Rex tells lies.
He's told lies so often and for long it's second nature to him. The lies come easy, as easy as buttoning his jacket and just as natural.
There is no reservation. He lies readily and willingly.
He lies and lies to Connie and she dies for them.
He lies to his mother and she weeps for him but never really knows him.
He sits in his bunk and lies to Foyle and Milner and cries for the woman he never loved.
But he never lies to himself.
And so beneath the lies he speaks, there is the truth he doesn't.
Rex loves Andrew. His veins sing it and his smile speaks it. His breath is filled with that love. He looks in mirrors and sees it, he flies and he knows it. It is a love no lie can bury. A love that burns and drives him.
So Rex keeps a picture of Andrew in his wallet, tucked into his uniform and carries that truth, that love with him. The words are never spoken aloud.
And Rex carries his love to the grave, where his only truth is forever silent.
Rex told lies, Foyle thinks, his son weeping on his shoulder…
…..but don't we all?