Chapter 31: Heading Somewhere, Someday

As he pressed the indicator for a left turn, Troy squinted at the glare of headlights in the rear-view mirror. Sitting beside him as she did most evenings, Cully was perched far forward in her seat; even with his eyes trained on the darkened road ahead, he could see her peering at him. "Really, I don't—"

"Oh, come on, Gavin. Don't you want to?"

Troy shook his head, the car almost swerving as his arms moved as well. "I didn't say that—"

Her fingers grazed his elbow and, as ever, Troy found himself aware of nothing else but her touch. "Then why are you saying no?"

"Not because I want to—"

"Then say yes."

A sigh of frustration fought its way through Troy's throat, finally hissing between his lips. "Cully—"

Now her fingers were tightening around that same joint. "There's nothing stopping you—"

"I know—"

"—except you."

"Look, opening night's the next day," he said, pulling his arm closer to his own body, "why—"

"Think of it as an opportunity to see things from the ground up."

Safely on a side street, Troy spared her a glance. "Come again?"

"Well," Cully said, drawing her hand back and fiddling with the end of her sleeve, "it never goes smoothly."

"At this point?"

"Things will be start and stop—"

Staring out into the night before them, Troy muttered, "Your director will be an ass—"

Cully cleared her throat. "And we might have to backtrack sometimes. Tomorrow's the premiere—"

"He'll really be an ass—"

"Gavin, please," Cully said loudly. Troy expected her to go on immediately, but she did not speak for a moment, looking out her window instead. When it came to telling anyone with the last name Barnaby "No", he was uncertain whether it was more difficult to address the chief inspector or the man's daughter. And, really, it wasn't unreasonable to decline her invitation, given all that had happened during the day. Rather than preventing a murder, he and Barnaby had found themselves with the victim they had expected and desperately hoped to protect, her life ended with a needle to the liver. It had been a mess the entire day and would be again tomorrow.

"Some theaters actually sell tickets for final dress rehearsals."

For a brief moment, Troy squeezed his eyes closed. Even after this many years, pushing the thoughts of work aside—the memories of murderers and victims and evidence and endless paperwork—sometimes remained a difficult task. "So people can see an unfinished production?" he managed, training his bleary eyes back on the road.

"Always at a discount."

He tapped his foot on the brake pedal and the car slowed as it neared the next red light. "For the people who are all right with seeing that sort of thing."

Cully laughed, the lighthearted sound pushing away the worries that had already begun to overwhelm him. If he did crumble—did give in to her request—then what of the next day at CID? He was already dead on his feet without spending another evening out until god only knew when—

"When did you turn into such a critic?"

Critic? Troy thought. Hardly, though perhaps he hadn't said it well. "Just doesn't make sense if I'll be there the next night for the first real show."

"It'll be fun."

"Cully—"

As she leaned towards him, touching her lips to his cheek, Troy's words stopped. "I promise, Gavin."

Damn.

Half-six the following evening, after another day of following one lead after another—the final of which saw them attempting to chase after Adam Keyne at his wife's bafflingly anxious behest—he found himself back at the Causton Playhouse on the old, worn stage. Professional this cast might be, but Troy swiftly noted he was the only one in anything but a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, or a jumper. Most looked like they had just come from a walk down at the park, and many were in black from head to toe, trainers included. Though he smiled as he shook hands with members of the cast and crew, it was a struggle to ignore the confusion and awkwardness that came with it. Once, Troy's skin burned as a young woman with frightfully pale skin said, "So you're the policeman." And then she smiled, like he was a good friend.

The few familiar faces came and went, quickly forgotten as others took their places. Cully, who knew everyone reasonably well by now, smiled at all of them, occasionally taking a moment to pull someone aside and ask about this or that. Though the upcoming rehearsal was the clear topic, the sentences were as much a mystery to him as the faces.

Ten minutes went by, perhaps even fifteen, and still brand new faces were passing in front of him. After the first dozen or so people, Troy stopped trying to remember any of them. Instead, he mumbled an unenthusiastic "Hello" or "Nice to meet you", all the while wishing he had been more forceful in declining Cully's invitation. Be seeing all this tomorrow, he thought, and I wouldn't have to bother with names! His face must have gone slack with the confusion, Troy decided. A few of the crew were still offering "Hi" or "Cheers" before nattering on about marks and cues once again; it was then that Cully shoved her elbow into his ribs, hissing, "Gavin!" After that, he forced a broader smile onto his face.

"Get it together, please!" A high pitched male voice cut through the sea of voices, and most of the men and women surrounding Troy fell silent. The faces no longer smiled genuinely—they suddenly bore the same sincerity as his—and the remaining words he heard were strained. "We don't have all day!"

That voice—commanding and cutting—approached swiftly, the cast and crew spreading apart. They widened into a circle of sorts, though it was rather squashed at either end, and one man stepped into the center. Troy was above average height and used to looking down at more than a few of the men he encountered day to day, but he rarely encountered a man quite as short as the one before him. Perhaps five feet and five inches tall, the man's greying red hair just reached Troy's chin.

The red hair's bad enough, Troy thought, gulping down a thick growl of disgust. The man wore an immaculately pressed and manicured jumper, the vertical stripes running up and down perfectly. Add the scarf carelessly tossed around his neck, and...Gay.

The man was still muttering something as he turned, catching the eyes of all the cast and crew, when Troy saw him pause. The short man almost glared at him even though Troy was at the back of the group. "Oh, hello," the man said, his voice as high as before.

Beside him, Cully shuffled away for a brief moment, her face falling. "Um—"

"And you are?" the man asked, taking a step toward Troy as the men and women enlarged their circle.

Troy almost shivered: the man's eyes were piercing and disconcerting, and he never quite blinked. Who'd want to bother with this bloke every day? he thought. People as nutty as he is, at a guess.

"Well?" the man continued, his gaze now drifting to Cully, the only person who had not given Troy a wide berth.

Touching her hand to his elbow, Cully pushed Troy's arm forward a bit. "This is—one of my close friends, Gavin Troy. Gavin, Paul Pearson, our director."

There was no escaping it. Troy extended his hand, offering it to the director in as friendly a manner as possible and hoping his fingers did not tremble in disgust. "Good to meet you," he said quietly.

Though Pearson glanced down toward Troy's hand, he did not return the gesture. "Cully," he said, his voice nearly vibrating as he shook his head quickly, "I'm sorry, we're already pressed for time—"

Cully's fingers now tightened on Troy's elbow. "I just thought since he's heard so much—"

Pearson raised one of his hands, shaking it vigorously in the air. "And this is quite unexpected."

Hiding his mouth behind his hand, Troy cleared his throat, almost backing up a pace or two as he did, drawing his arm from Cully's grasp. "Cully did say—"

"She said what?" Pearson asked, letting loose a loud, deep sigh as he pressed his palms to his eyes, shaking his head again. Definitely gay.

"He's—" Her voice trailed away, but then Cully began again. "He's done a lot to help me—so I thought he might like to see what happens at a rehearsal, not just a performance."

Pearson shook his head yet again, waving his hand once more before slipping it into a back pocket and pulling out his mobile. "We're really not ready for any sort of an audience."

"Even with the opening night tomorrow?" Troy asked.

"Of course."

Cully turned to him, whispering, "No play is ever quite ready."

Walking back into the circle itself—the men and women scattered before him again—Pearson made a beeline for the far corner of the stage, grabbing a crew member's shirt sleeve on the way. The words were indecipherable at that distance, but the director's hands were in the air, almost dancing in circles as the gestures began wildly. Of course, Troy thought, feeling his nose wrinkle. Can't expect anything else.

The director turned around, wearing an unhappy expression as he returned. Troy fought a sudden desire to take a step back to hide behind Cully.

The man strolled forward, swaying side to side. "It's quite unacceptable, really."

Cully shook her head, and Troy heard a quiet sigh. "I don't see—"

"I can go," Troy said, more quickly than he meant to. "I'll be here for tomorrow night."

"No, Gavin—"

"I think that would be best for my—"

Silence fell, and a shiver ran over Troy's skin. His eyes shifted from Pearson's face to Cully's; Pearson's expression was nearly angry, while Cully's was almost disbelieving.

"I don't understand," she began, but then fell silent when Pearson pushed the air aside another time.

"I need them all focused tonight," he said loudly, glaring at Troy, "not distracted by someone in the auditorium."

"He'll just be watching," Cully said, taking a heavy step forward. "How will that be any different than tomorrow night?"

Pearson touched a hand to his temple with an exaggerated shake of his head. "We are not ready."

"Really, I can go"—Troy took another step back, creating another foot of space between the director and himself—"just be back to give you a lift—"

"There isn't time for this, Cully. Really, why..." Pearson glanced to his watch, a heavy gold face sitting on his wrist. His gaze returned, and his face fell slack. "But I suppose you're already here..."

Troy's heart raced and his right foot slid back another pace. No. Please, no.

"I'll want you toward the back," Pearson continued, turning around as he spoke. His head rose and fell, like he was surveying the set, ready to diagnose yet more problems—whether they existed or not. "No noise, nothing."

"That won't be a problem," Cully said, quickly clearing her throat.

"I hope so." Not even looking back, he strode forward to another cluster of cast and crew, shouting more orders: "Come along, settle down—we don't have any time to waste—"

A sharp pain spread through Troy's left foot, and he nearly bit his tongue. "Ow!" Looking down, he saw Cully moving her foot away from his; he just managed to hold back the frown as he noticed the slight dusty footprint across his shoe. "What was that for?"

"Really, Gavin?"

"That's what—"

"Don't pretend," she said, crossing her arms. "You know what that was about."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

Troy hissed through his teeth. "No one else knew—"

"You really don't think anyone else—"

Troy released a sigh, cutting off Cully's words. "They weren't paying attention!"

"They could have been."

"But they weren't—"

She slapped his arm lightly. "You don't know that."

Even though the blow had not hurt, Troy rubbed his fingers on his forearm. "Well, they weren't until you trod on my foot."

"You're not that subtle."

He didn't bother to hide his scowl. "It's a nasty habit—"

"Are you listening to yourself?" Cully asked, turning her eyes up. Probably watching to make sure nothing falls and kills us, Troy thought, a twinge of fear turning over in his stomach as he followed her gaze. A mess of cables were draped between the dangling lights, the narrow catwalk, and the ceiling hidden in shadows. Really, none of it could be that stable, and what if someone was walking across the scaffolding without caution, and what if the—

"Gavin?" Cully's voice cut through his thoughts, almost startling him. "Gavin? Are you even listening?"

"Blimey, I—" Troy coughed, curling his fingers into a fist for a brief moment; they were beginning to shake as a few drops of sweat broke through the skin on his forehead. "I know what I mean—and so do you, I think."

"Oh, believe me—"

"And it's not going to change, Cully," he added loudly, the sudden surge of fear abating as he brought his eyes down.

"After this long, I know that."

All around them, the pace of motion was increasing as crew members clad in black from head to toe ran about adjusting this and fiddling with that. Cast members were beginning to pull off those jumpers and t-shirts before heading en masse for one corner of the stage.

"I think they're trying to collect all of you," Troy said quietly, nodding toward the flow of people.

"And sometimes," Cully went on, taking a first step in the same direction, "you just need to learn to keep your stupid thoughts to yourself."

"And I did—I didn't say anything."

Cully didn't bother with a response, just sighing and shaking her head for a moment. "Look, I have to go get ready," she said at last, lifting a hand to push back the blond hair that had crept forward beside her cheeks.

Turning round to face the auditorium of empty seats, Troy squinted, trying to pick out the rows against the blinding stage lights that hung from the ceiling of the auditorium. "Just be out there, then?" he asked, waving one arm toward the back.

"I'd suggest the darkest place you can find." Though Cully did not turn around, she glanced over her shoulder toward Pearson; he was still chatting loudly with a young man clad all in black. "And toward the back. Give him less of a chance to remember you're there."

"Wouldn't upset me if he forgot."

"Well," Cully said, tugging at the bottom of one of her jumper sleeves, "he'll probably be toward the center of the theater. 'Best view,' he always says."

Though he tried to hold it back, Troy felt his hand shift to the top of his tie, loosening the knot there, still precise and tight despite the hours that had passed since he had twisted the silk together. "Whatever you say." He didn't even realize he was leaning forward, pressing his lips to her cheek. But when he stood straight, Troy felt the burn spread over his face anew.

"What's the matter?"

Just at the edge of his vision, Troy saw Cully stretching a hand toward his forearm. As suddenly as she had moved, he drew his arm away, pressing it to his side as his chin dropped. "Nothing."

She shook her head, her blond hair almost fading into her skin. "Gavin, haven't we talked about this before?"

"About what?"

"You're a terrible liar."

"Can we let it alone?" Troy asked, the corner of his mouth twitching toward another frown.

"Sure. Talk about—"

"Come on, come on, people!" Troy cringed at the director's words, high pitched and shrill. "Costumes, makeup, positions. As. Quickly. As. Possible."

"Talk about it after?" Cully finished as she took a more few steps away from him.

"Of course," he said quietly, beginning to make for the edge of the stage and the short flight of stairs into the auditorium. His eyes narrowing, Troy glared at the director. Nasty bloke.

"Good." Then, without another word, she turned, almost running after the last few men and women filing to the dark regions at the edge of the stage.

Not waiting for the director's angry look, Troy descended the stairs into the empty theater as soon as Cully vanished. Really, it was pointless to hesitate, for she did not look back. Instead, she weaved around the props and wooden steps, her eyes trained on the wooden stage to avoid smashing a leg or hip. But as soon as Troy reached the carpeted floor of the theater, he found himself with no such luck, immediately groaning as one of his knees smacked into an armrest.

After a minute or so of stumbling, Troy collapsed into one of the upholstered seats a little more than halfway toward the back doors, at the very end of the row. As soon as he sat, he let out a long breath. Even being off his feet for a moment brought out the aches in his legs; they burned after a long day of standing, walking, and talking. He settled back into the seat, releasing another sigh as his eyelids drooped—

"Yes, yes, yes," a vaguely familiar voice said, the volume increasing with each repetition of that simple word. The heavy breaths turned to a groan of irritation that Troy bit back as he forced his eyes open to see Pearson heading for the center of the auditorium. The man slipped into one of the rows a few feet in front of him, finally seating himself in the middle.

Too close, Troy thought, standing quietly. He took his steps swiftly, cringing as he heard his trouser legs flapping against the seat legs bolted to the slightly worn carpet. Once he reached the aisle, Troy moved more quickly than quietly; in any event, the shifting of wood and dull thudding of feet on the stage covered the shuffling of his shoes. Just a few rows from the back, he decided, that would do the—

The lights in the auditorium dimmed, plunging the entire place into darkness—and Troy silenced a curse as one of his legs connected with an armrest again. As the first lights appeared on the stage, he dropped into another seat, pulling his throbbing left leg onto the opposite knee. A dull swishing sound filled the theater, quiet and monotonous; a number of men and a pair of women suddenly appeared, shifting beneath the stage lights.

"'I'm getting chilled to the bone'," one of the women—the younger one—said. "'What can Freddy be doing all this time? He's been gone twenty minutes.'"

"'Not so long'," said the other, older and more modestly dressed. Costumed, Troy reminded himself. "'But he ought to have got us a cab by this.'"

"G' luck with that," Troy whispered before clapping a hand over his mouth as he felt a yawn begin to break over his face. Any time.

The words running back and forth between the cast became more familiar as time passed. Cully had insisted he read a few of the exchanges before her first lines to help her with cues, whatever those were. Troy had felt rather silly, like he was talking to himself. But the lines were difficult to hear. No mics, he thought, now rubbing at his eyes as the stage briefly became blurry—

"'What's a copper's nark?'" a man asked, and Troy sat straight in his seat. The positions of the actors had changed—more than a little—and now he saw Cully fiddling with the basket of flowers Eliza so often worried about. What—she wasn't there—

"'It's a—well, it's a copper's nark, as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of informer.'"

"'I take my Bible oath'"—Troy lifted his head higher as he heard Cully speak, though he had to strain to hear her—"'I never said a word—'"

"'Oh, shut up, shut up.'" Another voice had replaced hers. "'Do I look like a policeman?'"

Troy could not hold back a brief snort of laughter, shifting his still aching leg farther ahead on his knee. "No—no, you bloody don't."

The voices faded together, the lines he had spoken so often now just vaguely familiar. Still, he lifted his face as he heard her voice again, squinting through heavy eyelids just to see her on the stage. And...she looked so different than he was accustomed to. Cully often wore just a short-sleeved shirt and jeans, but she was nearly always put together and...hell, dreadfully attractive. More than stunning. Beautiful. Now, she stood in rags with soot on her face. Makeup, he reminded himself. This woman before him was not Cully at the moment; she was Eliza—Liza—Doolittle. Eliza was frumpy and dirty; Cully glowed.

"'He ain't a tec','" one of the actors said. "'He's a blooming busybody: that's what he is. I tell you, look at his boots.'"

"'And how are all your people down at Selsey?'" Higgins, Troy reminded himself. God, read it too often.

"'Who told you my people come from Selsey?'"

"No one," Troy murmured, his chin falling against his chest. "As bad as Barnaby..."