The worst of it is, Martha knows that something's up: I keep catching her looking at me like she's trying to figure out why I've come over all misty-eyed again, but she's too sharp and too smart to keep swallowing my line about having a wander down memory lane about this or that great sporting moment in history. She's begun asking me if I'm all right, too, and I'm buggered if I know what to say in response to that, so I avoid the question. The hormone implants are still doing the trick, or so the doc tells me; the other day I actually popped a button on one of my narrower-fitting shirts, and I've been feeling all hot and itchy in the chest. Not to mention the mood swings and the unexpected tears... it's a miracle that there aren't more murders committed by women, if you ask me. I don't know how they do it, truly I don't. From being a steady-as-it-goes sort of bloke, I've turned into one who doesn't know if he's coming or going, half the time, and I hate it, hate that it makes me feel like I don't know who I am any more.
I've just about accepted that I'm living on borrowed time, that when the implants finally stop working altogether, it'll be all over, but I'm so tired of carrying this secret around on my own like a bloody great millstone around my neck. I so want to tell her, but I just can't seem to get the words out; they keep getting stuck in my throat, or dodged with all the skill of a born ducker and diver. I almost told her over a beer in our local a few months back, but I bottled it at the last second, acting instead like I was all choked up over David Cowdrey, which, make no mistake, I was. He's the Head of Chambers' kid, and my own godson, and he was in all kinds of strife at the time. She hadn't been convinced though. Billy Lamb, I'd berated myself, you are a horribly bad liar when it comes to that girl. She sees right through you, you know… I hadn't slept much that night. Realising how much I had wanted to tell her had frightened me badly, and besides, I don't sleep so well any more. I've got aches and pains in odd places, and a headful of worry to keep me awake, with the question of what's going to happen to Chambers when I'm gone top of the list.
My old dad used to say, all good things come to those who wait, and sure enough, when the right moment finally does arrive, it's like a gift. It's also the hardest thing I've ever done, harder than going into work the afternoon my dad died, all alone and more lost than I'd ever been, and much harder than running in the London Marathon a couple of years back (looking at me now, no-one'd ever believe it). I suppose I really owe the moment to Mr Cowdrey, whose departure as Head of Chambers has made me realise what Shoe Lane is likely to become, if our shiny new practice manager has anything to say about it, and that's not the legacy I want. Martha is the only candidate for the headship who'll make sure that we remain true to our defending-is-in-the-blood DNA, in the long run; and so I send her a message once I know she's out of court for the day, with a win under her belt over a possible murder, which had turned out to be a rather unusual case of assisted suicide. Kids these days…
Hoping she'll be in a listening frame of mind, I spend the next ten minutes nervously making little practice speeches, but the words in the pamphlets the doc's given me don't sound right when I say them out loud. I quickly sink half a tumbler of Alan Cowdrey's best Scotch, turn round, and suddenly she's stood there in the doorway, and it's just the two of us in the clerks' room, alone at last. 'I got your message,' she says, smiling, and my heart does a great big flip at the sight of her, all sleek and blonde and beautiful. 'You won, miss!' I congratulate her, adding, 'Everyone should have control over the manner of their departure,' in a rather more sincere tone than I intended; she picks up on it, watching me steadily with that patented truth-seeking gaze of hers, waiting me out. Trying to lighten things up, I spot young Jake's resignation letter on the table and make a funny about it, something about how in one move he's raised the IQ of both sets. Martha knows that for me, this is nothing short of a betrayal; my own nephew, abandoning the nest. 'Ah, kids grow up, Billy. You've got to let them get on with their own lives.' Knocking back the rest of the whisky for courage, I tell her that I want her to be the next Head of Chambers, but she's having none of it. 'I do, miss, because I won't be here,' I insist, and a tiny crease of puzzlement appears between her brows: the thought of Shoe Lane without Billy Lamb is evidently one that has never crossed her mind, until now.
Before I lose my nerve, and the tears welling up in my eyes overwhelm me completely, I tell her, sounding just as calm and unflinching as I could hope for, 'Because I'm dying.' The look in her eyes nearly kills me on the spot: all huge and shocked and full of sympathy and enough kindness to choke a horse. It's so her: crystal clear, unguarded and utterly genuine. It's like I can see straight into her soul, and it's the most beautiful thing in the world, and when I move towards her, drawn like iron to a magnet, she wraps her arms strongly around me, and we hold onto each other for what feels like forever. I cry a bit, then, and I think she does too, and then she whispers, 'Let's get out of here. Take me home, Billy,' and I pull back to look at her, confused, so she adds, 'Let's go back to yours,' and for the first time in all the years I've been clerking, I don't have a clue as to what's going on. She takes my hand, leads me out the door and down to the main road, hails a cab and gives the address – I didn't realise she even knew it – before climbing in next to me, all without ever letting go of my hand. We keep holding hands all the way to Holborn, but not a word is said: none are needed. The determined look in her eye, the one I love to see when I pass her a juicy brief, tells me everything I need to know, and for once, I'm content to wait and see where she's going with all this.
When I've let us into my little flat, Martha takes a quick look round, and her eyes return to mine, surprised. 'Why, it's neat as a pin!' she exclaims, and I blink, more than a little disoriented at seeing my home with her in it for the first time. 'It's just that the clerks' room…' she tails off, and her eyes travel over me, from my neatly knotted tie and perfectly pressed shirt, to my shoes, polished to within an inch of their lives. 'I'm sorry, Billy, I didn't mean to…' and unbelievably, Martha Costello actually blushes, bright colour flooding her pale cheeks. I chuckle unsteadily, 'Yeah, the clerks' room is a mess, but that's not to say I am. Before he went in for clerking, my dad did a stint in the RAF, and his tidy ways rubbed off on me. Truth be told, I can only stand the chaos at work because I know I can come home to find everything exactly as I left it and nothing out of place.' Martha nods approvingly, and I take a deep breath and clap my hands together nervously.
'Where's my manners gone to, here you are and I haven't offered you so much as a drink,' I begin, heading towards the kitchen, while she slips out of her court shoes with an audible sigh of relief, and soft-footed as a cat, pads towards the sitting room. 'I've got lager, or there's a nice pale ale, or Scotch, if you'd rather?' I call out, and when her voice answers from just behind me I nearly jump right out of my skin. 'Mine's a lager, thanks, and haven't you got any food in there at all?' she says, amused. Sheepishly, I hand her a bottle and close the door before she spots the vial of liquid morphine in the butter conditioner. 'There's not much point, when I'm out nearly every night and back in Chambers before breakfast.' She frowns, and then nods in acknowledgement of the reality of my life, and I thank God and all the little angels that Martha Costello is the most pragmatic woman I have ever had the fortune of knowing. Anyone else would have lectured me about eating only organic food and taking huge doses of cancer-killing vitamins and meditating my stress away, but she just accepts me as I am, and that's worth everything. 'Cheers,' we toast each other, clinking our bottles together. Martha downs half hers in one long swallow, standing right there in my postage-stamp-sized kitchen in her stockinged feet, while I keep pace and wonder for the thousandth time what she has in mind.
I don't have to wait very long; she finishes her beer, looks me square in the eye, and says, 'Did you mean it, that time when I got silk and you said that you loved me?' Oh, no. Not now, please not now… Just then, a bit of beer goes down the wrong way and I double over, coughing and spluttering and trying to ignore the sudden stabbing pain that starts up in my right side, and Martha pounds lightly on my back in an attempt to be helpful, which is in fact agonising. Gasping, I wave her off and take a few deep breaths, hands on knees, bent over like a little, old man. When I look at her again, she seems unaccountably nervous, clasping her hands in front of her protectively, and so I do the only thing a dying man can: I tell her the truth, more or less.
''Course I did, what sort of question's that?' I ask, trying to keep things light. 'C'mon miss, you know how I feel about you, the best barrister I've ever clerked.' I try her with one of my trademark charming smiles, but it feels forced; this isn't what she wants to hear, but it'll have to do, because I'm all at sea here, myself. 'We've known each other for a very long time, Billy. Please, don't give me the Essex wide-boy act now.' I lean against the fridge and shrug like I don't have a clue what she means, but those eyes of hers are twin spotlights, seeking out the truth, and there's an almost fragile look about her that I can't quite place at first, until I realise that it's vulnerability: the great Martha Costello QC, ferocious in court and out, has dropped all her defences, and behind that high-intensity gaze of hers is fear at the risk she's taking in pursuing this line of questioning. The next second, she's turning away from me, setting the empty bottle on the bench-top, walking towards the door, and I know that if I let her go now, things will never be the same between us, and the thought of that terrifies me: I need her now, more than I need anyone or anything in the world. I should have remembered that she can see right through me… With my heart in my mouth, I follow her into the hallway. 'Miss, wait.' She's almost out the door, but turns at the sound of my voice, one eyebrow lifted impatiently, as if dealing with an especially slow prosecution witness in court. It's now or never, I tell myself: say it, or she's gone. Taking a deep breath, I plunge in.
'Thing is, Miss, that I am an Essex wide-boy, and I'm also your clerk, and yes, I've got prostate cancer, and yes, they've got me pumped more full of girly hormones than cheap chicken nuggets, and yes, I love you, Martha Costello. I've loved you ever since you came banging into Chambers in those bloody awful Docs and that Oxfam reject suit, and I'll love you until the day I die, if you'll pardon the expression. I've loved you through thick and thin, up and down, winning and losing. I've loved you so long I can't remember not loving you… we're alike, you and me. Both from the wrong side of the tracks, both making our own way in a world where we've gotta be twice as good as the spoonys like Mr Reader to even get noticed. We're street fighters and scrappers at heart, but we've always had each other's back, because we know what it's like to come from nothing and struggle for everything. It's what makes you the lawyer you are, and it's what makes me the man I am. We're the same, don't you see?' I have to stop then to get my breath, and my heart's going like the clappers; she's staring at me as if I've gone mad, and maybe I have, when with one swift movement she shuts the front door, strides towards me, takes hold of my hand and leads me up the hallway, apparently in search of the bedroom. Oh, the cruel irony of it all…
Once we're there, she says softly, 'I want to be clear that this isn't about sex; I think we're a bit beyond that, you and me. We know each other too well. It's not about sympathy, either, in case you were wondering.' While I'm trying to get my head round that, she continues, kicking off her shoes, 'Do you know what I hate most about living alone? It's the lack of physical contact. You get used to it, the not touching or being touched, but you never stop craving it.' I know exactly what she means, but I'm still not sure where she's going with all this, even as she unknots my tie and her fingers seek out the buttons on my shirt one by one. For a moment I wonder if all this is some sort of hallucination, like the doc warned me could happen if I had too many painkillers, but it feels so real, and I can smell her crisp perfume, and the thing I have dreamed of for so long is actually happening: she's really here, with me.
We're the same height, now she's out of her shoes, and our eyes meet, her pupils huge in the dimly lit room. 'This is just about being here, together. Two people, taking comfort from each other, because we may never pass this way again.' I think I understand, but to make sure, I ask in a voice hoarse with unshed tears, 'Gather your rosebuds, d'you mean?' She gives a little shudder, probably remembering the end of that particular poem, before smiling, 'That's the spirit. Old Time is still a-flying, right?' as she slides her hands inside my open shirt and it falls to the floor. In return, I undo her blouse, but while there's no doubt her breasts are beautiful, to my eternal shame, I have not the slightest interest in them, or in removing her bra. She seems to understand, and buttons it up again with a wry look. Once she has stepped out of her skirt and rolled down her stockings, she sits down on the side of the bed, and pats the duvet next to her. 'Take off your trousers, Billy, then come here, and lie down on your front.' Feeling slightly ridiculous in my vest, boxers and socks, I do, and what happens next is almost beyond the power of words to describe.
I'd always thought that touch was a means to an end, but Martha teaches me that it can be an end in itself, as she strokes and caresses and kneads almost every inch of my body, accepting its ageing, dying, tumour-riddled imperfection in a way that only makes me love her all the more. She finds all the sore places and the tight places and the aching places and the places that haven't been touched by a woman in so long I'd just about forgotten they were even there, and as she patiently works out the knots and lumps, the loneliness and isolation that only cancer can bring melts away too. She's the first person to shower me with such tenderness and love since I was a very young shaver indeed, and after a bit I start to drift off into a warm golden haze of happiness. For the first time since I was diagnosed, I don't feel so alone, and as her hands move across my skin, it's as if all her fight and strength and determination and sheer bloody-mindedness sort of flows from her fingertips and goes right into the core of me. I know it sounds like a lot of new age nonsense, but that's how it feels: as if I've been plugged straight into the mains. I wouldn't be surprised if I was lit up like a Christmas tree, but I'm too tired, and too happy, to open my eyes and check.
When she's finished, she pulls the duvet up over us both and curls her body around mine, humming low and slow in her throat as she slides one arm around my middle, nestling her chin into the space between my neck and my shoulder. Her hand rests reassuringly just below the curve of my ribcage, and I join my fingers with hers, still unable to believe that she's here. 'What're you humming?' I ask sleepily, too tired to place the vaguely familiar tune, and I feel her smiling into my shoulder as she replies, '"Who wants to live forever", you know, by Queen.' I can't help it: I laugh until I cry, for only Martha would have the balls to crack jokes in the face of death, while she laughs too, holding onto me as tight as a tick on a dog's ear. As I fall asleep, the last thing I hear is her whispering, 'I love you too, Billy Lamb, and don't you bloody dare go dying on me now.'
Well, and who am I to argue with the most formidable barrister in London?
A/N: Billy and Martha are referencing Robert Herrick's poem 'To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.' Update as at 07/01/15 - there was going to be one more chapter for this fic, but I've since realised that it is in fact already complete.
