Definitely Guilt (or The Reason to Restore a 1940s Sorrento Music Box)
Part Two – Dembe gets a hobby and Red gives Lizzie the music box.
For anyone who read Part 1 when I originally posted it and thought this had dropped off the edge of the planet . . . my laptop blew up. I had to save up for a new one, then get a friend to try and retrieve the data off the old hard drive. (I know . . . back up everything. Live and learn.) Therefore, I've had to re-write quite a hefty chunk of this from scratch. I nearly cried.
Definite Lizzington feels. Sorry if that's not your thing.
It was finished, and, if he did say so himself, because, apart from Dembe, there was no one else to say anything, he'd made a very fine job of things.
'What do you think?'
He became aware of a silence in the room. Dembe had left his post in the doorway and Red assumed he was playing Solitaire or some other game in the next room. Or reading. His bodyguard had a penchant for picking up random books and simply indulging. Subject matter did not appear to be of any significance, as if Dembe's enquiring mind just enjoyed the experience of being absorbed with anything involving the written word; he had been seen to be unselfconsciously reading a Mills and Boon one day and one of Reddington's own discarded copies of Marcel Proust the next.
'Dembe?'
Conscious now of odd clinking and rattling sounds through the doorway, Red left the music box and went to investigate.
And stopped on the threshold a little stunned.
Dembe looked up and smiled. 'You approve?' he queried. 'You said I should acquire a hobby.'
Red became uncomfortably aware that his mouth was hanging open in what he suspected was a somewhat unbecoming fashion.
'Ah. Quite.' With an effort he dragged his jaw back up off the floor.
'I think it's rather good,' Dembe smiled, with pride.
'I'm . . . sure it is. If I had the remotest idea . . .' Red tilted his head in bewilderment, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
'I couldn't find Meccano,' his friend explained. 'So, I got this instead. I think it's similar.'
'I . . . ' Red searched for words.
'Do you not like it?'
'I . . . suppose. I just have no idea what on God's green earth it is.' Red was defeated.
'I believe it is a Star Wars Jedi Cruiser. Of the Defender-class,' Dembe enunciated with precision and care. 'Made of Lego.'
'Ah. Really?' Red shook his head and spread his hands to express his total lack of comprehension. He had a deep feeling that some sort of pop culture referencing was required here that, somehow, he had missed out on while gun-running in the Congo, money laundering with PTA housewives in Fairfax County, or creating false identities for criminals escaping to and from absolutely any old where you cared to mention in the world. And, as such, he was at a complete loss.
Dembe continued, 'I am reliably informed . . .'
'Oh, really? By whom, may I ask?' He just couldn't keep the snarky, sarcastic edge out of his voice.
' . . . by the helpful young assistant in the model shop . . .' Dembe hardly missed a beat, '. . . that it contains wonderful features and accessories that are much admired by those who are regular participants in this hobby. For example, there are these front hatches here.' He waved his hand towards one end of his creation, before moving it to gesture towards something else that Red couldn't quite make out. 'There is also cockpit access, which, I understand, is seen as absolutely essential. I believe that to mean that the cockpit piece here lifts up on these hinges.' Dembe demonstrated the fact with a near theatrical flourish. 'It is all really quite impressive.'
Red had a sense that he was quietly sinking out of his depth. If, indeed, he wasn't in over his head already.
'In addition,' Dembe smiled happily, 'there are two escape pods that are removable from the rest of the model.' He pointed towards some part of the contraption that Red could not readily identify. 'Other features, which are apparently indispensible, include retractable landing gear and four rotating missiles. And, my friend the assistant was keen to tell me, that, as an added bonus, the set includes four miniature figures with weapons.' He completed his inventory with a satisfied nod, and added, 'I believe that I have acquired a bargain.'
Sure that he was now completely floundering, Red could do little but murmur, 'Well, if there are four . . . miniatures . . . with weapons . . .then . . . it must be . . . good. I presume?'
Dembe, meanwhile, beamed with intense satisfaction and sat back studying his handiwork. 'Tomorrow, I intend to return to the shop to express my delight to the assistant and to purchase another model.'
Maybe, Red decided, he should leave Dembe's appreciation of his own building efforts for another evening.
He felt in serious need of a lie down.
As it happened, he never got the chance because, just as he turned away, he heard a knock at the door and opened it to find Lizzie standing there, looking at him in total despair.
After a brief pause, as if she had to search for words, she simply said, 'You were right.'
She looked as if all the light had gone out of her life and she had no idea how to rekindle it.
And that was all it took. Just one look at her desolation. And he felt something, deep inside, lurch and twist as he stood holding the door open; something that squeezed his heart and caused his throat to constrict, so that his 'Come in' caught a hitch on the way out and surprised him with its rasp.
She moved past him and seemed to sink onto the seat he offered, as if her legs had only just been able to hold her upright long enough to reach that spot. She seemed all pulled in on herself, tightly wrapped inside her coat, with hands shoved as deep into pockets as they would go, elbows pressed against her sides, knees pushed defensively together. Everything about her screamed at rigid control, and cried out that if she was touched she would shatter into a thousand pieces.
She sat, staring at nothing.
Saying nothing.
Doing nothing.
Except holding herself together.
Desperately concentrating on not falling apart.
And he almost wished that she would break down and cry because then he would have a clue about what to do and how to deal with things.
This desperate immobility, this tight-bound tautness, spoke of a pain even beyond what he had suspected she would feel.
But . . .
He took a shred of hope from the fact that she was here.
She had come to him.
When, finally, things had broken around her, she had come . . . here.
To him.
And not . . . elsewhere.
To anyone else.
Somehow, for whatever reason, she had been drawn to him.
And for that he must be grateful and must try to respond to what was clearly her instinctive belief that he would know what to do and how to help her cope.
As he looked at her, the invisible fist that had taken hold of his heart continued to tighten its grip. And, although he had little belief in such things, he sent out a silent prayer that he would not be found wanting. It was incredible how much this had come to matter to him. How much, now that she was here, in front of him, the weight of responsibility was suffocating him.
His eyes strayed to the newly restored music box on the work bench. He hadn't truly thought through how he would actually be able to give her the machine when he had finished the restoration, but he had trusted that somehow, in some way, the Fates would be kind enough to grant him the opportunity. Because, in truth, they owed him a favour or two.
But he sensed that now was not quite the moment.
Carefully, as if treading across glass in bare feet, he moved forward to her side, and he hoped his eyes shone with the sympathy he felt as he reached out a tentative hand.
He did not touch her, somehow realising that that would be an invasion of her rigidly built defences. So, he just held out his hand; laying the foundation stone of a bridge to cross the divide she seemed to have opened up between herself and the rest of the world.
He stood, waiting with infinite patience, until she gradually seemed to become aware of his presence, as if emerging from the depths of a drug-induced stupor. Her eyes struggled to focus as if she was somewhere else, seeing something else. And he somehow knew that to speak even a single word would stab all too harshly into her flickering recovery.
And, after all, what could he say? I'm sorry? This is my fault? I understand your pain?
None of those were anywhere near adequate or, even, anywhere near completely accurate.
So, he merely waited, patiently, continuing to offer his hand, seeking permission to touch her. And, finally, she seemed to see it there and to concentrate on it, so that, after a momentary hesitation, he tilted his head and asked the question with his eyes and a careful raising of his eyebrows. And, with a weary catch of her breath she nodded in answer and granted him the consent he sought.
Gently he rested his palm against her head as he remembered doing when she sat so wounded and defenceless in The Stewmaker's chair. Then, carefully, as if she was the most fragile piece of precious porcelain, which could break beneath anything beyond the lightest pressure, he stroked it back and forth across her head in what he hoped was a soothing, comforting gesture. Just to connect to her. Just to begin to establish a line of communication, because it seemed as if she had lost that thread since standing in the doorway and admitting that he was right, and then all but stumbling across his threshold. It was as if speaking those words aloud had finally caused her connection to everything else around her to rupture.
He sensed that now all she really wanted to do was sit and hold her suffering inside where it would continue to fester and damage her.
And he knew he could not allow that to happen. It was his responsibility to help her break out of that, to bring her back to the world no matter what she would have to face. He owed it to her. He owed it to Sam. And, more and more, he owed it to himself.
After a long, quiet time, he ceased carefully brushing his hand over her hair and cautiously let his hand slip to her shoulder, where he simply left it to rest as he gently rubbed his thumb across her jacket hoping that she could feel the reassuring gesture through the material. He continued the movement until she blinked a few times and looked up at him with eyes that registered pain but gradually saw him.
He felt the clutching fingers that had encircled his heart lessen their stranglehold as her face dropped to one side, and she rested her cheek against the back of his hand.
And still, neither spoke a word.
Gradually, with an immense strength of will, which he could do nothing but watch and admire, she began to pull herself back from the abyss.
He gave her a careful and cautious half-smile, which he hoped expressed everything of his deeply felt support and encouragement, and his grateful thanks that she had trusted him enough to come to him when whatever had happened this evening with Tom had happened, and her world had fallen off the edge it had been teetering on for the last few weeks.
Deep inside the depths of her gaze he still saw a look that made him think of bewildered innocent animals who cannot understand why human beings will torture them for fun.
But she was fighting back.
He squeezed her shoulder ever so slightly to hold her attention, and then said, quietly, 'I have something for you.'
He felt her eyes watch him listlessly as he crossed to the bench and picked up the completed music box; he carried it across to where she sat and placed it on the table in front of her.
He looked at it as it sat in lonely and splendid magnificence. A testament to his hours of work.
And he realised that, not so very long ago, he had been nothing but the shell of a man who would not have looked beyond how she would be overwhelmed and stunned by his efforts. A man the likes of Madeline Pratt would have recognised and understood so well.
That Raymond Reddington would have looked to bask in the gratitude he would expect her to surely show as she came to realise what it was he had been working on for so long. That man would have been waiting almost with bated breath to watch the realisation dawn as she came to see him as caring, considerate and thoughtful. That man would have smiled generously, as she spilled over with words of appreciation at his benevolence and looked at him gratefully with eyes that shone with guilt at how she had misunderstood him.
That selfish, smug, self-satisfied man would have laid the box in front of her as a rich prince bestows gifts on a lesser being.
Except . . .
Now . . .
As he studied the box . . .
He acknowledged to himself . . .
He wasn't that man any longer.
And he wasn't entirely certain when that man had ceased to exist.
Only . . . that he had.
His own fateful words echoed distantly through his mind: 'That's the trouble with drawing lines in the sand . . . with a breath of air they disappear.' Except, it hadn't been one gust of wind, it had been a quietly insidious creeping of the tide which had been gently smoothing the lines away. When he wasn't looking.
Slowly, and almost without notice, the water's edge had been eroding the foundations of everything he had come to believe about himself. Everything he had built himself up to be.
Until, now, as he seated himself down at her side, silently, in the near darkness, he sensed, more than he had ever sensed before, more than he had ever admitted before, that the lines were . . . blurred. At best. And, possibly, in truth, that they had disappeared altogether.
Because all that mattered to him now was Lizzie, and her broken heart and crushed emotions and shattered dreams.
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing.
Except that she could find the strength, composure and determination to carry on. And not because he needed her to in order that his plans could be fulfilled or Berlin tracked down or . . . any of that.
In the quiet of the dimly lit room all that now concerned him was that she should find something that could comfort her, because she deserved that above all things, and everything else slipped away into the shadows.
So, he sat back and quietly contemplated his handiwork.
And hoped that the music box could comfort her as he felt he could not do.
Speak to her as he felt he could not speak.
Because, for a man of so many words, at this important moment, he had absolutely none.
Sam would have known what to say. And do. Sam would have taken her in his arms and held her close, absorbing her pain. But Sam had had a right to do that. He was the one person in the world she had felt able to rely on; someone who was there to put a plaster on cut knees, bandage up other scrapes and ease much deeper wounds. But . . . Sam had had a relationship with Lizzie built up through years of love and laughter and good times, and cemented by years of help and advice through bad times.
Red had none of that. All he had was a few months of fractious mistrust and flippant misdirection, with only a sparse few moments of connection that he was sure would struggle to overcome all of that.
And yet . . .
She was here . . .
She had come to him . . .
And he must not fail her.
Her feet scraped against the wooden floor.
And he sensed her attention shift to the box.
There was a pause, before she asked, 'What's this?' With just an encouraging hint of dubious curiosity.
'It's a nineteen forties Sorrento music box.'
And as he said that he reached forward and lifted the lid, before releasing the catch at the side which would start it working.
And he had never hoped for anything so much as he hoped that he had done the right thing, that this would be the means to help her that would truly work. That the box could cast a spell and hold her in its magical grasp for as long as was needed. That the music would salve and begin to heal the hurt.
Because she needed it so very, very much.
And Sam was not here. Because . . .
And the responsibility and guilt he felt for that, would always feel for that, meant that he had to do something . . .
Because responsibility and guilt drove him.
And the need to protect her from hurt.
Because he had told Sam, 'I can only hope to love and protect her as you have.'
Protect.
And, once again, that other word.
That he kept pushing to the back of his mind.
That other word.
That blind-sided him with increasing frequency when he felt emotionally fraught.
As now.
The word that was fighting hard against the smug. And the selfish. And the poisoned character of the Raymond Reddington who had walked into FBI headquarters a lifetime ago.
And . . .
The cylinder began to turn . . .
Gleaming golden, even in the muted light of the room.
Polished to within an inch of its life.
Shining with his hope and desperate belief that this could be the way to ease her pain.
He was immediately caught in the simple charm of each pure chime.
As the tines struck the gleaming bells to release single perfect droplets of music.
And, in truth, he felt just a brief flutter of satisfaction. Because it played perfectly.
As if it were truly brand new.
Then, as the box came to life, he sat back. And clasped his hands together in his lap. He was determined not to show his nervousness. Normally his hands would be restless. But that would be distracting to her. So he tried desperately to remain still and let her concentrate on the music.
And he didn't dare look at her. Couldn't. In case it was all wrong. In case it was all going horribly awry. In case he had failed.
He wasn't a man used to failure. And the thought that he might fail here strangled at his nerves and emotions in a manner he was almost unable to control.
This wasn't one of his daily criminal transactions that, if it fell short of expectations, would cost him a great deal of money and dent his reputation. This was far, far more important than that. He could cope with the personal disappointment when such deals went wrong. It happened more than he would ever admit to the FBI. He dealt with it. Accepted it. And moved on.
But this . . .
As he sat there, he had not felt so hopeless and so helpless in a long time.
Because he suddenly realised that if the box failed he wasn't sure what he was going to do.
After a brief moment the delicate lilt became a recognisable tune. Music was a great healer. He often sat for hours while his favourite jazz pieces flowed through his soul, gently easing whatever emotional wound he was suffering at the time.
Now, as he listened to this piece, it seemed as if the two of them were cocooned in this room; sheltered for the moment from all else.
Then, 'I know this song . . .'
Yes. And he does too. And he prays with all that remains of his blighted soul that the choice was right.
For years Sam sent letters, carefully dated, to an anonymous PO Box. Not many. But enough. They told him so much without revealing anything should they fall into the wrong hands: no return address; no names – just referring to a "she", for Lizzie, and an "I" for Sam and a "you" for Red. They often lay uncollected for months, once for over a year. But when the opportunity arose he feasted on each one and the details they revealed of Sam's and Lizzie's life together.
He learned so much. Shared their lives, long after the events that Sam described had occurred. He could never be there in person. Not even stand in the shadows and watch. But Sam's letters had given him precious glimpses into their world. Gifted him stories that he had treasured. Tales that, even now, long after the letters were gone, because he had not dared to keep them, he could recite word for word.
And some of the anecdotes had provided such gossamer connections . . . like, for example, the name of a tune.
That he had never heard since without it reminding him of Sam and her. Together.
So, all these years later, Sam's words had given him a possible way to help her.
The cylinder continued to turn and the notes began to work their charm, catching and holding them both in the moment as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
'When I was a little girl . . . I had these terrible nightmares . . .'
She faltered and he held his breath.
'Flashes of . . . fire and smoke. God, so much smoke.'
He sensed the tears begin to form as emotion choked her, just as the smoke had choked her all those years before.
'And my Dad would lay in bed with me, and hold me in his arms and hum that song. He'd tell me I was safe. That everything was going to be okay.'
Sitting on the swing after Sam died he had told her to tell him stories of her father. Now, in this further time of despair, she turned to him with memories of the man who had been the anchor in her life, and he felt blessed that she should feel able to trust him with these recollections.
She turned to look at him.
'You spent days building that damn thing.'
And what would once have been his moment of triumph became simply a quiet moment of grateful understanding and thankful acceptance that he had done the right thing. That he had found a way to reach out to her and it was not in a way that meant he was using her as a means to an end, as so much of their relationship seemed to be. It was simply reaching out a helping hand, and doing the right thing for someone you . . . cared . . . about. Because when someone you cared . . . deeply . . . about is hurting, you will do everything you can to help the pain go away.
Everything.
He let go of a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding.
Simply watched her realise the time and effort that he had put into trying to find a way to help her deal with what was happening in her life. And it gave him a deep, inner peace beyond anything that he had known for an incredibly long time. To present such a gift to someone and ask for nothing in return. When had he last done that?
He truly could not recall.
She was barely holding on.
'You knew about the song. My father. You knew I'd find out the truth. And you wanted me . . .'
And he was completely lost. Overcome by the sense that she needed him. Now. At this moment. As no one had needed him since . . . the day he had lost those who had once meant everything to him.
And as she finally crumbled . . . her lip trembling . . . tears spilling . . . he wanted so much to reach out and gently wipe them away.
But, just as he was tempted to do so, defenceless and broken, she leaned towards him and, almost unconsciously, as if in a dream, he gathered her in. Offered her a shelter in the storm that she accepted without question or murmur. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. And, if she gained a sense of peace and security, as he allowed her to rest inside the gently protective harbour of his arms, Red also found a soul-deep sense of peace.
Every hour of work he had put in had been worth it. Repaid a thousand-fold in this single precious instance.
And he heard himself murmuring Sam's words of comfort to complete her unfinished statement: '. . . To know that everything is going to be okay. You're going to be okay.'
And it seemed right and just that the words he spoke were Sam's. Because it was Sam who had shown him the way to help her. It was Sam who had chosen the tune all those years before. And it was Sam she spoke of. And somehow, despite everything, he didn't think his old friend would mind if he borrowed them now, when they were most needed once more.
The gentle tune of The Anniversary Waltz is, perhaps, the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. Each and every note resonates perfectly, like newly minted golden coins of sound that are cast upwards to then twist and turn with a wonderful richness in the air around them.
He has rarely felt such perfection and peace in any other moment in his life.
Rarely felt such a deep and inner calm and sense of rightness.
A total belief that this is how it should be.
As she relaxed against him, he felt the tension quietly leave her body; slipping away like a heavy cloak that has been unclasped and which falls unseen to the floor. She had been so taut, so stretched. Like a cable under so much pressure it had reached the point of snapping altogether under the weight.
But now, finally, . . . she rests.
Her head leaned in to his shoulder for support and he could not help but place his cheek against it, and then, almost without conscious thought, gently dust her hair with his lips.
He had had no real idea how he would do anything when this moment came, except play the music. And hope. But the words and the gestures had come unbidden and unrehearsed. As the most honest, and loving, of actions always do.
And deep down in his soul he knew that he was crossing a line he might never recover from. And yet, looking back across to the Red still standing on the other side, he realised that he didn't much care.
Lizzie needed him to hold her. To gently kiss the back of her head. To soothe her pain and reassure her. As anyone who cared for her beyond words would want to do.
But, in that moment, holding her in his arms, he truly recognised how deeply he had fallen. Realised just how far he would be willingly to go. Understood how, from this point forward, there was no looking back.
Whatever she needed. He would do.
Whatever she needed him to be. He would be.
Unreservedly. Unselfishly. Undeniably.
Because, before tonight, she was the most important thing in his world.
For many reasons.
But from tonight, he can acknowledge, silently in his soul, that, forever more, she will be the most priceless, most precious, thing in his world.
For one reason only.
And even if he can never tell her, if the moment should never come when it would be fair and right to share his feelings, . . . he will always know.
Now and forevermore.
And as he feels her heart beating quietly in tune with his . . .
As he feels her breathing calmly synchronised with his . . .
As he holds her body gently against his own . . .
It feels so right.
So perfect.
And so it is not just her who finds solace in this shared moment. He also finds a deep sense of contentment and restfulness that soothes a ravaged soul wounded and scarred by so much suffering.
In the shadows that hold them safe and shelter them, he finds a sense of belonging that has been lost to him for so many years.
The music slows and stops as the cylinder winds down, and she remains exactly where she is, making no effort to move away, and he hardly dares to breathe in case he should disturb this truly precious moment. He wants it to last forever.
Which, somewhere, in a tiny pinpoint of his mind, he knows is impossible.
So he draws the deepest, most careful breath he has ever taken and, closing his eyes, he paints this moment into his memory. So that it will be there forever.
But more than that; he adds the feel of her, the fragrance of her, and the sound of her restful breathing.
As he continues to hold her.
He doesn't want to give her back to the world. The world that has been so cruel to the both of them.
Because he knows that there is so much that could drive them apart. Should drive them apart. Probably will drive them apart. In the future. But he pushes those unwelcome thoughts away. Now is not the time to consider those things. He refuses to let them intrude. However true they may be, they have no place in this moment.
So, he banishes them to a place beyond the protective circle of quiet light, to somewhere in the darkness of the corners where all demons dwell.
And holds her in this precious fraction of time where their pasts evaporate, like early morning mist at the dawn of a new day.
All that matters to him now is this moment.
This now.
This. Now.
This precious now.
Red finds himself thinking, almost as if in a dream, about how far they have both travelled since the moment when she first descended the steps in the Post Office to walk across the cavernous distance of space towards where he sat. So much has happened since then, to connect them together and also to drive them apart.
But now, right now, they are as close as they have ever been.
She has found the safety she needs.
The help she needs.
And he . . .
Has found . . .
Something . . .
More.
But . . .
For how long will he be allowed to continue to admit to himself that he, also, needs this?
For how long will he be allowed to hold on to the fact that within his life there are wounds being soothed and healed by what he feels for her?
For how long will he be allowed to believe that he, too, is human and vulnerable and cannot exist behind a wall forever?
However long it is . . .
One thing is for sure . . .
Now . . .
And forevermore . . .
The lines in the sand have indeed been redrawn.
The distance she once accused him of keeping from the world has been compromised.
Who knows where such emotion might lead him . . . and her . . . in the future.
Who knows what that future might hold.
One thing he knows for certain . . . guilt definitely has nothing to do with the way he feels right now.
If you have read this far . . . thank you. There are no awards. But, please know that I am touched by your perseverance.
And I would be grateful if you let me know what you thought.