February, 17th

John:

I pause a moment before igniting my car, a moment I need to untangle my thoughts and call myself to order.

First things first, Margaret didn't look like she was bearing it up better than likely. She looked positively miserable. She was collected, that's true, for her father's sake I suppose; and the selflessness of this act crushes every weak attempt of mine to belittle her, to make myself believe that I am better off without her.

All I wanted was to engulf her in my arms and kiss the top of her head, and let her cry and sob and moan, or let her ball her hands in fists and punch - I myself could take the hits- and curse and yell. Anything to shake that stillness, that overwhelming sadness that clouded her eyes and dulled her liveliness.

Then I would have told her that it takes time but eventually it does get better. I know that. That faith, family, love and work help, and that this loss and pain will always be with her but one day the good memories will prevail over the dark ones. But of course, I didn't do anything of it. I just uttered the formulaic expression of condolence I heard like a broken record when my father died, and made her cry when she didn't want to. What an awful reward.

I spoke to Mr. Hale, in whom I've always seen the man my own father wanted to be. Stable, in a happy and long marriage, working in an intellectual profession of his choice. I confess sometimes I look into my teacher's face for traces of his daughter's, but haven't been too lucky so far. The brother's face is easier to recognize, maybe she looks like the mother when she was younger and healthy? Who knows, and this is a useless ramble.

The thing with Margaret Hale, the one that doesn't let me go, the one I can hardly put into words and would never be able to voice, is not so much that she's so beautiful and young and extraordinary in so many aspects, all of which she is, but it's mostly about me, John Thornton.

I used to describe myself as guarded. I used to believe that my mind ruled my heart. That's how I explained to myself my overcoming the death of my father and failure of my marriage, but I was mistaken. My heart was just dormant and Margaret Hale stirred it in a way I wouldn't have thought it was possible; everything I've experienced before seems like a passing fancy in comparison. Margaret woke me to life, and it was when she was hurt and bleeding (for saving me, no less!) that the fog before my eyes lifted.

I hadn't wanted to dwell on it, giving it a shape, a name or a purpose, but when I was confronted with the possibility of a world without her (not just living in another place or married to another person), but simply gone, it was unbearable. The true nature of my unacknowledged feelings became clear with a strength that amazed and terrified me at the same time.

I've lived through hard times and I've done things I didn't think myself capable of, but now I don't know how to deal with myself. I am at the same time exhilarated and dejected, hopeless and full of life, and that's because she said no. It is sad and embarrassing to live the clichés, but now I feel I lived thirty-four years to understand what unrequited love and heartbreak means. No one could explain it to you, not even the crappiest song, but rest assured - they're very real.

And then, there's the other thing. Detective MacGregor, who's friends with Daniel, came in one of the Metropolitan Police's unmarked cars (I have repaired those and could point one in a full parking lot or fast highway). I know MacGregor has worked in the Domestic Violence Unit for years, and I'm aghast by the insolence of interrupting a mourning family. My goodness, the woman was diagnosed with cancer and had the death certificate signed by a doctor!

I ponder it while I drive back to my office, where as soon as I shut my door behind me I call Daniel. I will not tolerate anyone bothering Margaret, no matter whatever it may take.

Daniel:

It's well past five and I'm finishing an emergency call from the upper offices - someone's printer is jamming more than a Bob Marley record, when my fly vibrates. I put my phone in my front pocket when I know I may get one of Lulu's calls, and it sorts of put me in good mood. It's not Lulu, though.

-"Donaldson speaking", I say keeping a minimum of decorum for forms' sake.

-"Danny, it's John", my friend's voice is all business. "Suppose you could tell me why detective MacGregor visited the Hales today".

-"Uh, what?" this is the first time John asks me for insider information.

-"Look, my teacher's wife was buried two days ago. They're mourning and there's this Domestic Violence detective coming in. Can't you show a little respect?", John is angry. He hates to be kept in the dark more than anyone I know, and I owe him enough to at least listen to his query.

-"Let me see what I can find. Call you back." I end this conversation and quickly plot how to find out without raising suspicions. I summarily gather enough information for a full report and meet my friend for dinner.

My friend is surprised MacGregor was transferred to Drugs. And then he's surprised by the rest.

Me, I might be only repairing printers and setting email accounts, but I've spent enough time in the Force to learn not to trust a pretty face and a nice pair legs. No matter how nice the legs, and those are plenty.