A time like no other

by Warks1999

It was an ever changing world, but a world that would soon be at War, with consequences that would devastate families forever... their family included. A new adventure, setting the characters back in time to World War II. Enjoy :)

79. La Noche De Los Muertos

Chapter 79: La Noche De Los Muertos 7th October 1942

Geraldine really didn't fancy going out that night but that was the problem of being married to Sean Devlin. Church visits were inevitable. The man practically lived at the church rather than at home, often found at mass or busying himself around Father Peter. His devotion to his religion was commendable if a little too obsessive, but when she was roped into having to go to, it left her with a somewhat sour taste in her mouth. She was no atheist like Anna, but she was more than happy with just going to church on a Sunday rather than every day of the week. It wasn't right to have to go every day, there being only so many sins that one could commit in a twenty four hour period. Some nights she was saved from going with him when he either relented or she had other things to do but not that Wednesday. She was going to have to go.

Tying up the laces of her shoes, the green wedge heeled pair that he'd bought her for her birthday a few years earlier, she was almost ready to go. Taking a brief look out of the window, despite the darkening skies outside, Geraldine could see the trees swaying in the wind. It wasn't too violent of a gale, but it would be enough to be felt, that was for certain. She already had her jacket on though, wrapping herself up nice and warm for the walk over to church. On a Wednesday night there was never much of a crowd for mass, no more than ten some weeks. That ten or more always included Joe McCool's brother Colm, though she was well versed in staying away from him so as to not entice him into talking. Nights would become even longer if he began a story.

Upstairs, her husband was still putting together the final touches of his own outfit for church. One of Sean's pet hates, one of many in fact, was tying his tie. He'd always hated having to do so, every morning before work was a huffing fest when he would knot it or not get it quite right. Church was even more important to him than his day job was, ensuring that he would not looking anything other than spot on whenever he went to the house of God. Never swearing whenever it went wrong, he instead gave out frustrated sighs that his wife would often hear throughout the house, no matter how quiet he was. That night was no different, his tie not looking quite right after at least four or five attempts at getting it so.

The tie he'd gone for that night was a simple black one. Despite their relatively modest income, his collection of ties was quite vast. There were at least twenty, perhaps thirty, coming in a range of different colours despite the lack of outfits for them to match to. He didn't care so much though, requiring the item of clothing to be able to look at his finest. Father Peter wasn't a man who noticed such things as whether a tie was in place or not, but it was not the Father that he was attempting to impress. There was no attempt at impression anyway, it was more an attempt to not attract any comments from the older members of the church community. The veteran snipers whose comments could kill, albeit not literally, but very much metaphorically.

As usual with his visits out to church, there were other motives for Sean that night. His daughter's situation still concerned him after the time she'd had to grieve over the Bishop's nephew. They would have made an almost perfect couple in his eyes, and certainly the young fella had wanted to marry his Clare, but fate stole him away. He still believed there was more to it than that, but Sean could hardly go about proving anything. A young man with few enemies, it stood to reason that unless it really was some form of robbery that went wrong, which was odd when he still had valuables left on him, it was a pre-meditated assault. The cops didn't seem to be too bothered, though when he'd asked them if they thought it could have been planned, they didn't rule it out. Nothing could be ruled out in reality, but with a lack of credible evidence available, the investigation was over.

There was a thought that Sean couldn't shake from his mind though, a theory as to one person who might have known more than they were letting on. He didn't like Michelle Mallon, a clash of personalities that were very much different, but there was a mysterious scent around the Bishop's nephew's death that reeked of her. It almost appeared like a clumsy killing, as if perhaps the fella's death wasn't the intention of the attacker or attackers, which brought her very much into the picture for him. The lad wasn't too bad looking and though he'd not considered that Michelle could become jealous when she seemed to have a list of men on her arm that was longer than the River Nile, he couldn't put it past her either. Whether it could have driven her to kill he was not sure, but when he already thought little of her, it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine her as a murderer either. He was right about looking to her family for a killer, albeit not the one of the Bishop's nephew, but he'd chosen the wrong cousin. The person with the temperament to kill in that family was very much English…

Sharing his thoughts on the lad's death with his wife or daughter were out of the question, but the death meant he still needed to complete his mission. Clare's grieving was understandable for a few weeks, time which was very much up. It was going to be a difficult task to find a fella as good as the one she nearly married, patience having to be utilised again, he knew. There was always going to be someone out there for everyone; his Clare just hadn't found the right man yet. Ignoring his mind for a moment, Sean heard the footsteps on the bottom few stairs, signalling Geraldine's arrival up them. Fastening his tie in a last ditched attempt to get it perfect, finally it was how he wanted it, an excited cheer brought from his lungs at it. Exiting the bathroom, he came across a curious sight that stopped him in his tracks. Geraldine was at the top of the stairs, just outside Clare's room, fiddling with the section of the banister that was outside it. Their house's rather open nature, more like an American Saloon, meant there was a banister almost all of the way across the top floor, except from by the bathroom where the wall took over.

"What's up love?" He enquired, rather confused.

"This banister still isn't right, Sean". She told him straight, pushing against it so it wobbled. "I thought you'd fixed it?"

Running the risk of coping a smack to the cheek, Geraldine forgot herself after becoming annoyed. The issue with the banister was not a new one, Clare having first discovered it one morning when she'd put her hand on it, only to nearly crash through it onto the hard floor below. Her scream at the time could have been heard five streets away, the two of them rushing from the kitchen to find there was no real panic at all. Sean declared that morning that he would get round to having a look at the banister, his wife and daughter instructed not to touch it until he had done. A couple of weeks later when she'd enquired with him again about whether the task was complete, he assured her that it was. When she'd nearly suffered Clare's fate that evening, the question was going to have to be asked again.

"I did, love". He assured her. "It must have come loose again".

Sean was committing a bare faced lie to his wife, not that it hurt him too much. That was what confession was for after all. When he'd been asked to take a look at the banister, he'd forgotten about it when it was hardly a matter of life and death. Then when the follow up question came weeks later, he was reminded of the fact he'd done nothing about it, and rather than come clean to his wife, he simply said it was done. She wasn't going to go and inspect it herself, the banister repair becoming a harmless lie. Unfortunately, lies had a horrible way of catching up to people, his mistruths very much catching up to him that evening. He wouldn't be able to do anything about it when they needed to get to Mass, but he was sighing internally, already conceding that he would have to have another look.

"I'll take a look when I get a chance…". He grumbled.

"Thanks, love". Geraldine hummed, leaning forward to peck him on the cheek. "Are ye alright? Ye don't seem… yerself".

Her husband feeling unwell or unhappy was not alien to Geraldine, but he did not ever appear downcast before going to church. He enjoyed going that much, that there was nothing that could ever faze him about attending. Their importance within the community was enhanced by his continued presence as almost the right-hand man of Father Peter, a friend to Sean and to her too. It didn't take much thought on her part to guess what was wrong, though it frustrated her once again, seeing as they'd already spoken about the matter at hand that morning, where she assumed there was nothing more to discuss.

"I'm fine". He shook his head to try to deter her.

"Sean…". She spoke his name gently, offering a loving smile that was rare after so many years of marriage. "I think I've known ye long enough to know when somethin's wrong. Talk to me, love".

"I'm grand, Geraldine. We don't need to discuss anything". He stiffened, stood up like a plank.

"It's about where Clare is tonight, isn't it?"

Opening up and discussing his feelings was not something that Sean Devlin did. One way of life that he did take on and appreciate from the Brits, was the stiff upper lip of the gentleman. He'd seen it in James from time to time, not least when present before the war on a couple of occasions where his cousin would run her mouth at him. Michelle was very much the problem on his mind, stood at the top of the stairs, awkwardly shifting for a moment before crossing his arms as he sighed, tongue pressed into his cheek. Clare was not at home with them, nor was she going to be joining them at church that night. Instead, she was spending the evening at the Mallon house before returning later. Deirdre very graciously accommodated her within their rations, though he suspected they were topped up with smuggled goods from across the border, Clare heading straight there from work when she finished later on. Although he did not agree with their parental dealings, he trusted Deirdre and Martin to look out for her; Michelle he did not. He wanted his daughter to spend less time with the rebellious harlot who could easily lead her down the wrong path, not more.

"I don't like that Mallon girl… you know that". He started to open up, angrily from a certain point of view. "She's a bad influence on our Clare!"

"Sean!" His wife reprimanded him. "The Mallon's are our friends. Michelle is a little…".

"Devious… dishonourable… disgustin'…".

"Different. It doesn't mean that she's goin' to make Clare act the same way. They've been friends for years and they look out for each other!"

"Look at all the trouble she's got Clare in though, love".

His argument back might have been spiteful, but it wasn't untrue. Whenever Clare was in any kind of trouble at school or out of it, it came as no surprise to him that Michelle was either the instigator or another accomplice in it. Erin and Orla could equally get their little group into just as much bother, but it was mostly out of negligence, on the former's part and innocence, on the latter's. Michelle always knew what she was doing though, to the extent that there was some truth to be had in his wandering thought that she could be some form of devil child. Sean was hardly going to scour her body for an engraved triple six, but there was a wildness to the girl that he could not abide by. When her actions led to their daughter becoming embroiled in scenarios that she was not built for, it always enraged him.

"They're young, Sean. They are allowed to make mistakes". Geraldine once again seemed to be against him. "I know that they go a wee bit too far sometimes, but they still look after each other. Michelle's not as bad as ye think ye know".

"Wise up, love, ye know what she gets up to!" Sean took a harsher tone with her. "That girl spends more time on her back than she does her feet!"

"Sean!"

"No Love, it's true! I don't want her passing that… lifestyle… onto Clare! She needs to be settled with a good fella, to have children and do her wifely duties! Not grovel around in the gutter like some street wh-".

"That's enough! Ye can't keep attackin' Michelle to… to get away from yer own worries!"

Standing up to her husband like never before, Geraldine could hardly believe herself. She was a fool for taking a stand against him when he would not back down willingly on a topic that he was certain he was correct about. No one could convince him otherwise about Michelle, but for once he was not angry with his wife for letting him know how she felt. It took a lot to make him see the error of his ways, but she'd managed it. He was mostly concerned that night not because Clare was at the Mallon's with Michelle, but because there was still no fella in his daughter's life. Excusing Orla when she'd already found love and lost it, he looked to both Erin and even Michelle, for the two of them did have love in their life. Michelle's were always fleeting though they did happen, yet Erin had her American fella and before that, James. His Clare, as beautiful as she was, did not have the resolve they seemed to hold to be able to find herself someone without him doing it for her. It was as if she didn't care, though he assumed it was more that her confidence was low. He certainly did not suspect the truth.

"I know. I'm sorry, Geraldine, I… I just don't want to attract any unwanted attention, ye know". He tried to explain himself, hands finding his pockets.

"Yer too hung up on these old vultures in church, Sean". She shook her head dismissively. "We can't run Clare's life because of what a few old gossips with nothin' better to do say about us. Clare will find someone… we just have to wait".

"But we've been sayin' that for years!" He resumed the role of his usual self in reply. "Look at her friends… the people she went to school with… they're all on the arms of some fella or have at least courted. Clare just… she doesn't have their attitude".

"Attitude like that can't be forced Sean… she has to make her own way".

"We've tried that, love and it's done nothin'. I just wished…. I just wished that Clare would understand that it's her duty in life".

Old-fashioned in his ways, the draconian Sean inherited the traditional belief that it was the woman's only jobs in life. Become a good wife, bear children… that was what women were there for in his mind. He raised Clare to believe in those dutiful ways, though she'd long strayed from the path in her teenage years when she knew her impulses led her down a very much differing one. He thought he was an observant father, but he was yet to see how unhappy his daughter was in a world that did not accept who she really was. The reach of the church could not be outran, guaranteeing that she would never be free, no matter where she went. Unless she decided to become feral, living away from the rest of society that would scorn her for her choices, Clare had to obey. She obeyed his wishes always… except the one that mattered above all. Her duty as a woman.

"It's wrong that I have to spend my time at church with my ear to the ground, listenin' out to see if there were any fella's who she could be with". Sean rattled off his worries to his understanding wife. "I am a middle-aged man, Geraldine. I shouldn't be snoopin' like a teenager but when she won't do anything for herself, I have to!"

"Our Clare's a very… nervous… woman, Sean. I know it frustrates ye… it does me too at times, but she can't help that she doesn't know what to say to a fella".

"She could still make the effort to try. But she never does…".

"To hurt herself when she makes a scene?" Geraldine questioned. "Why do ye think she doesn't try?"

To that, he had no answer, Sean instead huffing and frowning when his wife was once again correct. He hated to be outthought by her, when she should have kept herself concerned with the housework or the washing, feeling his manhood dissolving whenever he conceded. However, it could not be disagreed that their daughter was a nervous wreck at times. The gene was very much inherited from Geraldine, who'd been quite nervous herself at Clare's age, but not as far as having a cack attack at the sound of a dog barking. Clare's nerves were a gene he'd tried to break her out of unsuccessfully before, finding that her natural reactions simply could not be tampered with. Living with them did not work though, there being no way around getting her to become more confident in herself. The secret to unlocking that confidence was buried beneath a mountain of lies, deception and illegal, scandalous feelings that would ruin him just as much as the secret getting out would ruin Clare. He would have to pick up the slack, where she could not.

He wasn't quite done though. Not just yet.

"I thought that… I thought maybe James might have been the right fella but…".

"Most people do like the fella". Geraldine mused. "Even if he is English. He would have been perfect for her but ye can't force him into it, Sean. Anyway, I reckon he's only got his eyes for Erin… not that she wants to be with him anymore".

"As I've said…". Sean snorted. "I'm not one for gossip but what in God's name does she see in that American. James is a far better man".

Wanting to laugh at her husband engaging in such behaviour, Geraldine instead decided to embrace a rarely seen side to the man that she married. He wasn't wrong in his thoughts though; just about every woman in Derry was wondering the same thing. She'd only caught sight of the fella a couple of times herself, outside of the day James returned, but he was nowhere near as handsome as the wee English fella was. The allure of the Yanks wore off a long time ago, which took away any sort of advantage that the Lieutenant might have had. A lot of them were proving to be quite troublesome with the young local women, wooing them with their superior wages and tanned skin but there were good fellas amongst them too. None of them could stand up to James though, a gentleman of qualities that she'd never quite seen before. Aside from how handsome that he was, from whatever she'd seen of him, if you were his friend or family then you would receive his care and attention whenever it was required. He was the complete opposite to her husband, though she dared not dwell on such a fact in case it brought her to tears.

"Erin always has had her own ideas. If she loves that American then that's her choice… maybe that's where we should look for Clare".

"Amongst the Americans!?" He reared up. "Catch yourself on, love, I'm not letting Clare have relations with one of them!"

"It doesn't seem to be doin' Erin any harm, does it? Ye never know, we might be able to help her. Her fella might take a shine to our Clare and then she can be with James again".

"Don't be ridiculous, love. We can't be gettin' ourselves involved in that!" Sean took his turn to reprimand her. "No, we'll find Clare a good local lad that she can be happy with. I know that's what's best for her".

What was best for Clare was radically different to what her Da knew, but he would never be able to know what she wanted. Her parents would not look at her the same way again if she told them of her lack of interest in men, the family shunned by the whole city. She would not be a part of the family either at that point, a life in a convent far away sealed for her if her delinquency from Sean's set plan of her life was revealed. Unaware of such knowledge, it left Sean with a task on his hands to be able to find his daughter a man to marry. He wasn't just fighting a losing battle; he was continuing on a fighting a war that was long over.

"We best be off… can't be late for Mass".

Correct in what he was saying, being late for Mass not being in their best interests, Sean led his wife downstairs and out of the now unoccupied house. At least what they thought was an unoccupied house.

Returning, using the back door to enter, Clare came home first unexpectedly, earlier than she should have done.

She heard every word of what they were saying.

Yet again, she was terrified for the future.

---

James was a tired man.

A very, very tired man.

Some days since he'd came back were slow, mundane days where barely anyone would turn up and his main job would be filing and cooling off any arguments between the McLaughlin's. A far cry from the job description of a normal bank manager, he didn't mind those days every so often and he certainly hoped Thursday would be better than Wednesday. He'd never quite seen the bank so busy, nor did he understand why it was, though he'd decided not to question it. There were strange occurrences all over the city at random times, making a busy day at the bank almost a normality to some extent.

As soon as he got in from work, he got on with his dinner for the night, deciding to treat himself. A bit of bacon and an egg, far from a treat outside of wartime, but more than enough during it. During his time on the Illustrious, he'd became used to having to eat in smaller amounts, making rationing far from difficult. Unlike some, he was not one to use smuggled in goods from the border across the south to supplement his meals. Everything that James ate came through his ration book, apart from some mushrooms which he'd found growing in the garden. When they grew wildly on the lawn, they were not subject to rationing. He was going to get his vegetable patch up and going at some point too, as well as getting himself some chickens to have fresh eggs for himself, but those were all plans for the other side of winter, when the days were brighter. Until then it was the ration book and the ration book only.

By nine o'clock, he was ready to go to bed, though he decided to read for a short while first. It was a hardly a thrilling read to most, but to him it meant the world. One gift that Captain Smithers gave him in Gibraltar was rather unexpected, an honour not given to many but one that would not be denied the heir to the throne, even if he did not ask for it. For weeks he'd put himself off reading, yet the timing seemed right that night. He wasn't going to read it to boost his ego, not really having one to boost despite having an image to maintain. A gentleman didn't need such vanity. A proud officer who never got to experience the triumphs of his greatest achievement in the flesh would want to read about it. The report he was reading was not the one that was put out in the newspapers nor the official record that the Fleet Air Arm held at Admiralty House in London about Taranto. Both reports similarly did not mention him, thanks to the diligent work of Smithers and Lieutenant Colonel Menzies. Admiral Cunningham's initial complete report however, did. That was what he decided to read before he went to bed. The true account of the heroics of that night.

He was so proud of the men at his command when he bedded down, going over the details and coupling them with his own recollections of the night. Those recollections still included David's death, but for the first time when he thought of it, the feelings of guilt did not resonate. He was not to blame for the death of his friend anyway, finally seeing so properly for perhaps the first time since. It appeared his second in command, Lieutenant Barnes, took over the operation and led it to success, completing crippling the Italian Fleet to finish the job he'd started. Seeing the names of the pilots from his squadron, he could only hope that the majority of them were still alive, fighting for their freedoms. One other Swordfish was lost that night along with its crew but the rest of them still could have been alive. The hope that he would see them all again flashed across his mind, but he would not count on the fact. Not in wartime.

Eventually, the report finished, the Englishman yawning, candle lights went out for the night. After the day he'd had, there was no doubt that he would be away in minutes. A content, peaceful night's sleep lay ahead.

For a while it was… at least until his mind began to work against him, not for the first time since he'd come home.

He didn't know exactly when the dream started, but it started for sure. There was something that clicked, a change in the mind that immediately signalled that there was a dream of some ilk that was taking place. Subconsciously, James was aware that there was a shift in circumstances, though whatever he was doing, he was still flat on his back. Most of the dreams, or in fact, nightmares, that he could remember, he was stood up not laying down. It was most peculiar but then all dreams were different, making his just another one amongst many. Thinking of some of the more recent midnight memories though, it could very easily be yet another one that he would have to hope he could forget.

Lying down in the dream, his eyes were open when they looked up. Above him was an open canvas of a ceiling, that contained nothing but a small light fixing of some description, that was just at the edge of his field of view. Whatever it was, it didn't detract from the blank nature of the ceiling that he was looking at. He was used to such ceilings, having had to stare at them for many a night during a couple of years of his life that were spent in captivity. In Taranto, the ceiling of Professor Molinari's house was very much a drab picture, the Englishman used to having to stare up at it when there was little else to do at night to amuse himself. It was the same story in Rome, except a lot of nights there were spent in pain, James unable to move after another torture session with Doctor Van Der Heijden and Lieutenant Hartmann. His own pain was not the only thing that sprang to mind though, far from it in fact.

Her death might not have occurred on the ceiling, nor did it in Rome when he was in agony, but memories of Giovanna assaulted his mind. Beautiful Giovanna that was taken by the war too early, a life to lead where she would have made another man very happy. The dream whispered to James, or rather the Italian woman did during it, that he should have accepted her advances, not rejected them. He could have been that man when she was offering herself to him, drawn in by his good looks to match her own. James did not accept though, nor would he in hindsight, which was such a frustrating weapon of the mind. There was so much he could, and would, have done differently, with information available to him. In another life he would try to save the life of the Italian agent, not wishing for her to give up her life for him to be able to live his. When it was stagnant as it was upon his return to Derry, it was almost not worth him living at all, his value to the country having receded dramatically.

There was more though, the more he looked at the ceiling, the more certain that he was of it. Taranto and Rome were both places of his captivity that he did not remember fondly for differing, but ultimately quite similar reasons when reviewed. The stench of betrayal reeked out both places, betrayals from Professor Molinari and Doctor Van Der Heijden, even his own mother's betrayal of the Nazi's she'd been working against undercover. That smell was not present in the dream, albeit it was secondary to the other thought that he held during the midnight trip to another realm. Above his bed in both Italian cities was an object, an item that helped him more than it hindered him. Although in the latter city, it was used to tie him to on a couple of occasions, the bar that hung above his bed helped to keep him in shape. The same story occurred in Taranto too. He exercised using the bar that hung above the bed, pull ups keeping his upper body incredibly muscular, which had been lost slightly since he'd set foot in Northern Ireland. Like at home, in the dream, there was no bar above the bed. Perhaps he was not dreaming of his time in Italy at all…

Uncertain of where the dream now was, where it was going to take him was up for conjecture. Some dreams would peter out, the victim waking from them to regain a sense of reality when they'd been in a different world. It was not the case for the young banker, who soon found that his eyes were moving, away from the glum landscape of a ceiling that was above him, head tiling out to the right. His whole body appeared to shift in the dream, but of its own accord rather than him being pushed. The location that he was imagining was pitting him alone, a blessing if it was some sort of hybrid dream of his time in Italy, where it was the work of others that left him scarred. John-Paul was ruled out too, as there were no thick ceilings at the top of the Pyrenees, other than the peaks of the mountains that the two stood on months earlier, when James was forced into ending his life.

When his head settled again, in his dream-like state, James could see the fabric of the covers that were covering him. Although he was able to see them, it made little difference in telling him what he was dreaming about when they were white, plain and without a pattern of any sort that he could see. Although it was dark in the dream, so there could have been an inscription somewhere. Such obscurities were lost on him though, instead the Englishman left himself a different focus; a window. Reinforcing the darkness of the ceiling and the covers, he could not see what was out there beyond the panes of glass, leaving the young man even more confused. France could have been what he was dreaming of, but the places that he'd stayed on his escape through the country were more often than not stables and barns, both of which were without windows, just having large openings instead. It could have been Italy again though, his mind casting images in the dream, not ones that resonated on the other side, but ones directly in front of him. He could see his friend, Frank, the pigeon he'd made friends with in Taranto which followed him all of the way to Rome. Frank was his only companion for a long time, but he was killed far too soon, still in use as a confidante at the time.

The dream was fast moving and yet again, James' brain detected an issue with the thoughts of where he was in it. If he was in Italy, whether it was Rome or Taranto, there was a significant problem with the window he was staring out of, into the darkness. In both cities, the pilot at the time was held underground rather than on a floor or in a regular prison or camp. Whether it was Molinari's basement or the cellar floor of the compound he was kept on, he did not have the luxury of a window on his right side. There was nothing at all to the right when he thought more on it, having just a blank wall for company. A blank wall that was just as empty as the ceiling, where the canvas of his dream began. He simply could not have been dreaming of his time in Italy, as not even a combination of both rooms he was held in, could explain why there was a window off to his right. Unless the window was trying to tell him something, to look deeper into himself during the dream to solve the mystery of where he was. If that was the case though, fate's dream picked the wrong man; he didn't think that deeply.

"James…".

Already having whispered Giovanna's name at him, the dream was now whispering his own too. It was said much more quietly than hers though, as if whoever was doing it was a lot further away this time. Still staring out into the darkness, none the wiser as to what the dream was about, impulses during it told the man to move, his body responding without him having to send the order through his brain consciously. Slowly he began to rise, seeing other items which were out of place if the dream was of his time in Italy. In neither Taranto nor Rome, were there dressers or a wardrobe off to his front on the right side, though there was a chair in the room, one similarity the dream did have with Rome at least. It was too general of an object, a lot of rooms having chairs in them, to tell him that it was the compound where his subconscious journey was taking him. He wasn't there… he was somewhere else entirely.

"James…".

He heard his name again, his body jerking up to complete the final part of its rising from where it was laying down. Thrown forward with force, the invisible barrier of the dream world appeared to have been breached. After a minute or so of dream-state confusion at the location of his dream, it was all rather apparent after a couple of seconds sat up. He was where he started not transported back to somewhere he'd been before. There was no Taranto, no Rome, no Gibraltar… no anywhere else other than where his night of sleep began when his head hit the pillow. There may not have been any dream at all, such was the realisation that him when he began to regain a semblance of consciousness, sat up in bed. In bed… his own bed. He'd not moved nor returned to a realm of his past once he started to sleep. He was in bed, staring forward at his open bedroom door to the door of the edge of the door of the spare room, that was visible from his bed. Thoughts rushed through his mind, a tumbling river of wonder and knowing that threatened to capsize him during the initial few seconds of them starting. Striking him immediately was a thought which did require explanation, very much out of place if he wasn't in fact dreaming and was just awake, thinking. When he went to sleep for the night, the room was left in abject darkness, yet when he stared forward, the room was illuminated. The light was tinged with a feint blue colour, a spark of light that no source that he owned could explain. It was almost unnatural in its complexion, not existing in the human world, of another planet, though that thought was at best radical, but at worst completely crazy.

"James…".

"James…".

In his more conscious state, the third and fourth utterings of his name made him freeze, his blood coming to a stop and freezing up around his body. The voice… he recognised it. He knew that voice all too well, especially when it was louder than it was before, much, much louder. When Giovanna's was whispered to him a couple of minutes before, he could only just work out who was saying it to him in what he still thought was a dream. It did not sound like her telling him to remember her name though, unlike the voice that now whispered. That voice was legible, far too legible for comfort when for some time it was one that brought him nothing but pain and suffering, teasing him with his fate at every turn. The sound rang out in his left ear, the Englishman's head tilting steadily and unsurely towards it, almost not wanting to find out what was happening to his left. The noise needed to be faced though, for his own peace of mind that he wasn't losing his mind when he heard his name being spoken.

He was proven right too… not that he wanted to be. The voice matched his thoughts, but shockingly in appearance too, he was correct. There was nothing spectral about the man when his eyes found him to his left, close to the edge of the bed, just out of touching distance. He was in James' room in Derry not in a dream room of Taranto or Rome where his body belonged, where it breathed what should have been its final breath in the latter. Apparently not…

Kurt.

Doctor Kurt Van Der Heijden, to be precise. He was stood, staring back at the young man with the same terrifying glint he held in his eyes like he had done on the day of the massacre or on any of the occasions when he came to torture James.

James jumped out of bed, to the right, now aware of the sweat that was dripping from his forehead, already soaking his body again when he put a hand to his bare chest. His hand went there to check the beating of his heart, which was thumping against the outer layers of skin. It just could not be… the Nazi was dead; he was sure of it. He must have stabbed him one hundred or more times with Mary's wooden spoon, turning the man's neck into a jelly-like substance. The Kurt that was on the other side of his bed was sporting an untouched neck, not a wound on him from what James could see. Reality could not have been taking place, he quickly thought, leaving him sure once more that he was in fact in the middle of a dream. A very real and peculiar one.

"Oh James…". Kurt laughed. "… after all this time, I appear to terrify you. There I was thinking that you did not fear me at all".

"Be quiet!" James demanded, his voice unsteady. "You cannot be here… you cannot!"

"But I am, James". His rasping English, backed onto a German accent mixed with his native Dutch, was all too familiar. "I am here in your bedroom, your little cottage… it is a very nice home that you have".

"This is not real… th-th… this is… this is a dream".

Kurt, if it really was Kurt, just shrugged. Shrugged off circumstances that were going to need a lot more explaining other than the smallest movement of one's shoulders.

"Perhaps it is… perhaps it is not. What this is, is not really important to me… I have just come to see you… to see how you are, my dear English friend".

A spirit or a human, the Doctor that was before him, was far too comfortable in his skin to be a dead man. He should have been a dead man, he almost had to be when James remembered the brutal act that was the man's death. He murdered him that night in Rome after his mother was shot, once Elsa and Leo were killed by the butcher of a man that was now back to either haunt or control him. It must have been a dream though… it had to be. A high-profile Nazi couldn't just turn up in Derry without the British Government knowing he was there. There was no secret entrance to the North West that could not be traced by radar or by observers and patrols. Trying to calm himself, backed up against the window that he'd been staring out of previously, that was the window to his own room, he tried to breathe and keep thinking. Meanwhile, in front of him, Kurt took a seat on the edge of his bed, which he did not dare challenge.

"You do not look well James". Kurt joked. "It is almost like you have… seen a ghost…".

"I have!" He tried to be defiant in return, back playing the games of the mind once more. "You are not real… you are a ghost or… or…".

"I might be a ghost. I have always wondered whether ghosts exist myself and that may be why I am here… to prove my own point. Such a pretty country, Northern Ireland… I can see why you British dogs wanted to hold it".

Acting as if the visit was normal, the Nazi was smiling and tapping the fingers of his left hand onto his right thigh as if nothing was amiss. There was a lot amiss about a Nazi torturer turning up in the bedroom of a victim that escaped being killed by him, thousands of miles away from their original meeting point, safely behind lines of battle groups that the Doctor could not have gotten through. Not least to mention that the man was supposed to be dead, killed by the heir to the throne of Britain without ever knowing who he truly was. Kurt went to what should have been his grave without knowing… what clearly was not his grave when he was sat on James' bed.

"I… I killed you!" James shouted, still trying to make sense of the scene playing out before him. "You're dead!"

"Yes… you did kill me…". Kurt grumbled, his hand coming up to stroke his chin as well as the area of his neck where the fatal wounds were delivered. "Your mother warned me of the danger of wooden spoons, James but… I did not believe her. She was a very… extraordinary, I think it is how you say it no? … she was a very extraordinary woman".

"You killed her. You shot her dead when she did not deserve to die!"

"She was a spy, James. She knew the risks when she began trying to infiltrate my life before this war started". He stated firmly.

"YOU KILLED HER!"

"AND YOU KILLED ME! It is an amusing theatre, war, James. Everybody is so busy killing everybody else that those left alive have to be reminded of what they've done to remember themselves".

The ghostly, if not in appearance, apparition of Kurt did not know him well enough to know that the young man needed no reminder. The memories might not have all been completely visible to him, but many of the deeds that the young man was forced into along his path to survival were reminded to him quite frequently, mostly at night. All of the deaths that he'd seen, or that he'd inflicted in other cases, played out in his mind on a regular basis. James was lucky to get a good night's sleep more than once or twice a week. At the absolute least, he spent five nights out of seven waking up sweaty, having watched John-Paul or Aisling, or on occasions, even the Doctor himself, die again. All of those deaths were sat on highchairs in his conscience, despite the lack of remorse he felt over killing Kurt. The man's reappearance could have been because he did not, he presumed, Kurt added his own words to confirm the theory.

"I know what I have done! I pay for it at night… and I am paying for it again, it would seem…".

"You do not sound like the James that I know…". Kurt grinned back at the man, who was now standing up straight in front of his window. "Where is the defiance!? The British spirit! You were my greatest nemesis for so long James because you were so strong but now… you are so weak!"

"I am a not a weak man!" Showing some of that fight, James gritted his teeth. "I survived you… I survived Italy, France, Spain… I AM STILL ALIVE! You are not though are you… you are just the ghost of an evil man that lost!"

"THERE HE IS!" The Doctor roared. "There is my James! Yes, I lost… you defeated me… savaged me. I was not strong enough to fight you physically. I hope you enjoyed that victory James… it was your last!"

The familiar chill crept back over the young man, not just because he was bare-chested during an October night. This chill was not natural, or at least it shouldn't have been when it originated from the Nazi butcher he was stood across the other side of the room from. When Kurt was at his cruellest, his most despicable, James would show the slightest cracks in the armour when the man spoke. Mostly it was when he threatened him with what he'd do to Erin, at the time and still, his greatest weakness. His love for her was the Doctor's weapon, wielded over the young man with significant power because of how strong that love was. He'd enjoyed a great victory over the Nazi, one that may have even outranked what he'd done at Taranto, yet there was something believable in the ghostly voice when it told him that he was out of victories, out of success. When Erin did not want to be with him, it certainly appeared that way…

"Why are you here?"

James did not demand the answer, instead hoping that engaging with the figure on his bed softly, would yield results. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the man he once called his prisoner, Kurt grinned one of his monstrous grins once again, trying to unsettle James further. Mortal or from the grave, he could not read James' mind, rather guessing at what he may have been thinking. The young man made it much easier for him though, by telling him what he was thinking rather than him having to make an assumption. The questioning mind of the important young Englishman worked in the dead man's favour.

"Just paying… how would you say it… a social call, to you, James". He chuckled, James left frowning in disgust. "Calm down James… I am not here to hurt you if you are still scared that I will".

"You cannot hurt me… not when you are dead". James tried to remind him of his fate once more.

"Exactly… exactly! A dead man can't hurt anyone when he has no weapons to wield, no working body to use. Not physically anyway…".

Antagonistically blunt again, the mental mind games were well and truly in swing, but there only ever could be one winner. A dead Kurt didn't have anything to lose, not when James had already taken away the only thing that he could have, his life. With nothing lost in attacking the young man mentally, repeatedly, the Doctor could almost say whatever he wanted. He was the guaranteed victor in a battle of the minds, when he was not even a real, live human being, though it placated his evil from beyond the grave to know that the Englishman could not be sure. In a way though, the ghost forgot the sort of man that he was facing. A resilient James, spurred on again by the memories of all of the evil he witnessed the man on his bed commit, would fight a losing battle if he must. He was already doing so in trying to get Erin to return his love for her… jousting with a dead Nazi was nothing in comparison.

"I wanted to see you, James… to tell you how proud that I am of you".

Blindsided for a couple of seconds, he did not know why a man he murdered would be proud of him. The man was one of the most bloodthirsty Nazi's that was known, a man with a reputation that made his death a priority. That death was administered by a man so important to Britain, they were ready to do anything to rescue him, which made the mortal Kurt furious when a then unknowing James would not reveal why he was. For the same man, though dead, to admit he held pride for him, it was most peculiar. That was until it dawned on James as to why he would be… what he'd said to him the night the Doctor met his death at the end of Mary Quinn's wooden spoon. If the night had gone in Kurt's favour, he would have been in Berlin the next day, paraded around as a lap dog in front of his new master, Adolf Hitler. James Maguire was going to go from Captain of the Fleet Air Arm, to the Nazi's greatest killer. Kurt's killer… a killer.

A Killer.

"No!" James rejected him loudly, Kurt having stayed silent to wait for such a rejection.

"Oh yes, James… ya! ya! ya!" He mocked him in German too, to compound the suffering. "You thought that you would keep your honour, but you did exactly what I hoped you would in my death. The man I wanted you to be… you turned into him… my killer!"

"I am not your killer!" He yelled, taking an angered step forward towards the bed. "I never have been and I never will!"

"You cannot reject the truth, James…". The Nazi rose off the bed to continue, one arm folded across his chest as he used his other hand to point at the young banker. "You are my killer! It was I that made your decisions when you were in France… I saw what you did to survive James… that was all I ever wanted from you! I made you kill John-Paul O'Reilly… my lessons got you to safety! You would not be alive if it wasn't for me… the man who made YOU… a killer".

There was truth in the matter, a painful truth that Kurt was correct about. It could not be rejected, he was a killer, running from it every time he woke up in the morning. In the nightmares that he would have, the nights where he woke up caked in a mess of his own sweat, one fact always became clear. He could kill… he could kill without remorse in a split second, but he would always feel it later. That was the only lesson of Kurt's he did not learn; how to move on without thinking of those who'd perished thanks to him. The act was still committed though, lives taken away by him in order for him to return to and protect, the woman that he loved. Everything he did was for Erin… and she did not love him anymore. In the corners of his eyes, water began to gather.

"Yes, you see it don't you". Kurt, of course, noticed. "You can see that you are my killer, but I know you do not want to be! I admired the fight that you gave me, trying not to be that man… but James, it was your downfall. You hated me so much, it changed your mind to kill without feeling…".

"I am not a cold-blooded murderer!" He stood his ground, with a sentence that was not completely true. "Unlike you, I do not take pleasure in witnessing death… I do not perpetuate massacres!"

"No..". The man conceded. "You do not… it was fun to blame you though… you'll never see it as anything but your fault, will you James?"

Being taunted by Doctor Van Der Heijden was a part of his life that James thought long over, but he was sorely mistaken. The Nazi was never going to leave him alone… ever. There was too much for him to mock James about, far too much ammunition that could be used to further James' progression into the killer of a man that he wanted him to be. From beyond the grave, Kurt could mock.

"But you do kill without feeling, don't you James?" Chuckling began, the demon's chuckle. "I saw what you did to little Aisling… she was such a good girl, and you took her life away in such a cruel way. You shot her in the head… such cruelty that your accomplice did not like… she is very worried about you".

"She was no saint!" James spat. "She was a Nazi, just like you… an enemy of the people who deserved to suffer for what she'd done… what she could have done!"

"That was why I liked her. She knew where power was to be found and how Europe needed to move forward as the power in a new world, rid of the filth of the Jews! All she did was pass on information James… your own government, your little friend Charlene… they do not think she should have died, do they? You did not see but I saw what she said to those above her… about how you killed Aisling in cold blood… about how she was worried for you… she even has feelings for you…".

"Do not insult my intelligence, Doctor, you did enough of that when you were alive!" He snarled, Kurt agreeing with an amused look slapped across his face. "They know it was for the greater good. You cannot afford to leave an enemy spy in a country that already has enough tension in it without her stirring up more trouble".

"You are lucky that they are not going to report the truth, James. Charlene was so… passionate in her defence for you. She really cares for you…".

James knew what was going on but would not rise to it. Any doubt that Kurt was anything other than a ghost was gone when it was clear he witnessed something that a mortal could not have done. Already aware of the feelings that Charlene held for him after she'd told him herself, James could not be surprised by them, though was not going to be goaded by Kurt either. If he could see what happened when Charlene inevitably informed Captain Smithers of what happened the night Aisling was killed, then he would know of the breakdown of his relationship with Erin. There was nothing that a ghost like Kurt could not know, an all-powerful presence that was stood just a few metres away from him. Erin would become the Doctor's weapon again, and James would be left to do what he always had done… and always, always would. Fight for her.

"Charlene is my friend and I value her care for me. You have none of those left, do you, Doctor? A dead man does not have any!"

"I know… I know!" Kurt chuckled again. "But Charlene could more than a friend… if you would let her. She could be a wonderful mother… where the other one failed…".

Kurt goaded him and James… James could not resist falling for the bait. Despite being set against doing so, he was drawn in because Erin was being threatened again by him. A ghost could not hurt her, like Kurt said so himself, physically it was not possible. However, her honour was being besmirched by him, when she was innocent in what happened. Nature was to blame for the loss of their child years earlier, the ghostly Kurt of course having gained that knowledge. Neither of them were to blame, mother or father. He would not stand for it.

"ERIN DID NOT FAIL!" He bellowed spectacularly. "She did not fail me… or herself… or the child! Fate was to blame!"

"Then it was your fault for not being there with her… for trying to fight Das Reich when your pitiful Britain should have surrendered!"

"It is not… I…".

"Excuses, James, you are covering for her failure as a woman!" The Doctor growled. "Her body… it could not give that child the life it deserved. The child of my killer… we cannot let that go unpunished James!"

Head almost in his hands, one eye covered, the young man's mind was pounding with conflicting thoughts. His hatred of Doctor Van Der Heijden mixed with his guilt over not being there when his beloved needed him the most, a powerful toxin infused as they did. There was only so much a man could take before shattering apart into millions of pieces that could not be picked up and he was getting closer to that barrier. Closer than he'd ever done in multiple torture sessions with the Nazi, who appeared to have come to him from beyond the grave to have one more. One last battle for old time's sake, more potent and more terrifying than any single one before it.

"Kill her James… kill Erin Quinn!".

"NO!" He shouted, tearfully so as his cheeks were recipients of water.

"She needs to die, James… my killer! You are weakened by her… she makes you weak to try to stop you from being the man you should be! To be happy… to be… free… she has to die!"

"I would never harm her!"

"AND THAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!" Kurt took his turn to shout. "You kill her… you are free… free to end this war. I do not care if you do it for your side or for mine, but you alone can end the war with your skills! Millions of deaths could be stopped… with just hers. She has earned her fate… DO IT JAMES!"

"NO!"

"COME ON, MY KILLER!" Kurt roared, scrambling across the bed, James stumbling back as he was cornered. "One death to save millions! You would be a hero!"

"I… I CANNOT… I…. SHE…".

Sobbing pitifully, he turned his head away so that he did not have to stare into the eyes of the Nazi Doctor that he thought he'd killed months before. The ghosts of his past were becoming rather literal, to the point where even a man he thought he held little regret over killing, was reminding him of what he'd done. To end the war would take more than just the loss of one life under any normal circumstances, but he did not live in such normal circumstances. He was the heir to the throne, though not a legitimate one, that could have laid claim to it. The title may not have held such prestige as it once did, though he above all could change that. Under his command, he could defeat the Nazi's without the Americans, especially when he'd get stuck in himself. The price of one life was acceptable but… it was Erin… Erin that he loved so dearly, Erin that he would rather die for than kill her himself. He could not do it.

He turned back to face his tormentor.

"I…".

Kurt was gone. Suddenly the room was dark again, the unnatural light fading away to reveal the natural darkness. There was no Nazi in his bedroom anymore… just James alone with his shame that he carried around with him sat firmly on his shoulders. He hadn't lived through a dream, yet he hadn't lived through reality either, not when the Doctor just… vanished. If truth were to be told, he didn't quite know what he'd gone through at all. James thought he'd witnessed a dead man talking to him from across the other side of the bed. He had, but it was not normal, that much he did know. In the company of others, he would have been deemed mad, sent off to an asylum of sorts to live out his days as a crazed individual. Living alone, he was never feeling as alone as he was in the initial moments after Kurt went away again.

What happened? What was wrong with him? Why was he having such vivid dreams and such a vivid imagination? How could Kurt have been there? What was he to do?

All of those thoughts were hitting him, and he could not deal with any of them until he shook one from his mind for good. He would not hurt his Erin. Kurt could never win, whether he was his killer or not, she would always be protected by the Englishman. The power of love was often trounced by hate but not his love for her. No matter what form the enemy came in, male or female, or what flag that they served under, the Swastika, Union Jack or the Stars and Stripes, his life would be laid down in the preservation of hers. Charlene Kavanagh might have held feelings for him, and most of the women in Derry might have wished to enjoy a night with him, but none of them would ever reach the bridge in his heart where Erin stood. They would not get close.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"JAMES! JAMES!"

In his already confused state, he was even more confused when his name was called again, and he recognised the voice once more. Glancing to his watch, he could just make out the time as he bowed his head slightly. It was half past three in the morning, not the normal time for a visitor to be banging on the door shouting his name. The only person that it could have logically been was Charlene, if there was some sort of issue that involved him but it was not her voice that he heard. In the dead of the night, a friendly voice sought him.

Clare Devlin.

The queen of the cack attack was at his door, calling out to try to wake him. With no other residences around, she could yell as loud as she wanted to, without worrying if she would disturb him. Grabbing a shirt that was wrapped around the back of the chair, the young man did not hesitate to leave the room to answer the door. He would do so for a friend, no matter the hour. An already strange night was only becoming odder.

"JAMES!"

She called out unnecessarily once more, the young man almost behind the door when she spoke. His ears were throbbing from how loud it was to, not exactly what he wanted to hear in the middle of the night after being tormented by a form of ghost. He opened the door to her with one hand, the other hand soothing the now aching ear.

"Oh… there ye are". She said to him once his face was illuminated.

Carrying with her a small torch that she must have taken from her father, he could see the outlining of her nightclothes underneath the jacket that she wore. In the middle of a war, it was far from regular behaviour for a young woman to be found out on a midnight stroll in the middle of the country, which was mostly bathed in darkness. Taking the war out of the equation, Clare Devlin being found anywhere but her bed in the middle of the night was a cause for concern. Sean certainly did not allow for such decadent behaviour, the man of strict rules that he was. He was fast asleep back home though, blissfully unaware that his daughter was not where she should have been at such a time.

"Clare… what brings you to my door?" He asked, the gentlemanly mask pulled right up.

"Well… I… can I come in, James? It's… it's not too warm out here".

Happy enough to invite her in, it suited him too. He'd not put anything on his feet to answer the door, and the cool air of the early hours of a Derry morning, nipped away at his poor feet. He wasn't going to catch frostbite at such temperatures, but it was far from comfortable for him to be stood there at the door. The door held open for her, he stood behind it as she made her way in, wiping her feet on the mat that was in situ by the door. Her torchlight, as well as one from a torch of his own, were the only sources of light in the house. He would not dare risk any others, although German bombers were unlikely to appear at such time overhead.

"Oh, ye have a phone now?" She enquired, her eyes drawn to it on the table just a couple of feet from the door.

"Yes… the Kavanagh's must have installed it whilst I was away". He informed her, having not actually asked Charlene about when it was done, when they'd spoken of it previously. "I do not have to make too many calls… I am not allowed to anyway, I suspect".

"Aye… one of the girls at work said the Nazi's can hear what's goin' on". Clare orated as they walked through to the kitchen.

"Our enemies are sophisticated, but I doubt they would listen to you conversing with Michelle about a trip to the pub, if it concerns you". James chuckled a little, Clare doing so too. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No… no I'm grand, thanks James".

Sincerely doubting that statement in every other sense other than her hydration, James went over to the sink to get himself a glass of water. What he'd been through in his bedroom left him completely parched, as well as with a concern that he might cramp up again. He'd done so after the nightmare about the massacre, when sweat leaked out of him like a hole in a dam. Although he was breathing significantly better than he was that night, he still needed the water to be able to steady himself when there was evidently a conversation to come with Clare. She was going to be there for some time he suspected, not that he was dismayed with her company when she was a good friend.

"Were ye up?" She asked him as he sipped at the drink. "Ye look quite awake".

"Yes… a rather… strange dream woke me". He partially replied with the truth.

"Ach… right".

Finishing the drink, he left the glass on the counter next to the sink before he walked the couple of steps it took him to get back to his seat. They sat opposite each other, Clare having left her hands out in the middle of the table as she gathered her thoughts. She could have ran to any of her friends that night, back to Michelle's being the most obvious when she'd already been there earlier in the evening. Despite the help that Michele gave her previously with her secret, she decided not to say anything when she got back to the Mallon's. It might not have taken long to process her worries from what her Da said, yet she decided to stop herself when the chance was there to tell her. The Bishop's nephew suffered from Michelle's attempts at help in the past… a new approach was required. James was her best option, a man that she could trust like no other.

"So…". He prompted her.

"So…". She repeated, voice unsteady. "I… I'm sorry for… I couldn't sleep because… well… I…".

"Your father?"

"Aye… Da and… and Ma actually. They… they are still… trying to…".

Trying to find the words was difficult for Clare but she didn't have to when James understood what she was trying to say. Having been confided in by her father about wanting to find someone for her, the Englishman himself was the first choice that Sean had in mind. Letting him down as gently as he possibly could, he was asked to let Clare down gently too, but instead he used it as a chance to test his theory about her. The night in the Devlin house allowed him to be told the secret, though he already suspected it, much to her shock. Proud of her for having the courage to be able to tell him, as well as telling all the girls, he was more than happy to become someone for her to talk to. She needed a level head to be able to sound out her thoughts and feelings on a life she was living in her own little hell, a head not found amongst the girls. Although the premise may have been different to how he was there for everyone else he cared for, James showed how much of a gentleman he truly was by offering an ear. He did not judge her, nor did he ever tell her it was wrong to feel the way she did… that's why she was there in the middle of the night. She needed him.

"What have they said?"

"Da… Da's goin' to keep lookin' for a fella for me and… and Ma isn't goin' stop him". She was starting to cry, James passing her a handkerchief. "She… she even suggested the Americans".

The Americans were the last thing he wanted to discuss, not when one of them was now on the arm of his beloved. Quite what Geraldine was thinking he did not know, but as much as he cared for Clare, he could sympathise with her parents still. They were only doing what they thought was right for her, without knowing about where her affections were truly placed. A homosexual like her, from a family that was deeply entrenched in the teachings of the bible that in her father's mind, condemned such behaviour, could not just tell them. Her mother may well have been understanding if she did but there was nothing that could be done on her part to save her from Sean. He would put her into some form of therapy, the sort that Father Peter offered for men and women of such persuasions.

"Do you think he has someone in mind?" James asked, with the hope he wasn't going to be subject to Sean's enticement once more.

"No… no I don't think so". She sniffled, wiping away her tears. "I… I just think he… he thinks I've had enough time to grieve for the poor fella… ye know the one I told ye about".

"I remember. Nephew of the Bishop".

"Aye… aye, the poor fella".

Clare reflected on him for a moment, or more on his fate. One that was induced by Michelle's stupid decision to involve the Thomas brothers in the mess that was Clare's secret, the fella's death was avoidable. It wasn't just avoidable, it was quite ridiculous in reality. Snapping a man's spine for simply wishing to court her was not something that would be accepted in court, even if she was not up for the murder charge herself. The Cops thankfully closed the investigation without ever getting a whiff of the truth, leaving both her and Michelle safe from suspicion. Her Da may have thought differently, but she didn't know that…

Picking up the conversation again, Clare wanted to plan for the future, her future. She was running out of time to avoid her Da's meddling intentions, because he would no doubt find someone for her again. The longer it went on, the more she knew that it would anger him that she was not settling down with a husband to start a family. It was something that she would never be able to do, not when she did not feel anything for a man other than friendship. The man that she considered her best friend from the opposite sex was sat across from her, and he was her best chance of escaping the future her father wanted her to live. That was thanks to his impressive skills as a gentleman, in her mind. To James, there was something more…

"What do I do, James? I… I can't go through with what he wants… I just can't!"

"I know you cannot Clare, but you have to remember that there is too much for you to lose by speaking the truth".

"I know that James!" She tried not to be snappy, failing miserably. "But… but anything… anything to make him go away… just till the war's over and I can… go".

"You told me you did not want to leave?"

"I might not have a choice…".

There should have always been a choice, especially with so much at stake. A young woman shouldn't have been forced to flee her home, to live life anew somewhere else because her father did not agree with who she was. Love should not have been so difficult yet it was, hers constrained by the beliefs of a staunchly Catholic father. In the future, when the war did not prevent such a move from taking place, she would find somewhere to live far away from Derry. Scotland was her preferred destination, a desolate life in a highland village where she could hide away from the world beneath permanently grizzly layers of snow, rain and mist. She wouldn't be able to live the life she wanted, but she could make the best of the life that she would be left with there. Her father would die an old man not knowing why his daughter ran from him, but it was a cost she was willing to inflict upon him rather than the alternative that he'd inflict upon her.

James did not want her to have to leave, but he could do nothing when it was her best chance to live the rest of her life without a sickening treatment being given to her in order to bring her back to her father's path. In the short term, while the war did still rage on without being won, he could help though. Immediately there were two ideas in his mind, but one of them was far from easy, nor did it help him ease his own conscience in any way. Already having his life watched over by at least two or three people, as well as the afar glances from his father on the throne, James could ask for little else. He was given money, a job, security… he only lacked a peace of mind, which was something he had to achieve himself, not a mindset that could be handed out. Abusing his position as the illegitimate heir to the throne could not be done in good faith but on the other hand, he held a duty to Clare as her friend. If men like Captain Smithers could look out for her in the same way that they looked out for him, they could help her find a way out. She might not have been suited to becoming an agent in the field, but they could have found her work in London, some sort of secretary position or something of such ilk. She was a very bright young woman when the cack attacks were ignored, one capable of being trusted with delicate information in such a guarded environment. To do so though, he would have to go through Charlene… and he would not be able to get her agreement without the truth. He could not betray Clare so easily… which meant it was the other idea that would have to win out.

"Alright, there might be a way… but only temporarily and… and I can't make any guarantees".

"It only needs to be… please James, what can ye do? I'm beggin' ye, please!" She fretted, grasping his free hands.

He sighed. It really wasn't much better than abusing his lineage…

"I have recently employed a man at the Bank… about our age, single…". He explained to her, thinking of his colleague who would take some convincing he knew. "If I could… entice him into going out with you a couple of times… perhaps you could tell your father. Then one day it will all end suddenly and leave you heartbroken and then we would have some more time in order to… plan for the wider future".

"Do ye think he would?" Nervously, she let go of his hands, wringing her own when they were back together. "It's a lot to ask, James… what if he… what if he says no".

"I… I may be able to sweeten the deal somewhat if he does not". Shamefully, James was about to suggest the ungentlemanly. "I… I could siphon some of my own salary off to him".

"Bribery!?"

"Clare, I can afford to lose a little money for you. I will not see you go unhappy and terrified of your father when I can just sit here at night without a care in the world. You are my friend… I care a great deal for you".

Blushing without shame, she was just about the only woman in Derry to have blushed under his gaze without wanting to rip the shirt off of his back at the same time. James was an ally that she simply could not do without, nor would she have to when he was back for good. Seeing him, awkwardly stood as he was, on the day that he returned brought her nothing but joy. He was back in her life where she wanted him, to be there to help her in her struggles. The Englishman held struggles of his own, but those were secondary to him when she needed his help more. Unselfish as ever, he would look out for his friends and loved ones more than he would himself. That was part of his problem, which would not be addressed by him when his mind was settled. He never put himself first… except when it came to executing Nazi's. That was different.

"Thank ye James… it means a lot to me that ye… that ye'll try".

"You have my word, Clare". He smiled, before raising himself from his seat.

"James…".

Walking towards her, he practically picked her up off the chair, whispering in her ear that she needed it. He hugged her tightly, and for a moment she allowed herself to be comfortable in his embrace. Not many men would be afforded such an honour, her father being the only other possible candidate for it. James was right too, she did need to be held for a moment, to have someone else feel the weight of her burdens. It was why she put her arms around him too, to be able to feel some of his own. James was not secretive but mysterious, never speaking his own mind about his own life when one of his friends came to him. His defence mechanism was always up about everything, careful in speaking about the war and even more so about his affections. Although it was rather obvious where they still were directed.

"You are welcome to stay here if you wish". He told her as they came apart. "The spare room is available".

"Thank ye… but I should go". She sighed, aware of the danger of accepting the offer. "If Da wakes up and I'm not there he'll… he'll never forgive me. I need to get back".

Nodding his acceptance of her leaving, understanding that she wouldn't want to get under her father's skin when she was already frustrating him, James walked with her to the door. A part of him wanted to walk all the way with her, though if Sean realised his daughter was not in bed and was waiting, a heated discussion could arise. She would be safe in the night when there was no one else around… she'd made her way to his cottage on her own one way, he was sure she would make it back safe and unhindered. Opening the door for her, she stopped in the doorway, rising up on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek, wrapping her arms around him again. It was the closest she would ever come to giving a fella a kiss, bravery in one sense that he admired when she was not afraid to show how much he meant to her. The feeling was reciprocated as they broke apart again, a smile on the Englishman's face.

"I… I meant to say to ye…". Clare started talking once again. "I… I hope things… well… improve between you and… and Erin".

"Thank you Clare…". He curved his lips up, fighting the sigh that threatened to drop. "… I hope they do too".

"She's mad to choose Lance over ye, I really mean that".

He laughed. He couldn't not laugh when she was putting the American down, but not in the sense that he was childishly chortling at the other man's apparent inferiority.

"I do believe just about everyone has said that to me since I have come back. Alas, I am happy for them that they have found each other. As long as Erin stays contented, then I will be pleased for her".

"Really?"

"Of course". He declared. "You really best get yourself home, Clare. You will catch cold stood talking to me!"

She agreed with him, not stopping to think that he was moving on deliberately so that he did not have to speak of his own worries. It was the truth though, because if he stopped to talk to her there was a good chance he would be too honest. Putting Clare into a position where she was burdened with his thoughts and feelings about Erin, who she would have to spend the day working next to every day of the week was not something he was prepared to do. Instead, the effort would be made alone on his part, like it always had been. He was a lone wolf in the world without his beloved by his side, left to fight for her from the periphery, as she moved on without him, with the untrustworthy Lance instead.

Shutting the door behind him, he stopped to stare into the cottage. On the tip of his tongue was the truth and it fell seconds later.

"You're a liar James".

A lone tear rolled down his right cheek.

"You aren't happy for Erin. You want to be with her… forever".