Chapter 54: Collision
The day wore on slowly, the immediacy of that barely remembered dream disappearing with the shadows as morning gave way to afternoon. A handful of the usual Saturday tasks took care of the first part of her day, though perhaps attended to a little more methodically than usual. She turned over every detail in her mind, considering, contemplating...until the questions surfaced again, that tiny voice whispering in her ear…
What are you going to tell him?
When lunch was done—it was rather late as she wasn't particularly hungry—Cully curled herself into one of the chairs in the front room, swiftly flicking through the pages of The Murder Room. She devoured the words from beginning to end, tracing Mavis and Edgar (and Abel), Susan and Barry, Lottie and Inspector Crandall through the highs and lows of a weekend unlike any other. By the time she reached the third act, however, the characters throwing dialogue at one another with a speed worthy of Gilbert and Sullivan, her mind began to stray.
When are you going to tell him?
Once the stage directions for the lights to start flickering commenced—the actors surely dancing around one another on the darkened stage—she hurled the book down beside her. Too many things already twirled in her head, from her uncertainty and worry to the dream that mocked her just beyond her memory.
What do you think he'll say?
"He's a grown man," Cully told herself, kneading the sides of her head and struggling to calm the endless thoughts, to silence the voice of doubt that rose more and more. "Whatever he does—or says—it's his choice."
But you don't really believe that, do you?
"Of course I do."
Then why have you spent all afternoon reading, instead of making one phone call?
"I'm studying."
Nuance. You already know the answer.
But she didn't, Cully wanted to shout that back at the small voice hissing in her ear. If she did, the question wouldn't have kept her up to the small hours last night. She wouldn't still be contemplating a new audition rather than deciding yes or no, be bothered and curious as to why she remained hopeful for an obscure role in a rural county town, and above all...wondering what she really meant to him, if he couldn't—or worse, wouldn't...She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to force it all to disappear.
"Cully?"
"Hmm?" She looked up, following her mother's voice back to the entrance to the sitting room. She was dressed rather nicer than usual for a Saturday evening, dark pleated trousers paired with a pale green blouse, a small pearl necklace clasped around her neck. That's right, Cully thought, they're going out tonight.
"Is everything all right?"
"Of course, Mum. Why wouldn't it be?"
"You don't look well," her mother said, taking a few steps closer.
"It's nothing, really."
Her eyes narrowed, and Cully felt that gaze dancing, reading and analyzing her rumpled hair and pale face. "Oh?"
"I—I'm just a bit tired," she went on. "I'll probably have a lie-down, that's all." It was all she felt like doing for the moment, that was certain: a few minutes of a muted emptiness to soothe the rising anxiety in her head.
Aren't you doing the same thing?
"Really, Cully." Her mother pressed a hand to Cully's shoulder, a gentle touch that pulled her back to the sitting room and the early evening. "What is it? I've hardly heard a word from you most of the day."
What was there to say? That all morning, she had been troubled by a dream she couldn't remember? That the only light shining through the darkness was the pang of doubt from the night before, as Gavin held her at arm's length for some petty comment a coworker had made? It all sounded so silly in her mind, but somehow the weight of it was crushing.
"Cully?"
"I've been thinking," she said after a second.
"What about?" Her mother took a seat, perching on the arm of the chair awaiting a response and not about to leave without it.
What time is it? Cully wondered, her eyes flickering around the front room, though she knew there was no clock to be found. "Just reconsidering some things."
"Is that why you've been reading a new play all afternoon? The Murder Room?"
Why? Yes and no, but that wasn't a good answer, was it, just a gentler way to say "I don't really know why." "I'm not...Sorry, Mum, I mean..."
Her mother pulled her closer for a second. "It might do you a bit of good to be out, dear."
She looked up again. "Hmm?"
"You've been driving for the library, or here reading through lines, and not much else the past few weeks, since your last run ended."
"I was out last Friday, with Gavin." And that evening had brought its own troubles: a hollowness in his voice as he brushed aside yet another question, deepening apprehension in her stomach. It was quelled by memories—even now, she could still laugh at that downpour, just after one of the more ridiculous camp horror movies ever shown in Causton—but never quite silenced. After all, just a week later, it had happened again. And before, so long before...Cully still didn't know what had passed between Gavin and her father all those months ago, when he pushed her away with his hands like he now did with his words.*
"I remember, but that's one day, especially since..." Her mother's voice faded to silence. She didn't have to finish for Cully to know what she almost said. The sharpest bite of Aunt Alice's death had subsided, grief softening as memories elicited more smiles than sighs of absence, though when she least expected it the pain could rise to a feverish height.
"I'm fine, Mum, really. Besides—" No. That moment with Gavin two weeks ago remained between the two of them, closely guarded minutes when caution was all but wrenched away by the waves crashing against them. If her parents had asked, she had no reservations over telling them she had spent the afternoon there...but her father, at least, didn't want to know. His prying words and biting questions had lessened—probably at her mother's insistence, if she had a guess—but had Gavin escaped as well? How would I even know?
"What?"
Her mother's question pulled her out of the past. "And...I might ring up Gemma, tonight—I ran into her, earlier this week, remember?" The phone number might still be buried deep in the contact list on her mobile.
"Yes, visiting family, you said?"
Cully nodded. "Through tonight or Sunday, something like that, I suppose, in Midsomer Worthy."
"Bit of a close call, if you wanted to catch up with her."
"It slipped my mind, that's all." Well and truly it had, her mind suddenly returning to the possibility of Cambridge, leaving the Playhouse and Midsomer behind for several weeks...and the time to consider it all. Gathering her script as she stood, she gave her mother a quick hug, adding quietly, "Have a nice evening with Dad."
"Thank you, Cully." As she began to walk away, smoothing down the bottom hem of her jumper, her mother asked, "Why that play, though?"
Cully turned back. "What do you mean?"
"Your father and I saw it, oh—at least fifteen years ago. I doubt it would be much good for an audition if the committee does what you expect, selecting Salomé."
"I...I'm just thinking about things, that's all." Cully ran her thumb over the crumpled and snagged pages, the first few flipping forward and falling open to where she marked the end of her monologue with a scrap of paper, Mavis Hollister's final words.'Why did you make me do it? Why? Why?' But, no, that wasn't quite right. She chose, even as her stomach churned and she remembered their bitter words twisted together, flung at one another until they hadn't been able to sort out whose voice was whose.* And it wasn't that, not now.
"Cully?"
She shook her head. "Just...I'll see you later tonight."
Her heart was sinking as she climbed the stairs, the banister sliding beneath her hand and scratching at her palm once or twice. She passed her father in the hallway—his suit and dark tie unusual for a Saturday, too—with a swift hug as well ("Have a lovely evening, Dad.") before ducking into her own bedroom. Closing the door, Cully's shoulders slumped forward as she drew and released two or three deep breaths, not bothering with the overhead light. The late afternoon sun was more than enough as she crossed the carpet, dropping onto her messily made up bed and tossing her script aside. It was almost hot, now, and where the sun's deepening orange rays fell across her thighs, she felt a thin layer of sweat blossom beneath her jeans.
She heard her great-aunt's words, again, the same words that had haunted her for weeks. "Sometimes we have to be honest, not nice."**
"But I don't know what that means, not now," she said quietly, clasping her hands together, her thumbs balanced against the bridge of her nose. Despite the heat, her fingers were clammy. "And I don't know..."
What? What to say...or what he will say?
"I just..."
What is so frightening? What you'll learn about him, or the other way round?
"I'm not afraid," Cully whispered, her warm breath reflected from her wrists back against her lips, bringing with it memories of the last months, teasing her with the vaguest hint of the dream that had escaped her in the morning. But none of those were real, not now.
She grabbed her mobile, pulling the thin charging cable from its port, ready to flip it open...The screen twinkled with the cold blue letters, notifications she wasn't sure she wanted: one missed call, two unread messages. Why was her heart beating so quickly already, as she just opened her phone to its tiny screen. Clicking on the touch-pad to scroll down, she selected the first message, more boxy blue letters materializing on the panel.
sorry i missed you before
call me in a bit?
Beneath her window, a car's engine roared to life, the growl mellowed by the glass. Mum and Dad, she thought, just catching sight of the car as it reversed from the drive, a dark blur pulling away on the curving street, leaving her in the hushed early evening alone with her thoughts.
Stretching her arms out along her legs, Cully clutched her open mobile with both hands, scrolling back to her contacts, through the list to his name. (In spite of what she had said to her mother, Gemma's phone number was nowhere to be found.) Her thumb sat atop the green send button for a few minutes, just tap-tap-tapping with the slightest touch. "Better honest than just nice," she muttered. Hadn't she already ignored that when he asked her about London, and she brushed the question aside, like it didn't matter? "We have to be honest, not nice," she said again. Her father had said something, too, that evening, though she couldn't quite remember it. But it would have to be enough—
Under her thumb, Cully felt the click of that button, one beat heavier than she meant. Even in her palm, she heard the first ring, tinny and faint. You can't put it off forever, she thought, bringing her the receiver to her ear, not if you really want...A new knot twisted in her stomach. One—It will only be for a couple months and you can't just keep waiting.—two—And if he doesn't understand...—three shrill rings before the line clicked over, rustling fabric filling her ear. "Hello?"
"Hello, Gavin?"
"Hey..." There was a new warmth in his voice—and the weight on her chest grew heavier. "Sorry, I was almost out the door...Look, can I call you back?"
She stood, one of her feet already tapping against the carpet, a hollow forming beneath her toes. "No, Gavin, I need to talk to you."
"Cully—"
"I—" She almost stumbled over the words as she turned around, away from the window framing three or four trees toward the darker corner of her bedroom. "I just—I have to talk to you." Why hadn't she just hung up, given herself another few minutes to think.
"What—what do you want to talk about?" he asked quietly, slowly.
She took another deep breath, curling her fingers around the back of her neck. "I—I'm going to be out of town for a couple of days, the week after next. And I wanted to make sure I told you, before I changed my mind."
He let out a sigh. "Is that it?"
Even in the solitude of her bedroom, she shook her head, like some specter crouched in the corner, listening and waiting, watching and judging. "No, that's not it."
"Where are you going?"
"To Cambridge." Another deep breath, another spin, a few footsteps across the room, her bare feet still sinking into the carpet. "For an audition. There's a production of Noises Off set to start there—"
"Weren't you already in that one?" he asked, the warmth tempered by shorter, clipped words.
"In London," she said, trying to think. No, I didn't. "I didn't think Dad told you."
"I just thought I remembered, one day—about how you weren't too pleased with how it was going."
"Ages ago," she whispered. More than ages: half a lifetime ago, it felt, before the ground beneath her feet began to rumble and shift along paths she hadn't been able to comprehend. "I was cast as Brooke. I—thought it might be fun to try for Poppy."
"Why Cambridge?"
"Why not?"
"You know what I mean."
"I thought I might see a few university friends, they're still in the area." She knew a handful had settled there after finishing their degrees. "And they still haven't made a decision at the Playhouse—"
"Cully—"
"Gavin, it's only an audition."
"That's what it's always been."
"It's Cambridge, not the end of the earth," she said, her hand slapping against her thigh as it fell from her neck. "I—want a little time outside of Causton, that's all, before I go raving mad waiting."
"Just like last time?"
She clenched her hand in her hair for a short second, trying not to grit her teeth. Last time? "You should talk."
"That's not what I meant."
"And I've wanted some space to—just to think about things." One more deep breath. "Since Aunt Alice died, and..."
"Right."
God, he really isn't listening! "I don't know why you're confused."
"So that's what you really mean—"
"You almost disappeared—"
"You know why I did, Cully—"
She went on, not ready to stop and hear all the things he had said before. "—or dropped everything when I did see you as soon as your mobile rang—"
"I can't ignore it—"
"—and when she..." In those first few days, after the shock drained away, Cully sometimes hadn't been able to choose which of them she missed the most. "All I wanted was you to be—"
"I couldn't be there and working overtime so your dad didn't have to!"
"I know, Gavin, but—"
"I don't think you do!"
Her breaths were coming faster, her pulse starting to race as her anger began to rise. "If I get the part—"
"It'll be like before?" he snapped.
"If I get the part, it will only be a couple of months—you know that—and I'm sure I'll be back a few times."
"Yeah," he muttered.
Cully crossed her free arm over her stomach, the snarls within tightening. "What's your problem?"
A deep sigh rang in her ear. "Don't you understand? I mean—"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, quieter, "even that you were thinking about it?"
"That's rich, coming from you!"
"I'd tell you if I was leaving—"
"How could I tell you anything?" And she had tried—god only knew she had—but it was the same thing that radiated from her parents, sometimes: he hadn't really wanted to know. "I barely see you anymore. It's hard enough talk to you anymore—even this week!"
"I don't like it any more than you do, Cully. But what do you want me to do?"
"What?" She spat the word out.
"Yes, what?"
Cully fell back onto her bed again, not listening to the groaning of the springs. Here they were again. "Something," she managed after a second. It was only going to make him angrier, but she didn't care, not right now. "You couldn't find a few minutes at the weekend, on a free day?"
"Who the hell was I with last Friday? Or the Sunday before that?"
"It shouldn't be an ordeal, spending time with you!"
"While you were deciding where to audition?"
"That wasn't what I said—"
"You didn't need to."
Clenching her fingers, pressing her knuckles to her mouth, Cully closed her eyes. "Would you have noticed?" she finally asked.
"Would you have told me if I did?"
Her anger had ebbed in that second, but roared it up again, crashing over her like a tsunami. "Why? It's not as though I need your permission—"
"What do you—"
"—so stop acting like I do."
"I've never done—"
"Then what are you doing now?" she asked, dropping her forehead into her palm.
Gavin was silent for a second. "Do whatever you want. Let me know when you find out."
"Of course I will—"
"You never did before, except..."
Except for your last role. He needn't finish the sentence, because he was right. Each time, she vanished without a word, dissolving into the ether—and it hadn't been fair. I don't want to, Gavin, but I can't keep on waiting, without knowing...anything. Quietly, she said, "If you really don't want me to audition for it, I won't."
"If you..." His voice disappeared.
"What's to think about, Gavin? You either do or you don't."
"It's not that—Cully, I'm really—"
"You're sorry?" Her hand lay in her lap, curled into a fist as her nails dug into her palm and her knuckles grew white.
"Of course I am."
"Now might be the right time to finally say it—or anything else, for that matter."
"What do you want me to say?" His voice rang in her ear, laced with a metallic echo. "It's your life."
"That's it?" Cully murmured. She hadn't thought this would cut deeper than their last true argument, the pair of them both spitting venom in their bout of temper. But somehow this—almost indifference—burned worse.
"What did you think I'd say?"
She was on her feet again, her mobile shaking against her cheek as her hand trembled. "So it's my life?" she asked, pausing only to catch her breath. "Well you know what, Gavin, you're right. It is."
"Cully—"
"And you've got your life." Her vision blurred and she wiped a tear away with her thumb. Stop it. "Have a good one."
"Cully, can't you just listen—"
Shutting her mobile with a sharp crack, she shoved it into her back pocket before lacing her fingers at the base of her neck, pacing from one end of her bed to the other as she searched for quiet gulps of air like she'd been running. Beneath her knit jumper, she was sweating and her arms quivered. "Well, Aunt Alice," she whispered, turning around again, "I was honest, like you said I might have to learn to be." She bent her head back, tracing the pits and imperfections in the ceiling before closing her eyes, another few hot tears threatening to trickle down her face. "But I don't think I was very nice."
All through primary and secondary school, her teachers had remarked on her sharp tongue again and again.*** When she was thirteen or fourteen, one of them had pulled her aside, offering a gentle warning that it would land her in trouble someday when she least expected it. "Now I guess I know when." This wasn't what she had wanted when she shied behind her bedroom door away from the silent and empty house, listening to the small voice of her conscience as it chastised her for holding her own thoughts and secrets in wordless uncertainty. But her chest still shook with anger; it was more than anger, bordering on fury. "I hope you're hurting as much as I am, Gavin," she muttered, ignoring the chill as the hems of her jumper sleeves fell away from her wrists. No, that wasn't right: she didn't want that for him—she didn't want it for herself either—but she couldn't bear the thought that he wouldn't or couldn't...well, what?
Her mobile rang, its jangling tone muffled by her jeans' pocket. Tugging it out, Cully already knew who waited at the other end of the line. Lying down atop her crumpled quilt, Cully shoved one of her arms beneath her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut against it as the ringing shrieked a second, third, fourth time before choking itself into silence. And almost immediately, it began again, tinny and shrill. She nearly answered, turning its front screen toward herself, his name printed in those familiar boxy letters. Midway through the second ring, she slammed it back down, her hand muting that enraging noise as it vibrated against the fleshy base of her palm, finishing five rings then dying once more.
And again. "Fine." Opening her mobile and crushing it against her free ear, Cully snapped, "What?"
His voice was softer than before. "Look, Cully, I'm sorry—"
She rolled onto her back, pulling her arm out from the pillow. Here we are again. "You already said that."
"Don't know if I have, the way you're going on."
"Then maybe you should listen—"
He coughed, or perhaps was just clearing his throat. "What do you think—"
"Gavin, I can't do this anymore!" She sat up straight, pulling her left foot into her lap. "I...I need to know if I matter in your life—really matter—and not just when it's easy."
"What do you think I've been doing for the last three and a half months? And before? Pretending you don't?"
"Sometimes—yes! When you won't even tell me what's bothering you—when you're pushing me away from you when you're troubled, I don't know what I am to you—"
"For god's sake, you were the one who said it wasn't—"
"And now I'm wondering if I ever did. Ever!" The words kept coming, buried and refusing to stop even for him. "I don't like living in the shadows, and that's where you've always kept me!"
"That's not it—"
"Yes it is—"
"You still don't understand—"
"Then what am I?" she asked. Gavin could at least tell her that much, even if didn't mean anything after this.
"How don't you know?"
"What am I to you? Why won't you just say whatever it is?"
"Cully—"
"Because I don't know—"
"Weren't you listening, last time I saw you?" he asked, rushing his words ahead of her own.
"Yes—and I shouldn't have to guess, and you've never let me know—really know!"
"What do you want me to say?"
"You tell me, so call me when you figure it out."
Cully hated herself as she snapped her mobile closed, throwing it down as she clasped her hand to her mouth, turning her face away from the approaching twilight; it bounced once, almost onto the floor. She ached with the anger of the past twenty or so minutes, the pain unsurprising. Just like before, hurt and loneliness and anger had spilled out of her mouth, clipped and harsh, as unconsidered as Gavin's words could sometimes be. Like she had volleyed all her worry and fear and ire, pounding at him with the same passion as when she first embraced him.
Her eyes burned as she pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face in her elbow. But now, her stuttering breath rang louder in her ears as the thin track of tears rolled over her cheeks; she smeared them away with the side of her hand, her nose suddenly stuffy. "Stop it," she told herself again, the words muffled against her jeans. What else was I supposed to do? she asked herself as she coughed. I can't just stay here forever and if he won't listen, I can't make him.
Beside her, her mobile buzzed once, then twice. Not another phone call, just a pair of messages. Even through bleary eyes, Cully picked it up, flipping it open without looking at the text on its tiny outer screen.
im sorry cully.
can you call me
The tips of her fingers were itching, desperate to scroll through her contact list to his name, hear his voice, and remember...whom? The man whose path she had crossed on the street this summer, who sat with her just sharing memories of the past months? Who collected her from rehearsals and read Pygmalion with her until he knew much of it by heart as well? Delivered her home after that horrible phone call? Or would it be the man who worried, holding everything close and silent? Who refused to confide in her—pushed her away no matter how furiously she fought?
Her mobile buzzed again in her cupped palm. ill call you tomorrow? Cully didn't have an answer, instead jamming her thumb against the end button, holding it firm until the screen faded to black—throwing it onto the quilt again—ignoring it as it bounced again, crashing onto the floor. Go away! she wanted to shout at him, wishing he was there just for that. Just let me alone. But she couldn't listen to him—even reading those brief messages, she heard his voice—not when needed to know an answer she didn't think he had. Though whether yet or ever? "Gavin..." Until she knew—really knew—if he could care more for her than he worried about the outside world and what it thought looking in, refused to push her away again...there was nothing left to say, and no hope for anything else. Anything more.
"You didn't say it would be this hard, Aunt Alice, being honest." She hadn't meant it, shouting at and over him, month after month after month of dashed and buried wishes finally breaking free in angry words she flung at him one after another faster than she could consider them or he could answer their charges. Holding her arms tighter around her knees, Cully crunched one of her cheeks against her leg, hard enough she felt the weave of her jeans marking its ridges into her skin. But maybe, that wasn't the hard part, the shouting or the anger or the scratchy throat as she still fought against her tears, being honest with Gavin. Maybe...well, that could be worse, refusing to deceive herself.
Cully didn't bother even wondering how long she sat curled in a bundle of limbs, struggling against thoughts, pretending her nose didn't run and soak into blue denim as she strove not to cry. But she couldn't fully ignore his voice, running in her mind: "Cully, I'm sorry." By the time she unfurled her arms and legs, shivering as she stood, the sun had fallen lower in the sky, preparing to dive beneath the horizon. Through her bedroom window, basking in the last hour of sunlight of an autumn day in full bloom, gold and red sat like gleaming jewels crowning the trees lining the opposite side of the street. A few of those canopies had already dropped from the branches, wilting on the ground in once neatly raked mounds now destroyed by the dives of whatever small children lived across.
Despite the gloom, she still remembered those days—before primary, even?—digging through the layers of damp leaves in the closest park, hoping other neighborhood children hadn't seeded the pile with worms. And then, that Saturday afternoon, just eight or nine years old, wandering around the back garden, collecting the fallen leaves with her smudged muddy hand, packing them in greaseproof paper between the pages of a rarely used volume of the encyclopedia in her father's study.
He'd gently scolded her over the first few days: in her eagerness to see those vibrant oranges and burgundies, she cracked the book open each day—twice if she could manage it without him noticing. "Cully," he finally said when he caught her sneaking it back onto the bookshelf, "you won't help them along by playing and meddling every time you get bored, hoping you'll do them some good. They'll only take longer." And when they at last opened the encyclopedia together, peeling back the slick paper, all her excitement had faded. The once vivid oranges were beige, the reds muted, and the golds faded to reveal the once hidden veins. A waiting game, that was what it had been, with a pallid, dusty result in the end.
He was probably right, she thought, tugging the thin curtains across the glass, veiling the glaring sun. He usually is.
Troy ducked out of the corner shop into early evening, pointing his feet back toward his flat along the sidewalk. Mosquitoes danced around the street lamps before finally descending, desperately searching for a host and a quick meal. His windbreaker and collared shirt covered his arms to his wrists and just to the bottom of his throat, leaving his face, neck, and hands vulnerable to the stinging bites. He still heard them buzzing around his ears, or perhaps it was just the electric lights. No, mosquitoes, he decided; the lamps were too high up to hear their hum.
His hands moved with their own memories. Index finger and thumb tore at the pull-tab. The fleshiest part of his palm peeled the plastic away entirely and flung it into the nearby rubbish bin. Thumb and index finger again worked in tandem to push open the cardboard top and extract a lone cigarette, exchanging the fresh package for the cheap black lighter he had just purchased as well. Settling the orange filter between his lips, he cupped his palm around the other end, flicking his thumb against the grooved wheel a couple of times before a flame burst into bloom, nearly singing his skin as a gentle breeze shoved it to and fro.
With his first breath, the very end glowed, a rivulet of smoke rising as the sour smoldering tar and tobacco flooded his mouth and throat and lungs. It burned all down his chest, then again as it rushed back up and out his nostrils. At that first draw Troy almost felt drunk, dropping his gaze to the pavement beneath his shoes, searching for broken pavement and rubbish litter that might catch his toes. With a second and third breath of nicotine and stench, he already felt it soothing his nerves, stilling his shaking fingers. The grey plume swirled about his head, invading...pushing her scent aside and into the night.
High in the darkening sky, all but the brightest stars faded against the light from Causton that shone all around, leaving the thin sliver of the bone white moon abandoned against indigo velvet. It was almost set to vanish for a spell, Troy remembered, the new moon due in...he could never remember. "Maybe it's just as well," he muttered around another drag on his cigarette, that wonderful lightness flaring in his head as the nicotine thoroughly saturated his blood. Another thing disappearing.
An hour before, the world had been as it always was. In the span of a few minutes, it was transformed and shapeless, buried in a sudden fog. "I don't like living in the shadows, and that's where you've always kept me!" It was still raw in his ears, drowning the noise of the slumbering city as the next intersection loomed ahead. They had both lost their tempers, and what had begun as conversation descended into a new cacophony of unheard words, unlike any he'd had for years, since— No.****
A stronger breeze whistled down the street, channeled by the buildings on either side; the burning ash at the end of his cigarette gleamed brighter and the acrid taste in his mouth and lungs grew hotter. "I don't like living in the shadows," that was what she had said. "That's not it," he mumbled, exhaling another mouthful of smoke. But what did she expect, that he dangle her—them!—in front of anyone who asked, even the sort who latched on, prying and needling until even the closest secrets were picked bare? "When you won't even tell me what's bothering you—when you're pushing me away from you when you're troubled, I don't know what I am to you—"
"Would you really have wanted to know, what he said?" Troy glanced one way, then the other before stepping onto the darker pavement of the street. He still scowled at the memory of Wellings' face and his sneering words: taunting, hideous.
"Well, what does he think about it?...No, really, what does Barnaby think?...I can't imagine him liking it at all—"
"What else?" Troy tapped the crumbly ash from the tip of his cigarette, his pace slowing.
"But really—Barnaby can't like the idea of you dating her...Let alone fucking her...I mean, you are, aren't you?...I'm just bearing the bad news. I'd say Barnaby more than just doesn't like it."
"Do you think I don't know that?" he asked to the empty road, finally stopping, sagging back against the rough stone wall of one of Causton's worn buildings. After months—really years, if he was honest—of the veiled words, the gentle reminders and occasional biting comments from the chief inspector..."Of course I know, you bloody git."
"But she was who you were talking to, back there?...Not going well, is it?...He really won't like that….Not that he would even if it was going well."
And all those weeks ago…"Won't you tell me something about her?...How long have you known her?...Where did you meet her?...Gavin, you should feel able to tell me." "Mum!...I'm—sorry. But she's—she's just a friend."
Not even Barnaby's quiet thank you after that drenched evening had been offered without a caveat. "Monday, 9 am. Don't be late," his boss had said. Troy had heard the buried warning: remember who you are, don't forget who she is.
"Do you think I ever forgot, sir?" he asked, rubbing at his tired eyes; they stung as the wind whipped the curls of smoke back into his face. He never had, not when she called his name on the street, not when they sat in the back garden reading and rereading that play, nor when she first stepped into his home as no longer merely a friend but instead...Well, he no longer understood what she had become, what they had become as each day turned to the next. Not now.
That same evening, Barnaby had drawn his line in the sand anew, just as he had in the past. She belongs here, you belong there, so be careful how close you crawl to that boundary. Friendship, an embrace, a kiss, perhaps even a touch of romance...when things had threatened to transform into something more and deeper, the chief inspector had laid it out plainly. Did he drive the same hard game with her, too? No, she couldn't know all of her father's little words laced with barbs...and why should she?
His fingers and lips warmed as the fag burned closer to the filter, a few grimy tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. "So it's my life? Well you know what, Gavin, you're right. It is. And you've got your life. Have a good one." He had listened to her say that again and again after she ended their second phone call, wishing he could snatch back his own angry remarks and words lobbed at her, senseless, careless, and furious. All of it. In the past, looking at these moments, they had seemed a merely trial, a moment to move past and beyond before finding the way back. Now, he was stood in a valley craning his head back, staring up the side of a vast mountain, not a foothold to be found. God, he remembered this, struggling against everything his family threw in his face, the sudden loneliness and emptiness as his father walked out of his life, taking him in tow. Stop it, Troy thought, sucking a last draw from his fag. That was then, this is now, this is Cully, not...anyone else. But why did it hurt as much?
"Then what was the point?" he whispered, flicking away his spent cigarette end, grinding it into the sidewalk under the square toe of his shoe as the fiery glow dimmed to grey ash. "If you're just snapping—"
"I don't like living in the shadows."
"She's just a friend."
He extracted a fresh cigarette from the pack, lighting the end quicker than before, his fingers and thumb better remembering the click and sparks. You don't understand! he wanted to shout. There's no point, with people who don't matter. "But if that's the way you want things, Cully, then fine." He shoved his back from the rough wall, starting on his way home again, just a couple more blocks.
But I don't need to see it.
* See Chapter 10.
** Since it was posted a little while back, this is Cully remembering something Aunt Alice told her when she was much younger. (Only in this universe, though.)
*** Reminder of a book detail: Cully has a very sharp tongue and is not quite as nice as she typically is in the television programme. Trying to meld them.
**** One more melded canon reminder, since I can't remember the last time it was mentioned: Troy is married in the 5.5 books I read, with a kid and varying levels of happiness regarding his marriage. Given his disappearing wedding ring in the first series, I have assumed for this babeh universe that he was married and has gotten divorced. I think that's a reasonable interpretation of the data. I think it also begs the question of what are Cully and Troy's precise ages? An as yet unexplored reason as to why Barnaby is not a fan of this? I'll attempt some calculations and get back to y'all if it means anything.
A/N: *looks around the corner, checks for pitchforks, tar, and feathers* I'm sorry, I'm really sorry! I hope everyone enjoyed Chapter 53 while they were still able? Go back to the entr'acte? I'm going to go hide in my bunker and try to keep writing. This is another moment heavily influenced by personal experience; not the over-the-phone shouting match, but the feelings of alienation/loneliness/not knowing which aspect of your partner you'll see at any given time, even when you still want to be with that person. Don't put up with it, kids: get out early, and don't spend 3.5 years hoping it'll change. This is not a comment on the plot/future plot, just that if you haven't made this mistake, learn from mine instead! (Also, smoking is bad. It doesn't make you a bad person, but it will make your lungs gunky no matter how wonderful it feels when you are stressed within an inch of your life. CYA and all that good jazz…and yes, I still miss it, sometimes.)