S2 E8 – You Won't Come Back, Will You?
Part 1 of 2
The ride to his beach from La Kaz is a bit manic. He needs to pack for his unexpected trip back to London with the prisoner and the entire team has piled into the Defender in order to help get him to the airport on time. Dwayne and Fidel are laughing and congratulating him on his little impromptu vacation, urging him to enjoy every frosty sleety shivery moment, the beer in his snug, the big plate of proper fish 'n chips, etc. etc. etc. but Richard finds he cannot enter into their festive attitude.
Despite this being his EXACT wish for so long… he isn't happy.
He's not sure when this fondest wish stopped being his fondest wish. But it has. It hasn't been his fondest wish for some time now. He's not sure WHEN it stopped but it HAS stopped and he's not happy. The reason for this sits quietly behind him, emanating huge flashes of some strong emotion that he can feel searing into the back of his neck but that he cannot interpret without her help.
And he can't ask her for help, now can he? Not with an audience. So there is complete silence from the Camille network. She looks out the side window the whole way and doesn't utter a single word. Not one word. Not even in code. Not even the slightest hint of a clue of a guess as to WHY she is so silent.
Finally, just to have something to say, he tells his team that he has every confidence in them to run the station superbly in his absence. He stutters a bit when he tells Camille she will be in charge. The men chatter on, Camille continues her mute impression of a stone, and Richard ratchets up another notch .
Somehow, when Richard gets out of the truck, only Camille accompanies him and that's only because Dwayne and Fidel practically shove her out of the truck after him. "We'll stay here, Chief, and wait for your taxi," Dwayne says, "Yell if you need help with your luggage."
Fidel laughs, "Well, it should only be an overnight bag, right, sir? How much will you need until Friday?"
Richard gulps and nods and strides away like he means it. Camille follows like a sad shadow up onto his veranda then stalls and just looks out to sea. Richard watches her from over his shoulder for long moments. Words jostle haphazardly all over his frontal cortex and create such a traffic jam that his tongue is frozen. As she continues to ignore him, he turns dejectedly and goes inside to begin packing.
He stands uncertainly in the middle of his so-called living room, suddenly thirsty, suddenly too hot. He charges down into his kitchen and pulls out his last two beers, relishing the cool wave of air that rolls out into his face. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself then takes the beers out to her with a fake grin. He pops the tops and hands her one, sets his down, then rushes back inside to wrestle his suitcase out of the wardrobe and throw it onto his bed. He begins tossing things into it willy-nilly, anything to cover up the roaring silence beating in from his veranda.
Camille can hear him. He's packing, excited, almost gleeful. She darts quick glances over her shoulder and watches him doing this most domestic of chores. It is unexpectedly personal and private; his precise sure motions, seeing articles of clothing for the first time. She can't watch any more. It hurts too much.
A minute later, he wheels out a monstrous suitcase, nattering on about the current temperature in London and his fridge while he piles his briefcase atop the suitcase, his motions jerky. She simply cannot help herself! She bites her lip but the words fly out without permission at his retreating back, "But you WILL be back on Friday?!" Her teeth click shut but too late. The plea hangs in the air, twisting.
From inside, she hears his reply, "Yeah, that's the plan." He charges out to mound up a trench-coat (of all things) on top of his growing pile, "Of course, things might change. Not saying they will… but… you know… being HERE wasn't really the plan, was it?" He slaps his pile of luggage with jolly hilarity.
The sound makes Camille flinch and she looks out to sea once more, searching the horizon for help.
He chuffs a sad laugh, "Not exactly. It just sort of happened." The silence is killing him. He charges back inside once more.
Camille's eyes dart from east to west, west to east. She can't think of anything to say in reply.
He comes back out, folding up a sweater, "One minute I was in Croydon and the next…" He sees the look on her face and stumbles, "I mean, not that I haven't loved it, you know." He holds up the sweater like a shield, "I have," he stutters quietly, gestures aimlessly with the sweater. "And you… and…"
She blinks and takes a shuddery breath, hearing something, something almost spoken aloud. She straightens quickly as if expecting more. So much more. Say it, Richard! Please say it!
But he quails at the last moment, frowns, licks his lips, looks down at his hands, "Well, ALL of you. You know, the gang…" Now his silence spins out and she waits in vain.
Her shoulders slump minutely. Her hopeful eyes drop in disappointment then she looks back up at him in sorrowful surety, watching him kneading that sweater into submission. He finally lays it atop his pile and pats it as if apologizing.
"I've loved every minute of it," he says quietly, hopelessly, without the slightest clue how to end this torture. "Well, maybe not EVERY minute. You know, in the main." He tries to be upbeat and it must have worked because she gives him a small smile. It's enough to allow him one last dash back inside to grab up his cell phone, passport, wallet, ten pence holder, and mobile sewing kit.
He emerges one last time, nodding to himself, "Anyway, it's only until Friday. No need for big goodbyes." And by that he means he really wants a kiss! Yes, a kiss! AND a hug! But how to convey that? He has no idea. None at all. So he improvises. English style.
'English style' obviously translates into total clueless floundering about with your eyes closed and hoping for some miracle to save you from absolute destruction. Either that or deus ex machina. Failing that, burning an offering and praying on his knees for mercy. What can I say? What can I…? An idea pops into his head, "Oh! Actually I will need someone to look after Harry!" he chirps with false cheer.
End – part 1