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The Officer in the Oubliette

Chapter Four: The Morning After

Barnard Morgan House – Tuesday: 06:45

Booth ended his call to Brennan, snapped his cell shut and then bicycle-kicked the heavy covers off his body. Then, struggling to his feet, he walked naked on unsteady legs over to the chair in the corner of the room and picked up yesterday's socks. He briefly contemplated searching out a clean pair, but decided he didn't have time, and besides, that would require effort on his part. He slipped on the red and green stripped socks and grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from the bottom of his suitcase. He still hadn't bothered to unpack properly. The only thing he'd made sure to do was kit-out the wardrobe with ironed white shirts and impeccably pressed suits. The rest he'd manage on the fly.

Once dressed, he walked down the hallway to the communal bathroom – relieved to find that it was unoccupied. He made light work of washing up and tried his best to avoid looking at his reflection in the mirror that hung over the small sink. If he looked half as bad as he felt, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. He dumped his toiletries and washcloth back in his room, or 'cell', as he'd labelled it, and hurried back down the hallway. Picking up the pace as he descended the stairs, he shut the door to Barnard Morgan House gladly behind him.

Squinting against the still low-lying sun, he half-walked/half-jogged the short distance to Fratelli's Coffee Shop, where he ordered an Americano and a cinnamon and raisin bagel to go. A few minutes later, he spotted the welcome sight of a black taxi cab pulling up outside the restaurant just as an angel, otherwise known as Nina Fratelli, handed him what he now knew would be a world class coffee. Thanking the angel incarnate, he hurried out of the cafe and nabbed the taxi before the driver pulled off in search of another fare.

"Where to, mate?"

Booth pulled from his pant pocket the hastily written note he'd made earlier. "Um, I need to get to the south bank of the River Thames."

"Sorry fella, but I'm gonna need a little more to go on than that."

"Yeah...someplace called "Southwark".

"Well, that's a start." The cab driver pulled away from the curb before reaching towards the dash to start the meter.

"I need to get onto the bank of the river...near Southwark Cathedral. Does that help you?"

"Yeah. I should have you there in twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic."

"Thanks." Booth rested back into the shiny black leather back seat and took a welcome sip of his coffee. His volatile stomach wasn't quite ready for the toasted bagel.

"You a cop?" The man asked a few minutes later.

"What makes you say that?"

"Dunno...just a sixth sense I got."

"I work for the FBI."

"The FBI. Blimey. You're a long way from home."

Booth nodded. He didn't feel up to making chit-chat. But apparently his curious cabbie had other ideas.

"If you're going down onto the river bank, you'll need some boots or sumthin."

"Thanks for the tip."

"I mean it can get pretty muddy down there."

"Gotcha."

"You find a body down there, then?"

"Sorry?"

"You know: a floater. There's plenty of the poor buggers in there. I 'ad a bloke in me cab the other week whose brother jumped off Putney Bridge. He was jacked-up on drugs, of course, but it makes you wonder, don't it?"

"What does it make you wonder?" Don't encourage the man, idiot!

"It makes you wonder how many people are down there, floating about...lost."

"Sure, I guess."

Booth looked out of the window at the continuous run of buildings and blur of people as they continued on. Just when he thought the cab driver had tired of questioning him, the other man coughed lightly, clearing his throat. Booth recognised the warning sign and duly braced himself.

"Is it a terrorist then?"

"Who?"

"The dead guy. Or girl. No reason it can't be a woman, right?"

"I can't discuss it, sorry."

"But someone's dead, though?"

"Look, I really can't discuss it. I'm sorry."

"Oh...okay. I understand. But it stands to reason, if you're FBI, then whoever's dead must be a big shot, or a terrorist...or a Yank – no offense."

"None taken. So, how much longer till we get there?"

"Once we clear the bridge – not long."

At that moment, Booth looked up and saw a large concrete superstructure looming in the distance.

"It ain't the prettiest of the bridges, but it's my favourite. And it looks great at night all lit up."

"That's London Bridge, right?"

"Yeah. When we go across, take a look to the right – it's a great view."

Booth did as ordered, and as the taxi boarded the imposing bridge, he looked out across the rushing expanse of dark water that flowed underneath. As he appreciated the view, particularly the mix of architectural styles of buildings that he recognised as the Tower of London, St Paul's Cathedral and the London Eye, his patriotic driver kept up a running commentary.

"You can take a tour of the bridge's walkways; they're nearly fifty feet above our heads. If you think this view is good, you should go up there. Yeah...over to the far right, that's St Pauls...been plenty of famous funerals in there - Churchill, for one...and Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington. And you know Big Ben, right? Course you do. When the light's shinning above the clock face it means Parliament's in session. And it's not called "Big Ben" cause of the clock-tower, but because of the thirteen ton bell hanging inside."

Booth continued to admire the impressive view, not minding the unsolicited audio-tour. In fact, he was just starting to feel like an actual tourist, when they reached the end of the bridge, and then, all too soon, they were pulling to a stop.

"I'm guessing you need to be over there where all the 'plod cars' are?"

Booth didn't have the time or the inclination to query the strange term. He thanked his talkative driver and gave him a generous tip before exiting the vehicle.

"Hey, thanks! Gotta say, you Yanks are the best tippers. Well, you and the Aussies." The driver said out the window of the black cab as Booth stepped onto the pavement.

Heading to the bank of police cars, and what Booth figured were unmarked police vehicles, he made out the tall figure of Rob Jackson leaning against a wall, looking out over the river. As he drew closer, the other man turned and spotted him.

"Morning, Agent Booth. Sorry to call you so early."

"No problem. We're here to shadow you guys, it comes with the territory. So, what have we got?"

"I'll show you. But I have to warn you, it's a bit muddy down there. You mind?"

"Nah...lead the way." Great. He knew he should have worn the black suit.

Throwing the remainder of his coffee and his untouched bagel into a nearby trashcan, Booth descended the steep aged stone steps, Rob leading. The two men then reached the muddy bank, which at its widest point provided only a few metres of room to manoeuvre. The ground, thankfully, was mostly firm beneath his feet, but he still feared for his suit.

He looked ahead, his eyes forced half closed as he squinted against the strong sunlight, and saw that Brennan was already there. Her 'palace' was considerably closer than his accommodation, and he should have known that she wouldn't wait for him to get there before checking things out.

"Morning, Booth." She said brightly. How could she look so fresh and alert after the consuming the amount of alcohol they'd knocked back the night before? It wasn't fair.

"Bones. How ya feeling this morning?"

"Fine. How are you?"

"Less than fine." He tried unsuccessfully to ignore the impact of her enquiring gaze as she looked him over. As was usual, he felt naked, exposed to her keen eye. Sometimes he wondered if she was looking past skin, flesh and muscle at the arranged collection of bones underneath. Strangely, the thought didn't freak him out like it once used to.

"Did you take two aspirin before going to sleep?" She stepped closer to him, her voice hushed.

"I forgot."

"Tell me that you drank some water, at least?"

"Sure."

"Booth." She chastised. Clearly, his usual ability to artfully deceive would elude him today. Not that she was ever particularly susceptible. But there was no way he was going to confess that once he made it back after seeing her to her apartment building, he'd staggered to his room, stripped naked and fallen asleep on top of the covers - waking sometime in the early hours because of his frozen ass and bloodless right arm.

"I have no sympathy for you." She whispered as Harriet approached them, the other woman's purple rubber boots a comical contrast to her dark grey expensive-looking pant suit.

"Agent Booth. Doctor Brennan. Care to take a closer look?"

Booth wanted to decline. But of course, he did no such thing. As they walked towards the light blue crime scene tent, he looked back at the endlessly flowing river, the majestic spectre of Big Ben now almost lost in the hazy distance.

AN: Thanks for reading. :)