23 January 1960

"Might I speak to him alone for a moment, Matthew?" Lucien asked.

The superintendent shot him an incredulous look, as if Lucien had just asked permission to kill Derek Alderton, rather than simply speak with him. It was perhaps a bit unorthodox, Lucien knew, but there were questions he needed to ask, questions he was certain Derek would not answer on the record, in an interview room. There would be the official account of the events that had transpired here tonight, Derek's arrival and the subsequent violence, the way Jean and Maureen and Paul had subdued him, and all of that would go into Matthew's report, but Derek's motivations were personal, and Lucien needed to hear the truth from the man himself.

"He hardly presents a risk," Lucien pointed out, gesturing vaguely to the place where Derek sat, handcuffed and bleeding, in the back of Matthew's car. "And I'm unarmed. You know that. Please," he added, belatedly remembering his manners.

"All right," Matthew grumbled, though he was clearly not pleased at the prospect. "You get five minutes. Then I'm taking him to hospital. I imagine he'll need a surgeon for that hand."

Such a delicate thing, a hand, Lucien thought. The human hand was all fine, fragile bones and silk-thread tendons; a bullet through a hand was rather like a hammer against a window pane, and the process of putting all those pieces back together, in working order, would be precise, and agonizing. Derek might not ever regain full use of his hand, after this - if he was able to keep it all, if the surgeons did not declare it too far gone already. He's survived worse, Lucien thought. And strange, but in that moment he felt a certain sense of relief; even if the surgeons did amputate his hand in the end at least Derek was still alive, at least his recklessness, his madness, had not cost him his life. Derek had told him once I am a part of you, Lucien, and you will never be rid of me; perhaps he had been right, on that score. Despite everything that had happened, despite Lucien's rage and his disgust and his grief over what time and war had made of the man he had once called brother, Derek was still a part of him, and Lucien was not prepared to lose him entirely.

His request had been granted and a time limit set, and so Lucien left Matthew to his business, and approached the back of the police car. As he approached Derek lifted his head, watched him with eyes baleful and full of loathing.

"Come to gloat, have you?" Derek sneered, still proud despite his downfall at the hands of a woman.

"Why?" Lucien asked, leaning heavily against the side of the car. He did not elaborate; he knew he did not need to. Even now, after all this, he knew that Derek would understand him. At his question Derek's shoulders slumped, and a sigh slipped past his lips.

"All these years," Derek said, "I have dreamed of peace in Asia and watched that dream slip out of our grasp. It's madness there, Lucien, and I can't contain it. I can't stop it on my own. War is coming, in Indochina. And our enemies are sniffing around it like vultures. I need good men on my side, people I can trust. You remember how it was, in the old days? There was nothing we couldn't do, so long as we were together."

It was Lucien's turn to sigh; yes, he had felt that way, once. Before the war, when he'd begun to suspect that Derek was having an affair with his wife, the trust between them had thinned, but then horror had come for them, and bound them together, and all previous misdeeds were forgotten. Somehow they had survived it, starvation and cruelty, the lash of the whip that nearly spelled the end of Lucien's life, the bayonet that had nearly been Derek's downfall. For a time after they had carried on, facing the world together, but Lucien had pulled away. It was Lucien who had severed the cord that bound them, Lucien who had set Derek aside, and chosen another life. At the time he had thought his friend was strong enough to carry on by himself; only now did he see how wrong he had been.

"I tried to find Mei Lin," Derek said heavily, and Lucien shot upright, no longer leaning against the car but instead staring into his old friend's face in disbelief. "I thought if I found her everything could go back to the way it was. But then I learned she was dead, and I realized I needed a new plan." He looked down at his hand, winced, and then carried on. "When I found you here in Ballarat, that was no accident. I got wind that you were here, and I felt certain you'd come round. But you refused my offer."

"I'm a doctor, Derek," Lucien said sadly. "I'm not soldier, any more."

"Of course you are," Derek hissed. "You are a soldier, and you are one of the best intelligence assets this country has ever had. You can play at whatever part you like but you and I both know the truth."

"Derek-"

"Do you want to hear the rest of the bloody story or not?"

"Yes, all right," Lucien said, casting a glance at his watch. They were rapidly running out of time.

"I thought it was strange that you would be so comfortable here. You always told me you hated this town. So I sent some of the lads on a...well, let's call it a fact finding expedition, shall we? And one of them told me you were sweet on a whore, and that's when I realized the truth. She was the only thing keeping you here. I thought if you soured on her, you might be looking for an excuse to leave, and I was ready to provide you with one."

As Derek spoke Lucien's eyes drifted toward Jean, standing on the pavement with Maureen and Danny and Paul and Matthew. Barefoot, bare-legged, she was a vision, wrapped in his jacket - which swallowed her completely - the black lace hem of her nightdress just visible beneath it. Was Jean the only thing keeping him in Ballarat? He'd told her so, once. But then there was Alice, and Danny, and Matthew, and Mrs. Clasby, and his father's house, and the murders, and the call of a quiet life in a provincial town; maybe he would have stayed, even without her. He prayed he'd never have to find out.

"What was your plan?" Lucien asked him softly, still watching Jean.

"I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. Six hundred pounds, in exchange for one night. Enough to send her to Adelaide. And once I'd had a bit of fun-" Lucien blanched, appalled by the very idea - "I was going to...remove her from the equation. And take my money with me."

"You were going to kill her?" Lucien, horrified and utterly flabbergasted by the heartlessness of such a plan. This man had been his friend, once, and now talked of killing an innocent woman - after he'd had his fun - with the same casual detachment most men reserved for talking about the weather.

"One woman, against thousands," Derek said with a shrug. "She'd die, but if it brought you on side, if you helped me avert a total disaster in Indochina...well. That would have been worth the sacrifice, wouldn't it?"

Across the carpark Lucien could see her, the tumble of her soft, dark hair, the way she'd wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off the terror of the night. Jean, beautiful Jean, small and lovely in his jacket, Jean who was so brave, so strong, Jean who meant everything to him, had nearly died, for his sake. Shame and guilt surged through him, overwhelmed by the thought that he had brought this danger to her door, that in loving him she had risked her own life, and not even known it. All he wanted, in that moment, was to go to her, to hold her, to beg her forgiveness and promise never to let her go.

As if she felt his eyes upon her Jean looked up, then, and his heart shattered afresh at the sight of her pale face in the glow of the street lamp. He'd gotten his answers from Derek; he did not wish to hear another word, nor did he wish to ever see this man again. Let the army and the police do with him what they would; Lucien could take no more.

"This is the end, Derek," Lucien told his old friend grimly. "I never want to-"

"Lucien!" Jean suddenly shrieked, and even from this distance he could see that her eyes were round and scared. On reflex Lucien ducked beneath the windows of the car; he had no sooner bent his knees than the sudden sounds of gunshots and screaming and shattering glass swirled through the air above his head like some terrible typhoon. For one mad moment he was transported back through time to the day of the invasion, the horror that had rained down from the heavens, the devastation of the beautiful city that had been his home, the blood of his friends running like rivers through the streets.

He froze only for a moment, however, for Jean had screamed, and she was more vital to him than his own life. Desperate to determine what the bloody hell was going on Lucien eased himself up and looked through the window above his head just in time to see Sergeant Hannam stride into view, and carefully place his gun on the ground at his feet. The back windows of the police car had been shattered, and Derek was slumped against the seatback in front of him, blood and worse sprayed everywhere, and with a single glance Lucien could tell that he was dead already. There was no doubt what had happened; while Lucien had been looking at Jean she had been looking behind him, had seen Hannam march up with his gun in his hand, and when the shots rang out, Derek had been the clear target. Hannam was too much a professional to make such a miscalculation.

Matthew and Danny came racing over, but Hannam remained right where he was, calm and unflappable, and the moment Matthew warily reached for him Hannam extended his hands, and allowed Matthew to take him over at once, to press him face-first against the car while Matthew cuffed his hands behind his back.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" Matthew demanded, the rage and the adrenaline he felt evident in his voice.

"Sergeant Robert Hannam," the man answered. "Third Regiment. Fourth Division. Army number 2-6-0-5-2."

It was precisely the same answer the man had given the last time they'd had him in custody; no matter how they'd tried he had not spoken a single word other than to identify himself, and Lucien was certain he would not do so now. Whatever Hannam's reasons for doing what he'd done, murdering Derek in cold blood, Lucien would not learn them from this man's lips. He turned away in disgust.

And when he did he once more caught sight of Jean, and something deep within his heart seemed to snap. Without another thought for Derek, or the Sergeant, or the terrible events that had led them all to this place he marched towards her, implacable, relentless, and did not stop until he reached her, and gathered her at once in his arms. Her hands fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him into her as she shuddered and wept in his arms, painting the skin of his neck with her tears.

"It's all right, my darling," Lucien whispered, tangling one of his hands in her hair and holding her closer still. "It's all right. It's over now."