The Officer in the Oubliette
Chapter Nine: The Bridge of Sighs
The restaurant was busy, but not claustrophobically so. They were seated almost immediately. Brennan shimmied round to the brown suede padded bench seat and Booth sat opposite on the matching hard-backed chair. A few moments later, a waiter took their drinks order and they busied themselves reading through the menu.
"This trip is going by so quick." She mused, while smoothing a burnt-orange napkin across her lap with one hand as the other held onto the tall rectangular menu.
"I know. I feel like we just got here, and now we're onto our last presentation, and then in a few days we're headed back to D.C."
"I've decided not to alter my presentation. It appears to have gone over well so far." She looked up, as though seeking his assurance that this was the correct course of action.
"Are you kidding me? Best-selling author and brilliant crime-fighting anthropologist comes to town...you've had those guys eating out the palm of your hand."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Booth."
"Hey, I would."
He liked that she blushed a little at his compliment. He liked that his words, which were true, of course, had that effect on her.
"I was wondering if tomorrow evening you wanted to come with me to my friend David's house...he's invited me...well us, to dinner."
"Sure."
"You don't want to think about it?"
"Why would I?"
He smiled as she again busied herself with the contents of the menu. He'd browsed the list already, and knew it wasn't that interesting. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was asking him out.
"I think you'll like David. He is a most interesting man."
"If you like him, I'll like him."
"I don't understand the causal relationship between my..."
"You have good taste." He cut in.
Brennan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Booth was looking at her funny...examining her in some way. And for some reason, the table they were seated at seemed to shrink until she felt as though he was mere inches away. She shifted again – the brushed suede seat making the backs of her legs too warm. And the heating in the restaurant was on way too high. When the waiter came she'd point this out.
"We're ordering wine, right?"
"Yes." She agreed, although perhaps alcohol wasn't the wisest option.
"So what are your early thoughts concerning Trent?"
The quick switch in conversation, coupled with the ridiculously sexy cologne he was wearing, which had served to distract her all night, had her playing catch-up. "...Well the physical evidence points to suicide."
He watched as the truth of her words moulded her unhappy expression. "But that doesn't explain how he ended up in the river."
"Right. It's most perplexing."
"Really? I think it's simple...either someone put him in there to try and hide the fact that he took his own life, or they put him in there to cover up a crime, or perhaps to hide their part in his death."
"I don't see how those two options are different in any significant way."
"It all comes down to motive – Trent's, and the mystery person who dumped him in the river. Maybe someone put him there to try and hide that he committed suicide – maybe to protect him from the shame...or to protect his family from the sadness of knowing that he deliberately chose his death. Or, maybe he was forced to take his own life, maybe was driven to it in some way, and the person who led him down that path wanted to cover their tracks."
"But we agree that it's not a homicide."
"Maybe not the textbook definition."
"Surely that's the only definition."
He was about to argue the point when their waiter arrived to take their order.
xxx
Half an hour later, Brennan placed her fork down on her empty plate and picked the napkin from her lap and laid it at the side of the large oval dish. She had eaten and drunk far too much. Her jeans were pinching her waist, and the room had begun to sway back and forth in a mostly pleasant, dreamy way. Booth, on the other hand, looked unfazed by the bottle of wine he had drunk all to himself and was busy perusing the dessert menu.
"So you're saying that long ago people used to bury their dead down on the riverbank?"
"There's evidence of human habitation living off the river dating back to Neolithic times. The British Museum houses artefacts taken from along the length of the River Thames - ooh, we should go if we have time before we head back to D.C."
Booth nodded, but despite her obvious excitement, inside he was dying. Looking at old pots and cutlery was definitely not on his agenda, but if it made Bones happy, then he was happy. Besides, maybe they could grab a bite to eat after. He was just running through possible dining options...all of which involved Brennan wearing that black dress he loved, when he realised she was asking him a question.
"So, are you ordering dessert?"
"Nah. I'm full...you?" He drained the last of his red wine.
"I couldn't eat another thing."
"Check?"
"Yes."
Booth caught the trained eye of their waiter and gave the universally understood nod of the head. Less than a minute later, a slip of white paper, along with a few small white balls that he took to be mints, was presented to him on a silver dish.
"I'll pay, Booth." Brennan said reaching down under the table for her purse.
"This is on me. You can pay next time we go out for dinner."
"Okay." She retrieved her purse and placed it next to her. It was then that the implications of his words sunk in.
"So, tomorrow night, what time are we expected?" Booth sorted through his wallet until he found the notes he was looking for. British money was huge and colourful. Like always, other people's currency looked odd, fake in some way.
"Um...if we get there at eight, that should be fine." Her words felt thick against her tongue and she realised that she was more drunk than sober.
"Great." He placed the money down on the sliver dish and picked up two of the mints. "You want one?" She shook her head. Even the thought of eating that small mint made her jeans clench tighter around her waist.
xxx
As she stepped off the restaurant step and onto the sidewalk, the moist late night air hit her hard. She swayed to the left, and felt Booth's arm link with hers, steadying her.
"They call this a pavement in England." She noted, as she took very deliberate steps back towards the tube station.
"I know."
"And they call that a "roundabout". She pointed to the turning circle ahead.
"Well I guess they both mean the same thing." Booth noticed that she leaned into him a little more forcefully as they quickened their pace. Maybe she was tipsier than he'd first thought.
They were a few hundred yards from the brightly-lit entrance to the tube station when the previously light fall of rain turned into a downpour. Booth tugged her along as they ran the rest of the way. Dashing into the station, they caught their breath before walking over to the ticket machine.
Booth searched in his pocket for change, finding none. "Screw this...let's get a cab."
"Agree. I'm tired...and it'h too bright in here."
"Are you drunk, Bones?" He grinned as she stumbled over the word.
"Of course not. You are."
"Me? What makes you say that?"
"Because you're all swayey."
"Um, that'll be you swaying, Bones." He reached out and placed both hands on her upper arms, he corrected her stance so that she was still. "There. That's better. See?"
"Oh."
He knew that showing her, actually proving his point, would save them time. "Yeah. So, let's get out of here."
They headed out into the heavy rain and jogged back down the main street. Where there were people, cabs were sure to follow. Booth spied the yellow glow of a taxi sign approaching just as Brennan yelled over the din of the rain "There's one! Booth!" They flagged the black taxi down and tumbled inside.
"Evening." Their driver surveyed them in his rear view mirror, his tone suggested a question.
"Hi. Can you take us to Southwark Park? Bones, what's the name of street?"
"I don't know. The apartments are called "The Heights.""
Their driver whistled, indicating that he knew of the plush apartment building. He put the car into gear and swung an illegal u-turn. "I'll have you there in ten minutes, give or take."
"Great. Thanks." Booth rested back into the seat and wiped his forehead free of rain. Not having anything to dry his hands on, he slid them back and forth over the thighs of his pants, which he noted with dismay, were soaked through.
He turned to look at Brennan. She was also trying to dry her face using the inside of the collar of her coat.
"I hate rain." She said as she gave up trying to stop rivulets of water running off her long hair and onto her face.
"Me too. It does that a lot here." He watched as a trickle of water worked its way down her forehead and onto the slope of her nose. Without thinking, he reached out and used the side of his index finger to swipe it away.
Brennan froze. She kept her eyes focused on the see-through panel in front and on the back of their driver's head. She knew that Booth was looking at her, studying her, waiting for her reaction. Why didn't she say yes to the Saudi expedition? If she had, this...this thing between them right now wouldn't be happening. Not going was a mistake. She'd been mulling over her decision for the past twenty-four hours, and letting it slip from her grasp had made her miserable and had put her on edge. She felt trapped - trapped in this car, trapped by him.
Booth realised his mistake when he saw her take a sharp intake of breath and hold onto it. What had possessed him to touch her? Maybe he was the drunken one of the two. No. That wasn't it. It was her, it was them – something had shifted, and clearly, he had picked up on it when she hadn't. He spoke her name softly, but she continued to stare ahead. Okay, so maybe he'd imagined the shift in dynamic. Maybe he'd imagined everything – but the way she had been looking at him all day, was that really all in his head?
"Bones." He tried again, and fought the urge to reach for her hand. When she didn't respond, he resolved to stay quiet. He didn't see how anything he could say could cut through the tension between them. Saying nothing was the smart move. Saying nothing was what they did best at times like this.
Their driver was doing his utmost not to watch them in his mirror, but he was intrigued. For the past couple of minutes they hadn't spoken a single word. The woman was staring ahead, while the man stared at her. He slowed the car as he approached the set of traffic lights, flipping his wipers to a faster setting; he pulled to a gentle stop. Then he did what he always did when driving this way down Tooley Street late at night – he looked to his left. Tower Bridge shined against the cloudy night sky, and he immediately thought about his wife, who was waiting for him at home on the other side of the river. She'd done Shepherd's Pie for tea, his favourite. He pictured her scooping the mashed potato onto the still-steaming minced lamb and diced vegetables and then sprinkling on some strong cheddar. The blue and white stripped apron she always wore would only just reach around her very pregnant stomach, the bow at the back barely holding. She would place the pie in the oven and then stand up, pausing to massage the small of her back before setting the table for two. He knew she couldn't work out the kinks like he could. It was a matter of access and the right amount of pressure. He'd become expert these past few months. He'd make this his last fare.
The lights turned to amber, then green. He set off again. The rain pelted the windscreen even harder and the wipers couldn't keep up.
He glanced in his mirror. He saw the woman turn to look at the man. She sighed and placed the fingers of her right hand against his mouth. The man looked surprised, but said nothing.
He turned his attention again to the road ahead, just in time to see a motorbike cross ten or so yards in front of him before turning sharply into a side street. He cursed the idiot driver and sounded his horn, and then he flicked his gaze back to his passengers. His outburst clearly hadn't registered with them.
The woman leaned in and kissed the man.
He smiled, looked again at the road ahead as best he could, and thought of home.
Thanks for reading. :)