Raffles.

Bunny wrote me a letter.

Now, I know I said I would start at the beginning; in truth that letter wasn't really the beginning of anything, let alone this dismal tale. Deucedly far from it. In most ways that mattered, that letter signalled more of an end than a start; the final nail in a coffin whose construction had begun the very moment I'd met him—though that is of course quite terribly fatalistic of me. Nevertheless, in many ways it did stand as a culmination of all that which had come before it: a turning point, I suppose you'd be right to call it. And for that reason I think I'm quite justified in using it as a second start, here. What are endings, after all, if not beginnings only viewed from another angle?

As to the letter itself, as far as letters go it was awfully underwhelming, artistically speaking. Dreadfully to the point and rather brief, as a literary feat it was leagues off of the one I would later send to Bunny, and far lesser than what I would usually expect from my—from him. Really it isn't anything worth wasting pencil lead on, now. Still, as Gilbert was wont to write, mere corroborative detail can be just the thing in situations like this.

Even now I can recite it from memory. Would that I couldn't.

Dear Raffles, I'm leaving. For good. Call it a lapse into virtue, if you like; if that's what you need to call it. But if that's what this is, it is a permanent one. I can't do this anymore, Raffles. I don't want to do it anymore. Any of it. It'll destroy me if I keep it up; and it'll destroy you too, sooner or later. This isn't the life I imagined for myself as a boy—it's not the life I want for myself now. I'm not made of the right stuff for it. I don't want to be made of the right stuff for it. I want to be happy. I want to be better than this. I'm not a villain, Raffles. I'm not like you. I'm sorry to have to tell you this in a letter. Really there's no good way to say good-by; this seemed the best, on balance. Or perhaps I'm just a coward. I don't love you anymore, Raffles, if I ever truly did. I'm sure you have already guessed that for yourself; these past few months have hardly been pleasant for either of uslonger than that. This has been a four-year-long loss of my senses. I have finally woken up. Don't write to me. Don't call me on the telephone. Don't come to see me at my flat. It won't do either of us any good, and it might end up doing a great deal of bad. I am sorry, Raffles, but this is what I want. I trust that you will respect my wishes, even if you don't understand or agree with them. Good-by, A. J. I'm sorry. Harry

I wish I could say that this was entirely unexpected, but I am supposed to be telling the truth, am I not? I'm not a fool. I had seen that ending a mile off—even if I had begun to see other, pleasanter ones, too. Still, I can confess, hand on heart, that the juncture at which Bunny—that he—that is to say—

That is to say, the particular timing of the thing caught me rather off my guard. We had got over a particularly rough patch just prior, that much is true. But we'd stuck it out through worse in the past, and if he had wavered, he'd never wavered from me . I suppose part of me had begun to believe that he never would; time and again he had promised as much, and even back at school he'd always been a loyal little cuss. Men don't change so much. And whilst it was true enough that Bunny had worked himself up into a minor frenzy in the days and weeks prior, I'd thought he was coming out the other side of it. No—I'd thought myself capable of leading him out of it.

On top of everything else—and by Jove, there was enough—some unpleasant business with a thoroughly unpleasant policeman had left Bunny rattled. I laboured under no misapprehension of how rattled he was—whatever he thought, I truly did understand full well just how much it had affected him. I wasn't perfectly sanguine over the situation myself, though admittedly I had my own ways of settling up on that front. All Bunny could do was fret.

But still… these things happen. They are momentarily unpleasant, and then you move on. I thought Bunny had. He'd done so before, over far worse, and had been far swifter in the recovery. And, yes, admittedly he had been a little pale, a little distracted, a little distant the last time I had seen him, but when wasn't he like that in those days? I suppose that in itself should have given me warning enough. But one doesn't get over a thing immediately, and he'd suffered a knock to the head, not to mention that he was drinking like—well, of course he wouldn't spring back to top form straight away. Of course he'd be a little shaky on his feet. Of course he'd need time to recover.

But to leave?

Obviously I had, in the broader scheme of things, always anticipated Bunny leaving me, one day or another, one way or another, for one reason or another. That someday he would come to his senses and see me for what I really am, rather than that which he wanted me to be, and that when that day came, he would go. But looking back, I think I anticipated that eventuality in the same way most men anticipate death: generally aware of the inevitability of it, yet still caught short when Charon suddenly nips round and demands his obol. As it was, justified or not, naive of me or not, Bunny's sharp and sudden retreat knocked me for six and cut me to the quick. And, like the brief period of shock before the blood begins to bucket from a fresh wound, for a moment the reality of it refused to hit me. Or, perhaps, I refused to let it.

I read the letter. Before I knew what I was about, I found myself racing down my stairs with the full intention of going round to Mount Street. I don't recall deciding to go to him; I can barely remember my short, swift trek to his flat at all: everything was a blur. I certainly had no idea what I was going to do when I found him, though I was certain I would think of something. I always did. I only knew that I had to see him before he did anything he might regret—before he did that which he would not be able to regret.

Bunny was panicked. Understandable; it was a deuce of a situation and I don't deny it. But he had refused to listen to reason. He didn't understand what he had been asking for, as bound up in the immediate as he always was. He didn't understand that we could weather this out; that it was just one more passing storm; that we could weather anything if we kept our hands steady and our heads together. I had weathered so many storms in my life, I knew all the best places to hide. If only he would listen to me. If only he would have faith in me.

But that was always the one step too far for Bunny, wasn't it? He would follow me into a life of crime, steal for me, lie for me—I don't doubt that he would have killed or even died for me, if it came down to it; not that I would ever have asked him to. But the one thing he could never do was trust me. Ah, he would trust my skills, my wits, and, for the most part, my professional judgement—though even then not without apprehension—but I don't think he ever quite managed to trust me . He might have been right in that judgement, ultimately; but still, after all I had done for him, after all the fixes I had got him out of, all of the times I had, I thought, proven my ability, I didn't think it was too much to ask for, for his trust. All I wanted was for him to trust me.

He had wanted us to leave. To run off to Paris, or Amsterdam, or Rome, or anywhere that wasn't England. Anywhere that wasn't the epicentre of that inconvenient scandal which had put the wind fresh up every chap who'd ever so much as looked at another chap the wrong way. I understood why he wanted to bolt, but Bunny wanting a thing didn't mean it was a good idea; I was about as likely to agree to that demand as I would have been had he demanded I cut his throat! And, at risk of being melodramatic, I might say that there was precious little difference.

What would we have done on the continent, or Australia, or anywhere else at all? Bolting was a last resort option; I don't think he understood the weight of it. Our life was in London: our good names; our contacts; our friends; our livelihood. I was known in England, and had freedom to move with the ease granted to me by my cricketing celebrity and my social contacts—hard won—and by years of careful criminal study, quite particular to the country. To knock all of that on the head, throw it all over and start from scratch somewhere new—that would be no small undertaking, and not a move to be played unless absolutely necessary.

On top of that already watertight argument can be added the very patent fact that flight just then, at that moment, in that climate, would have been nothing more than an acceptance of guilt—a confirmation of it! Far from ensuring our "safety" (and precisely what that even meant I never did get out of him), running would have been fatally precipitous. Far from throwing the police off our tracks, in running we'd be letting them scent blood! Hide in plain sight, keep a clear head and a firm hand, and never—never—show weakness; that's when they'll go for the jugular. If we left, we would not "simply" be able to come back again, as though we'd never gone! it was not a decision to be made lightly. I told Bunny as much. I told him. But would he listen? Would he just trust me?

I don't know whether I would have reiterated all of that to him, had I seen him that evening. I'd said it a thousand times if I'd said it once; it made no difference. He was as stubborn as a mule, and as single-minded as a pro' with ten pounds riding on his next wicket. And, quite honestly, I was tired of asking the question.

As it was, that evening I didn't have to ask, and never had to again. By the time I reached Bunny's flat, he was already gone. I checked with the porter, who confirmed that Mr. Manders, and a great deal of luggage, had departed earlier that afternoon in a loaded hansom. He had left no forwarding address, and no word as to when he would be back.

My immediate reaction to that news was relief: if he had gone, possessions in tow, that at least told me he was looking to start a new life, rather than solely end this one. But I also found, in some strange and resigned way, that I was glad he had gone before I could get to him. Not because I was afraid I might not have convinced him to stay—quite the reverse. It was only upon reaching his rooms and being faced with his very real absence that I came to my senses and realised what a villain I had been in going there at all. Bunny had told me to stay away, and I had gone to him. He had asked me to respect his decision, and the very first thing I had done was blatantly disrespect it. Just as I always did, thinking—knowing I knew better. The blackness of it all caught up with me as I stood in the fading light of the street outside of his now-empty flat. It seeped in through my cracks: bitter reality, unpalatable truth, cold guilt.

Bunny was gone.

Now, I pride myself on keeping a cool head in almost all situations; it is what I would call a defining characteristic. I had suffered worse losses in my life. I had faced greater hardships than those I faced then, in my comfortable rooms, smoking expensive cigarettes, wearing expensive clothes, drinking expensive whiskey, and visiting expensive friends. I'd got myself out of tighter spots and deeper holes in the past; stumbled through darker nights back into the brightness of inevitable mornings. Of course I had. I must have done.

Somehow it didn't feel like it, just then.

Time wore on; it got no better.

He was wherever I went; his presence conspicuous in my mind by its permanent absence from my side. I found myself turning to say something to him as I walked down the street; looking automatically for his face in every crowd. I would find myself in shops and markets habitually picking up books I thought he would like. I would start to ask shop assistants for a box of his favourite biscuits (Huntley & Palmer), or a bottle of his favourite ink (a ridiculously expensive quick-drying violet-blue; an endearingly unfashionable eccentricity in an age of all-black), before stopping myself as I realised and remembered. I would be at the Club and some brainless fool would say something ridiculous, and, as I smiled and nodded, I would all the while be pressing his words into my memory like a flower between the pages of a book, simply in order to open it to Bunny later, so he could share in my amusement as no one else would. But of course there would be no later. Bunny would never be waiting for my return. My little Inferno had grown cold.

Going about town was thus little fun, but neither could I happily stay in; my rooms were soaked with him. Everywhere I looked he was there. His spirit rested in books he had given me, or borrowed, or sat reading tailor-fashion on the floor before the fire; his touch in whiskey glasses that had half hidden his smiles; his care in paintings his gaze had graced and his hand had straightened; the absence of his warmth in the bed where I had held him as he slept; his voice in the echoing silence.

Sleep was an impossibility, yet staying awake swiftly grew intolerable. I could settle on no distractions, yet to be without them was torture. No matter what I turned my attention to, it wandered, the loss of him aching like an amputated leg; you might momentarily forget it, until you moved to stand. I could barely think—and that at least was a godsend, for whenever I collected my mind enough to form cogent thoughts, it turned against me, searching in vain for solutions to an unsolvable problem; ever reminding me that there was simply nothing I could do. I couldn't help but think (and think again, and again, and again, repeating through my head like the irritating refrain of a poorly written song) how Bunny hadn't known me; hadn't loved me; never did; never could have done. He had only worshipped the villain as he had worshipped the cricketer as he had worshipped the Captain of the Eleven. Just as everyone had, unknowing of the man—unknowing of me—whoever that was. And once Bunny had finally seen the light, he had turned from me, dismayed and disgusted, as I had always feared he would. As I had always known he would.

It wouldn't do. I was made of sterner stuff, surely! What was this pining? This yearning, and moping, and wallowing? That wasn't like me. In the rare case a problem truly cannot be overcome, one must simply forget about it and move on; otherwise it'll consume you—and still remain unsolved! When the gods have set their mind on something, mere mortals must find our own way. I could do that; it was what I did best. I was—I am—A. J. Raffles. I don't believe in only. Bunny isn't the only creature I could care for. Bunny isn't the only person who might understand me; isn't the only person who could chase off that loneliness which had followed me around like some great black dog for as long as I could remember. I didn't believe in only. I'd had other flirtations before, other friendships, and I would no doubt do so again, in some way or another. They would never be like what I'd had with Bunny, but all relationships of all kinds are different from one another, are they not? As different as one person is from the next. Though in many ways Bunny was unrivaled, unparalleled, irreplaceable, even, still I—

And what is "love", anyway, when you really get down to it? Pleasant enough, and food for poets, but it's not required to live. Love is not even required for happiness; in some cases it can prove antithetical to it—at least in the long run. Love only weighs you down, shackles you, and makes you foolish. Freedom, that's the real necessity, and I still had that. I still have it now, at a cost. And, after all, independence and freedom go hand in hand; being at liberty is not the anomaly for me, it's merely a reversion to form. A return to my natural state: A. J. Raffles, free again, at last!

So I told myself. So I willed myself to believe. So I rationalised and reasoned and rebuked myself with when I failed to feel in my heart that which my mind told me I ought.

Safe enough to say, it was not working.

I changed my approach.

He would come back, I told myself.

Of course he would. I knew he would. He was wrong. Or—not wrong, but mistaken. He needed a—a rest cure, that's all. His nerves had been worn out, that was all. He'd taken a knock to the head. It was understandable. He only needed a break. Did I not myself often require the solitude of my own company? True, I never flew to such histrionics about it as he'd done, but he was made up differently than me. Bunny just needed time. It was all under control; he would come back to me, if I just let him alone a little while. He had done so before, hadn't he? My prodigal rabbit.

...So, at least, I told myself.

I don't know that I ever really believed any of those things, but I could tell myself I did, and that was enough to get me through the more intolerable moments. It was enough to let me put it, and him, from my mind. It was enough to keep me from discovering how flying felt; an Icarus falling, reaching for the sun.

I couldn't keep still. I couldn't be without distraction. I couldn't stay in London.

Fortunately, I had no want of invitations to parties, balls, cricket matches—the usual bill of goods. I may not have been the most well-bred socialite in the city, as I was on occasion reminded, but I was a popular one; if only for my cricket; if only for my looks and flirtation and charm. No, I had no want for invitations to dine, dance, and don the whites, even as I had no want for them.

Of late, my distaste for such affairs had been increasing. My disillusionment with society—supposing I had ever been under any illusion of it in the first place—had been increasing year on year, leaving me ever more with a bad taste in my mouth. Society was a game, and though I liked to win, much like cricket the game itself had lost a deal of its charm. I turned down as many offers as I received, in those latter days; that only made me all the more sought after. The harder I was to get, the more people wanted me—and the less in turn that I wanted them. Their valuables were another matter, of course, and they usually gave me motivation enough to play the game and keep up appearances.

But the true value of those places just then, in those dreary, dreadful, summer days, was that they provided me with direly needed distraction. They were somewhere else to go. They were places I could forget about him—or try to. They were places I could run, and run risks, and risk all for the panacea of thrill. Standing still was intolerable. Standing still was deadly.

The day after he left, I snatched a stack of invitations down from the mantelpiece at random, and sent immediate replies to a half dozen of them.