Chapter 65: Gridlocked?

With each day rolling into the next and finally into the following week, Cully was more than happy to be distracted. Even though she spent more time shelving books and tidying rather than helping library patrons happy to see the van beside their village green, it stopped her mind from drifting. Or maybe, it kept her from asking. Since Wednesday night and that short conversation with her mother, she hadn't been able to shove the question from her mind or find an answer. What do you really want to do? that little voice whispered when the world outside turned quiet and still. Unexpectedly talking with Gavin on Friday evening hadn't helped dispel the misgivings her father's vague words raised earlier in the day; her stomach still churned, wondering what else could have happened that afternoon.

As the new week wound away, she couldn't quite decide what was really bothering her. That second phone call with Gavin at the weekend—even as it lifted her spirits through the day, something to look forward to—the thought wasn't as calming as she had hoped it might be when she impulsively sent him that message late Wednesday.

Saturday night when she had snatched her mobile from her pocket rather faster than she meant, his voice breaking over her like a warm breeze, Cully finally had at least one of the answers she had been searching for, a question hard enough to ask herself: she did miss him, desperately. Over the last weeks before that phone call, whenever he forgot himself, being with him had turned simpler and easier. At least until he remembered. Her first rushed words that evening had been over him—"Are you still all right?"—receiving a sigh and a quiet "Yes, Cully, I'm fine." in response, followed by a muttered apology that he hadn't meant to be so sharp. If she thought back, she just remembered Gavin beginning to say something about his mother, wanting answers not out of concern but...something else instead.

He finally had another part of what he had begun to say on Friday after a couple gentle questions: a few more quiet comments about being young and buried in the constant bickering, learning and later struggling to unlearn some lessons from his father. (Not that he said anything too detailed about any of it.) It was much more than a flicker of pain and...almost anger that burned in her for a second before he stopped, and their conversation shifted to anything else. She tried to ignore the tiny voice she hated; she hadn't understood before, but she was beginning to now. Would that be enough, after...?

As she rang off after an hour or so, Cully pulled herself in, struggling against the regret. She hadn't known, after all—but had she really asked? No, she hadn't. And even when she asked, he had tried to brush her questions aside. At the same time, how upset could she be, after...? She tried not to think about it. "Don't worry about it right now," she told herself that night—and the one after that and the one after that. It echoed in her mind as she reminded herself she only had to audition, perform her piece: everything else could come later. But whether it was the first news that the Playhouse had finally decided to select a comedy for the next production—though still dragging their feet on the final title—or her own personal distaste for acting in the same play twice, Cully couldn't silence that lingering question: was she making a mistake?

Whiling away the week at CID, Barnaby and Troy pressed on with their investigation, the case against Huhes stronger with each new piece of evidence found and report finalized. Carrying out their search warrants for both home and car with a couple extra constables in tow on Monday afternoon, ignoring the scowl of the man's grandmother as they turned her house upside down, Troy's memories were uncomfortably familiar and scattered throughout. A few pictures here, a few mementos there, everything dusty—unkempt. So too were a handful of objects listed on the last few invoices: a large rolled watercolor landscape bearing a few ragged marks at the edges; a lightly scratched and ancient dictionary* that amused Barnaby but was lost on Troy; a set of engraved silver platters and plates; a stack of wrinkled, yellowing sheet music; and a few delicate glass vases. "All the things he couldn't fence?" Troy muttered, flipping through the first few pages of the tired book.

ACADEME, n. An ancient school where morality and philosophy were taught.
ACADEMY, n. [from ACADEME] A modern school where football is taught.

And the top of the next page:

ACCORDION, n. An instrument in harmony with the sentiments of an assassin.

Surely he meant bagpipes, Troy thought.

"Perhaps," Barnaby said. He turned one of the vases in his gloved hands, feeling for any rough chips. "Or maybe just biding his time."

It wouldn't be much comfort to those whose homes Huhes had burgled, Barnaby had told him more than once, just this smattering of missing possessions. Most everything else was likely already sold on as Troy had speculated, probably to collectors through a long twisting chain of men and women "possessed by less than stellar morals".

More useful, they both hoped, would be the tools removed from the back of Huhes' car: a crowbar, a matching hammer, even a few screwdrivers and probably unnoticed glass shards, all ready for examination beneath SOCO's trained eyes and powerful microscopes. "Always prepared, was he?" Troy asked, standing beside the chief inspector as the constables cautiously tagged each item before slipping them into individual plastic bags for transport, dusting, and scrutiny.

"Wouldn't you be, after so many months?"

"I suppose," Troy said quietly, hoping his face wouldn't go too pink. That was well more than Barnaby needed to know.

Whenever they spoke with Huhes, confronting him with more and new evidence—cautiously, of course; no need in tipping their entire hand—he either complained that he knew nothing or simply said nothing. Not that it mattered all that much as the final analyses came back from SOCO, the tangled web tightening around his denials.

With each passing day, Troy's hand hurt less frequently; by Sunday afternoon, he hadn't taken one of the pain tablets prescribed to him by the emergency doctor for well over twenty-four hours, the faint twinges of pain coming and going before he even had a chance to reach for the bottle. The rough edges knitted together one suture at a time, a thin cocoon of scabs clustering against the delicate threads. In the evening, listening to the empty quiet, they itched and Troy fought the urge to scratch and tear at the new rougher skin. Sunday evening, he lost the battle, rewarded with a new thin river of blood seeping through the faint lines crisscrossing his palm.

He found himself looking forward to each coming evening, though, more of them ending with a short phone call with Cully than not. Just like a few weeks ago. It made for a more pleasant night when it did, at least in some ways. The stillness after they hung up was staggering, more emptiness than silence. Troy didn't mind the quiet itself, but it reminded him of her absence. They'd been here before, he knew, been through this before—but it hurt deeper and stronger this time, in a way he couldn't quite ignore: familiar, like something he should understand but couldn't quite remember.

For his part, Barnaby was breathing just a little easier. The less he had to think about his daughter spending more time with Troy, the better as far as he was concerned. His sergeant was still more focused on his work than he was used to seeing over their years working together, even more so when he considered the last few months. Or perhaps it wasn't that Troy was suddenly more focused, but less guarded with what words he let slip, like less was shifting and turning in the man's head as they signed their reports.

So much the better, Barnaby thought more than once through the week. Troy had never offered a real answer as to what had happened and the one time he said anything to Cully, she mostly talked around the question. Unsurprising, that, he reminded himself, and you might be happier to keep it that way. Only knowing a fraction of what she had indulged in during her adolescence...well, at least she had sorted some of herself out. And as much as occasionally forgot she was his adult daughter, he could never fully shake the disquieting sense that whatever there recently was—or had been?—between her and Troy, would dismay him as very little had before. After all, he didn't give much care to a simple friendship; he just hoped more than he could really say that it would never turn to anything more. And if it had...it didn't bear thinking about, even if anything could survive the sudden coldness between the two of them these last two weeks.

Joyce, however, remained mostly quiet with her questions. After that reading with Cully on Wednesday night descended into a quiet conversation about trust and Gavin—even when she sometimes tried to dance around him—her daughter's new quiet was difficult to ignore. She still didn't pry, though she did wonder...about what anyway? She couldn't even begin to ask if she didn't truly know.

What she did know was when she asked Cully if she was looking forward to the weekend in Cambridge (Joyce could never quite remember which friend she was visiting for the afternoon once her audition was complete), her daughter's voice was less sure as that date approached, and certainly less enthusiastic. A week after that discussion, whilst clearing the table after dinner, she finally asked.

"You've been awfully quiet the last few days."

"Just thinking, that's all," Cully said, handing over the short stack of plates.

"Anything you'd like to talk about?"

"I suppose I'm wondering, Mum, that's all."

Rinsing the first under the stream of warm water from the tap, Joyce asked, "What about?"

"I know I said before, I can't wait on the Playhouse forever."

She nodded. "I remember."

"But am I—I mean..."

"You're not sure anymore?"

Cully sighed, turning back to the kitchen table for a handful of silverware. "I guess so."

"Are you still upset over Gavin?"

"After what happened to him?"

"I don't mean just that."

"No." Cully shook her head. "Ah, yes— No, Mum, I just don't know."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I guess I just don't know if it's the right decision, anymore."

Cully didn't say anything else and Joyce didn't ask. Whenever her own desire as a mother to know met her daughter's ability to keep her thoughts and feelings tightly bound in her own chest, she rarely won the battle.

By the end of that same evening, again talking quietly with Gavin as dusk faded into the true darkness of night, it was no longer uncertainty throbbing in her chest. Now, it had blossomed into worry. What if...Cully still couldn't finish the question, even for herself. "Gavin?"

"What is it?" he asked, muffling a cough on his end of the line.

"Are—are you free for a few minutes tomorrow evening? Once you're done—at the station?"

He was silent for a second. "Uh, I should be."

"I was wondering if we could talk."

"Of course," he said quietly.

Which was how a few minutes after six Thursday evening, Cully found herself across from Gavin, warming her fingers on a teacup, trying to ignore how hot it was beneath her palms. He was more cautious, and even though he kept his left hand close, she still spotted the stark line across the skin on the inside of his hand.

"That's..."

"It's fine," he said quickly, tucking it back against his body.

"Gavin."

"It's no fun chasing after a twenty-something doing a runner."

She shivered. "That looks right nasty."

"Not as bad as it seems," he said before taking a sip of his tea at last. "At least Bullard didn't have to look after it."

"He wouldn't."

"I'm sure he could."

Cully almost laughed, and perhaps that was the point. "That's hardly a good reason."

"I don't know the last time he worried about painkillers for any of his patients."

"I hope it wasn't too bad." Since he had first laid out those bare details of what happened, her imagination had filled in much of the rest: the wind on his face, the ache of rocks as he tumbled down the other side...

"...not really the best day of your life, worrying you've put a nail through your hand," Gavin said, pulling her from her own thoughts. For a second, she hadn't been listening, wrapped up in memories that weren't even hers. "Are you looking forward to it?" he added.

"What?"

"Being back in Cambridge."

"I suppose." She peeled her fingers away from the cup, suddenly too hot to hold, twisting them together on the scraped wooden table. "I haven't been for a spell."

"What about your play—sorry, lost the name."

"Noises Off, Gavin." Shaking her head, Cully leaned back, just peering at him. After more than a week, it was like seeing him with fresher eyes. The crispness of his suit and tie were worse for the wear at the end of the day, the dark coat slightly rumpled at the elbow and his tie loosened at the base of his neck. And his hair, certainly combed straight and flat that morning, lay mussed at his temples and a bit across his forehead. She had missed everything. "You're still hopeless sometimes."

"You only mentioned it once—" He stopped, glancing away for a second. "That's not...not what I meant to say, Cully."

"No, you're right. I should have told you I was thinking about it—earlier."

"I'm sure you'll be brilliant."

"We'll see."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. But..."

"What?"

Cully took a deep breath. How did you ask someone to understand what you didn't know yourself, what you couldn't properly say? "I'm not sure anymore."

"I don't follow."

"If I should audition at all. I don't know if it's—the right thing to do."

"You can't change your mind anymore?"

"I can't just skip it altogether. I might have another audition with him someday."

"Well, if you never meet him—"

"It's not that large a world, Gavin, and they're not that daft."

"That last one—"

"I wouldn't take Paul Pearson for the best example of anything—except having an eye for details." She added the last before Gavin could say anything else.

"Then why not ring—whoever up and cancel?"

"It's too late for that, I think. I would, but..."

"What, Cully?"

"I have see what happens afterward no matter what, don't I?"

"I suppose," he said quietly. She heard the disappointment.

They spoke for a few more minutes, finishing the last of the tepid tea between them as their words danced around everything that had come before. And when they finally stepped through the tea shop's front door into the dusky street with the withering sun and shallow pools of yellowish light from the lamps high above, everything grew heavier.

"Still," Gavin said as they both tightened their jackets and she shoved the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, "call me? I mean, let me know how it went once you're done?"

Her mouth was dry. Everything was suddenly and newly real. "Of course," Cully managed. Even watching the days pass, she had somehow still hoped that Saturday would never come—and now it lay just a day in the future. No, a day away, she reminded herself, swallowing against her parched tongue. Everything else is the future.

"Can I give you a lift?"

The memories crashed back, that happy evening three weeks—a month ago?—her thoughts and emotions in the same spin. Uncertainty and fear might float on top, but everything underneath was happy to be laid bare, if she was willing to let go of...what? Something more than fear? Hope she dared not hear about? The same she had accused him of as she shouted at him in anger she couldn't temper until it ran itself out, all the kindling devoured by its own heat? Don't. You already made your choice—just like before—and you know why, she told herself.

"No, but thanks, Gavin." She had her arms around him before she realized—the force of that embrace took her breath away as she refused to twist her fingers into the back of his jacket—and Cully stepped back before she had a moment to fully savor his warmth. "I'm sure I'll see you around next week," she said quietly.

"Right." Even as he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, he leaned forward, kissing her cheek so quickly she hardly felt it. "See you then."

Please don't go, Gavin—

She turned away from him before he said anything else, before she thought anything else, walking faster than she meant to and drawing a deep gulp of damp autumn air. I'm sorry, but I don't know—and I know what this means. Do you think this isn't hard for me, too?

As the bus she finally caught twisted through Causton's streets, farther from the denser collection of stores and offices, entering the sparser neighborhoods with their mixture of semi- and detached homes, Cully just listened to the hum of the engine. Even over the pavement—smoother here than the often bumpy roads of central Causton—the carriage swayed to and fro as she peered out through the smeared glass, light gleaming from streetlamps above and house windows below. She had seen him again this evening: the same Gavin who had asked her to the cinema, finally forgotten his guard as they spoke over the past week, and so long ago embraced her before welcoming her into his flat again and...A man who wanted—and wasn't just tense. Now she was the one with the flushed cheeks. If we could always be like that, Gavin, there wouldn't be a choice.

But the street corner a couple blocks from her parents' house was looming in the twilight, and she tugged the plastic cable to call for a stop. Weaving between a few other passengers, stopping short as a man turned sharply and nearly smacked his shoulder into hers, she muttered a quick "thank you" to the driver and clamored down the handful of steps to the sidewalk. In the cooler air a shiver ran over the top of her back. Those last happier thoughts now vanished with the gentle breeze wafting across her face as the bus went on along its route. Tucking her hands into her jacket pockets, she followed the narrow walk for that first block, then the second. Once or twice, Cully fancied a drop of rain splashed on her forehead. Then, she walked faster, not eager to be drenched in another sudden deluge.

"Not alone," she muttered, one of her hands in her bag, struggling for her keys.

Alone? the little voice asked as she finally reached the drive, her father's car parked in front of the garage as ever. Would that make it easier?

"We had a laugh—"

And that's a start?

"Shouldn't it be?" she asked, shoving her key into the lock and jiggering it as the tumblers fell into place.

Do you want it to be?

Cully took a deep breath, swing the door open into the front room with its warmth and familiarity: the chairs and cushions all in proper places, nothing out of sorts, calm and still. And her mother, a worn paperback in her hands, cover folded back over its spine as she glanced up at the gentle squeal of the hinges. "I wasn't expecting you this late, Cully."

"Sorry," she said quietly, closing the door and latching the bolt behind her. "I lost track of time, that's all."

"Oh? Anything important?"

She dropped her keys into her bag again; they jangled when they at last dropped to the bottom. "Just"—how was her mouth dry again?—"saw someone I hadn't seen for a bit." It was true, wasn't it, at least a little? And—something was stopping her, telling her to stop. After all these months and years of her mum and especially her dad peering over her shoulder, always at the ready with concern and advice she neither wanted nor needed...she just wanted him to herself for once. Even if it was only for a little while.

"...from dinner in the fridge if you're hungry, dear."

"Uh, right. Sorry, Mum," Cully said, her mind finally back in her home. "Maybe a bit later. I—I have a couple of things to read through, that's all."

"All right," her mother said slowly. Watching and wondering.

After a couple hours of reading and rereading her monologue yet again in her bedroom chair—as well as the bit of the first act that preceded it and the next few scenes—Cully spared a few moments for dinner: some sort of stewed meat with gluey potatoes (she ignored the latter). Her mother was gone, probably already in bed; the light was still on in her father's study, but for once she didn't knock. I already have enough to worry about, she thought, making her way back up the stairs.

She buried herself beneath her sheets and quilt earlier than usual. After all, she had to be up before she'd rather be on Saturday. Ahead of switching off the lamp on her side table, she reached for her mobile. thanks for tonight Cully typed out to Gavin on the tiny keypad. It was all she could manage for now.

By the time Friday had come and gone in the blur of a bland workday—her overnight bag packed that evening and ready to go for an early train the following morning—Cully still couldn't quite silence that gentle nagging voice, regardless of whether it mocked her or her decision. Whenever she thought it was quiet enough to find a few hours of sleep ahead of a new anxious day, it rose again.

If you keep reminding yourself that you can decide later—

"I can't wait forever for them to decide."

So you're just deciding after instead?

"I can't miss the audition, like I told Gavin—"

Then why not just cancel?

"It's too late—"

Was it?

"Yes—"

Why not even ask?

"I don't know what will happen."

How convenient.

"That's not what I meant—"

Then why don't you do what you really want?

"I don't—"

Don't you?

* For full context, The Devil's Dictionary or The Cynic's Word Book. By a US author, but published in the UK very early in the 20th century, and Barnaby is better read than Troy. It's a very funny book. But at this point, we all know I throw in references I find funny and potentially possible.

A/N: This was a slightly experimental chapter, in both terms of word efficiency (me, wordy...perish the thought!) and character emotions (the Wizard was spot on when he told Tin Man, "Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable."), but I enjoyed writing it.