Bunny.
By the time I awoke that next morning, I half believed I had dreamt that whole Sunday.
I felt especially sure that I must have imagined the offer Raffles had made—the offer I had accepted!—to travel with him to the Mediterranean. Even had I not been listening to Raffles through a haze of dull despondency, how could I, alone once more and in the cold light of day, believe that any of it had really happened? And if it had, how could I believe that Raffles had meant a single word of what he'd said? I didn't want to believe it. Belief was a dangerous thing—hope was a dangerous thing. Being robbed of it caused despair like little else. I couldn't afford to believe Raffles had made that offer in earnest. I wanted it too much.
Through the slatted shutters, sunlight poured into my cool, dark bedroom, beckoning me out into fresh morning air which would, I hoped, clear my head. I walked often, in those days, and had got to know all of the footpaths and walkways for some miles around; the gentle, pastoral suburbs reminding me of the better days of my childhood in Sussex. But that day as I walked, I was all but insensible to the pleasantness of my surroundings. I watched with an unseeing eye as dragonflies somersaulted over the river; listened with unhearing ear to birds singing in the trees overhead; my feet carrying me mechanically over the well-known paths of oft-trodden earth leaving my mind free to wander.
Of course Raffles had not meant what he had said, I thought. He couldn't have meant it. He wouldn't have meant it. It was a ridiculous offer, and certainly not one to make so perfunctorily and with so little preamble or preparation. Of course he hadn't meant it. He had been with me all day, after all; had he planned to ask me, what would be the use in waiting until the literal last minute to do it? And if he had not planned to ask me, all the less reason to believe he had meant it! And less still that he would continue to mean it when in a calmer, saner, more sober state of mind. Who could make such a wild and extravagant offer on a late-night whim and still mean it the next day? I wouldn't even hold Raffles to such a promise—even if it had been a promise, rather than a vague suggestion, which was really all it was, if it had been anything at all.
No, of course he hadn't meant it. It had been nothing more than mere courtesy, I told myself. One last moment of polite concern expressed in an adventurer's vocabulary; simple well-wishes filtered unsimply through the dreaming, scheming brain of A. J. Raffles. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing to get worked up about. It was nothing. It meant nothing.
And why would it mean anything, I asked myself? Why would he mean it, now—if he had meant it? Now, after all of the times I had begged him to come away with me, all of the times he had flatly, coldly, cruelly refused me, refused even to listen to me, let alone acknowledge my concerns—why would he now, all of a sudden and for no apparent reason, have gone back on all of that? Why, after he had been so implacable, so insistent, so stubborn, would he only now yield to my wishes? Nothing had changed!
...Except, of course, that I had left him. That had changed. But that had been months ago—and little enough it seemed to have bothered him, up until that Sunday! No, had Raffles truly intended to make that offer and done so in earnest, if he truly meant to have me back, he would never have taken so long to approach me about it. A. J. Raffles was a man who knew his own mind. I could hardly see him worrying over the decision, deliberating, doubting, backing-and-forthing and wringing his hands… I could especially not see him doing so whilst playing cricket and attending countless, fashionable dances, flirting all day and burgling all night—just as he had been doing up and down the country in my absence!
No, I decided. Of course he had not meant it.
A young lady caught me by surprise as she passed me on a bicycle, calling a cheery warning for me to step aside as she approached, breaking me from my concentrated contemplations. I blinked at my surroundings, suddenly realising I had walked much further than I had intended. The sun was far higher in the sky than it had been when I'd left; a quick glance at my pocket-watch told me I had already been out for over an hour. The midday heat was settling in. A haze distorted the far banks of the river, and so still were the trees, in the absence of any breeze, that the buzz of insects over the water seemed a soft cacophony. I had originally meant to walk a circular route back to my rooms, but as I had long since missed my turning, I instead doubled back to retrace my steps and trek home the same way I had come.
...The undeniable fact remained, of course, that Raffles had come to see me. He had tracked me down in spite of the efforts I had made to stay hidden; in spite of the letter I had sent him with my requests that he leave me alone; in spite of the fact he was clearly wanting for neither company nor diversion. In spite of everything, Raffles had come to see me. And he had stayed all day, too, not merely stopping for quick and meaningless pleasantries, or sharing small talk over a coffee—which would have been strange and unexpected enough!—but rather lingering long into the evening, leaving only when he had no choice but to do so or miss his last train.
What could that mean, I wondered, as I walked? Did it have to mean anything? Well, at the very least, I thought, it meant that Raffles was not averse to seeing me. That knowledge alone made me ache; the thought that after everything, after all I had said and done, some small part of him would still reach out for my company…
I had never wanted to hurt him—he who, despite all appearances, was so easily hurt. It made me sick to think on it. But I had hurt Raffles. However merrily he may have been carrying on for the papers, he must have been hurt. I must have hurt him; I had done all I could to ensure that I did, convinced as I had been that hurting him was the only way to keep him—to keep both of us—safe. Were our places switched, I would never have wanted to see him again.
...Or would I, I wondered? I would have been angry, certainly. I would have been hurt—I would have been heartbroken! But if, in that scenario, I had the chance to see Raffles again, would I not take it? In the end, no matter what he or I did, would I not always and inevitably be drawn back to him if I had any choice in it whatsoever—if my own feelings were my only consideration? It wasn't as though Raffles had never hurt me in the past. He had done so on more occasions than I could count—sometimes with pointed purpose. Raffles had wilfully kept things from me, he had used me, he had doubted and mistrusted me in all manner of painful ways—but I had always forgiven him, whether he had asked for forgiveness or not. I had to forgive him. I loved him. And he loved me. Or he had done, at one point. Did he still?
By the time I arrived back at my rooms, I found myself in little better state than when I had left. All of the dizzying doubt and paralysing anxiety I had tried to leave behind me when I'd left the city had tracked me down and set up camp; uncertainty and A. J. Raffles evidently came as a matched set. It wasn't fair. I had made my decision once, was that not enough? That ought to have been the end of it, were there any justice in the universe, but instead I found myself forced to make and remake my decision time and again, day after day, stumble after stumble. I couldn't face it. I wasn't strong enough. I was tired.
And so, as I couldn't reason my way out of my turmoil, I decided instead to ignore it. I would put it all from my mind, forget that anomalous Sunday had ever happened, pretend I had no option but to carry on carrying on, just as I had been for the past three months. If Raffles had meant it, and wrote as he had promised, I would deal with that as it arose. If he hadn't, and didn't, the best thing I could do was forget all about it, and him. And that shouldn't be too difficult, I thought. I had deadlines to write for, after all. I had budgets to figure out. I had things to do.
I managed that approach for about a week.
Usually I am very good at ignoring my problems, when I set my mind to it. This is a talent that has got me into more trouble than out of it over the years, but one for which I have always nonetheless been grateful. It was a talent I made the very most of that week, with surprising success—for in fulfilment of my expectations and in spite of my hopes, Raffles had failed to write. So too had I, for money or for pleasure, finding my muse as elusive as my motivation. But on Sunday, seven days after seeing him, I decided at last to buck up and put my nose to the grindstone and my pen to the page; to wrench from my depths an article, satirical or lyrical or achingly dull, that I could hawk to whoever would buy. I needed money, badly, and was as yet still (reluctantly) determined to get it by honest means.
No good deed, as they say, goes unpunished.
All I had done was pull out a pile of papers from a dresser drawer—notes I'd made for some article or another, I forget what—when the past with all of its furious baggage caught up with me and caught me completely off guard. For in the lower corner of a scrap of notepaper was a small pencil sketch of a rabbit. I hadn't drawn it, but by God, I recognised it: the hand was unmistakably Raffles'. It hadn't been there before, I knew that for certain. I had gone through all of my papers in painstaking detail as soon as I had left in order to avoid this very eventuality; collecting up letters he had written me and pictures he had painted or sketched, interspersing them between the pages of old newspapers and locking them in a box beneath my bed. I knew I hadn't missed any; my melancholy found outlet in proscriptive thoroughness, in those early days. No, this sketch was new.
Raffles must have scribbled it that Sunday, as we sat together in the morning before our confusing, pleasant trip up the river, or that evening, perhaps, as we lingered together beneath the dying sun, drinking whiskey, smoking, talking. Raffles was restless, I remember, the movement of his fingers never ceasing, his feet never quite keeping still. He could very well have been sketching over my papers under my very nose without me noticing. I doubt I would have noticed had he sat and painted a life-sized portrait of me in oils, lost to the world as I unwillingly was, gladly drowning in his conversation, his company, his eyes. The universe became mere background scenery when I was with him.
And there he was again as I stood alone at my desk, standing beside me in the eye of my mind—in the lines on the page—in echoes—just as though he had never left. A. J. Raffles: not the cricketer; not the criminal; not the risk-taker to be protected; not the danger from whom to flee; but the man. The man who loved to laugh and make me laugh; who was playful, and thoughtful, and sparkling; who rarely spoke love aloud, but who showed it in a thousand-and-one ways. The man who saw beauty everywhere and had taught me to do the same; who quoted poetry as easily as he breathed; who drew rabbits and flowers and snippets of landscapes in the pages of his letters and the margins of my books. That A. J. was as ardent as his other side was aloof, as impulsive as the other was deliberate, as vulnerable as he was independent.
I saw him so clearly, then, in that rabbit: her head turned back, her long ears pricked, cautious but still not quite running away. I saw him in the lines quick and deliberate, vivid and vital, his life and his loves twined in each pencil stroke. A. J. the artist, the dreamer, the seer—or so at times he seemed to me. The lonely sinner and lost saint; illusionist; allusionist; my first, last, and only redeemer, ever showing me he cared in the subtlest of ways. The A. J. who sketched rabbits. The A. J. who, once, had loved me.
My A. J.
What had I done?
I had to sit down. Collapsing into a chair with my head in my hands, I groaned aloud. Because of course he had meant it! How could I have ever, for even a moment, have doubted him? He had invited me to come away with him, and he had meant it! Raffles may have been many things, but he was never one to go back on his word. Through all of his ruthlessness, all of his secrecy, the one thing Raffles had never done was let me down—not if he had any say over the matter. He never raised my hopes only to dash them. He never made promises he did not intend to keep. Raffles was not one for backing and filling.
If for the briefest moment I was glad, it was not for long. For in realising that Raffles must have made his offer in earnest, I was forced to realise, too, that I had by no means accepted in kind. I had been caught off guard in the moment, skeptical, doubting, dismissive, and it had shown in my response—my stupid, stupid response! I had jabbed at him. Made sarcastic, flippant comments about the cricket. "Like a shot—if you go"— that had been my answer to him! Vague, non-committal, dubious of his intentions—why had I not simply said yes, unequivocally and without condition? I should have told him I would follow him to the furthest reaches of the world—the jungles of India, the deserts of Africa, the seas of the Arctic!—if he would only say the word! I should have fallen back into his arms right there and then when I'd had the chance. I should never have let him leave at all.
There was little wonder in my mind then as to why Raffles had not written. It wasn't because he hadn't meant what he had offered—it was because I hadn't meant my reply! I hadn't believed him. I hadn't trusted him—and I knew how much he hated that. Of course Raffles hadn't written to me. He probably thought I didn't want to go with him, that I hadn't changed my stance at all from the one I had laid out in my cursed letter. Of course he wouldn't write. He never liked to push me into things I didn't want. Trick, dazzle, and charm, perhaps, but never push. Never force. Raffles always gave me free choice, and now, because of my own slow-wittedness and refusal to believe in him, he would believe I had chosen to stay away. Why wouldn't he?
And maybe he didn't care, I thought. Maybe Raffles had merely been testing the waters, and upon finding them tepid, had shaken me off with a shrug of his broad shoulders and moved on. Maybe that had been my last chance, and I had blown it.
I considered writing to him, but what could I say? He would probably throw any letter in the fire as soon as he saw who sent it—who could blame him if he did! And if he didn't burn it upon receipt, what then? If I wrote a pleading, explanatory letter, and it turned out I was wrong in my reading of the situation, what a fool I would make of myself! My pride couldn't withstand such an injury—nor could my heart survive indulging such a hopeless hope. Because what if I wrote, poured out my soul, and still my faltering words failed to move him? What if my lack of faith had reminded him of precisely why he'd been glad to get shot of me in the first place? What if, after everything, it was all too little and too late?
...Worse still, what if I was completely right? What if Raffles did still want me—at least enough to stand my company—and his silence was borne only out of respect for (what he believed to be) my wishes? What if all it would take was one word from me and Raffles would come back? The price of my ticket out of England, out of this purgatory of my own creation, might well be nothing more than a short letter, signed with heartfelt affection. For what if, after everything I had done, after all I had said, Raffles could still find it within his great and guarded heart to love me? A month in the Mediterranean with A. J. would be Heaven—but Hell would still be awaiting our return. If I spoke up now, this time I would be the one dragging him into danger. The cost wouldn't merely be one letter—it would be my soul, and his.
For the truth of the matter was, loathe as I was to accept it, nothing had changed. I had no new justification to go back on my decision to leave, only the new knowledge that Raffles would not necessarily be opposed to my returning, if I did. None of my reasons for leaving had left; the only thing that had altered was the strength of my own resolution. But whilst I might have allowed myself to be swept up by Raffles, I could not justify seeking him out and talking him around myself. That may have been splitting hairs, practically speaking, but to my (im)moral conscience it made all the difference.
The cruelty of it all was nigh on intolerable. It had been bad enough when I'd believed he hated me—how then was I supposed to get through each day with the knowledge that he might not? That all it could take was one slip of my resolve, one moment of indulging my own selfishness, and he might very well have me back. It was torture. Perhaps Raffles had been right when he had said that God exists as nothing but a force of pure spite; a being with no purpose other than to inflict ironic injuries upon the earth's countless sinners.
Well, so be it, I thought. I had long-since made my choice, and I would stick by it. I washed my hands of the lot of it and determined to put it all from my mind. If these were the games the gods played, let it rest with them. My fate would lay in their laps whether I liked it of not; why bother fighting it? It was done. It was over.
Such was my resolve on Sunday. By Monday it had buckled and collapsed.
