Author's note: Guest, re list, you probably have the default setting of K-T and this is an M story.

Thank you to those who reviewed Chapter 1. It's gratifying to know that my work touched you. I hope the following chapters do not disappoint.

I managed to eat a small sandwich for dinner which was the most food I had eaten in weeks, but I couldn't face breakfast. I had slept poorly which was no different to any other night. The nightmares were still there, like limpet mines waiting to explode. Some nights, like last night, they were mild, but when they detonate, well, the conflagration burns the last vestiges of my sanity. I shake, I sweat, I thrash around. I scream like Hell's last banshee heralding my own demise.

I looked in the mirror. The man staring back wasn't me. Joyless, hollow eyes were rimmed with purplish circles. My cheeks were sunken underneath a grey beard that I could sink most of my finger into and not reach the skin. I took a deep breath. The straggly hair that hung below my shoulders and the knotted whiskers made me look like a beggar who had lost his tin cup rather than the Eighth Earl of Asherton. Helen would be disgusted by me. Barbara would be ashamed of what I had allowed myself to become. Or would she? I 'd like to think she'd understand but then tell me she was worried and I would know I had to get my act together.

With Barbara's look pressing me on, I decided to shave and dress. Mother had brought some clothes when she visited earlier in the week. She thought it might help me feel better and had been distressed when I told her that her obsession with appearances had put me here in the first place.

Shaving was harder than I had imagined. My hands shook and the harder I tried, the more they defied me. I managed to complete one side. It was a bit patchy, but I risked tearing my skin if I tried to get closer. The other cheek was easier. Wondering why and trying to think through the physics, made me forget everything else and do a better job.

I arrived promptly for my appointment. I was secretly pleased to see Clarkson's double take at the change in my appearance. "Tommy! You look good. Come in."

"I thought it was time to... I don't know; take some responsibility?"

"Excellent. Facing up to your failings and looking to address them is the first step to recovery, Tommy. We can arrange for a barber too if you'd like."

"Yes, thank you."

"Did you manage to eat anything?"

"Half a cheese sandwich last night."

Clarkson smiled. "That's terrific, Tommy. So tell me how you felt after our session. What prompted you to shave?"

"I was numb." Had talking about it helped? Possibly... Yes, I didn't understand why, but it had. "Talking about it... made me see I need to do something, or I will..."

"That's okay. You will experience a range of emotions on this journey. It's a long road, Tommy. There are no instant answers, unfortunately. Shaving was a very positive step."

"I thought... it would be what Barbara wanted. She would hate to see me like this."

Clarkson nodded then surprised me by rubbing my arm. There was no fake smile. He was genuinely empathetic. "Are you ready to continue?" he asked quietly.

I almost laughed. "No, but I will."

We both sat, and he turned on his recorder. "Tommy, we were talking about being in the ambulance with Barbara. Did anything else happen?"

"No. The paramedic told me Barbara was a fighter. At the hospital, they pulled her away from me and rushed her through flapping plastic doors. Someone took me to a waiting area. It was so impersonal. I remember thinking that. There was grey linoleum that covered half way up the wall and a stupid pink rail. It seemed very old-fashioned. The floor was coated in grey and white speckles of a hard rubbery material, but you could see the grooves of the old surface that they had sprayed it over. Dark rubber track from trolleys and wheelchairs spun hurriedly into triage were a grim reminder of what happened there. I could even see a faint pink blood stain in the corner that had mop streaks in it, and on the wall, they had framed posters of flowers. I thought it was incongruous to try to make the place look cheery. I imagined people standing hosing down the hall, washing away people's lives. It smelt of blood and antiseptic... and death."

"How long were you there?"

"Hours. The hard, moulded plastic chairs were uncomfortable, and I remember being ashamed thinking that. I was alive. Barbara was dying, and all I could think about was how uncomfortable some bloody chair was. I paced a lot. Back and forth along the corridor, waiting for news, any news. Waiting. Hoping. Waiting. Fearing. And I was angry; at Nina, at Pavletic, at Helen, even at Barbara. I know she didn't intend to get shot. She was trying to save Helen, but..."

The psychiatrist smiled encouragingly. "Anger is understandable when you feel powerless."

"Powerless, useless, pathetic. Barbara was not expected to live, and I could only think of myself." I put my head down in my hands. My elbows dug painfully into my knees.

"Is that true? Were you only thinking of yourself?"

"I didn't want to lose her. What we had, what we did together... it mattered. Barbara had a way of connecting with me that no one else had. She made me feel less alone in the world. She was closer than a friend, and yet she called me Sir and refused to call me by my name. It was the oddest of relationships and yet... it was the core of my life around which everything else played out. Barbara was the one person I could always count on."

"Did she feel the same?"

I stood and walked to the window. I remembered that night in her flat. 'I have that don't I?' 'We both do.' Hardly the clearest declaration, but one we both understood. "Yes. I couldn't have been easy to put up with, but neither was she at times. We understood each other. We would always be there."

"And?"

"I hadn't been had I? I had taken Helen back. It felt disloyal, even at the time. I don't understand why, or I didn't then. Barbara and I were not romantically involved. I'd never even considered that, but we loved each other in our way."

"Love takes many forms, Tommy."

"When Helen came back, she had changed. She was the Helen I had grown up with, my friend. It was easier to love her. I knew the first time we slept together again that she had been with someone else. I'd been tempted, but I'd remained faithful. I told myself that meant I loved her. So I took her back and pushed Barbara into the background."

"You were there when it counted. You held Barbara's hand in the ambulance. She knew you were there."

"Yes. I take comfort in that, but it doesn't make up for it does it?"

Clarkson removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Barbara never blamed you, Tommy."

"Blaming me and being hurt by me; they're not the same thing. I know I hurt her."

"Yes, perhaps you did, but she forgave you. Things were good between you weren't they?"

"Yes. That's the thing about Barbara. She always did, until..." I stopped. That's why this hurt so much now.

"So you waited at the hospital?"

"Yes. I wasn't going anywhere. A doctor told me they had taken her for surgery. I had to give my permission as next of kin. The bullet had missed her heart but destroyed most of her lung and lodged near her spine. They operated to remove the bullet and the bottom two-thirds of the lung. It was her only chance. So I signed the paper then sat and waited."

"Go on."

"Helen turned up. She tried to reason with me and get me to go home. She was back to being sympathetic at first saying she was worried about me, that I couldn't do anything for Barbara sitting there. She suggested I get some sleep. I told her to go away."

"Did you argue?"

"Not really. It might have been then that she accused me of being a pathetic Labrador or that might have been later, but I wasn't going anywhere until I had seen Barbara."

"Helen left?"

"She stayed for a while, but we didn't talk. I didn't want her there. Not after what she had said. She left and went home."

"And you saw Barbara that night?"

"Yes, about four hours later. They stabilised her. She was in intensive care, but they let me see her. She looked so... peaceful. They had her sedated of course, but it was more than that, it was if she had found a tranquil place. The doctor told me the next 24 hours was crucial. If she survived that, then her chances improved dramatically. I promised to pay for anything she needed."

"Could you stay with her?"

"No. I had only five minutes alone with her. I held her hand and... I didn't know what to say. I had spent hours thinking about what I'd say, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't admit to her that I had any doubts she'd pull through. I think I ordered her to recover. I told her to hang in and fight. I thanked her for what she did but also told her she had been stupid doing it. I remember saying that I needed her, that she had to get better for me. It was selfish, but... I thought she would respond to it."

"So what did you do then?"

"I went home. I needed to sleep and be back at the hospital first thing. They promised to phone me if her condition changed in any way."

"And Helen was at home?"

"Yes. I didn't want to speak to her. I locked myself in my study and poured a drink."

"So you drank heavily? Even then?"

"Not heavily, no."

"When did you first notice your drinking?"

"I had begun to rely on it a bit too much. The first time I was conscious of it was when I stopped at a pub for Dutch courage on the way to my hearing. That was just before Helen came back. I put it down to nerves, but I knew then it was turning into something sinister. I had sat alone too often after Helen left. At that stage, there was no compulsion. Alcohol was just a way of numbing everything. I would sit and drink and listen to music or read. It helped me relax, but after needing that drink before the hearing, I recognised it was becoming a problem. I tried to be more careful after that, but not that night. The night Barbara was shot I needed a drink. I needed several."

"Did Helen try to talk to you?"

"She tried, but I wasn't interested in anything she had to say. She had made her viewpoint clear when she thought more about herself than the woman who had just taken a bullet for her."

"She was in shock. Don't you think it was natural for her to want comfort from her husband?"

"Yes, but she knew Barbara was alone. She knew I was her partner for all those years. Helen knew Barbara had been shot before. All she had to do was say 'go' and then follow me to the hospital. We could have waited together. Was it too much to ask that she comfort me too? She knew what Barbara meant to me." I started pacing the room.

"Did she? Or did she think Barbara meant more to you than she did?"

Ouch. Clarkson was looking at me as if I should have known I loved Barbara, but I hadn't, not then. "Possibly, but she never asked. We rowed about Barbara early in our marriage. I thought we were beyond that."

"Sorry, I'm sidetracking you. Go on."

"I had a long shower. I remember being surprised when the water was red. I felt bad washing Barbara's blood away. The next morning, Helen wanted to throw my jumper away. I would 't let her. Barbara's blood had caked into it. I wanted to keep it, so I locked it in a drawer in my study."

"Because it was a reminder of Barbara?"

I wandered back to the chair and sat down. "No, because it felt disloyal not to; as if I was throwing her in the rubbish along with the jumper."

"Was that logical?"

"I don't know. Yes, in a way. And yes, it might have been because I was scared that would be all I'd have left of her."

"What happened then?"

"Not much. I was exhausted, so I did get some sleep. I went back to the hospital around eight in the morning. They let me stay with Barbara all day and into the night. She was still heavily sedated. She groaned a bit, so I held her hand. It seemed to help her. I kept telling her I was there. I reminisced about some of our cases, some of the characters, some of the situations we had been in together. I didn't know what else to say."

"I'm sure that helped."

"I hope so. Yes, it did, she told me later."

"I'm glad."

"I went back every day, hopeful that the longer she clung on, the better her prospects were. On the third morning, she was awake. I was so relieved, but she frowned at me. I didn't realise, but I must have looked distressed. Her voice was weak, but the first thing she asked was 'is Helen okay?' I told her she was fine then I had to leave, or I would have broken down. I didn't want her to see me like that. I didn't even know why I was so upset. I should have been happy she was alive."

"I can understand, Tommy. After thinking you'd lost her, seeing her come back to you, it's emotional. You wouldn't be human if it didn't affect you."

I dabbed at my right eye and swallowed. "It was only partly that. Do you know what it really was? The fact that her first thoughts were not about herself but Helen, whereas Helen had only thought about herself. That was the contrast between the two of them right there. And... Barbara's words made me hate Helen even more."

I ran my fingers slowly through the tangle of my hair. "When I went back in, Barbara carried on as if nothing had happened. She understood. I think she had heard a lot of what I'd told her. I had probably said more than I remember. She thanked me for being there for her. We both ended up teary-eyed, so we just held hands and said nothing." I smiled. Sometimes between us, silence meant more than conversation.

"And she recovered quickly?"

"No, her progress was slow. They had to operate again to remove the bullet. It was over a month before she was transferred to the rehabilitation centre."

"Did you continue to visit her?"

I sat back at stared at him, trying to understand why he would ask. "Of course! When she was in the hospital, I went every night and stayed as long as I could. She had no one else."

"And how was your life with Helen?"

"We avoided each other. We rarely talked. Neither of us could face the inevitable argument."

"Did you sleep together?"

"Sex? No! And I moved into the spare bedroom the day after Barbara woke up. I went to work, then to visit Barbara, then I'd sit in my study. Helen was asleep most nights by the time I went to bed. Our paths rarely crossed."

"And you were drinking each night?"

"Yes. It became... a ritual I suppose."

"Were you trying to block out thoughts and memories?"

"Not consciously. I used to sit and try to decide what to do. I had promised Helen I wouldn't be the one who walked away. When she came back, I made that promise. But..." I stood and walked back to the window. There was a thunderstorm developing, and the sky was turning black. It shared the turmoil that boiled inside me.

"But...?"

"I was trying to force her hand, and she knew it. So she stayed. More to spite me than save our marriage. But I should have had it out with her, shouldn't I?"

"Should you? I don't know. I wasn't there, Tommy. I can't tell you what you should or shouldn't have done. My job is to help you live with what you did do."

I continued to watch the storm creep closer. Lightning struck a tree in the field beyond the lake. I jumped. The jagged bolt and the crack of thunder were almost simultaneous. My nerves were bad. I lifted my hand, and it was shaking. The more I watched it, the stronger it juddered. Control slipped from my head as easily as it had from my hands. Despite my best intentions, for the first time in two days, my yearning for a drink returned. My mouth watered at the thought of a single malt burning a path down my throat and through my veins. "I need a drink!"

"Tommy, come and sit down."

"No! I need a bloody drink!"

"Tommy."

"You can't stop me. This..." I waved my hands around wildly. "Is killing me. I can't talk about Helen and Barbara, not like this. You can't torture me and deprive me of comfort you bastard. I need a fucking drink."

I pushed past him and out into the grounds. I started to run. Hawthorne Manor's drive was a long one, and the gravel crunched under my shoes as I ran towards the high iron gates. Rain began to fall in heavy drops around me. Lightning flashed over the lake. Beyond the silver water, everything was dark and evil. I looked down at my shoes. They slowed me too much. I wanted to shake them off. Then I stopped. Dead in my tracks. My shoes were the ones I had put away after that night. These were the shoes I was wearing when Barbara was shot. I collapsed onto my knees.

The disembodied cries that filled the gaps in the thunder were mine. I had my face turned to the storm, hoping that lightning would strike me dead. I wanted to be free. Free from the pain. Free from my body crying out for poison. Free from guilt. Free from Barbara hating me. Free from knowing I caused Helen's death.