Jeff

…

/// I see him at the bottom of the stairs with Gus and Johnny

"What are you doing, son?"

He finishes buttoning up John's best shirt and contemplates me apprehensively. "Getting Johnny dressed, sir."

"I can see that," I snap impatiently. "What for?" Does he think the funeral is today?

"Mass. It's Sunday."

So it is. It's been three – no, four - days. I shake my head. "You're not going to Mass today, son."

Not today. Not ever. If there's truly a God then he abandoned us in a room with a life-support machine and no hope. And if it hadn't been for her faith…

Scott bites his lip, clearly conflicted ///

…

I dismiss all of them except Scott.

I'm painfully aware that we have our issues. But he's done a good job these past two days. I need to try to get that through to him. I don't want him to think that the decision I've made is a reflection on his leadership.

I wave him through to the balcony, stopping to pour a couple of whiskies on the way. He's on standby so much of the time he doesn't get to indulge our mutual taste for quality single malt very often. I hesitate a moment before offering him a cigarette. His status as a smoker or non-smoker is another one of those things he likes to keep us guessing about. He declines.

He leans heavily across the guard rail and I wonder whether I should sit him down before he falls down. It happened once; he made it home and then collapsed in his plane, electrolytes shot to hell.

But what I have to say won't take long.

I know he's listening. But he's characteristically tense.

"It must have been pretty tough out there today."

He shakes his head.

"We're okay. We got through it. They did a good job."

It's typical of Scott that he deflects by trying to praise his brothers.

"You kept going with the girl longer than you should have done, you know that."

"I know."

"It can't have been easy to let her go."

"No."

It's the first time this has happened. I'm expecting more of a reaction and wait a moment.

"It was harder on Virj," he continues, hesitatingly.

I'm concerned about him, too, but I'll deal with that later. I'm curious, I admit. I had thought it would be the other way around – that it would be Scott beating himself up about the little girl, and Virgil trying to calm the situation. Shows how much I know.

"Ultimately you're the one who had to make the call. First time you've lost someone."

"We've pulled out bodies before."

"I know. But this is different. She was alive when you pulled her out. And she was just a child."

Again I give him some time to open up, but typically, he doesn't.

"How are you doing with that?" I prompt.

He half-nods. I have no idea what he intends this to mean.

"You're good with it?" I'm a little incredulous that he's handling it so matter-of-factly. Maybe he's just tired.

"I'm not good with it, no. I'd have taken the risk on moving her earlier if I knew the building was going to come down." I made a note to myself at the debrief to talk to Brains. We need a better early warning system. The intel was just not good enough here. "But I didn't know," he continues. "I don't see I could have handled it any differently." Now we're getting somewhere. His tone is testy and I suspect I was right all along – he is still beating himself up about the whole thing.

"You couldn't. That's the point. You handled it just fine, son. Virgil will get over it. But I guess you're still feeling pretty lousy."

"I'll live with it," he rejoinders shortly.

But he looks a little lost, and just for a moment, I'm tempted to reach out to him. I know he won't tolerate it. He downs some of the whisky quickly, an aversion tactic.

"Good. This was always going to happen, son."

"I know," he says. He sounds a little defeated.

"It was the right decision to quit when you did. And I know it must be tough. This must have been one of your worst days so far."

"I guess."

He passes a hand across his face wearily, pinches his nose.

I wish so much I knew how to get through the barrier he puts up. I'm not good at this. I've tried sneaking in under it, I've tried to punch a hole in it often enough. Nothing penetrates. I know he cares about what he does but he's damned if he's going to talk to me about it.

"I remember when you were a kid, you'd tell your brothers stories about an outfit like ours."

And then all at once the barricade does drop momentarily and he smiles unexpectedly. His face softens and for the briefest of moments he reminds me of Lucy.

"I guess the good guys always won in the stories."

I guess they did. I know what he's trying to say.

"Well, I can tell you, son, any leader of an outfit like ours is going to have two more days like the one you've had today." It's time we faced up to the realities of what we're doing. I'm as guilty of losing myself in the romance of it all as any of the boys. I ought to know better. "The first time is when he has to make the call between abandoning the people he's trying to help and putting the team's own lives on the line."

He nods briefly. "And the second?" he asks dully.

When you get to my age you start to realise life's a game of clock solitaire. You wait there, hoping you don't turn up the last King before you reach the end of the pack and maybe you'll die in bed at a ripe old age, a life lived to the full.

Something tells me that Scott already hears that clock ticking, and he doesn't give a damn, maybe even welcomes it. And that scares the hell out of me.

He'll take great care of his brothers, I know he will. But I don't want it to be his fault if something goes wrong.

And I'm less certain he'll be so careful for his own safety.

"The second is when he gets that call wrong, son."

And when I see the look on his face, I know I've made the right decision. It shouldn't be his call. He isn't ready for all this.

…