FIVE

To her surprise, Boyd says far more than Grace expects. Some of it is hesitant and fractured, as if he's slowly thinking things through as he voices them, but all of it is delivered in a quiet, restrained way. The lack of impatience and drama is poignant, underscoring just how much pain and guilt he really feels – and not just regarding the untimely death of his son. He's shared glimpses of dark and painful things with her before, but it's the first time that Grace has actually had an overpowering sense of what it really feels like to be Peter Boyd. What it's like to carry the weight of so many different burdens and responsibilities whilst standing on the crumbling edge of a bottomless chasm of empty despair, one that he quietly admits too often appears dangerously seductive. Beyond the pain, though, Grace sees intimidating flashes of the limitless fury and frustration that drives him, of the pure, visceral anger that leads him into trouble again and again.

"Sometimes, Grace," he eventually says in the same frighteningly measured way, "it's difficult to see the point of carrying on. At work I spend half my time skating on increasingly thin ice just to get the bloody job done, and the other half fighting tooth and nail to justify our continued existence to the Yard – and when I finally do get to go home, well, I'm forced to face the fact that my private life's been a complete fucking disaster for at least the last twenty years."

Grace knows he doesn't want her to either contradict or comfort him, so she settles for a safe, "I think everyone has similar thoughts at one time or another, Boyd."

"Please. Spare me the platitudes." He shakes his head. "You know why I chose to take on the job of commanding the CCU even though everyone thought it was professional suicide?"

"Because it put you in the best possible place to keep on looking for your son," she says, knowing she's right. He's told her as much before. "But it wasn't just that, was it? You know exactly what it's like to live in limbo with no answers, and that's always given you the kind of empathy with those left behind that another officer simply wouldn't have. That hasn't changed, Boyd. Luke may be dead, but you can still make a huge difference to the lives of so many people."

He doesn't look encouraged. "What if I'm sick and tired of it, Grace? Forever dealing with the consequences of so much death and depravity. Listening to tragedy after tragedy always knowing that most of the time the very best result I can realistically hope for is to maybe lay some restless ghosts to rest."

It's a grim view of the work that they do, but one that she understands. There are triumphs, of course, but for every high profile success there are dozens of investigations that go precisely nowhere, and it is always Boyd who has to explain the harsh reality of all the false-starts and dead-ends to the hopeful relatives, the inquisitive journalists, the demanding superiors. Grace has never envied him that. Guessing it will sound trite, she tries, "We make a difference, Boyd. You make a difference."

"I just find myself asking…" he trails off into silence.

She regards him quizzically. "Find yourself asking…?"

Boyd looks down. He seems to be gazing at the heavily-taped cannula that has yet to be removed from the back of his left hand. "Forget it. You'll think even less of me than you already do."

"I thought this was supposed to be about openness and honesty?" she prompts, but not harshly.

He remains silent. Just when Grace is certain he's not going to open up to her, he says, "I find myself asking 'what's in it for me?'. Now that Luke's… gone."

"Strange as it seems, I understand." At the doubtful look he gives her, Grace shrugs. "It doesn't make you a monster, Boyd, it just makes you human."

He grunts and looks away again. "What's out there to make all the struggling worthwhile, Grace? Now that there's no crazy hope that one day…"

The words are so quiet and so weary that they scare her. It's hard to accept that Boyd, who is always the first to get back to his feet after every knockdown, could become so irretrievably lost in a parched desert of doubt and desolation. He has his dark, self-doubting moods, always has done, but she's never before had genuine cause to worry so extensively about his state of mind. Suppressing her gnawing fears, Grace says, "What you're going through, the thoughts you're having, the questions you're asking – they're all perfectly normal for someone who's been through what you've been through. Think about it; you've been living on your nerves for years, waking up every day wondering if today will finally be the day when you get some answers. That sort of perpetual stress… well, it's hardly surprising there's a strong reaction when it's suddenly removed, is it? Combine that with grief and exhaustion…"

The faintest hint of a pained, cynical smile quirks at his mouth. "You're going to tell me it's going to get better, aren't you?"

"Because it will," she insists. "Whether you believe it or not."

"Maybe I don't want it to."

Not at all surprised by his words, Grace continues to persevere. "I understand that, too. Torturing yourself helps alleviate the guilt, doesn't it? Briefly."

This time Boyd actually does smile, but the touch of visible humour is every bit as bitter as his answering tone. "You should be a psychologist, Grace."

Banter – even dark banter – she can deal with. It's far better than the alternative. At least there is some spark left in him if he's capable of at least attempting the sort of mordant exchange that's commonplace between him. She says, "Entirely possible – but at the moment I'm concentrating on simply being a good friend."

"A better friend than I actually deserve." It is not a question, not even a rhetorical one.

"I'm going to go," she announces after a moment of meaningful silence. "Give you some time and space to think. I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

"I don't intend to still be here tomorrow," he tells her, sounding much more like himself in the touch of sudden defiance. "You know much I love hospitals."

Grace gets to her feet and picks up her bag, settles the strap securely on her shoulder. "Well, good luck with making a break for it. If you actually get as far as the end of the ward without keeling over I'll be very impressed. Behave yourself and they might think about discharging you at the weekend."

"So I've been told. Waste of bloody time." Boyd grimaces. "Apparently gunshot wounds are 'extremely rare in men of my age' so they're determined to keep an eye on me for as long as possible."

She has to smile at the sheer level of disgust evident in his voice. "Just don't try making a rope out of the bed sheets, Boyd. That would be embarrassingly passé."

-oOo-

"Well?" Eve's impatient voice asks in her ear. "Did you sort things out?"

Settled on her comfortable old couch with the radio softly chattering to itself in the corner of the room, Grace switches the phone to her other ear and says, "There was… some progress."

"That means 'no', doesn't?" is the irritable response. "Oh, for heaven's sake… Look, it's not difficult, Grace. He's as miserable as sin because he thinks there's no-one left who gives a damn about him, and you're as miserable as sin because for some reason you can't bring yourself to tell him just how fond of him you are. It's ridiculous – you're behaving like a couple of angst-ridden teenagers."

It's not difficult to guess why Eve chose pathology as a specialism. Corpses might require respect, but they don't demand tact. As a doctor to the sick rather than to the dead, her bedside manner would no doubt have been atrocious. Dryly, Grace responds, "I'll assume that's supposed to be some kind of motivational speech and not as insulting as it actually sounds."

The brief silence at the other end of the line speaks of petulant frustration. Then, "I'm struggling to find a diplomatic way to – "

"Diplomacy isn't your forte, Eve, trust me," Grace interrupts. She knows she sounds testy. "Oh, go on, just be blunt. It's got to be far less excruciating for both of us."

The invitation is a mistake, because Eve's immediate response is, "Do you love him?"

Glad that she can't be seen, Grace winces at the bold question. No-one else would dare… No, not strictly true – Frankie probably would have done, but Frankie is somewhere on the other side of the world happily researching… whatever it is she is researching. "Not that blunt," Grace protests.

"Well?" Intransigent.

"It's not – "

Eve speaks over her. "Please don't say 'it's not that simple'. Not unless you want me to start tearing even more of my hair out in frustration. Do you know why little boys pull little girls' pigtails, Grace?"

She nearly groans. "Oh, please – not that old chestnut."

"True, though, isn't it? Boyd's been pulling your pigtails for as long as I've known the pair of you. Just tell him, will you? Tell him he's got something more left to live for than his damned job. Because if you don't…"

Grace scowls at an imaginary vision of her colleague. "You wouldn't."

"Probably not," Eve's disembodied voice freely admits, "but are you really willing to take the risk?"

-oOo-

A new chair has arrived in Boyd's small side room overnight, big and robustly-upholstered, but sadly for Grace, when she arrives it is already occupied by a baleful-looking Detective Superintendent. She would cheerfully have paid money – quite a lot of money – to see the titanic battle of wills that must have ensued between Boyd and the large and brusque ward Sister she presumes is responsible for the empty and now neatly-made bed next to him. He's wearing a fresh hospital gown too, though most of him is resentfully huddled beneath a thin white blanket. Trying hard not to laugh, she asks, "Oh, dear. Let me guess – compulsory bed bath?"

"Piss off."

He's feeling better. It's no exaggeration that her heart soars in response to the curt reply. Morose, Grace is used to; thoroughly defeated and dejected she is not. Appropriating the smaller and less comfortable chair, she says, "Fenton's gun's just been confirmed as our murder weapon. Eve called me as I was driving over."

Boyd closes his eyes for a second. "Pity we won't be able to drag the evil fucking bastard in front of a jury."

She understands. The matter is concluded, but justice hasn't been done, not really. Alex Fenton will never have to account for his actions. Not to any earthly power, at least. "It's closure for the families, though, Boyd."

One accusing eye opens. "I've told you before about using that bloody awful word in front of me. What about the IPCC investigation?"

"Nothing official yet, but they seem satisfied that all protocols were followed correctly. Stella's had an off-the-record nod from the investigating officer. All pretty straightforward, by the sound of it." Grace watches as Boyd scratches absentmindedly at the silvery stubble that's starting to erode the neat edges of his goatee beard. She's never been more tempted to offer to help a man shave. A simultaneously erotic and disturbing vision slams fully-formed into her mind and it causes a warm rush of blood to her cheeks. Damn the man. To distract herself she hastily continues, "I had a word with your doctor on the way up. If they can get you on your feet later and you continue to improve, they'll probably send you home on Friday."

He frowns. "That's not what I heard."

"I may have interceded a little on your behalf," she admits. If his blood pressure doesn't skyrocket in the next few minutes she'll be very surprised indeed. At least he's in the right place if he actually has a heart attack.

Boyd's expression becomes suspicious, brows drawing together. "What have you done, Grace?"

He's not going to take the news well. At best there will be a highly vocal temper tantrum only slightly circumscribed by his current level of incapacity. She's a fool to herself. Needling him will only make matters worse but Grace can't help herself. "Don't feel you have to thank me."

The striking dark eyes are glittering as he glares at her. "I'm not even going to consider thanking you until I know what the bloody hell you've done."

She decides to just enjoy the moment. "Let's just say it's a good thing we get on so well – "

"Huh."

" – and that you've got at least one spare bedroom." She watches as realisation begins to dawn.

"You've got to be kidding me… No." The way Boyd shakes his head is quite definite. He looks faintly appalled. "No, Grace."

She smiles at him, optimistically imagining herself to resemble a picture of complete innocence. "Well, if you don't like it, you're perfectly welcome to stay here all weekend and take your chances with Brünnhilde out there. I think she secretly rather likes you."

Boyd's reply is succinct and a long way from polite. Displeasure thoroughly voiced, he glares at her in stony silence. His sullen reaction is nowhere near as explosive as predicted, but it does make Grace remember Eve's snide comment about them both behaving like teenagers. Makes her come to the reluctant conclusion that their younger colleague is right. About everything, probably. The old, old game lost its lustre a long time ago. Perhaps it stopped being anything like a game a long time ago, too. Became just a nameless, aggravating thing twisting and turning between them, a continual source of annoyance and dissatisfaction with no finite borders.

She makes the terrifying decision in a split second. "Ask me again what you've got left, Boyd."

Again, he frowns, the lines etched across his forehead deepening. "What?"

Grace repeats herself, adding, "Humour me."

Boyd shakes his head, plainly bemused. "All right. What have I got left, Grace?"

She's already on her feet. "Me," she says, stooping down to kiss him. It's the lightest, gentlest brush of her lips against his, but it says far more than Grace could ever hope to convey in hours of complicated words. It's a bold, potentially self-destructive ploy and she really doesn't know what to expect in response, but when she feels Boyd's fingers close around her wrist to prevent her from pulling away, she is not disappointed.

-oOo-

continued...