Chapter 15: Wanted
Arthur felt a little guilty as he inhaled his food. He was usually a pretty precise eater, but there were extenuating circumstances - he had survived an explosion, dodged a sniper's bullet, and successfully lost a tail on a hot-wired motorcycle. Arthur felt as though the world owed him a break at the moment.
Iris watched Arthur devour his Yorkshire pudding, content to pick at her own food. Arthur ate bite after bite until he couldn't anymore. Relaxing back into his chair, something niggled at the back of his mind, distracting him. The enigma behind Eames' name had bothered Arthur for years. Sitting in front of Iris, Arthur realized this was his chance. She's the perfect source of information, he thought. And so he asked her.
At Arthur's probing, Iris twisted the band on her finger, thinking. Arthur tracked the motion, a sense of familiarity rising up within him. Cobb had a similar habit, a mindless tracing of his wedding ring. When Arthur first questioned Cobb about the motion, he claimed it was a nervous tic, an unconscious sort of thing. But Arthur was persistent, and his suspicion built. It was only weeks later, when Arthur and Cobb and Mal lay panting on cheap couches, kicked from a failed simulation, that Arthur had his realization. He saw Cobb spring up from the cracked furniture, first rushing over to clutch Mal, and then, almost obsessively, frantically, fumble to touch the metal ring circling his finger. Arthur palmed his die, his dark eyes making contact with Cobb's blue ones across the room. That's when Arthur knew. The ring was Cobb's token.
Of course, it all changed after Mal. After her death. She hadn't just altered Cobb's life, no, Mal had irrevocably twisted Arthur's as well. She had been an advisor to Arthur, a confidant. Mal became an unwavering constant in his life - and more importantly, a friend. But then it all went wrong.
Her body, contorted at an unnatural angle, flashed through Arthur's thoughts, unbidden. It had lain in the cold alley, still, a warning, a cautionary tale. A horrible thing that Arthur had problems associating with the person who had been so full of life. The police report had haunted Arthur, in his waking hours and in the dream world.
No, Cobb wasn't the only changed man after Mal's suicide.
Arthur snapped out of the recollection, nonplussed and a little rankled at the abrupt flashbacks. He forced himself to refocus on Eames' mother, his eyes tracing the filaments of her grey hair. Arthur admonished himself silently. I've been doing that lately, wandering off, losing focus. Arthur was not happy about the new habit.
"Eames does not like his given names," Iris began, breaking the silence. Arthur wasn't sure how long the pause had stretched on, so entrenched he had been in his memories.
"Names, plural?" Arthur questioned, keying in on the phrase. Iris smiled a little, oblivious to Arthur's internal conflict. She folded her hands on the table, her ring glowing in the midday light.
"It's a long story, Arthur, but one that I don't think is mine to tell," Iris looked across the table sheepishly. "I know I promised you answers, Arthur, but I don't think that is mine to give. Sorry, dear. Do you have any other questions about Eames?"
Arthur felt some disappointment at the fact that he wouldn't be able to put to rest the mystery of Eames' name, even with the aid of his mother. I guess I'll have to confront Eames in person, then. "Am I to assume that Eames' is your last name, Iris?"
"No, it was his father's," Iris said. "We were married," she confirmed. "I just decided not to take his last name."
"Alright," Arthur said, and then, going for casual, "is Eames' work like what his father did?"
Iris stood, beginning to clear the plates off the table. She waved off Arthur's help. "No," she said, picking up Arthur's dirty silverware. Dress swishing, Iris moved to the sink, keeping her body half turned towards Arthur. "Eames' father was an accountant, although he was deeply in love with gambling." She turned on the faucet, beginning her assault on the first dirty plate.
"Just like his son then," Arthur said, before he could stop himself. He winced inwardly, standing up. "Not that your son gambles a lot," he rushed out, regretting his flippant comment.
Iris chuckled as Arthur blushed, rushing to come dry a plate. "You don't have to cover for him, dear. You and I both have seen his room." Iris laughed, rinsing a dirty fork. "I know my son has a penchant for betting and exploring the world," she continued. "Although," Iris paused in passing the fork to Arthur, catching his eye. "He's never brought work home before."
"It wasn't really his choice," Arthur said. I guess I do have to explain, sooner or later. "I may have fallen in with him… literally." Arthur focused on the silverware, drying it precisely. "Did he mention anything about me - about it, to you?"
"Eames' not exactly one to call regularly, love," Iris said, scrubbing vigorously at a particularly stubborn piece of food. "I didn't even know he came back to his childhood home until I saw you here."
Arthur paused in his search for a drier dishtowel. "His childhood home?" Arthur was sure he'd misheard Iris.
"Yes," Iris replied, sounding as though it was the most obvious statement in the world. "Eames hasn't called on me in this flat in years. He prefers meeting in the city, or other countries, really."
Arthur felt his whole body tense, more than a little surprised. The way Eames had talked to Arthur, coming here had sounded like a regular occurrence. Arthur had assumed it was yet another safe house when Eames mentioned the night after the inception project. And when Arthur had found out Eames' mother stayed in the cottage, Arthur had assumed it was a temporary living arrangement at best. Arthur thought of the personalized wallpaper upstairs, and of the pieces of blue china that lined the living room walls. How stupid of me, Arthur thought. But why…
"Eames has been very quiet over the past few months," Iris stated, handing the last piece of silverware over to Arthur. She turned off the stream of water coming from the faucet, contemplative. "The last time we spoke, it was a few months ago. He called from Mombasa, I think. I'm never sure. He told me he had completed another job, that it had been quite a large one. 'Bloody ridiculous', I believe was his exact phrasing. I knew just from the tone of his voice that we wouldn't be speaking again for quite some time. He loves to disappear for awhile." Iris paused by the sink, smirking just a bit."The only way to get my son back is to guilt him into visiting. Of course, after helping you," here Iris lightly tapped Arthur on the arm, "I have something to lord over him. Not that you're any type of burden, dear," Iris reassured quickly. "I've enjoyed cooking for someone besides myself, again. But Eames doesn't need to know that."
Arthur was quiet for a moment. A few months… that would correspond exactly to the Fischer job. "Did Eames say what he was working on?" Arthur hedged, trying to pry out what exactly Iris knew.
Iris put up a finger, maneuvering around Arthur, and motioned for him to follow her. "Let's go sit somewhere comfortable," she suggested. He trailed after her into the sitting room, perching on the edge of a white armchair. Iris sank down onto the matching sofa, and Arthur blanched as he spotted a small bloodstain on one of the arms, undoubtedly from him. Arthur resolved to mention the cleaning of the couch later.
"The job," he prompted, leaning forward a little, trying to look open and curious. Arthur's bandages bent along with his body language, rudely reminding him of his healing wounds. He grimaced at the feeling, but stayed put, intent on Iris' response.
"Well," she began. "Did you know Eames was in the military for awhile? I assume so…" Arthur nodded, unsure as to where Iris was going. "Right," she said. "So after the military, or his rebellious phase, as I like to call it, it's my understanding that my son met contacts within the system. That led him… on missions that weren't, ah, sanctioned by the queen, so to speak. Of course, my son didn't say outright that what he was doing was illegal - " Iris cut off, taking in Arthur's expression. "You don't look very surprised by all this, Arthur," she said. " After I saw the bullet wound, I was intrigued, but I just want to hear it from your mouth, love - are you in whatever mess Eames has gotten himself into?"
Arthur had forgotten to hide his relief, so ecstatic he was by Iris' version of events. He had expected no less of Eames - an elegantly crafted cover story, one that fit his life like a glove, a perfect forgery, if you will - but Arthur was just glad that the cover fit with his problems at the moment. Iris knew enough to listen to Arthur if he said they were in danger, but not enough to be pumped for information. Of course, Arthur wasn't naive, he knew that if any of Jansen's men caught wind of her, kidnapping Iris was a very distinct possibility. But it was nice to know that Iris hadn't been dragged too deep into the world of dreamsharing. Arthur knew from experience it was not the most positive of places.
"Eames is helping me out," Arthur finally said, twisting his hands together in his lap. "I can't really let you know more, because honestly, I need to do some research into the situation myself - " which I will, as soon as I can get Eames' laptop and some time alone, " - but right now all I can say is that I'm not in a great spot at work." Arthur tore his focus off his hands to look at Iris. He took in her checkered dress, kind face, and laugh lines, and realized this really was Eames' mother - the woman who saw him take his first steps, learn how to add, even how to tie his shoes. A woman who deserved better than what Arthur could offer at the moment. "I can also say that your son saved my life." Arthur looked straight into Iris' eyes, the multi-colored irises so similar to her son's. "I can say that I owe a great many things to him, and I regret ever thinking that he was a person not worth my time." Arthur thought about how Eames had the forethought to leave the laptop on the bed, and how Arthur currently owned a cell phone because of the man. "Not only is Eames brilliant at the work he does, he's perceptive away from assignments as well." Arthur shifted back in the chair, the folds of his navy sweatshirt pooling around his abdomen. "But please don't tell him I told you all of this, Iris. He has a big enough ego as it is." Arthur gave Iris a tentative smile, amazed at how much he had just divulged.
A soft smile had begun to take shape on Iris' face. And by the end of Arthur's proclamations, the only thing that Arthur could think of to describe Iris' expression was joy.
"Thank you, Arthur," Iris said quietly, thankfully. "It's been a long time since I have heard anything about my son." She brightened a little, smoothing a white doily on the coffee table in front of her. "But you're correct, I won't tell him about what you just said. Lord knows the boy has a bloody large enough head as it is."
Arthur and Iris continued to talk for a while. Arthur asked about her vacation in Italy, and Iris went on about the beautiful beaches and the local culture. Her face contorted in a proper British manner as she described with slight shock the prevalence of nude benches. Arthur laughed, mentioning his extended visits to France. Iris latched on to the topic, asking him question after question about the people and the culture. Arthur went on into great detail about the city, especially its architecture, thinking of Ariadne. Iris discussed her simultaneous love and hate of cities, and Arthur mentioned New York, the other city he had lived in recently. Iris reacted with joy at the thought, and Arthur, thinking back to talking with Eames, said, "Your son was there in New York for a job with me, once."
Iris looked startled at Arthur's pronouncement, but was quick to hide it. "Was he?" She asked rhetorically. "He never mentioned it."
"It didn't go so well," Arthur said with a trace of bitterness, thinking of his long stay in front of the toilet. I'm surprised Eames remembered how sick I was. That was awful...
Arthur startled as his phone rang. He smiled apologetically at Iris. "It's probably your son," he guessed, rising from the couch. "I'll take it outside, if you don't mind."
Iris looked up at him, her face twisting into a frown. "Alright," she said, watching Arthur move away. "If you think that's needed."
But Arthur was already gone, striding away until he saw the back door, fumbling with the handle. Arthur located the button, answering the call just as he pushed the screen door outward. "Hello?" Arthur said, stepping outside. The sky was overcast above him, sun shining weakly through layers of grey clouds.
"Hello darling." Eames voice filtered into Arthur's ear, slow and seductive.
"Any news?" Arthur asked, a little sharper than normal. His thoughts had rebelled against him, straying towards the collar currently laying on Eames' dresser. Focus on the job, Arthur.
A muffled shuffling began from Eames' end, as though he was pressing his phone against his shirt.
"No, no, I'm available. Just on the phone with a supervisor." Arthur faintly heard Eames' through the static, his tone authoritative and serious. Someone replied, and there was more rubbing noises. Eames' phone was suddenly clear of interference. "Arthur?" Eames said.
"What's going on?" Arthur asked, stepping off the cement step and onto the grass in front of him. He began to pace, bringing the phone closer to his ear. A slight breeze ruffled his collar, playing with the short bristles of hair on his neck. "Where are you?" The same loud scratching interfered with the call once again, and Arthur sighed, pacing faster.
More voices could be heard on Eames' end of the call, and Arthur heard a rapid clicking noise, a sound that seemed mildly familiar to him. He began walking in a direction parallel to the back of the cottage, trying to make out more identifying background noises.
"Mr. Johnson, you said… familiar with blood spatter analysis and… correct?" A high pitched voice permeated through the static, and Arthur could just makes out some technical jargon. He recognized one of Eames' many pseudonyms, and reduced the speed of his nervous pacing just a little. Eames responded to the voice, but his speech was too muffled to make out. The clicking returned, and Arthur realized the sound for what it was. A camera? Who would be using that?
Arthur's pacing has taken him past the house. Unconsciously, he began to follow the route he and Eames had taken days ago. Still straining for any communication besides static, Arthur continued walking, mindlessly trudging along the path.
"Arthur? Arthur are you there?" Eames finally spoke clearly once more. His voice echoed slightly, sounding tinny, as though he had taken shelter in a tight space.
"Are you back for real this time, Mr. Eames?" Arthur drawled, more than a little irked. He hadn't answered to listen to static all day.
"Yes, darling, I'm sorry I -" There's the sound of a door opening, hinges creaking. "Can't you see I'm occupied, Constable?" Arthur heard the snapping of Eames' tone even through phone. "I'll be back in a minute. I'm sure the Sergeant can manage… yes, I understand this is a high-profile case. That's why I've been working all bloody day."
Arthur kicked a rock with the toe of his dress shoe, frowning slightly.
"I'm at the crime scene, Arthur." Eames is back, sounded hurried. Arthur almost asked what crime scene? Until it hit him - Eames is at Arthur's, at the alley outside of CurrencyCorp. My great escape, Arthur thinks.
"Have you found anything out?" Arthur asks.
"Yes," Eames hissed, something banging as he exited the space he was in. "Where is - " Eames stopped talking to Arthur for a moment, distracted. "Excuse me, excuse me sir, yes, I need to get back here. No, I'm supposed to be here, do you see my badge? Alright, thank you, excuse me…" Arthur kept striding further down the path as Eames moved, spotting the shed ahead of him. He didn't really know why he was walking. All that he knew was that he couldn't sit still while Eames was at a crime scene for him.
"Here, here's Helga," Eames says, this time speaking directly into the phone. "She can talk to you, Arthur, let you know what's going on. I have to return and help those incompetent gits." There's another crackling noise, and Eames' voice gone.
"Arthur? Hallo?" Andrea's accent rushes through the phone, and Arthur feels himself relax at the sound of another familiar voice.
"Andrea," Arthur says. "Would you please tell me what's going on? Eames called me and all he's done so far is let me know that you're currently at a crime scene. Everyone's been speaking to him and the man hasn't explained what - "
Andrea cuts Arthur off, urgent, her voice frantic, accent thickened. "Arthur, ja, I know, it's frustrating for all of us to try und communicate. But you haf to understand, Arthur, somezing's vrong."
Arthur stopped cold, his feet touching the moss-covered rock that separated him from the edge of the shed. "What do you mean, Andrea?" He asked steadily, trying to calm her. "What's wrong?"
"Arthur," Andrea says, and Arthur can feel her considering how to deliver the news. "The crime scene ist cleaned up, like ve thought. But not for you. Only vor dat man, ehm, Jansen's men. You, you are vanted - they are looking for you." Arthur can hear Andrea's panic through the phone, and it takes all of his willpower not to find a car to take him back to London. "You are angeklagte - accused of many things, Arthur. Arthur - " Andrea paused once more, taking a deep breath, so loud, so shaky, that Arthur could hear its tremors. "You are wanted for murder."