Conversations We Never Had

Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Silk would not be over!


A.N. Okay, so! Slightly better update rate of 6-ish months instead of a year! I am working on it, I promise. And the good news is two-fold; this chapter is over 5k! And it was a tough one as I had to go back and complete it as I've written so much more ahead. This means that _hopefully_ the upcoming chapters won't take so long. She says! This year I've been to Japan, auditioned for something HUGE (which I didn't get and left me in a rather sad place for a while) and moved my desk into its own 'office'! I've been writing where I can and assure you I have another 10k already written and everything pretty much planned out. This fic will continue until it is complete with plenty of twists and turns along the way! THANK YOU once again for your lovely messages. They inspire me and guilt me in equal measure! I hope this chapter is a small element of balm and distraction from all the upset in the world. A xxx


9.

Martha walked slowly through the dimly lit and mostly empty RCJ, memories flitting through her head unbidden; victories, defeats, moments, mistakes, raised voices and recriminations, tears of joy and tears of loss, the sting of palm to cheek, the whisper of words unexpected, unwanted but not unwelcome.

She said a quiet goodbye to the security guard at the door, the only soul she had come across on her short pilgrimage, and then, without pomp or circumstance, she was outside, the Bar, the law, her career, everything behind her. The ornate building loomed behind her in the twilight, a few streets away she knew the lamps would be burning in Shoe Lane. The thought was welcoming for a split second before she remembered the empty chair at the top of the Clerks' Room, the lack of watchful eyes from the window. The grief struck her, a sharp, physical pain she wasn't prepared for. Before she knew it she was gasping, stumbling only a step or two before crumpling to a heap at the top of the steps, struggling to breathe. The deja vu was almost tangible, the memory of the last time as painful as this new grief. If it had been any normal day she would have been mortified at breaking down in public, never mind on the steps of the bleeding RCJ once again, but Billy was dead and today might very well have been her last day here anyway. She was, for all intents and purposes, a civilian now, so what did it matter if anyone saw her, her career was pretty much in tatters and she didn't have it in her to care.

It was properly dark by the time she stopped crying and hauled herself to her feet, cold and stiff but undisturbed, obscured as she was by the railings. She made her way out of the gates before they were locked and walked numbly to her car. She had thought, if not quite expected, that she might feel some kind of release at the trial being finished, at it all being over, at being free, but while there was relief it was dampened by everything else; sadness, disappointment, uncertainty, grief, frustration, bitterness. What she felt most was empty. There was no 'next', no plan. For the moment all this was was an ending, no new beginning on the horizon. It would have scared her if she hadn't felt so absent in her own head.

Back home she shucked off her suit and bagged it up for dry cleaning, sorted files and folders for return to chambers into a neat pile in the hallway and set the record player going to fill the silence while she attempted to eat some beans on toast. She closed the door to her wardrobe tightly, the white shirts a row of mocking ghosts, and unset her alarm clock. She didn't need any of them now.

As the shadows lengthened and the street lamps clicked to life across the city, Clive sat at his desk staring at the vacant seat at Martha's desk. He'd shouted at one of the juniors today who'd dared to sit there after being pressed into service helping with CW's latest case. That particular silk's own desk was uninhabitable, messy as it was, and though he knew the junior had meant nothing by it Clive couldn't help but see red seeing someone else sat in Martha's place. He knew he'd have to get used to it if she left, god he didn't want to think about that, knew his reaction was probably being dissected in the pub right now and that he was proving to be a rather unpopular head with his recent short temper, but he didn't have it in him to care. He hadn't moved in more than an hour or so, not since Harriet had been in to try and convince him to go to the pub with her. He'd heard her clattering about chambers in her heels for a long while after he'd refused, none too politely, obviously hoping he would change his mind. Before that it had been Bethany, timidly offering to include him in her and Jake's dinner reservation. CW, in contrast, had walked in, taken one look at him hunched morosely in his chair and walked straight out again. He had to admit he almost preferred that approach. He wanted to be left in peace to stare at the place where Martha should have been, as though he could will her into existence by sheer thought alone. Night had fully fallen by now but he hadn't bothered to turn on either his desk lamp or the overhead light and now he could barely see the outlines of the trinkets on her desk in the scant light from the nearest streetlight. He didn't need light to visualise her there though, to imagine everything about her, every little detail from the fall of her hair to the ink stains on her fingers, from the exact shade of her lipstick to the creases at the corner of her eyes and the hint of a smile when she'd catch him watching. Harriet was on at him almost daily about moving into the office Alan had vacated but he couldn't bear to yet. Torture as it was here without her he couldn't quite face the task, not when everything of hers was still there, a still life, frozen in limbo, as if she might come back any minute, pick up a discarded pen or stub out a cigarette she shouldn't have in chambers in an impromptu ashtray.

He fumbled with his phone, scrolling through old messages like a lovesick teenager, fingers hovering over the keys to write something new, over her name to call, but there was nothing new to say and they'd never been very good at any kind of verbal communication. He sighed and pressed to call his mother instead, more to stop him calling Martha than anything else, listening to phone ring and imagining the sound echoing through the dilapidated former rectory where his parents lived.

'Reader 763 413,' his mother's voice answered, as poised and gentle as ever.

'It's me,' Clive said, knowing he might get chastised for his poor telephone etiquette but not caring enough to make the effort.

'Clive!' she said warmly. 'At last; you haven't called in weeks.'

'Just a slight exaggeration there Mother,'

'Well it feels like it. How are you? Did you hear Frances had her baby?' she began, launching into the tale without giving him chance to respond. All that was required for the next few minutes was to respond appropriately in the brief pauses for breath as his mother conversation flitted from his cousin's baby, the neighbours' new car and his godmother's hernia surgery. It was quite relaxing in a way and Clive let his mind drift as his mother chattered away, her voice brighter than it had been when she answered and he knew he should really call more often, visit too.

'How's Dad?' he asked when she had finally exhausted the topic of the sorry state of her begonias.

'Your father,' she began, correcting his English as always, 'is his usual self. Refusing to take his medication, drinking too much wine, eating too much cheese, keeping me on my toes you know.'

'He needs to keep taking it,' Clive said worriedly. Billy's death had shocked him and the clerk had been a damn sight younger than his parents were. 'It's the only thing keeping him from bypass surgery!'

'I'm well aware of that Clive, and so is he. He takes it when he needs to. He's fine, but if you're so worried you could come see for yourself. Sunday lunch perhaps?'

'I'll think about it,' Clive said grudgingly. The idea of getting out of London was appealing but even his concern for his parents' health didn't quite make the prospect of a three course meal with bone china, polished silverware and an interrogation on his relationship status his first choice for weekend plans. Even if his alternative was moping over Martha and reading a lot of very dull case files or chambers policy documents.

'So how are you doing dear? You really haven't called in ages. I keep an eye on the court circular but it's not really the same.'

'Just busy, you know, and it's been a strange few weeks. We lost our senior clerk.'

'What happened?'

'Prostate cancer. All rather fast in the end.'

'I'm sorry.'

Clive nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him, and there was silence for a moment.

'I do have some other news.'

'Good news I hope this time'

'Well, yeah, I guess so. I've been made Head of Chambers.'

'That's wonderful Clive!' His mother sounded utterly delighted and he knew the moment he rang off, the telephone would be pressed into service again so she could share his success with various relatives, neighbours and friends from the WI. He let himself feel a momentary stab of pride, to bask in the congratulations in a way he hadn't been able to with anyone else, hadn't felt able to, between Martha and Billy and the realisation of what exactly his headship meant.

'It's certainly a new challenge,' he said honestly, his voice dipping lower as the relative security of a private phone call with his mother brought another admission, unbidden, to his throat. 'I'm not sure how popular I am though.'

'You don't have to be popular to be successful,' his mother said, not missing a beat. 'I know you'll do your very best, Clive, and that's what's you and your colleagues should be concerned with, nothing else.'

'Thank you.' Her affectionate brusqueness tugged him from his momentary melancholy and he smiled, at least until his mother's next question.

'And how's Martha?'

'Ah…' Can of worms didn't begin to cover the answer to that question. 'She's been better,' he settled on at last. 'You know close she and Billy were. She also lost a big case, she was defending an old friend, took it quite hard. And then…me being head means Shoe Lane's going to be a prosecuting set and she doesn't want to prosecute…' Such words were a glorious understatement when it came to Martha's position but there wasn't any good way to describe it really. 'So…she may not be here much longer.'

It was the first time he'd really admitted it and he felt a little sick saying the words out loud. His mother had been making sympathetic noises through his halting speech but now jumped on the final phrase.

'Really? Well perhaps it'll work out for the best, Martha moving on. It could be a good thing, not being in each other's pockets all the time. Maybe you can see each other more socially…'

Oh she was a wiley one his mother, always finding the deal to be made in the midst of disaster, never missing an opportunity to try and make a match. If only she knew just how hopeless this case was.

'I wouldn't count on it Mother.'

Not one to be deterred, she continued in the same vein. 'Well is there anyone else on the horizon?'

'Mother.'

'I just want to see you settled Clive, you can't blame an old lady for asking.'

'Dont guilt me.'

'Oh I haven't even started dear.' He could hear the wicked smile through the phone line. 'My only son…'

'Okay, okay, I'll come for dinner on Sunday.'

'Lovely,' she said, self-satisfied and clearly smirking. 'I'll call into Thompson's for a joint of lamb tomorrow.'

Clive sighed. 'I'll see you at one.'

Of course, silencing the alarm meant Martha was wide awake at six, grumpily attempting to dose and contemplating her empty life as the sun failed to break through the clouds beyond her curtains. She didn't care, it matched her mood. She dragged herself up after about an hour, making tea and skulking about her dressing gown for a while. Inactivity was a foreign concept, the prospect of unemployment daunting, and she needed something to fill her mind and occupy her hands so she began a frenzied spring clean of her flat. The mopping, scrubbing, sweeping, polishing was therapeutic but not without its challenges. There were photographs on her bookcase that she'd rather not see but needed dusting. The family photos weren't so bad, though she felt guilty looking at the faces of her mother and grandfather; she hadn't been home in long while. She should probably go back to Bolton now she had the time but she didn't relish the prospect, especially considering the fallout of Sean's trial. It would be a hot topic of gossip in the town no doubt. But it was the other pictures that made her heart hurt; she and Billy in various guises over the years; birthday celebrations, silk. Everyone in chambers at the Christmas party a few years back. She and Clive at the same party, a little worse for wear and her lipstick smudged thanks to Clive's dedication to certain festive traditions, namely mistletoe. She and Clive as pupils, then as brand new juniors, posed awkwardly together for a press photograph to mark their tenancy, partly peeved that they'd both got it, partly relieved they weren't facing the next part of the journey alone, mostly delighted that they'd done it at all. A recent snapshot of a few of them in the clerks' room that she hadn't got around to framing, her arms around Billy and Clive, a big smile on her face and her hand hand curled possessively at the latter's collar. He was wearing a strange expression, neither his flashy grin nor trademark smirk despite the fact his hand had slid from her waist to her arse and back again in the time it took for the group to assemble. His tie was crooked and she remembered straightening it when the group dispersed, impromptu photo done, her fingers lingering at his chest, Billy pretending not to watch them together from the corner of his eye. Martha shook her head, trying to dislodge the memories, swiping at the photographs before using the other side of the duster to wipe her eyes instead. Clearly the dust was getting to her.

By the time night fell the flat was shining and tidier than it had been in months, years even, and Martha realised she was lightheaded with physical exertion and lack of food. She defrosted something she had forgotten to label from the freezer and ate with the TV on to make her feel less alone. The guilt over her family was still clinging to the edge of her conscious as she watched absently, the newly dusted eyes of her mother's photograph boring into the back of her head until eventually, and with a sigh, she picked up the phone and dialled.

'Hey Mum, it's me.'

'Oh so you're finally returning my calls,' her mother's voice travelled the miles down the line, bitter and broadly accented. 'I've been ringing you all week.'

'Sorry. It's been a rough couple of weeks, longer really.'

'I heard about Sean's trial,' she said, mumbling around a cigarette she was clearly lighting.

Martha wished they hadn't got onto that topic of conversation quite so soon but supposed it was inevitable and would be no more palatable for being danced around. 'Yeah. I suppose everyone's talking about it up there.'

'It's…doing the rounds. Always said he was a badun that lad.'

'Mum, don't.'

Despite the feeble protest her mother continue.

'Always said he'd get into some kind of trouble, drag you down with him. Thankfully he was on the other side of the dock this time.'

'Mum! He's innocent!'

'An entire jury just found him guilty Martha!'

'You think I don't know that? But the system being as it is that doesn't necessarily mean he's guilty. It doesn't mean he's not innocent. It just means the prosecution won, it means…they had a better case, they argued better and they…. It means I fucked up.'

'Martha!' The chastising tone of her mum's voice was subdued even as she scolded.

'He's innocent mum, just trust me on this.'

'Alright then, but it works out either way. If he's not guilty of this then he's is of something else.'

'Mum!'

'He's no angel Marth, you know that as well as I do.'

'But he didn't do this and that's the point. He might be a lot of things but not a murderer.'

'Have it your own way,' her mother muttered. 'You always were a bloody fool over that boy.'

Martha took a controlled breath in to prevent herself from snapping. 'Look, I didn't call to talk about Sean McBride.'

'No? What is it then?'

'I was…thinking I might come up for a couple of days. See Grandad for his birthday.'

'You got holiday or something?'

'Yeah…something like that.'

'Since when do you take holidays?' Her mother was rightfully suspicious. 'What's going on?'

'Well, I guess, for starters, Billy…he got prostate cancer. He…he died.'

'When?

'The night Sean's trial finished.' It felt surreal to be discussing it so calmly with her mum.

'I'm sorry. I know how much he meant to you.'

'Yeah. And now…there's this new…system, in chambers, change of plan. They're going to be a prosecuting set. I'm defence so…and with Billy gone…'

'I don't really understand Marth.'

'We've got a new head of chambers. It's his plan…kind of…'

'What happened to that nice tall bloke?'

'Alan. He's a judge now.'

'So someone new came in?'

'There was an election amongst the silks.'

'Were you in it?'

'I was. I…stepped down, dropped out. I'd just lost Sean's case and…Billy was ill and I was only really doing it for him. I'm not really about the paperwork, you know. I didn't really realise…what Clive's plan entailed, well not really his plan but…'

'Clive's the new head of chambers?'

'Yeah.'

'So…' Her mother's voice was wary; Martha was tended to fly off the handle if she insinuated anything about Clive

'So it's a new chapter for them and I'm not part of it. I don't even know if law, well criminal law anyway, is where I want to stay for the rest of my career. Or the London bar at least. Maybe I'll retrain or go somewhere new. I thought about maybe coming home.'

'What do you mean, home?' The suspicion was back, mingled with surprise.

'Well, Manchester at least…'

'Manchester hasn't been home in twenty years Martha. Where's this coming from?'

'I don't know, it's just… They need barristers everywhere.'

'Yeah but not…not the way they do in London. Manchester, Martha? I mean. I wouldn't speak ill of the place but it's not really in the same league is it You're at the top of your game Martha, surely it would be a step down?'

'Will you be embarrassed if I move back?'

'Of course not. But I mean, after Sean's trial and everything, won't it be a bit like coming home with your tail between your legs?'

'Thanks Mum.' The words hurt all the more for the fact they weren't untrue.

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'What did you mean then?' Martha snapped.

'I'm not going to argue with you Martha. I never win.'

'It's just a thought.'

'Martha… I understand you're going through a tough time but I don't know what you have up here except for me and your Grandad. Is that enough? Really? We're not going to be here forever, are we love? Is there even anyone up here you're still friends with? Everyone you did know's got kids, husbands, wives…' She didn't say it but the subtext was clear; what have you got in common? 'You have people in London who love you and understand you.'

'I'm don't know that I do really. Billy's gone… Clive's running me out of chambers. It's not really the friendliest place the criminal bar.'

Her mother sighed. 'Look, how about we talk about it when you're here. When are you thinking? I've got shifts Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday.'

'Maybe Tuesday.'

'I'm on earlies Tuesday but you've got a key haven't you, if I'm not back?'

'Yes.'

'Alright then. See you later love.'

'Okay Mum. Bye.'

She hung up, guilt assuaged somewhat but not really feeling any better otherwise. She only hoped actually being home would be more comforting.

Come Sunday she was still in bed as Clive sped towards Sussex. While certainly not the tempestuous driver Martha was, he still had his own propensity for a bit of mild road rage; cursing the toddling Sunday drivers and muttering unpleasant oaths when a bird scored a direct hit to his windscreen and he was low on screen wash. The journey was straightforward enough for his mind wander, much as he wished it wouldn't. He had no idea when he'd see her again and he couldn't remember the last time that had been the case. Sometime back when they were pupils, he supposed, before they'd become grudging friends of sorts, before they'd got into the habit of checking in with each other because this job was tough and often lonely, no matter how supportive your senior clerk or how many solicitors warmed your bed. It had only been a matter of days yet he felt a little out of kilter not seeing her, not knowing how she was. He hadn't realised how much he relied on their connection to keep his spirits up, keep him grounded. Their banter and heated exchanges, the soft touch of a hand on a shoulder after a loss, quiet words of commiseration, even the odd kiss or two in celebration. Plus of course the time when they did much more than that to celebrate. Anything more aside, she had often been the first person he saw in the morning and the last person he saw at night, when he didn't have company that was, and the new routine, which had neither, was taking some adjusting to. Lost in the memories of a hundred little, apparently insignificant but utterly vital moments, the journey was over too soon and not soon enough and Clive found himself pressing the highly polished doorbell of his parent's house without really recalling how he got there.

The tap of low heels sounded on the parquet floor in the hall and then his mother was descending on him in a waft of perfume and pearls. Home was the same as ever, familiar, comforting, even in its state of pristine cleanliness that had him reflexively snapping forward to remove his brogues before he'd gone two paces. There was champagne to celebrate his headship and a lengthy handshake from his father in congratulation. The roast was followed by apple pie and his mother kept up a steady stream of conversation as they ate, his father interjecting with cutting character observations and frank asides that made his wife eye him sharply, the smile at the corner of her mouth letting him know there wouldn't be any further remonstration.

All in all it was less of a trial than Clive had expected. His mother's cooking was as good as ever and his father's jokes a welcome distraction. They hadn't pressed for details about chambers or his recent cases and, more surprisingly, his mother hadn't fished for information regarding his love life, perhaps he'd been clear enough on the phone. Afterwards, once the dishwasher was stacked, plates rinsed first as his mother had always insisted, he ducked his head into the sitting room. His father was already asleep in front of the television but his mother was absent. Swirling the wine in the second glass he was nursing, he padded upstairs in his socks, noting that the carpet needed tightening beneath the stair rods. For all his parents were sprightly for their age, the last thing either of them needed was a broken hip from falling down the stairs. It was automatic to turn right on the landing and push open the door of the room that had been his through his teens and during university. There wasn't much to distinguish it as his room, though technically it still was, the rectory having plenty of other rooms to be designated as 'spares'. The pale, staccato marks left by blue tack, the herald of long lost teenage crushes enshrined on walls, had been painted over and the trinkets and photographs still in situ were all things that lacked the utility or sentiment to have been granted a home in London. The view from the window was unchanged though and Clive ran his finger absently along the well dusted windowsill as he looked out across the damp, misty fields stretching beyond the house.

His mother found him there a while later, so lost in thought that she had joined him at the casement before he even noticed her presence.

'You alright Clive?' she asked gently and he would have given anything right then to be eight years old and able to take comfort in his mother's arms.

'Yeah,' he said, though he did little else to convince her of the truth of the statement. 'Just tired.'

'You could stay, you know, drive back in the morning.'

'I'm not sure head of chambers should be taking liberties with Monday mornings quite so early on in his tenure.'

'If head of chambers can't then who can?'

'Fair point.'

'And if you're head of chambers who is there to complain?'

'Only our office manager.'

'And does what he thinks matter?'

'She, and I guess not.'

'You don't have court tomorrow do you?'

'No, not in till Wednesday I think.'

'So you could have a cognac with your dad, another slice of apple pie…'

The thought was tempting, as was falling into oblivion in the freshly made bed behind him, smaller and far less comfortable than the one in his flat but all the more inviting for being miles away from it.

'You look like you could use it. I swear you don't eat properly,' she fussed.

Clive suddenly felt a pang of sympathy with Martha's frustration when he nagged about her eating habits.

'I eat fine mother, it takes a lot of gym time to keep in shape you know. Can't be ruining all my hard work with too much shortcrust!' Gym time or regular exercise between the sheets which had sadly been rather lacking lately.

His mother swatted him with her hand but at the last minute the blow softened and she rubbed his arm. 'I can tell when a man's moping Clive. Did something else happen?'

'Something else on top of my senior clerk dying and my best friend leaving?'

'It's about Martha then.'

Clive shrugged.

'Just because she's leaving doesn't mean…'

'It does. It's…complicated. My headship, what it means for chambers, it's basically forced her out.'

'So you won't be colleagues any more. That sounds like a step forward to me.'

'There was…personal stuff too. Just trust me we aren't going to be mending bridges any time soon.'

'Well then, maybe it's time to move on.'

Clive flinched but didn't respond.

'I don't dislike Martha, Clive. But if she can't love you the way you love her…'

That roused him enough to speak, stumbling over the words as his brain caught up with the fact that his mother knew, had always known probably. 'How did you…? I didn't even know myself until…'

'Call it mother's intuition. That and the fact hers is the only name we've heard with any regularity over the last twenty years.'

'She's my colleague, and my friend.'

'How many other female colleagues do you spend time with? How many female friends do you really have Clive?'

'Touche.'

'I don't know what we did, your father and I, to raise a son with…uh…shall we say, not quite the attitude towards women we intended…'

'I'm not that bad Mother!' He defended himself automatically before reflecting that recent events made a liar of him somewhat.

'Maybe not now but you've certainly kept a lot of company that rarely translated into the type of relationship where you bring someone home to meet your mother.'

Clive felt uncomfortably hot under his shirt collar, face prickling with heat too as he stared steadfastly out at the rapidly darkening garden.

'And yet, who have we met? Martha. Who's kept your interest and aroused your affection? Martha.'

He winced over his mother's choice of verb. There were some things parents should never say.

'I might be getting old Clive but I'm not a fool.'

'I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing. But you already said it. She doesn't want me, not the way I want her. Sod's law, isn't it? All these years and then when I think about…loving someone, committing to someone, consider settling down, it all falls apart.'

'You been thinking about it? Settling down?'

'You're not the only one not getting any younger.'

She jabbed him with a sharp elbow at that but didn't interrupt now he was finally, really, talking to her.

'But yes, for what it's worth, I was.'

'Well I have to say, Martha Costello doesn't really strike me as the obvious choice for that. Not the marrying kind, certainly not the wife type.'

'I don't really think the wife type is my type.'

'No I suppose not, and that's no bad thing Clive, to be attracted to strong women, independent, intelligent, career-driven, just like you, it's just not giving me any grand babies is it?'

Her tone was light, the comment clearly meant to be teasing but the words struck him, the way offhand comments about children often did. A shadow passed across his face before he could school his features and his mother's blue eyes caught it, the skin around them tightening as she frowned in concern.

'Clive? What is it? Did something happen? I'm so sorry, I didn't…'

He shook his head quickly. 'Mother, it's fine. It's…' He had been about to say 'nothing' but couldn't bring himself to be that dismissive. 'It was a while ago,' he finished instead.

'Oh Clive, why didn't you…' she trailed off, clearly reconsidering her remonstrations and the question was left unsaid as she wrapped her arms around him.

'I didn't really know for that long before… And we weren't…together.'

'Who?' His mother asked, thinking, even as she did, that she already knew, of course she knew.

'Martha.'

There was a long, quiet moment broken only by the shuffling sound as his mum adjusted them both until they were sat on the broad windowsill.

'She wanted a baby about as much as she wanted me,' Clive said, his tone all the more bitter for trying to stay light.

A thought suddenly struck her, cold and practical, but she didn't doubt Martha could be both of those things.

'You said you didn't know for long, before, Clive, she didn't…?'

He knew what she was asking and despite knowing Martha had considered it, the judgement in his mother's tone rankled. Much as he hated the thought of it he couldn't begrudge any woman that choice.

'No! No… There was an incident, a client assaulted her. She miscarried.'

His mother gathered both his hands in hers, tiny bony fingers attempting to clasp and comfort, one thumb stroking the back his hand, the perfectly manicured nail rasping every so often when his hand shook ever so slightly. He rested his shoulder against hers, lightly, and they sat in silence. He knew she understood. There was a reason he was an only child.

He ate the apple pie after all.

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