint of regret. "But we have enough of everything for you to load up a plate. Even dessert."

She sincerely doubted, after nine months of little more than rice and the barest hint of protein, that she would be able to eat an entire loaded plate worth of Christmas dinner, but she had every intention of trying.

She was told to leave her clothing, both what she was wearing and what she had in her bag, just outside her door to be picked up and laundered. She found a pair of pyjamas, folded on the single bed. Sweet, she thought, holding up the top, but far too small.

She liked to think of herself as environmentally aware and responsible, but when she climbed in under the stream she could only stand there—for how long she didn't know—as the water sluiced over her head, could only watch as the water streamed off of her in a dirty grey swirl as it made its way down the drain. The washcloth she was given was rough and scratchy, and that was all right by her. The better to scrub off the grunge. She washed her hair three times, then used the provided conditioner. For good measure, she washed with soap again.

When she finally got out, warm, pink, and most importantly clean, she stood in front of the mirror, her hair done up in a towel but otherwise still naked, and it was only then that she realised how thin she was. She would have thought she'd be pleased at the sight, but she was instead only melancholy. It was too thin. Sickly thin. Prison thin.

She took the towel out of her hair to comb through it gently, thinking still that it all seemed surreal to not be in a prison cell with a group of other women. She was going to be sleeping in a bed. With proper sheets. In a room by herself.

She held up the pyjama top again, furrowing her brows, considering what she'd just seen in the mirror. On a whim she slipped into it. It fit.

This was going to be a difficult readjustment.

After fully dressing in the pyjamas and slipping into the plush robe, she called down for food; if she'd had any idea how to phone the UK she would have done so. Within fifteen minutes there was a quiet knock on her door, and she barely remembered the name or the face of the person who'd brought her dinner, because as soon as she smelled the turkey, gravy and everything else on the tray, she was lost to culinary ecstasy. She also smiled tearfully at the sight of the Christmas cracker.

Adorned in her paper crown, she ate dinner on her bed and one by one opened the cards. It looked like they had all been sent together in the big manila envelope. One from her mum and dad; Una and Geoffrey Alconbury; one each from Jude, Shaz and Tom; Magda and Jeremy; Cosmo and Woney…

She opened the last one. It turned out to be from Mark's parents; Elaine had written a personal note that they had been thinking of her. It was nice of them, but the one person she'd hoped to get a card from hadn't sent one. She sighed, closed the card, then put them all into the manila envelope.

She hardly ate a third of what she'd been brought, but the fullness was satisfying and she slipped under the sheets, rested her head on the pillow, loving the feel of the cotton sheets against her skin, the weight of the duvet satisfying. She tossed and turned though; she would have expected to be asleep within moments, but she realised that it was the utter silence ringing in her ears that was keeping her awake.

She slipped from the bed and made another call. Shortly afterwards a kindly older woman showed up with a small radio. She didn't care that the only thing it could pick up was faint Indian music and static. It helped to lull her to sleep.

………

Once the tests had processed by the morning, aside from some skin irritation from bug bites, the doctor gave her a clean bill of health, which was good news, though a little surprising. By ten in the morning, she was heading towards the airport. Her laundered clothes had been returned, but frankly, they hung a little loosely from her shoulders; she felt like a frumpy waif.

Charlie assured her that he would call whomever she liked, so someone could meet her at the airport on the other end. "That'd be nice. Thanks," she replied. In the end, she gave Charlie Shazzer's number. It would have been a long drive to the airport for her parents, even though she knew they would have done it in a heartbeat, and the only other person she would have wanted… well, she was sure he had other plans for Christmas and Boxing Day.

She slept through most of the flight; when she was awake, she read through the newspapers and magazines on board. Lunch and dinner were delightfully English; chicken pasty and shepherd's pie respectively, and black tea with lemon and shortbread biscuits. She drifted back to sleep and when she next woke it was to the sound of announcement of the descent into Heathrow.

She had no bags to pick up, only had her carryon. After clearing through customs without incident, she approached Arrivals, she could hear Shazzer's voice rising above the throng of the crowd waiting there. It was four in the afternoon, still Wednesday the twenty-sixth, six hours by the clock after she'd left Bangkok, after twelve hours of flight, and she was exhausted, but so very glad to see her friend.

"Bridget," said Shaz, sobbing into her ear, hugging her tightly. "I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."

"You don't have to," Bridget whispered. "You didn't do anything wrong." She tightened her hug a little; no further conversation would be needed on the subject.

She heard Shazzer hiccup a little laugh. "Jesus. I feel like I'm gonna fucking break you." She pulled back to look at Bridget; though Shaz was fighting to disguise it, she could tell Shaz was surprised at her appearance. "How are you feeling? Are you okay? Was it a good flight?"

"I'm all right," she said; as they walked towards the exit, arms around each other shoulders. "I got to leave the prison yesterday. I got to sleep in a real bed last night at the Embassy. Had a proper Christmas dinner."

Shaz's arm tightened again. "I hope you don't mind that I told a few people you were coming home." Bridget followed Shaz's gaze and saw that there was a small crowd assembled there: her mother, her father, Jude, Tom, Magda, and even a good portion of the Smug Married contingent. Love swelled in her heart, and she walked over to them to be encompassed by their collective embrace. She started to weep tears of complete joy as she felt tender kisses from friends and family press into her cheek and her hair, heard declarations of how much they had missed her, how much they loved her.

The loving hug broke apart and she saw that everyone had tears streaking down their faces. "This is the best Christmas present I could have ever asked for," said her mother, taking her in her arms for a very tight hug. That caused Bridget to burst into tears all over again, especially as she felt her father's arms enfold them both.

At last they pulled away. "It's so good to have you back," said her father. She could only nod, feeling a little dizzy and overwhelmed. Shaz's arm went around her shoulder, another (Tom's, if she were to judge by the cologne) around her waist.

"I think we should get you out of there," said Shaz quietly.

Bridget remembered Shaz's promise of a night at 192. "Thank you all for coming, but I really just want to go home."

"We'll take you there," she said, then, seemingly reading her mind, added, "We'll have our party some other night."

They headed out to bring her back to her flat. En route, it was marvellous to see all of those things she had taken for granted for so long: the cacophony of auto horns as they cruised down the highway then through the city streets; the sight of Hyde Park, of Wellington Arch, covered in a dusting of snow; even the ubiquitous Big Ben and Parliament as they crossed Westminster Bridge made her eyes mist up. Upon arriving at her flat, she was so thrilled to be back to a space she could call her very own (modest as it was) that she burst into tears again. "I suspect," she said, blubbering between her chuckles, "that this will be happening a lot."

"Understandable," said Jude.

She flopped down onto her sofa, sighing heavily. It was good to be home. Shaz fired up the hearth for her; Jude brought the bag to Bridget's bedroom.

"We got you some food," said Tom. "Until you could get yourself out to the store." Jude and Shaz stood over her, next to him.

"You look so skinny, Bridge," said Tom. "And not in a good way."

"Tom," admonished Jude.

"No, you're right," she said. "Give me a few days and a few pizzas." She tried to be light-hearted about it, but even her bras were too big for her.

Someone—probably Jude—made her a turkey and provolone sandwich and brought her a glass of milk. She devoured both in very little time flat, realising only belatedly that she must have seemed very desperate for food, as the three of them gaped a little at her.

"Sorry," she said. "Got sort of into the habit of eating quickly so I could get in line for a shower." They chuckled politely, not taking their caring gazes off of her for a moment. Quite suddenly, though, she yawned. "Sorry again."

"Don't apologise," said Jude. "You're probably wrecked."

She smiled and nodded a little. "I am so thankful for everything you all did for me today, but I think I just want to be alone."

Shaz, Jude and Tom shared a look, then nodded. "We'll talk soon, okay? Call if you need anything."

Bridget nodded. They bowed one at a time to kiss her cheek, then she watched as they left. She rested her head on the back of the sofa, turned to look to the dancing flames, pulled the blanket over herself, then closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. It was good to be home.

……….

She was awakened by a loud buzzing. It took her a moment to remember that the sound was her entryphone. She glanced to the clock—by her reckoning she'd only been dozing an hour at most—and pushed back her blanket, getting to her feet. Jude probably forgot her handbag or Shaz her jacket.

She picked up the handset, shivering a little with the loss of the warmth of her fireplace and blanket. "H-hello?" she asked, her teeth chattering a bit with the chill.

There was a pause during which nothing was said, until a voice sounded at last. "Bridget." It took her a moment to place it, and when she did, her heart leapt into her throat. It was Mark.

"Hi," she said feebly.

"I heard you were finally back in the country," he said. "I needed to talk to you about Jed."

She sighed, then pressed the button to release the lock. Of course he was here on business. That was all she could be to him now.

She combed her hair back with her fingers, then went to turn the lamp on just as a knock sounded at the flat door. She went to open it, and her heart dropped at the sight of him: he was the picture of everything serious and professional, his eyes dark and cool, his expression betraying no emotion whatsoever. She could hardly believe he was the same man she had grown to love. The same man she had chucked.

"Hello, Bridget," he said in a flat tone. "Thank you for seeing me."

She pursed her lips, and quietly cleared her throat. "Of course. What did you want to talk to me about?"

He didn't reply right away; he seemed to be lost in thought. "Ah, yes. Jed. Rather, Roger Dwight. His trial begins the twelfth of January. I wanted to ask you to consider testifying. Sharon has already agreed, but having you also…" He paused. "I think with everything you've been through, your testimony would have a very powerful effect on the jury."

"Oh. Um. Yes, I suppose so. When is that?"

"Probably shortly after the twelfth." Mark shifted his eyes around the flat. "Are you here all on your own?"

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and nodded. "Yeah."

"And you're well? Your health?"

She nodded. "Doctor said I'm all right."

"And your treatment while there?"

"Fine."

He turned his gaze back on her, penetrating through her to the soul as he was often so good at doing. "Be honest with me."

"I am."

The gaze was as relentless as his questioning. "You weren't beaten? Abused?"

"No."

"Were you fed well?" His eyes flitted down to her body.

"I won't be eating rice for a while. But yes."

"And the conditions there?"

"It was a Thai prison. What do you think?" she asked, striving for a light tone; "Really, Mark. No need to call Amnesty. I was treated well enough considering it was prison, and the women turned out to mostly be good company."

"Well. I'm glad for that." He shoved his hands into his pockets, then looked at her again. "I'll be in touch about the trial."

She offered a small smile. "Okay."

He did not look away from her, did not make a motion towards the door. Instead, before she even had a chance to think rationally about his moving towards her, she felt his arms encircle her. She could only blink in shock as he held her close; her posture reflexively stiffened in her surprise as her cheek pressed into the wool of his overcoat. She remained in his embrace for many moments, trying to make sense of what was happening; then, just as suddenly as he'd done it, he stepped away, as if remembering himself, restoring his professional decorum. He then turned to look at her again in that intense way he had practically perfected; she realised for a fleeting moment his expression appeared almost sad before the mask slipped back into place.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, his discomfort palpable. "Good night."

She might have spoken up, told him not to leave, pressed him for an explanation or to talk about things if she hadn't been so dumbfounded by the cool, business-like demeanour coupled with the impulsive display of what had appeared to be affection; she might also have done this if she hadn't just had the longest day of her entire life. Confusion would have to take a back seat to a hot bath in her own tub, to a small glass of wine, to a full night's sleep in her own bed.

She did all of these things, and yet could not stop thinking about the weird scene with Mark. She had been so sure he cared nothing for her anymore, and the evidence for this was plentiful: he had only seen her in prison because business called him to see her on that one instance; he had never once written to her the entire time she was imprisoned; he had not been present at the airport when she arrived, and he had only come tonight for case-related business. So if this was all true, she thought, what on earth did that hug mean?