S1 E8 - The Path Not Taken

Part 1 of 4

DI Poole's hand stiffens on the phone as the soft accented voice purrs right into his ear, "I got sumthin' fer yuh." He sits up abruptly, his free hand snapping up to cover the mouth-piece as his eyes dart about, locating each of his officers and ensuring they are busy with duties and not paying him the least bit of mind... and are far, far, far out of earshot.

Unbidden, a conversation with this voice shivers up from deep within and begins to reverberate in Poole's head, unwanted, unprovoked, and definitely unrequited. Licking suddenly dry lips, he brings the phone back to his ear as if it were a hissing snake. He tries to speak, cannot, clears his throat, and manages a credible, "I thought I made myself quite clear…"

The deep basso voice chuckles and it rumbles inside Poole's chest somewhere, an odd sensation, "Naw, naw, mon, you wuz clear, clear as glass…"

Poole's handkerchief is in his free hand and he mops his brow as he coughs out, "Oh, um, well, good, that's good… because Police facilities may not be used for personal…"

The voice loses its jocularity, "Listen, yuh want whut I got or don't yuh?"

Poole's eyes slip shut and he shudders. The memory has slipped free of its fetters and is trumpeting in his brain. Oh, how he rues the day he went for that walk three weeks ago!

Three weeks ago

DI Richard Poole is walking home after a long boring fruitless day. Well, all the days are long here, aren't they?. There's no seasonal shift in daylight, at least none that he can discern. And boring? Well, that went without saying since only murders made him feel truly alive and killings have been pretty thin on the ground lately. Everyone is SO pleased about that and gives HIM credit for it but, honestly, how can one man be credited for preventing murders? It made no sense. But, then again, neither did most of the people here. And as for fruitless… well, there's no end of 'make do' work and the station is getting a badly needed cleaning… so an ill wind and all that... but... still...

Poole kicks an innocent bit of trash out of his path with prejudice. Stitched up! I got stitched up AGAIN! The Commissioner's middle name must be Machiavelli! The man must sit up nights plotting and scheming ways to ruin a homesick Englishman's life! Why me? What did I ever do to deserve such treatment? Sure, I'm good at my job… but THIS? To be trapped here against my will? It's monstrous!

He kicks another bit of detritus with the temerity to get in his way. He slouches along, hands in trouser pockets, muttering to himself, when he spies a weathered bench beneath a flowering tree of some kind. Glancing about, he sees no one near and decides to sit for a bit. There's nothing waiting for him at home so why hurry? Unfurling his handkerchief, he gingerly lowers himself onto the least splinter-festooned section of the seat, leans back, and stares at the darkening sea. Gradually the ocean works its magic and he folds his arms, stretches out his legs, crosses his ankles, and closes his eyes.

So. This is my town now. This is my life. Huh! Some life! A tree-fort for a house on a deserted beach surrounded by swaying trees full of wild animals! He shifts and grumps then grudgingly concedes… Well, truth be told, I always wanted a tree-fort as a kid and THIS one is unique and full of odd little surprises. My seven-year-old self would have loved it. And the beach is quiet, no neighbours to intrude on my privacy. And the trees are nice and shady once the morning sun swings around. They kind of shush me to sleep at night too so that's alright. As for the wild animals, Harry really is good company and I hardly hear the night chorus anymore. A year's suffering has taught me to be deaf in that regard.

He frowns briefly then sighs. He has to face facts, he's come to enjoy his home, hasn't he? Yes, he has. The open-concept made sense now although he sometimes felt like a worker termite in one of those African towers, opening and closing louvers to take advantage of every bit of breeze that moved. He smiles at that, relaxing a bit. Him, a bug, how droll.

He lifts his gaze off the ocean. It's not quite twilight so the official 'night life' hasn't started yet but he can hear quiet music wafting from somewhere. He takes a deep breath. He smells food cooking, Caribbean food to be sure, but food nonetheless. His stomach rumbles.

He sits up alertly, suddenly remembering he has nothing at home for supper. He meant to go shopping earlier but the binning of 50-year old rubbish had distracted him, not to mention the grumbling of Fidel and Dwayne. He snorts. What's the big deal? Dust and grime washes off! And those shelves are needed for the 30-year old files next on my 'hit list'. Feeling energized, he stands, folds up his handkerchief, and makes a completely 'un-Poole-like' decision.

"I'm going to eat OUT tonight," he intones gravely. "If I'm stuck here then I'd better bloody well get used to the place, hadn't I?" He nods to himself, "Yes, I had. And the best place to start is by finding somewhere that doesn't serve EYES on a plate!" He casts about, sniffing, realizing that he knows very little about 'his' town. Except La Kaz. La Kaz he knows inside and out. Well, except for the living quarters. He's never been invited…

He shakes his head. Nope, nope, not going there. That is forbidden territory and I am NEVER going to cross that line! Camille would skin me alive and get her mother to flush all the tea down the nearest loo so… NO! My team is my team and nothing more! So what if she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen? She's also dangerous and unpredictable and FRENCH! Oh, my aching libido, she's French! Why do the gods hate me so? Why couldn't she be English? Why couldn't she be more like…?

His litany of woe falters to a halt as, for the very first time, he realizes that 'an English Rose' isn't what he wants anymore... isn't what he NEEDS. Not at all. His mind conjures up Lady Salcombe, Sally Watson, Molly Kerr, Astrid Knight, Megan Talbot (he shivers), Suzy Park (he shivers again), Alex Owen, Avita Jackson, and Georgie Westcott. He pauses, surprised by something.

All the women he's met on cases here, some demure, some scary, some definitely predatory, most were lovely-to-look-at examples of English womanhood. His father especially would have something to say about each of them. His mother? What would she advise? He shakes his head. No matter, his parents aren't here and he's a grown man able to handle his own private life, yes?

"Yes," he mutters as his feet start moving and his nose leads him onward, the smell of cooking waxing and waning as he investigates several avenues of possibility. As he homes in on a narrow alley wedged between two shuttered businesses, he reluctantly admits to himself that none of those women, except Megan who had elicited a knee-jerk reaction out of him by the sheer force of his upbringing, had affected him like his DS affects him.

The smell of cooking is definitely coming out of this nondescript alley way! He glances around, rubbing his forehead, "Stop it! She's my Sergeant, a fellow officer of the law, my subordinate! I'm in charge of her career and her safety, nothing more. She's a valuable tool and… and…" A vision of that ravishing polka-dot bikini storms his senses and he almost trips on a paving stone, "… and the best damn partner I've ever worked with!" he finishes just as he stumbles out into a small hidden yard dotted with mismatched tables and chairs.

He blinks. It's a bistro, a tiny little bistro tucked away where no one can see it. He's walked past this stretch of town a hundred times and never knew it was here. Several tables are occupied and heads come up at his sudden appearance. He waves awkwardly and notes with relief that very few 'eyes' are in evidence on the plates. Heartened by this, he heads for the little doorway lit by a small sign. As he walks beneath it, he ponders the name, 'l'autre joue'.

"I wonder what it means," he murmurs but now he's in a small intimate room where more people seem very to-home. It's a relaxed atmosphere and very quiet. A tall thin man looks up from the gleaming bar as Richard approaches and says low, "May I see a menu, please?" The man nods, reaches under the bar and hands over a tastefully designed and laminated card.

Richard holds his breath until he sees 'beef dishes' then leans forward to point as the bartender leans forward to look, "Um, do you have something without too much spice or lime? My tastes are rather plebeian compared to traditional island foods. Beef, potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, that's my meal of choice."

The man nods, "Yes, I can trim off the spiced rind of our grilled steak. Sorry, no potatoes but we have roasted batana which is a bit sweeter and looks exactly the same. As for the Yorkshire pudding, sorry but you're about 4,000 miles from one of those. We DO have dinner buns fresh from the oven but they may have a hint of coconut."

Richard smiles, rubs his stomach, "Slather butter and gravy on everything and call it good. I'll take the lot. May I sit outside?" The man nods and starts for the kitchen just as Richard calls out, "Oh, um, do you do tea as well?"

The man thinks then shakes his head, "I'm sure it wouldn't be up to your standards. May I suggest a pitcher of ice water with a twist of lemon instead?"

Now Richard is beaming, "You jolly well MAY! Thank you." He ambles back outside where the soft evening continues to fall all around. The tiny area is lit by jarred candles on the tables, rather dim really, but he sees an empty table and seats himself. What a lovely spot, he thinks. Why didn't someone tell me about this place before? Surely Catherine can't think I'm her captive patron? Fidel and Dwayne must eat here sometimes. I'll have to ask them… but that's as far as he gets in his thoughts as a voice interrupts him rather rudely.

"Hey, where you been hidin' yerself, Mr. Spicy Prim an' Proper?"

END – part 1