Its officially been an age - bordering on ten years! - since I uploaded a fanfic, but having fallen completely and totally obsessed into the first 2 seasons of Death in Paradise, I was inspired to write again.
I fear I am fall very firmly into the 'Series 3, Ep 1 NEVER HAPPENED' camp. My Heart! I know, I know. But as well as the cases, the friendship and relationships with the team, I am so on the Richard/Camille Ship that I would happily have kept bailing til it was resolved. Which, on screen didn't happen. That delicate, careful joining of hearts was taken from us - no, can't talk, still not over it.
Anyway, this has got me writing again, so yay for that. This one shot is set towards the end of S2, Ep 8. Grab a cocktail, grab a cup of tea and settle yourself.
I'm on the latter, milk, no sugar please.
And reviews are welcome - constructive criticism please!
Leaving Hope In His Wake
Camille unlocked the shack door, juggling with a mango and a Perspex box.
It was two days after Richard had left, on prisoner escort duty, back to the UK.
And Camille was terrified that he wouldn't be coming back.
Yet a very small part of her kept whispering that if that were true, why would have asked her to look after Harry for him?
And, the voice insisted, what about that look he gave you in front of all of the rest of the team when his taxi drove him away to the airport?
Camille sighed, she couldn't help feel the heavy, sick, dragging feeling in the pit of her stomach and a wave of ultimate disappointment just waiting to crash over her head.
However, she had promised to feed Harry, twice a day, at 8am and 6pm and she kept her promises.
She walked to the veranda doors, and threw open one side to let in some light and air into the shack.
Walking back to the small galley kitchen, Camille saw a quick flash of green in the ceiling.
'Oh there you are!' she told the lizard, 'Listen I know I'm not the usual human, but he's left you with me. For now…' she petered out.
Unbidden tears threated to form, so shaking her head and attempting to stiffen her resolve, Camille took the bow and cutlery marked with labels 'Harry' and started to prep the lizard's 'meal'.
Pulling a face as she added the dead insects – courtesy of a friend of Dwayne's somewhere along the line – to the squashed up mango, Camille walked the bowl over to the coffee table by the veranda doors and put it down.
No sign of Harry.
Typical.
'It's just here – okay?' she told the lizard who chose to remain out of sight, 'I'll stay here til you've eaten.'
Turning, she walked out onto the veranda, leaned against one of the support posts and looked out to sea.
Normally this sight calmed her but tonight it just reminded her of the last conversation Richard and she had had.
'You're not coming back are you?'
'Of course I am!'
She hadn't been convinced at all – which had made her go for broke when he was departing. The full body hug and kiss on the cheek hadn't really been planned, but she'd been damned if she was going to let him leave without trying to let him know how she felt.
Well, she'd know by the end of the week.
Friday had never looked so far away than it did right now.
She sighed heavily, and turned to go back in to the shack.
Feeling like an over sentimental heroine from a Victorian novel, Camille trailed her hand over furniture and belongings that Richard had left behind.
His collection of ancient scientific journals and books, rescued from the Twilight Zone in the rear of the Police Station. The printed out and dogeared copy of 'The Count of Monte Cristo' from one of their cases. His favourite cup and saucer he drunk his tea from when he was not in work.
Camille resisted looking in the wardrobe or the chest of drawers, fearing she would find proof Richard would never return to the Island.
To the Team.
To Her.
Eventually, her wanderings led to the battered stereo system that, again, Dwayne had 'sourced' for Richard.
A few well ordered CD cases stood by in in typically regimented order.
A couple of classical instrumentals, a gentle introduction to reggae – a gift from the team after the Solly case, a Last Night of the Proms collection and – Camille frowned.
A handwritten label on a case, merely marked with a capital 'C'.
She looked around the stereo but couldn't find A or B or even a D. Maybe he had taken the other ones with him?
Looking at the CD case in her hand she dismissed this. It was just marked with 'C' on the front on the rear of the original index card.
This wasn't like Richard at all, the man was an addicted labeller and cataloguer, she knew from experience.
What on earth was it? She wondered to herself, and looked at the back of the case.
No listing, no names of song or artist, nothing.
Just 'C'.
Intrigued, and telling herself it wasn't really prying – after all he had left this is plain sight and he never said she couldn't use his stereo while she was feeding Harry for him, Camille opened the case.
It was empty.
She checked all the other CD cases, making sure she restacked them as she went to hide her actions but there wasn't a rogue disc to be found.
Figuring it could only be in his laptop, which he had taken with him, or in the stereo before her, Camille plugged the machine in (safety first as ever, she thought bemusedly to herself) and opened the CD drawer.
Yes, there it was – a silver disc with the manufacturer's mark and a handwritten 'C'.
Camille shut the CD drawer again and the display flashed as it read the disc, then read '2'.
Two? Thought Camille, who just has two tracks on a CD?
Checking the volume of the machine, she pressed 'Play', intrigued by this mystery.
The first track started quietly. So quietly in fact, that she had to turn the volume up and only just caught the start of the lyrics.
Which made her quickly sit down.
A husky male voice sang of emptiness, of feeling alone and confusion, but then finding fulfilment and a sense of belonging in love.
Camille found herself feeling very glad she was sitting down, she was feeling distinctly shaken.
The track ended and there was a pause which she elongated by pressing 'Stop'. Frankly, she needed a moment to process what she had just heard.
Fumbling with her phone, a misspelt search – for some reason she was uncharacteristically all fingers and thumbs – came up with the singer, the song title and the full lyrics.
Oh Dear Erzuli, Camille though as she read them, I really did hear what I thought I did.
Pressing 'Play', Camille listened again to the opening chords of the track and felt her heart start to race.
The song came to its conclusion and the CD moved onto track 2.
In her consternation over the first track, Camille hadn't time to brace herself for this additional shock to her emotions.
Another male singer, slightly hoarse sounding. A stripped back performance, but equally as powerful as the first track.
When the strains of the second singer had faded away, Camille did another search, another listen and felt almost grateful the CD only had two tracks on it.
For she didn't think her heart, or her brain, could take any more.
For she was fairly certain, sitting here, alone, in Richard's bungalow that the C on the CD case stood for Camille. For her.
But did Richard have these songs for her or did he just have them for himself to listen to?
Camille felt the songs lyrics like a physical body blow – were these things, these emotions in the songs what Richard felt for her?
Pressing the 'play' button again, she sat on the floor of his bungalow, knees pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped round them, CD case in her hand, listening.
Praying to whichever deity could help that this was a sign from Richard to her that he was coming back.
And that this was how he felt.
In an anonymous hotel room, Richard came in the door and put his dripping umbrella in the small bathroom sink.
Shaking the rain off his coat and hanging it up on the back of the door, he walked to the desk and placed his briefcase on it, reaching across to put the tiny kettle on.
Outside it was raining heavily, with no signs or forecast of it stopping overnight.
As such he was grateful to be out of the damp and have the chance to sink into several cups of tea before starting more paperwork on the arrest report.
It was good to be back in London, he thought, where you could be totally anonymous and still get a decent cup of tea anytime you liked.
Sighing he turned back to the desk, this paperwork wasn't going to do itself.
Later that night, he stood in his pyjamas, looking at a photo he'd printed off his phone.
When he realised that the high street chemist he passed on his way to and from the Station each morning could print photos off his phone quickly and cheaply, he'd grabbed the opportunity.
Catherine had taken the photo with Camille's phone and she'd emailed them all a copy – the team were on a usual night at the Frenchwoman's bar.
There was Fidel with his shy smile, and Dwayne raising his beer to the camera.
And himself, looking typically awkward at having a camera pointed at him, and next to him, Camille mid giggle.
He remembered that night, remembered how Camille's hand had rested on his forearm as they discussed the case they had just wrapped up, remembered how she had driven him home and they had sat out on the veranda, drinking beer and talking about something and nothing.
Shortly after that night, Richard had put two songs on a CD.
Two songs that said nearly everything he wished he could, but wasn't brave enough to tell Camille himself.
Richard looked out the hotel window, into the cold, anonymous, rainy and lonely London night and wondered if Camille had found that CD.
And if she had, had she played it?
Bringing his YouTube account up on his laptop, Richard asked it to play Playlist C.
And back in the Caribbean, while Harry ate his evening meal, Camille leaned forward and pressed 'Play' again on the silver disk marked 'C'.
FINI
In case you are wondering, the songs I think were on the CD are:
In Your Eyes – Peter Gabriel
Sail Away – David Gray