They meet in a café.
It's late in the day. John sits at a table alone, steaming cup of coffee set out before him while the muted sunshine of a London sunset falls through the blinds at the window at his side.
"May I?" It's a deep voice that pulls John from his thoughts. He looks up from his coffee cup uninterested, surveying a tall figure looming above him.
John doesn't respond, just nods his assent and goes back to his contemplation of the striped patterns the sunlight has cast on the tabletop. The stranger seats himself in accordance to polite convention: dragging out the chair diagonally opposite and perching there.
They sit in silence, two figures neither alone nor together, as far apart as is possible while still seated at the same surface.
"What can I get you sir?" It is the waitress that breaks the quiet. Addressing the stranger opposite John. She has pink hair.
"Coffee. Black, two sugars please." The man's voice is deep and sonorous, strangely at odds with his skinny frame and pale skin. John studies him out the corner of his vision, wondering idly how strong the wind would have to be to knock this slip of a creature from his chair. A light breeze, he concludes, watching the stranger contemplate the view outside the window. Perhaps when he's blown away that strong voice will be the only thing left.
The coffee is brought and placed amid the stripes: a large mug and a jug of milk. The stranger seems to tut a little at this, pushing the milk away as if offended before casting around for the sugar.
John pushes it toward him without thought, realising as he does so that he's somewhat shown his hand; now the stranger cannot fail to realise that he is watching.
"Thank you," Says that strong voice again.
Silence again. John has consciously stopped looking at him but it still aware of the movement of those hands before them, fingers selecting a squashed pink packet from the bowl and shaking it idly before tearing it open.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
This time when the stranger speaks John is surprised enough to look up at him.
"Sorry?" John's voice hasn't been used in some time and he's aware the word comes out rougher than he'd expected.
"Which is it – Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The stranger looks at him frankly; John can't help but be surprised at the colour of his eyes.
"Afghanistan," John confirms. Looking away again, this time toward the window and the evening sunlight.
At odds with the stillness within the café the road outside is a busy one, full of the bustle of the evening as people pass by: home from work, out to the theatre, returning from the shops laden with bags, the odd jogger. He watches as a young couple stroll past laughing outside; a pretty brunette and her boyfriend, holding hands.
"Sorry," John says, cursing his innate Britishness that he feels he must start a sentence with an apology. As much as he is trying not to care about the question however, he has to admit that the stranger has intrigued him, "How did you know…?"
"You're in uniform," The man says coolly,
"Yes,"
"Sitting alone outside a train station,"
"Yes," John agrees again,
"Looking like a great weight is on your shoulders,"
"I guess it wasn't much of a leap," John feels a smile tug at the edges of his mouth; even as he drops his head to sigh back into this coffee cup.
"Your uniform says Captain, but the rank is a new one."
"You can tell that huh?"
"It is something of a skill of mine,"
"First time I've worn it,"
"And you're 'shipping out'?" The stranger says the words as if quoting them,
"Tomorrow."
"You're catching a train to the base tonight,"
"An hour."
"You're here alone?" The stranger asks,
"Yes,"
"You're not close to your family." This time it's not a question,
"No."
John's hands have curled into fists on the table before him. He has to prise them open slowly.
"Are you catching a train?" John asks to change the subject, accepting of the fact he seems to now have been drawn into a conversation.
"No," The stranger replies curtly,
"Here for the coffee?"
As if remembering the beverage in front of him the stranger takes a drink. John flicks his eyes back up to his face just in time to watch him grimace theatrically.
"No," The man responds firmly,
John can't help but huff out a quiet laugh,
"Meeting someone," The man continues in response. "I hope."
"You hope?"
"It's not definite."
"You're meeting them here?" John motions with his eyes at the cafe.
"No, but I should be able to see them from here."
"They know you're here?"
"No."
"They know you're meeting them?"
"No."
"Do they even know you?"
"Not exactly."
"You're stalking them?"
"Observing."
A pause, an uncomfortable one. John begins to question the wisdom of striking up conversations with strangers in coffee shops.
"Tell me you're with the police or something," John says hopefully, looking up and finding the stranger's gaze fixed firmly on the world outside the window.
"Detective." The stranger confirms with a brisk nod, "Consulting." He adds.
"Never heard of it."
"You wouldn't, I'm the only one in the world."
John stops talking.
"Your first tour?" The stranger asks after a long pause.
"Yes."
"Are you…?" The man starts but John cuts him off.
"Look, no offense, but I'd rather not…"
"Okay."
John goes back to staring down the abysmal coffee in front of him. The stranger's attention on the street outside.
Raised voices across the room. John lifts his head to study the table beside them: a harassed looking mother with her three young sons, none of whom seem to want to sit calmly at a table and drink milkshakes when it is more entertaining to playfight with their brothers. The woman sees him looking and flashes him a tired smile.
John's phone begins to ring in his pocket.
Pulling it out he contemplates it for a few rings. HARRY. John flicks his eyes back to the stranger, confirming his attention is still elsewhere, before answering.
"Harry," John's greeting is resolute.
"John?" His sister's voice however is less sure,
"What do you want Harry?" They aren't exactly speaking at the moment; John can't help it if his tone is short.
"John?" Her voice again, sounding lost. He'd been expecting a curt response, an insult, a shout. Anything but this broken emotion.
"What's up now?" He asks,
She doesn't respond, but he can hear her breathing. Hard and heavy.
"Look," John starts, but comes up short, "God, are you crying?" He asks instead, brotherly concern beginning to trump sibling rivalry.
"John, I…" She's definitely crying.
"Why are you calling? Why now?"
"John." She says again. "Can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you Harry, what the hell is going on?"
This time she starts to sob. The sound makes something in his chest wrench.
The line goes dead.
Pulling the phone from his ear John looks at it for a long time.
"Family problems?" A deep voice asks. John looks over at him.
"Lucky guess." John's not feeling very polite any more, still shaken from the call.
"I never guess,"
"So what is it exactly that you do?" John asks, almost accusatory, turning his full attention back to the man and discarding his phone on the table. "Other than stalk people from coffee shops?"
"I consult."
"With the police?"
"Yes, on occasion"
"What does that mean?"
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"The police don't consult with amateurs,"
"No,"
"So they ask you to sit in cafes?"
"If the occasion necessitates."
"The occasion being?"
"Crimes, the more interesting ones."
"Is that why you're here?"
"A suspect yes." The man confirms,
"So why talk to me?"
The stranger seems to be caught short. They stare at each other.
"You passed me the sugar." The man says after a pause.
"You don't strike me as the kind of person who makes casual conversation over sugar."
"You seemed interesting."
"Hardly," John huffs "You had me worked out within minutes of sitting down,"
"Not everything." The man concedes, "Not straight away."
"But you have it worked out now?"
"Yes."
"You can't possibly know everything."
There's a long silence as the man contemplates him, he seems to have interpreted it as a challenge.
"Your rank is new." The man begins, eyes flashing up to John's face "You're nervous. You have a medical band packed into the outside pocket of your bag, but you aren't wearing it. Something you should to be proud of. But you aren't. That tells me that at this point in your life it is the soldiering that comes first, not the medicine."
He pauses, John lifts his eyebrows to indicate that he should continue.
"You don't get along with your family," The stranger obeys, "Despite all the obvious achievements you've made in your life. A few possible reasons for that, the most likely of which, seen as they're not here to wave you off into the sunset, is that they don't approve. Judging by that phone call you've argued. And now you're sitting here beating yourself up about that…"
Something shifts in the stranger's face and he sits forward a little, continuing.
"I said you're nervous. At first I thought it was the tour, but that's not it. It's your family. The people in your life. You don't have many, but those you do, you value. They make you worry. You beat yourself up in coffee shops over arguments you may or may not have had, but you can't change the past. The harm you have done to others or that I have done to you. You can't fix it." The longer the stranger talks the further away his words seem to be becoming. "And you shouldn't try. You don't want to. But I value you. More than you realise. I don't mean to do you harm. I don't want you to fix this, fix me. I just want you to come back."
At some point while the stranger has been casting a spell of words across the table he has leaned closer to John, covering the back of his hand with his own amid the stripes on the formica. His cool touch sears into John's skin.
"John," The man says, as if from a distance.
John snatches his hand away suddenly.
Unruffled the stranger sits back. Looking back toward the street out the window.
"There you go, you see – you were right." He says,
"I was right?" There is an edge of panic in his voice as John speaks, his hand burning as if branded. "Right about what?"
"The police don't consult with amateurs."
All of a sudden the stranger's gaze seems to get caught on something he sees outside the window beside them. John doesn't have chance to respond before the stranger has leapt to his feet.
"Good luck with the tour," He says with gravitas, eyes catching John's momentarily.
Then he sweeps from the room.
