Sorry
After all these years it still infuriated him. Infuriated him to think that they still acted as if they felt sorry for him. And he knew that every new detective, or constable assigned to the station had to be let in on the secret. That they were told to tread lightly because of his sensitivities before they even met him. And it wasn't just his fellow officers at the station, was it? Dorothea Frazil was likely in on it as well, apparently making sure that all her people not only respected the boundaries she had laid down, but that they didn't even approach them.
As a result it had become like a weight which he could never entirely remove from his shoulders. Ignoring it merely allowed it to grind deeper into his psyche. At the same time building its own temple to his grief. And because nobody wanted to mention it, the wounds festered. Why didn't somebody just have the nerve to ask him about it? Or maybe even come out and say, "I heard a story in the canteen today, and I wanted to say that I'm sorry.". Maybe even when one of his black moods came on, to just come out and say "don't take it out on me, I didn't do it! I didn't kill her!"
But nobody was going to do that were they? Most of his comrades, he wouldn't say they had been friends exactly, were gone now. The passage of the years leading them into either advancement, like Jim Strange, or retirement like Fred Thursday. Ol' Max was probably the only one of the old guard left who might chance it. On several occasions when they had found themselves alone, with a glass of Glenfiddich, he had thought that he would. Had almost wanted to beg him to chance it. But Max was far too disciplined for that. So the moment would pass, and the weight got ever more slightly heavier.
Many nights as he sat in his lonely house, listening to his music, watching the hands of the clock slowly moving around the face, along with the simultaneous lowering of the level in his latest bottle, he thought how different his life would have been with her. Dinner with a partner, instead of alone. Her laughter instead of silence. A rivalry over which music on the record player, classical or pop. Having to make at least an effort with the housework. And at the close of the day, sitting in his favorite chair, a scotch in his hand while she sat across from him with a book, sipping her wine. Perhaps they would have had a child, they wouldn't have been too old. Likely more than one as she had believed that a child should have siblings. He always found himself smiling at those moments, she had always loved children. Possibly his career would have been different. How she would have made sure that he maintained the passion he had when he was younger.
If she had been there maybe he wouldn't be the old curmudgeon that he had become.
It really was unfair. After all they had been through, the near misses and misunderstandings between them. The times that he had, no that they both had, thrown their hands up and said, "no more, never again." Yet, it seemed that they always circled back to each other. Back towards a life that had seemed so promising. And she had been transforming him, molding him. Had taken him from the introvert that he naturally was to something else. His friends had seen the metamorphosis. Had teased him unmercifully, in a good-natured way, about finally joining the human race.
And then it had abruptly been taken away. He could still see in his mind's eye how Mr. Bright had walked into Thursday's office that afternoon. How he had shut the door and closed the blinds to prevent any of them seeing what was to happen. He had heard the crash, like someone had slammed their fist on the desk. Just a single time, and then quiet.
How a few minutes later Mr. Bright had stepped out and ordered him to get a driver and have him take Inspector Thursday home. Then after the Inspector had left how he had asked him to come into Thursday's office. How he had broken the news to him. How he had followed procedure exactly as it was laid out in the manual. "Come in, have a seat, would you like a drink? I'm sure the Inspector has a bottle around here somewhere."…. "No?" "I'm sorry but I'm afraid I have some bad news….there has been an accident."
He didn't remember much after that. He knew that Mr. Bright had kept talking for a bit. Offering his condolences, whatever that could be done for him, terrible loss, blah, blah. Of course they would provide a driver to take him home, of course he would be given a few days off.
It was odd he thought that he didn't remember much about the next three days. He knew that he had been to visit with the Inspector and his wife. Remembered how awful it had been. How red the inspector's eyes had been, and how Mrs. Thursday would constantly break down in tears. It had been so awkward. How glad he had been to get away. To go home and try and drown his personal grief in scotch.
The funeral service was like one of those outer body experiences the trendy set talk about at cocktail parties. Sitting there with her family, he couldn't take his eyes off the casket. As if he were trying to understand how a wooden box, no matter how pretty could contain her. How the last time he had seen her how beautiful and vibrant she had been. And now she was a piece of meat in a wooden box.
They had buried her in the graveyard of her church. Sam had told him, or he thought it was Sam, that there were many members of her family scattered about there. Of course there would be no room for him nearby.
He had visited the grave once since then. It had been a beautiful Oxford day, and it had been approaching sunset when he arrived. The caretaker had told him that they were closing for the day. But he was not to be deterred, one glance at his warrant card had persuaded the old gentleman to change his mind. He had only stayed a few minutes, long enough to notice that grass was taking hold in the bare earth above her. Long enough to wish that he had brought flowers. He remembered how beautiful she had been on the rooftop of her flat that day. He had thought about talking to her. Of telling her how very sorry he was, of how much he missed her. But his faith wasn't strong enough. He had thought that he was strong enough to bear it, but he wasn't. He had walked away, shutting the gate, and giving a nod of thanks to the caretaker as he walked by. And he hadn't been back.
He had a photograph of her around. One of her friends had taken it at a party. The two of them together. So young, she was smiling while he was trying his best not to. He had put it inside one of his favorite books. He couldn't bear to look at it.
He twirled the liquid around in his glass and glanced at the clock on the wall. Not yet. He wasn't ready to face his dreams, or were they nightmares? Sometimes she came to him in the night, soft and lovely, as if nothing had happened. But he would always awaken.
To find that it was just a dream.