8 August 1959

Lucien passed a long and sleepless night behind the wheel of his father's old Holden, parked beside the pavement a hundred yards from Jean's front door. A parade of gentlemen had made their way through the front door of the Lock and Key that evening, but none of them were Derek Alderton. None of them were in uniform, either, and none of them struck Lucien as particularly unusual; they were local men, come to the pub on a Friday evening to satisfy themselves and return home poorer but perhaps happier than they had been an hour before. Lucien wanted to detest them, but he knew how much money he had passed from his own pocket into Jean's hand, and he knew he could not judge them for their choices, when he had done much the same.

Midnight came and went; someone locked the front door, the lights went out, and no further visitors came to call. The next few slow, dark hours of the night were the hardest to bear, for Lucien was left utterly alone, without even the distraction of a drunken pedestrian to occupy him, consumed entirely by memories, and by grief.

Why had Derek done this thing? That was what Lucien could not understand. Why come to the pub, why threaten Jean, or her child, why try to purchase an evening with her? What did Derek stand to gain, if she agreed? That was the part Lucien couldn't puzzle out. They had not parted on the best of terms, Lucien and Derek, but there had been no outright brawl between them, and he had thought their business settled when Hannam was remanded to face whatever paltry punishment the Army saw fit, when Derek disappeared back into the murky depths from which he had so recently resurfaced. Yes, Lucien knew of the part Derek had played in the plot at Anzac Day, but he hardly posed a threat to his old friend; if he'd been able to prove Derek's involvement he would have done it at the time. Why then should Derek come looking to upend his life now, four months later?

And why Jean? Why not come to Lucien directly; why try to buy her services, why swear her to secrecy, and not let word of his intentions get back to Lucien? What would he do, once he found himself alone with her? Did he have some terrible plan in mind, or did he only want to sleep with her, as Lucien had done? Rage filled him at the very thought of Derek's hands against Jean's pale skin; Jean was too good, had suffered too much, and Derek had proven himself to be a danger. Jean did not deserve this, to be caught up in his machinations, to be used so cruelly. Memories Lucien had long since lost to time began to surface, then, coming back to haunt him as he sat alone in the car. Though he'd never been able to prove it, in the days before the war Lucien had begun to suspect that something was brewing between Derek and Mei Lin. A look held too long, the lingering brush of his hand against the small of her back, the pair of them laughing as they danced at a summertime party, before everything fell apart. Lucien had suspected, but never confronted them; he loved his wife, loved his child, loved his home and his life, loved Derek, too - damn the man - who was as good as his brother. There had been no cooling in Mei Lin's affections towards him, and then the war had come, and Mei Lin was taken from him and he and Derek had been plunged into hell and there'd seemed no point, at the time, in having it out with him. What did it matter, whether Derek had slept with his wife, when they were starving and beaten in the internment camp? And after, they had traveled Asia together, working in intelligence, and Derek had kept Lucien alive and aided in his pitiful efforts to find his wife and thoughts of betrayal had faded with the passage of time.

Oh, but he could see it now, playing like a film reel in his mind, the night of the party when he'd seen them dancing; he could see the twinkling lights, could smell the jasmine, could hear the shimmery sound of Mei Lin's laughter, bright and clear as a bell. Had Derek done this thing, all those years before, and was he looking to do it again? Was that the reason he'd sought Jean out, some dastardly attempt at revenge, taking out his frustrations with Lucien in the filthiest of ways? Somehow Lucien didn't think that could be all it was; somehow, he rather thought there was more to Derek's scheme. He did not yet know what that might be, but as the sun began to rise he tried to focus less on questions and more on devising a plan of attack.

Derek must have been close by. Matthew had seen him in town, and he'd been to Jean's a bare half-hour before Lucien arrived. The last time Derek had visited he'd stayed in a hotel, but instinct told Lucien that would not be the case, this time. This time, he had not come on official business - or at least, not only on business - and surely Hannam would be locked up somewhere. Derek would want the protection of a stout fence and a base full of soldiers around him, would not want to risk being caught out as he had been before. When the day broke it would be Saturday, but Lucien carried his official identification as police surgeon in his wallet, and he rather thought he might be able to bluff his way onto the base. They would not leave him to his own devices, but he imagined he'd be escorted to some office, to wait for the Major to arrive. And once he did…

Yes, and then what? He asked himself. Derek knew about young Christopher, where he lived, where he served, knew about his family, and Derek had told Jean not to mention his visit. Lucien's arrival at the base would give evidence of her disobedience; would that alone be enough to put Jean and her son in danger? Lucien had no proof of wrongdoing on Derek's part - the purchasing of a woman's body was itself not illegal, and no court would take the word of a madam over the word of a seasoned Army officer. There was no charge he could lay at Derek's feet, and while confronting him face-to-face might at least provide Lucien with some answers, he could not guarantee Jean's safety. The two thoughts twined within him, looping around and around one another, coiling tighter and tighter. He had to keep Jean safe; he had to know what Derek was doing. He was not certain he could achieve both goals.

And if their conversation should turn from words to blows, should Lucien's grief over the path his friend had taken, his remembered ire over the infidelity of his wife and his dearest friend, his rage at the thought of Derek taking Jean as he had taken Mei Lin, boil over into physical violence it would not only be his body that suffered. Striking an officer on the base, after lying about his purposes in trying to gain entry, in fisticuffs over a prostitute, would likely cost Lucien his position as police surgeon, and the damage to his reputation might spell an end to his practice. He might well ruin both his life and Jean's, should he go to Derek now.

But how could he stay away? How could he allow Derek to continue his games, with Jean his pawn? How could he sit back and bide his time when his heart was full to bursting with questions? He feared he would not know peace, until those questions had been answered. If it had been daylight when he first learned of Derek's machinations he would not have hesitated in seeking the man out at once, but the darkness forced him to bide his time, and all those long hours of waiting stole his sense of purpose, left him full of doubts instead.

As the first weak rays of sunlight began to filter through the window beside him Lucien stared out at the Lock and Key, thinking how much things had changed since he'd first walked through that door. He'd never anticipated, that dreary night in May, that he might meet a woman he adored as completely as he did Jean, that he might find some reason to stay in Ballarat, to be happy there, that he might find his child at last, and yet discover her cold and untrusting of him. He could never have imagined -

As Lucien watched, a man came marching swiftly down the pavement, heading straight for the pub. The stranger was dressed in a smart uniform, his posture rigid, his shoulders broad. Though he wore a hat Lucien could see the lad was too short and too young to be Derek, yet there could be no mistaking his destination, and in the next breath Lucien had leapt from the car, and chased off after him. It could not be a coincidence, he thought, a soldier making his way to the Lock and Key in the first light of dawn, when no one else would dare come to call, when Derek had been there only the night before. As Lucien ran down the pavement the lad drew level with the door, and knocked on it sharply.

"Oi!" Lucien cried, his voice ringing out above the sound of his shoes slapping on the pavement. The soldier looked up, startled; Lucien raced up the veranda towards him and the lad steeled himself, not running from a fight but preparing to face it head on, as any good soldier would. They crashed together with stupendous force; Lucien dropped his shoulder at the last second and slammed the lad back against the wall beside the door, setting the windows to rattling as he tried to pin the man's hands. The soldier cursed as Lucien knocked the wind out of him, kneed Lucien hard in the hip and struggled to free his right hand, desperate to get a crack in. They tussled together, breathless, for a moment, but then the door beside them swung open.

"What on earth!" Jean cried, and Lucien was so startled by the sound of her voice that his concentration slipped, and the lad wriggled from his grip, reversed their positions and forced Lucien face-first into the wall.

"I don't know what kind of place you're running here, lady," the lad growled breathlessly, "but I'm not looking for trouble."

"You've a fine way of showing it," Lucien grumbled, the bricks cold against his face. He did not try to free himself; the soldier had not tried to hit him or wound him once he gained the upper hand, only seemed to be trying to hold him still, and Lucien wanted to see what happened next.

"I'm just here to deliver a letter," the soldier answered. "You're Mrs. Beazley, then?"

"I am," Jean answered. Lucien could not see her, but he could hear the edge in her voice, and he knew then that he was in for a bollocking.

"Here," the lad said. There was the shuffling sound of paper changing hands, and then the soldier spoke to Lucien.

"You promise you won't do anything stupid if I let you go?"

"I do."

"Right, then."

All at once the soldier relaxed, and Lucien spun out of his grip, turned to face Jean. He tugged his waistcoat back into place, still breathing like a bellows, but the soldier was already walking away, his business done, no doubt glad to be shot of them both. A part of Lucien's heart wanted to race after him, demand who'd sent him and for what purpose, but he supposed the letter would be answer enough, and the young man was no more than a messenger.

"What on earth-" Jean started to ask again. Lucien took a moment to look at her, really look at her, and despite the chaos of the last few minutes he couldn't help but smile. She wore a heavy pink chenille robe that covered her from throat to ankle, and her face was free from makeup, her hair adorably mussed as if she'd only just woken. She looked...soft, and lovely, and her face was a welcome sight after a long night spent in the car.

"I think we'd best go inside, Jean," Lucien told her.

For a moment she looked as if she meant to disagree with him, but then she sighed, and held the door open wide in invitation.

"Come on, then," she said. "I've started the kettle."