THREE – Final Cut

Stirring her coffee, Ellen smiles slightly and says, "I like him, actually."

Wryly, Grace says, "Most women do; at least for a while."

On the other side of the table, Ellen raises her dark, elegant eyebrows. "Why, Grace, I do believe there's a hint of green in your eyes."

"Is it that obvious?" Grace asks, momentarily distracted by laughter from the table behind her.

"I'm afraid so, but I shouldn't be overly worried about it, if I were you. It's one of the inevitable consequences of being with an attractive younger man. Believe me, I know."

A little too sharply, Grace says, "Younger than me, Ellen; not younger than you."

Ellen pulls a face at her. "Irrelevant. Besides, that's very definitely a one woman man."

"Serial monogamist," Grace tells her. It's not entirely accurate, but it's close enough and she's not disposed to be over-charitable when it comes to considering Boyd's past history.

"You're very hard on him, Grace," Ellen says mildly. "Where is he, by the way?"

"Seeing his probation officer."

"I see. And you just thought it would be nice to meet for a friendly chat over coffee, hmm?"

The question is barbed, and Grace sighs. "I'm just worried about him, Ellen, that's all."

"Of course you are. Do we need to have a serious conversation about client confidentiality?"

"No," Grace says. She sighs again, heavily and more in frustration than anything else. "I know you can't tell me what I want to know, but I was hoping you might be able to give me some general reassurance."

The younger woman leans back slightly in her chair. "I really can't tell you that he's attended every session without fail so far, just as I can't tell you he appears to be taking it all very seriously."

"I do appreciate that you can't tell me that sort of thing."

"Good," Ellen says. She sips her coffee and then says, "Hypothetical case study?"

Grace nods. "Go ahead."

"Male, early sixties, complex presentation. Victim of repeated assaults whilst imprisoned, several of them extremely serious, but the underlying pathology may very well be far more problematic."

Grace thinks for a moment, forming her words with care. "Trauma-focused therapy?"

Ellen nods. "Appropriate, and would undoubtedly prove to be beneficial, but probably wouldn't address the core of the problem. Hypothetically, we're talking about a client who was already traumatised when he was forcibly placed in a hostile and unfamiliar environment with no means of escape; a client who was then systematically beaten and abused over a sustained period of time – with the tacit complicity of his jailors."

Swallowing hard, Grace says quietly, "It was really that bad?"

Ellen's expression remains unreadable. "It's a theoretical case study, Grace, that's all."

-oOo-

Grace is waiting patiently in her car when she spots Boyd ambling out of the squat, anonymous building that houses the local branch of the Probation Service. He doesn't look like anyone's idea of an ex-offender, she thinks as he waits to cross the road. Too well-dressed, too distinguished-looking. He's gained some weight since his release from prison, doesn't look quite so spare, quite so hungry. The sleek silver hair has grown back to a more familiar length, too, and the prison pallor has disappeared. He looks a lot more like her old friend and erstwhile colleague, and a lot less like the wary, shadowy stranger she and Spencer brought back to London all those months ago. Grace doesn't really even notice the scar on the left side of his face anymore, though she's painfully aware of the stares it sometimes draws from strangers.

As he gets into the car, she says, "I thought we might give lunch at Mario's a miss."

Boyd glances at her, only mildly curious. "Oh?"

"It's becoming a bit of an ingrained habit."

"Stability, Grace. It's good for me, remember?"

"Stability isn't the only thing that's good for you, you know," she tells him, well-aware that he'll catch on remarkably fast. He does, and the look he gives her prompts her to chuckle and say, "What? I'm too old for such shallow thoughts?"

"God, no," he says. "I'm not objecting, I'm just surprised."

"That I want you?"

"Drive," Boyd says abruptly. "Quick, before you change your bloody mind."

Grace smirks… and drives. She's not entirely sure what's prompting her uncharacteristic recklessness, but if he's not interested in questioning it, then neither is she. They've been sleeping apart for longer than she cares to think about, and though Boyd has a tendency to arrive unannounced in her bed somewhere around dawn most mornings, she certainly misses the intimacy, the spontaneity –

"Put your foot down," he instructs, interrupting her languid thoughts. "You drive like an old lady."

"I am an old lady," Grace tells him, just a little acerbically.

"You know what they say, Grace – there's many a good tune played on an old fiddle."

He's so insouciant, so gently humorous that Ellen's words suddenly echo unbidden in her mind, "Victim of repeated assaults whilst imprisoned, several of them extremely serious…"

Trying to shake the thoughts and images, she says, "Well, that's lucky for both of us, then, isn't it?"

"Certainly is," Boyd says mildly, but then he casts her an oddly penetrating look. "You okay? You seem a bit… preoccupied."

Grace makes an effort to smile. "I'm fine, Peter. Really."

He frowns. "Hey, we're grown-ups; we don't have to rush home and dive under the sheets just because we can, you know."

"I want to," she says, and it's the truth.

-oOo-

It's not about sex, not really. Not for Grace. Not about the simple mechanics of the act, anyway. For her it's very definitely about the closeness, the lowering of barriers, the fleeting moments when she fancies she can see straight into the unguarded heart of the man. She still enjoys him – enjoys the physicality of him, the unaffected masculinity of him – of course she does, but Grace enjoys the gentle, tranquil aftermath far more. The long, idle moments when he's lazy and sated and docile, the moments when she could tell him anything, ask him anything. The afternoon sun is spilling in through the bedroom window, and she curls herself round him, rests her head on his bare chest and listens to the strong, steady beat of his heart. He's sleepy and satisfied, lightly dozing with one arm possessively draped over her waist, and for a moment the temptation to simply close her eyes and go to sleep herself is very strong indeed.

Running a hand down the smooth expanse of skin to finally rest it on his hip, she says, "Boyd…?"

The reply is sleepy. "Mm?"

"I know you don't want to talk about your sessions with Ellen… but…"

"But…?"

"I just wondered if you thought they were helping?"

"Honest answer?"

She kisses his chest, says, "Of course."

"No, not really. But I told you I'd see it through, and I will."

Grace is silent for a moment as she debates the wisdom of what she needs to say. Eventually, she admits, "I saw her this morning. Ellen. We met for coffee."

There's a good chance, she thinks, that he'll react with entirely typical fury. A good chance that he will shout and storm, abandon the bed in favour of pacing and door-slamming. He doesn't. The response is an easy rumble of, "Yeah, I know."

Grace blinks in surprise, frowns. "You know?"

"She called me this morning while you were still in the shower. Something about maintaining counsellor-client trust."

"And it didn't occur to you to tell me?" Grace demands, leaning up on an elbow and glaring at him.

Boyd gazes back serenely. "Pretty much the way it didn't seem to occur to you to tell me, I should imagine."

She winces inwardly. It surprises her, though, how calm he is. Thoroughly caught, she says, "Sorry."

"You should be. Not exactly appropriate, is it?"

Guilt makes her defensive. "Oh, come on, I've known her for years. She's an old friend."

He shakes his head. "Give it up, Grace. This time you're firmly in the wrong, and you know it."

"You're really annoying when you've got the moral high ground," Grace tells him, but her sense of relief both at sharing the secret and his reaction easily outweighs her irritation. She sits up, ignoring his growl of protest as she takes the covers with her. The sun coming through the window is warm – but not that warm. "I just needed a bit of reassurance, that's all. I'm worried about you."

Idly scratching his bare chest, he says, "Don't be."

"For God's sake, Boyd – I love you… how can I not be worried about you?"

Something in his tone hardens fractionally. "You're making too much of it, Grace. You always have."

She speaks before she thinks. "You punched me in the face."

Boyd sits up, and his expression is uncompromising, dark. Dangerous. "Oh, I knew we'd get round to that eventually. Once, Grace. Once, when I didn't know what the hell I was doing – and I was utterly mortified. How many more times do you want me to apologise?"

The docility is slipping away. The temper – still just as fierce, just as unforgiving – is rising. Grace knows the signs only too well. Turning away from him she says, "Just forget it, Boyd."

The cold answering silence speaks volumes.

-oOo-

The garden, though, is a success. Grace suspects it's a kind of therapy for him, whether Boyd knows it or not. What was a largely neglected semi-wilderness is now very definitely a garden. In a very terse, harsh sort of way. Hard manual labour suits him, artistic creativity doesn't. The few new plants and flowers that have arrived in the freshly dug beds are her own less than enthusiastic contribution to the project. They're not going to be winning any prizes for horticulture any time soon, either of them. Still, for the first time since moving into the house years before, Grace is able to sit out in the garden with a glass of wine and at least half-enjoy the experience. Even her neighbours have commented on the startling improvement. It does seem a little trite, however – retire and take up gardening. Only Boyd isn't technically retired – stripped of any rights to a police pension, and still too young for a state pension, he's too proud and too stubborn to claim any other benefits, so he exists in a slightly confused no-man's land, an ex-offender living off his dwindling savings and the proceeds of the sale of his house.

It's probably too early for a second glass, but Grace pours one anyway as she thinks about the future. Boyd isn't the only one in limbo, she realises. So much of what they can and can't do is dictated by the terms of his license. They can't even go away for a few days without the written approval of his probation officer. Can't spend the night somewhere else, can't go on holiday – definitely not abroad. Boyd can't work, can't change his address, can't do very much at all without the authorisation of the pedantic and slightly supercilious Alan Walker. It weighs on them both, and it weighs more heavily on Grace than she ever expected it would. It all seemed so simple when he was going through the motions of applying for parole – no price seemed too high to pay for freedom. The thought is a sobering one. The restrictions aren't an additional penalty, nor are they unfair. He should still be in prison, getting through the long days of his sentence the best way he can.

"You look pensive," his voice says, startling her.

She watches as Boyd settles himself on the other side of the little wrought-iron garden table. "Just thinking."

"I'd never have guessed. Bit early to be hitting the vino, isn't it?"

Grace ignores the provocation. She says, "We're just drifting, you know that, don't you?"

"Isn't that the point of being retired?"

"Don't you ever wonder what the hell it is we're doing?"

Boyd studies her for a moment, then says, "Come on, Grace. Just say whatever it is you want to say."

She looks at the garden, at the long swathe of lawn, the new pond. The words seem to come from a deep, secret place inside her, one she didn't know existed. "This isn't working."

-oOo-

They talk, and they get nowhere. They go round in circles and achieve nothing. Grace watches Boyd fight to remain calm and she knows without question that she loves him – but that it's not enough. She's starting to resent his enforced proximity, the restrictions being imposed on her life by his presence, and it's not even just that selfish – she can see the way things are heading between them, can see his mounting frustration, the way he struggles between anger and depression. The way they are slowly choking the life out each other, silently and insidiously. She says, "You got us into this, Boyd. If you'd just followed the rules for once in your life instead of taking matters into your own hands…"

He stops pacing long enough to shoot a glare at her. "I didn't bloody kill Nicholson, did I?"

"You didn't pull the trigger, at least."

"He was scum, Grace. Don't tell me you don't think he got exactly what he deserved?"

"'Live by the sword, die by the sword'?" Grace questions.

"If you like. It was about justice, plain and simple."

"You knew Barlow would kill him."

"Like he killed Sarah. For one."

Grace sighs. "There's really no point in discussing this, is there?"

Boyd starts to pace up and down the room again. "So what the fuck do you expect me to do, Grace?"

"Talk to Walker. He'll have a list of Approved Premises – "

"Wait," he interrupts her curtly. "You're not actually serious about this? You don't really expect me to move into a bloody probation hostel?"

"Peter – "

He cuts across her again, his tone incredulous. "No. You don't tell me you want me gone then 'Peter' me. That's not how it works."

"We can still see each other. I just think…" Grace lets the words trail away as Boyd starts to laugh. It's a hard, bitter sound, not pleasant at all. She takes a breath, exhales slowly. "We don't communicate, we just drift from one day to the next pretending that everything's fine when it's a long, long way from it. Do you really want to live like that for the rest of your life?"

"Fuck's sake, Grace – I've done everything you wanted. What else can I do?"

"Talk to me," she tells him calmly.

"I talk to you all the bloody time."

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, Boyd."

He stops pacing, turns to face her, his expression set and grim. "It's not your job to punish me, Grace. The justice system is doing that."

Grace can't help laughing sharply. "Only you could see talking about what you've been through as a punishment."

"If you're that keen to know, why don't you ask your friend Ellen?" Boyd suggests sardonically.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? You're the one who oh-so innocently had coffee with her this morning. That was completely out of order, Grace."

Stung, she demands, "Why don't you ask yourself why your partner – the one you profess to love – felt that she had no other option?"

Boyd glowers at her. There's something about his stillness, the aggressive set of his shoulders that acts as a silent warning. He's very close to the edge now, and Grace knows it. When he speaks, he does so surprisingly quietly, every word perfectly enunciated. "I was a senior police officer found guilty of being an accomplice to the murder of another senior police officer. A copper who killed a copper. How naïve do you expect me to believe you are, Grace? You know exactly what it was like for me inside. Why are you so obsessed with hearing all the gruesome details?"

"I'm not," she counters briskly. Looking at him, though, she can't help dwelling on what those dark, compelling eyes have witnessed. "Boyd – "

"What do you think you'll get out of it, Grace? Some kind of vicarious thrill? Is that what this is all about? Prurience? You think you'll get off on hearing what happened to me in there? What they did to me?"

Savagely, she says, "Grow up, Boyd. It's not about anything like that, it's about the fact that you evidently don't trust me enough to tell me."

"That's bollocks. Christ, when have I ever been the sort of man who pours out his heart and soul? Just fucking leave it alone."

"I can't live with a man who flatly refuses to be open with me."

His lip curls, the anger and the contempt very clear. "Well, that's easily solved. Call the police. Tell them I threatened you. I'll be back inside before you can snap your fingers"

Grace sighs heavily. "Don't be stupid, Boyd."

His tone is brittle. "Keep pushing me, Grace, and you'll find out just how bloody stupid I can be."

She stares at him and asks calmly, "Is that a threat?"

"God's sake…" he growls, starting to pace again. "You're being completely unreasonable."

Coldly, Grace replies, "Oh, I learnt at the feet of a master, believe me."

-oOo-

Inevitably, the storm blows itself out, but the wreckage it leaves in its wake is heart-breaking. They retreat to opposite ends of the house, a palpable wall of tension between them; a new and frightening sort of tension. They've had so many arguments over the years, some of them very serious indeed, but Grace recognises that this is something unusual. This is not just a difference of opinion that has resulted in Boyd's notoriously fiery temper flaring uncontrollably – this is something much deeper and much, much more serious. This, she realises, is a pivotal moment in their long relationship, a moment that really could spell the end for them. Everything that's always been wrong distilled down to one final flashpoint. He's never truly opened up fully to her about anything in well over a decade and she's reached the point where that's no longer acceptable. It is – startlingly – that simple. Grace wants what he can't – or won't – give.

As the evening wears on she finds herself reflecting more and more on the nature of their turbulent, idiosyncratic relationship, and none of the conclusions she reaches are positive. Peter Boyd is – has always been – high maintenance. At his worst he is obstinate, contrary and unpredictable, given to appalling outbursts of temper. At his best… At his best he is exciting, engaging and… And it is not enough. Not as a partner. As a friend, yes. Not as the man she'll end her days with. It's an oddly calm realisation, one that is gentle and melancholy, and Grace takes her time accepting it, staring at nothing in particular as she sips her wine and listens to the sound of him taking himself upstairs to bed. Silence falls, but the brutal edge has gone from it. The fighting is over and done.

Eventually Grace ascends the stairs herself. The door of the spare room is ajar as it always is, and she can see the soft glow of the bedside light. It seems appropriate, somehow to knock quietly instead of walking straight in on him. The small room is warm and shadowy, and he's propped up against the pillows, arms folded contemplatively over his chest. He looks as old and tired and defeated as she feels. Without a word Grace sits herself on the end of the bed, meeting and holding his dark gaze. It's Boyd who eventually speaks, his voice quiet. "It's over, isn't it?"

Grace faces the truth squarely. "I think so, yes."

After a moment he nods slightly. "I'll ring Walker in the morning."

"Thank you."

So calm, so polite. Not the way she ever expected it to end. The lump in her throat is very real and very painful.

Boyd holds out a hand to her. "Come here."

Grace moves towards him, knowing it will break her. It does. She cries quietly and for a long time, and Boyd simply holds her and says absolutely nothing.

-oOo-

The last night is the worst night. The night before Boyd goes. The night his bags are already packed and they end up sitting in silence staring at the television screen without seeing any of the ever-changing images. No more fights, no more harsh words. It's all over and done with. Grace understands the cold terms of their separation, and she thinks that her quiet acceptance of them placates him a little. Boyd is taciturn, a little gruff, but he's not unkind. For three days they have circled like wary strangers, and now they are in the final hours she finds herself still frantically turning everything over and over in her mind, desperately searching for alternatives. Apparently from nowhere, Boyd says, "If you ever need me…"

Grace doesn't look at him. "I'll always need you, Peter."

"You know what I mean."

She nods, not trusting herself to say anything but, "Thanks."

A few moments later he suggests, "Shall we have one last really big argument, just for old times' sake?"

"Don't," she says quietly.

Boyd lapses into silence. Sneaking a sideways glance, she wonders if she'll ever see him again. Probably not, despite what she wants. He's too proud and too stubborn, and she's simply not prepared to compromise. Not anymore. He says, "It hurts, doesn't it?"

"Like hell," Grace agrees soberly.

"T.S. Elliot."

She frowns. "What?"

"Look it up."

Grace doesn't need to. She knows exactly what he's alluding to. In days gone by she would certainly have teased him for the literary reference just to irritate him. This time, she simply quotes, "'Not with a bang but a whimper'."

"Mm."

"What will you do?" Grace asks after several more of the last minutes have ticked relentlessly past in uncomfortable silence. "When your probation ends, I mean?"

Boyd shrugs. "No clue. What about you? Do you have any plans?"

"No."

"Remind me again why this is such a good idea…?"

"Peter…"

He holds up a hand. "It's all right. You don't have to give me the lecture."

Almost hopefully, she says, "It really doesn't have to be like this, you know."

"Oh, it does," Boyd tells her, and there's an unguarded, raw note in his voice. "A clean break, no complications, no recriminations. I'm sorry, Grace, I just can't be the old friend you sometimes manage to find time to have lunch with."

"I know," she says heavily. Again the silence stretches, its character uncertain. Thinking about days long gone by, she says, "You always said it would be a mistake. Us getting together."

Boyd shoots her a look that's as steady as it is incisive. "As far as I'm concerned, I was wrong. It wasn't a mistake, Grace. I don't regret it. Just because – "

"No post mortems, remember?" Grace reminds him with a slight, pained smile.

He nods in silent assent, and they go back to staring mindlessly at the television screen. But this time her head's resting gently on his shoulder and his arm is around her waist.

-oOo-

The day Boyd leaves is the day that rain falls steadily in London from dawn until dusk with barely a pause. The day that couldn't be more stereotypically dull, grey and depressing. The day he leaves is the day Grace stumbles between relief and regret, the day she wonders whether he was ever anything more than a beautiful chimera, a wishful dream she would never have been able to hang onto forever. She's left with her memories, her empty house and her newly-renovated garden. She's left with the cold space where Peter Boyd used to be and the freedom to do exactly what she wishes when she wishes.

It's something… and it's nothing at all.

-oOo-

Continued…