We Were Soldiers
143. Ghosts
The tram stop was packed with men and women waiting to get home, commuters who'd finished their daily toil and were ready to put their feet up and relax. While their day was ending, Bucky's was only just starting. Eagle's View was a twenty-minute walk away from the Strand, but only two stops on the streetcar, so it was kind of a no-brainer. Besides, his legs were still aching from the morning run around Hyde Park. Old habits died hard, and an evening of boring political meetings and hand-shaking did not stop Steve from waking the team at stupid o'clock in the morning for fitness training.
Dugan, serial complainer that he was, had objected practically the whole time they were running, but Bucky said nothing. If Steve wanted the team to run, he would run. If Steve wanted the team to participate in target practice, he would shoot targets. He'd started to realise that by quietly complying, he could get everyone off his back. When he went along without complaint, nobody even thought to question his sanity or nag him about things they didn't understand. In return, he got breathing room.
He wasn't the only one who seemed to need space and a change of scenery. Monty went out on a couple of dates, probably instigated by his mom, but he didn't object very much. Dernier accompanied Bucky out for drinks once or twice, but they went further afield, to places that didn't see much in the way of military personnel. Places that probably weren't entirely legal, judging by how none of the bottle of liquor had labels on them. But that didn't stop them having fun. Morita, too, started getting out more, and spent a surprising amount of time shopping for girly things. Bucky suspected he'd found himself a dame, but it turned out he was buying gifts for his mom and his sister back home.
He pushed aside thoughts of his teammates as the tram rounded the corner. It was crowded, but there was space enough for everyone at the stop, and Bucky squeezed himself onto the outside edge, clinging onto the handrail with one arm as he dropped a couple of coins in the conductor's fare box. The tram groaned in complaint as it set off, but the ride was smooth enough once they'd pulled away from the stop.
As the buildings passed by, he surreptitiously studied the civilians around him. The accents were different, and the clothes were a little threadbare, but other than that, this could've been a streetcar back home, full of men and women heading back to their homes at the end of the day. He still hadn't called his folks. Hadn't replied to Mary-Ann's last letter. Guilt gnawed at the back of his mind. Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow.
Something bright flashing further down the train caught his attention. A coin was being flipped over someone's fingers, and it flashed each time it was spun, catching the late afternoon sun. Tipper used to do that, whenever he was nervous. Bucky's heart beat a little faster in his chest. He couldn't see the face of the man who was playing with the coin, but it couldn't be Tipper, because Tipper had stepped on a land mine.
"Excuse me," he said, pushing his way through the crowd, further into the tram. It's not Tipper. It's not Tipper. Stop walking, you idiot. Tipper's dead. He ignored the voice. The voice could be wrong, couldn't it? "S'cuse me, sorry ma'am," he offered to the woman whose foot he accidentally trod on. "Pardon me, so sorry."
The person looked up as Bucky stopped before him to stare down at the coin. It wasn't Tipper, but a sooty-cheeked young man, a local whose only resemblance to Private Michael Tipper was that he flipped a coin over his knuckles to pass the time.
"Somethin' wrong, guv?" the young man asked.
"No. Sorry. I thought you were someone else."
His cheeks burned as he turned away and didn't even try to get back through the crowd. How could he have been so stupid? Of course it wasn't Tipper. He was just seeing similarities to people that he knew. Just his brain's way of reminding him not to forget about the dead. It happened to Monty, too. It was a perfectly sane thing to experience.
He mentally kicked himself a few more times, until the tram reached the stop he wanted. With more apologies for treading on toes, he hopped off and made his way down the street. The Eagle's View pub was quiet at this time, with only a few patrons spending coin. He found Miles already waiting. The scientist was trying to put peanuts into an empty glass using a coin to flick them up by depressing their ends against the table to generate momentum. Judging by the amount of peanuts littered across the surface of the bar, he was not doing too well.
"Hey Miles," he said, taking the stool beside him. "New game?"
"Not a game. An experiment.
"What sort of experiment?"
"I'm testing a theory."
"Is the theory that you're not very good at this game?"
Miles gave him one of those looks. "The theory is that the world is broken."
"Hah. You don't need peanuts to tell you that; just take a look at the headlines."
"I'm not talking about the war," Miles said. His face was suddenly very serious. "Do you know anything about probability?"
"Just that the probability of me drinking a lot tonight is very high. Oh come on, don't look at me like that. What is this all about?"
"According to my calculations, even without trying, I should be landing more peanuts in the glass than I am. The world is fundamentally broken, Barnes. The laws of physics may no longer apply."
He looked at the empty beer glass beside the scientist, and asked the barman, "How much has my friend had to drink?"
"I am unfortunately sober," said Miles. "That glass is my control group."
"Your what?"
"I have to consider the fact that maybe it's the glass that's broke, and not the world. So I'm testing my theory on multiple glasses."
"And what if it's you that's broke?"
Miles paused, then flipped another peanut. "Impossible."
The pub door opened to admit a rather smug looking Captain Stone. Bucky gestured 'three' to the barman as Stone joined them.
"Good news, chaps." It must be good news, to have him smiling so widely. Almost nothing made him smile. He reached down and scooped up a few peanuts, shovelling them into his mouth, to Miles' spluttered objections. "I've got a plane."
"Nice. Parked her out front?" Bucky asked.
"For once I will allow your foolishness," he said amicably. "But no. It's a brand new experimental plane. Highly classified." He tapped the side of his nose, to prove just how classified it was. "Needs testing."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Miles asked him.
"Of course it's dangerous; that's why they've come to me! I'm the best pilot in the RAF. Anyway, I've to report to RAF Invergordon first thing in the morning, and I'll be there for a couple of weeks."
"A couple of weeks?!" Bucky demanded. "But we were going to watch that stage show tomorrow night!"
"Sorry, but orders are orders, Sergeant Barnes. You know how it is."
He sighed. "It's fine. Miles and I will have a great time."
"Err, actually…" Miles had the grace to look extremely contrite. "Sitting here, talking to you, has made me realise that it might indeed be me who's broke. So I've come up with a design for a peanut-launching device that I feel is going to revolutionise the field of long-term statistical analysis. I really need to work on building it before somebody else does. I'll have to ask for a rain-check for tomorrow night."
"How can you have come up with a design already? We only spoke about it three minutes ago!"
"I'm a fast thinker. Sorry Barnes."
"Don't worry about it. I've got tons of people I can go with." And if he couldn't find anyone to go with, he could at least make sure that Steve and Carter put them to good use. His best friend still hadn't kissed her, so perhaps an evening of light-hearted comedy would set the right mood.
"Glad to hear it," said Stone. He swept all the peanuts off the bar with a completely unapologetic gesture. "Now, let's get this evening started with a toast—to my potential untimely demise!"
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Gloomy weather had settled over London, a grey fog that made the air feel heavy and muted. The locals seemed to feel it in their bones; they sidestepped the pair of Americans without smiles, eager to about their business. Steve nodded to a few people as they walked, but he never received more than a nod in return.
"How was the show?" Bucky asked him, as a woman with a huge wicker basket dodged around him whilst giving him a look at suggested it was all his fault for being so large and in the way.
"Really funny," Steve said. He smiled his gratitude to his friend. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like to laugh."
"You kiss Carter on the ride home?"
Steve shook his head. "Timing wasn't right."
"Uh-huh."
They stopped at a large window, and Steve stared wistfully in. What caught Bucky's attention more than anything was the price tags. How could anybody justify asking so much for something that was essentially an oyster's waste product? A pair of earrings from this place wouldn't just break the bank, it would break all banks, everywhere, in the entire world. Possibly even in all realities.
"What's the occasion, anyway?" he asked.
Steve shrugged. "It's Peggy."
"Touché."
"I just… I want to do something special for her. To show her how special she is to me."
"You could just propose."
That met with a stony glare followed immediately by a blush. "For that I would need her father's permission, and I haven't even met the guy."
"You need to change that fast, pal."
"How?" Old, pre-serum Steve stared out from Captain America's eyes. It was, at times, easy to forget that despite his new size and new looks, Steve Rogers was still that awkward kid Bucky had known since they'd been ten years old. He definitely needed help on this one.
"Next time you see her, bring up the topic of family. Talk about your mom, or your dad's exploits in the Great War, or how you wished you weren't an only child. Or ask her how Michael is doing now. Anything to get her thinking and talking about home. From there you're only one invite away from her father, and one permission away from a proposal. But first, you have to kiss her." Steve rolled his eyes, but Bucky plowed on. "No dame wants to be married to a guy she doesn't like kissing."
"You think she won't like kissing me?"
"I'm sure she will. But she needs to know that, right?"
"I dunno… I mean, it sounds sensible, but I get the feeling Peggy doesn't always think 'sensible' applies to her. Or me, for that matter."
"Well, all I know is, you can't afford pearls."
Steve peered through the glass. "You're right. Let's check the next store."
The next store was dedicated almost entirely to handbags. Leather handbags. Steve goggled at the price tags on them.
"Who would've thought that cow-skin cost so much?" Bucky mused.
"No kidding. What's the next store over?"
Bucky craned his neck to look into the window. "Flowers." Steve wrinkled his nose. "Ooh, why don't you ask Mr Stark to help? He's got all sorts of connections, right? Maybe he could get his hands on a really rare orchid or something. Hell, maybe he could invent a new species of orchid and name it after Carter for you."
"Y'know, funny you should mention it, but I haven't see Howard since we got back. Have you?"
Bucky stretched the old grey matter a little, recalling the past few times he'd been to call on Miles in the lab. Howard, along with everyone else, had been suspiciously absent. "Come to think of it, no, I haven't. That's odd, right?"
"Very odd."
"He's probably just poring over all that info we got on our last mission, though. You know, running numbers for Phillips and such."
"Yeah… maybe. Wait, what's that over there? A chocolate shop?"
"I like chocolate," Bucky said. "Let's check it out."
The chocolate shop looked good enough to eat, and the smells coming from within were just to die for. He had to admit, the English did good chocolate. Something in the way they created it made it taste different to American chocolate. Deeper. Richer. Smoother on the tongue. British chocolate was one of the best things about being stationed in England.
"Look at that," Steve said, his eyes wide.
Bucky followed his gaze to the central display. It professed to be the largest bar of chocolate in the world. Even if it wasn't, it was still impressive as it dwarfed the puny bars spread out on the display before it. "You can't give that to Carter," he told his friend. "I don't think this was meant for human consumption. I mean, Mary-Ann used to complain that she put on two pounds just looking at chocolate. Can you imagine how much weight she'd put on if she ate something of this size? And Carter is a bit smaller than my sister."
"Yeah, maybe."
"Besides, you know what they say; size doesn't matter." He eyeballed his gigantic best friend. "No offense."
"None taken. Alright, then maybe not the giant bar of chocolate that would take her a lifetime to eat. What about a nice selection box? A variety of different flavours?"
Bucky nodded and studied the window display a little more closely. The grey sky made it more like a mirror, though, and it was hard to ignore the reflection of his own face. Behind him, reflected cars sped by, whilst pedestrians were just clothed blurs. But one reflection caught his eye; a soldier, standing on the other side of the street. His olive-drab uniform was the same as every other US soldier's, but there was a familiar look about his face.
He straightened quickly and turned in time to see a splash of olive-drab disappearing around a street corner. Deaf to Steve's question, he dashed across the road, his heart pounding in his chest. Not again,he thought, as he side-stepped a car that blared its horn at him. You're seeing things. Wells can't be here. He's dead, just like Hawkins. Maybe you really are going mad.
When he turned the corner of the street, there was no sign of any soldier, just locals as far as the eye could see. A pair of horses were hitched to a beer wagon, which was restocking a local pub, and a couple of taxis were parked up, waiting to take customers. That was all there was here.
"What happened?" Steve asked, catching up with him without skipping a beat. "Did you see something?"
"No. Just my imagination," he said. It hadn't been real. None of the dead people he saw were real. "Sorry to worry you. It was just my mind playing tricks on me. It likes to do that, now and again."
"Well, just so long as you're okay."
Great. Now Steve was all pensive and worried. He'd only just stopped being all pensive and worried.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He offered a smile that he knew lacked sincerity, but it was the best he could do. He'd seen too many ghosts over this past week to smile easily. "Now, let's see what flavour chocolates this shop sells. Maybe if we put our money together, we can even afford a bunch of flowers to go with them."
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Danny couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so panicked. In fact, today might've set a new record for just how panicked he could be. He hadn't intended to be seen. Hadn't even intended to follow Barnes and Captain Stupid-hair for so long, but he just couldn't help himself. It was like the photo that Lieutenant Grant had, but more real. He'd wanted to look away, to turn away, to leave, but he couldn't. And then Barnes had caught his reflection in a window. Idiot.
"Excuse me… can I help you, young man?"
He turned his head to address the granny whose taxi he'd just invaded. "I'm sorry ma'am, I thought this car was empty," he lied. He'd needed an out. Somewhere to hide. Anywhere to hide. And it was easier to hide inside a car than behind a horse. "Please, allow me to pay your taxi fare for the trouble of startling you."
He thrust some English money at the driver, double-checked that the coast was clear, then hopped out of the car before the woman could object. Luckily the taxi pulled away, and he was left to recover in peace from the minor heart-attack he'd just given himself.
This was not how he wanted to have a reunion with his friend. No, that whole thing needed to be very carefully planned out. A lot of alcohol needed to be involved. And ideally Captain Stupid-hair would not be standing right there, ruining the moment with his enormous heroicness.
Maybe he should've done this differently, but he'd grown impatient with the waiting. A couple of days ago, he'd done a little gentle probing of some of his new work colleagues, which had revealed a place that American servicemen liked to go for off the books fun. Namely, gambling. It wasn't just poker or dice, but also horse racing, and dog-fighting, and more importantly, arm-wrestling.
When you wanted to avoid asking questions about Captain America, you instead asked questions about the next best thing, which in this case was Dum Dum Dugan. The man naturally drew attention. He also drew bets. Lots and lots of bets. Danny quickly learned that the illegal gambling den called Betty's was the place to go for arm-wrestling matches. The rest had been easy. Wait for a very inebriated Dugan to leave the den. Follow him back to The Strand. Return every morning at early o'clock on the off chance he could spot Barnes coming out.
Today had been that day, so he'd followed. Thought he'd been at a discreet distance, but erred badly. Had he tipped his hand? Maybe. There was only one way to find out.
He counted to ten, forcing himself to breathe more deeply, then returned to the corner that he'd dashed around just moments earlier. Sure enough, Barnes and Captain Stupid-hair were there, stepping out of the chocolate shop. Captain Stupid-hair carried a package in his arms as if it was the most important thing in the world.
When they set off down the street, Danny followed at a much greater distance. This was his first real look at his friend's best friend, outside of those poorly written movies. He was as tall as Danny had been expecting, and handsome in a very Aryan way, but otherwise… not that remarkable, really. Maybe the power lay in the costume, and the shield. If he ran into this guy in the street, he would not have looked twice at him. Not that he would've looked twice at any guy… but the remarkable Captain America was entirely unremarkable as Steve Rogers. So why did everyone love him so much?
He followed them to the posh area known as Whitehall, hating that he couldn't dress to blend in with the crowds more. Stupid brass and their stupid rules. Whichever idiot soldier had forced them to take a stance on US servicemen not being out of uniform on friendly ground had made it really hard for Danny to be an effective stalker. No, that wasn't the right word. Reconnoiter. That was it. Because that was what he was doing. Reconnoitering. Not stalking. That sort of thing was for weirdos, like those super-fans who followed Rita Hayworth around. That was definitely not him.
Together, Barnes and Rogers entered one of the buildings, and disappeared from view. Danny hung back. This place was very official-lookin'. Not just somewhere a couple of soldiers walked into unless they were known and/or expected. So. Probably the SSR's headquarters. Made sense. Phillips had to be hunkered down somewhere, plotting and scheming to stop Schmidt. And if this was the SSR's HQ, that made it a dangerous place to be. Dugan might be here. Jones might be here. Or Carter or Stark or any number of supporting characters who might recognise the formerly deceased Danny Wells from their romp across France and Italy.
On the other hand… fortune favoured the bold, didn't it? He knew where Barnes was staying, now. He knew where he worked. All he needed to know was where Barnes liked to relax, unwind and hang out, then he'd have a complete picture. He could encounter or avoid his friend at his leisure. Make sure he could set up a meeting with none of those other miscreants around. Or arrange a note to be sent to him, to meet on more neutral territory. Should he do that? Would it be easier to send a letter, explaining he was alive? Or… would Barnes not want anything to do with him, now? The first letter had been bad enough. Another letter might ruin things entirely. No. He had to meet Barnes face to face. He'd been running all his life; time to finally take a stand.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he sauntered up to the door of the building, calling on every ounce of bullshit he could possibly muster. One of the door MPs stepped forward to stop him, and he held up his hands to show they were empty.
"Whoa, sorry there," he said, offering an ingratiating smile. "Didn't meant to step on anyone's toes. It's just… that was Captain America, wasn't it? I mean, Captain Rogers?"
"You aren't authorised to be here," said the Very British Guard. "Please step away, or we'll have to arrest you for trespassing."
"Yeah, sorry, of course." Danny stepped back a couple of paces. I'm no threat. Just a big fan. "Completely understand. It's just… well… my kid brother is a huge Captain America fan. I mean, huge. Owns all the comics. Listens to the radio show every day. Went and bought front row tickets to his movies, even that one where he rides a camel. It would just make his entire year if I could get Captain America's autograph for him." He patted his pockets. "You know, I think I might even have one of his photographs in here, that he could sign."
The man and his fellow guard rolled their eyes at each other. "Your kid brother. Right."
"No, really. His name's Kenneth. We call him Carrot, on account of him inheriting our mom's red hair," he BS'd.
"Listen, Sergeant, this is not a tourist attraction. Captain Rogers is here on official business, and he does not want to be disturbed for autographs."
"Right. Gotcha. What if I came back later? I get off shift around six, so if I came and waited here for a while and was real polite and low-key about it, do you think he'd mind signing an autograph for me? I mean, for my brother? I know he's probably just Captain Rogers to you, but to a lot of us—and our brothers—he's just a Gods-honest hero. Maybe even the first American hero!"
The guard sighed. "Okay look, you didn't hear this from us, but if you want an autograph, then your best bet is to head to the Whip & Fiddle in an evening and just buy the fellow a drink."
"The Whip & Fiddle?" This had to be one of the greatest coincidences in the world. "Yes, I'm familiar with it!" he lied. "Thank you so much. I'll do that. Thank you again, our little Carrot will be so grateful."
Mission accomplished, he scurried away before the guards really could think about arresting him for being a nuisance. Already, a plan was beginning to form in his mind. He just needed to do a little more recon, cross a few I's, dot a few T's, and then he'd be able to carry out the final stage of what he now thought of as Operation Salvage.
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"Is it the Forge?" Steve asked, leaning forward across the table to peer at Phillips' map.
"We don't think so. But it's definitely a supply route. It has connections to a half-dozen different locations, only two of which are known to MI6."
"Which means," said Carter, "it's worth checking out."
Bucky squinted at the point on the map. It was in Belgium, deep within Nazi-controlled territory. "Are you sure there's a train-yard there?"
"Aerial surveys have confirmed it," said Phillips. "And a busy one, at that."
"So, what's the mission?" Steve asked. He'd been just itching to get back in the field. America's Shield needed much less R&R than the rest of his team. Sometimes, Bucky envied him.
"I think you'll like this one," Carter said. A mischievous smile graced her lips, and she held out her hand to reveal several tiny canisters. "Howard invented them. They're tracking devices that utilise short-lived radioisotopes. The detector that can locate them is attached to a small blimp that will be ready to launch in five days' time. But its power source will only last twenty-four hours, which means you have a very narrow window of opportunity for planting these devices."
"All I heard was science and narrow window," said Steve, as self-effacing as ever. "My team will be ready to go; just give the word."
"How will we get there?" Bucky asked. With Captain Stone busy testing experimental aircraft, it might be difficult to find a pilot crazy enough to drop them into enemy territory. And that was kind of a whole other point. Stone was clearly crazy. Miles was crazy now, if he hadn't been earlier. Bucky was quickly coming to realise that it was him. He wasn't just a magnet for crazy people, like the guys in the 107th; people got crazier just by being around him. Stone had been pretty sane, for those first couple of missions. Miles had been barely a blip on the radar. Now, they were both mad. Somehow, Bucky was doin' it.
"By boat," said Phillips. "Intel suggests the Nazis are on high alert, but a small boat should be able to coast right on through their radar."
"I'll ready the Bucket," Bucky said. At a look from Phillips, he added, "It's for Jacques. He gets sea-sick."
"Will we, erm, have the pleasure of your expertise on this mission, Agent Carter?" Steve asked. He didn't blush, but the tips of his ears did turn pink.
Phillips looked like he wanted to throw up; shame he didn't have a Jacques-bucket in his office.
"No expertise will be necessary," Carter said, smiling sweetly. "This is a simple locate-and-tag mission. But I'll be waiting to debrief you when you return."
"I'll bet," Bucky chuckled, and the look she gave him suggested she was going to murder him and bury him in a shallow grave. "I mean, you're very professional, and a timely debrief—"
"Oh, put a sock in it, Sergeant Barnes."
Steve was very clearly suppressing a grin, the bastard.
"Men," Phillips barked, and they both jumped. "I don't need to tell you how important this mission is. Tag these trains, and we'll be able to track them for a day. We may find the Forge. At the very least, we'll have a jump on several of Schmidt's bases. You'll depart in four days' time; please ensure the whole team is as its best."
Steve saluted. "Yessir, you can count on us. Right, Buck?"
He nodded. "Just leave it to us."
"Very well. You're dismissed."
"Err." Bucky stepped forward and tried not to sound guilty. "If you don't mind, would it be possible to speak with Mr Stark?"
"Howard Stark is otherwise engaged," said Phillips. That didn't sound good. Normally when one thought of Howard and otherwise engaged in the same sentence, one assumed women or cars, or possibly both. But when Phillips said it, it sounded sinister. "What do you want to speak with him about?"
"Oh, you know." Ghosts. "Getting some more of those high-calorie ration bars for the mission." And the dead people he kept imagining. "And some more ammo for the SSR-03."
"Howard cooked up a batch of the bars before he went to… well, he's got some prepared already," Carter said. Her face exuded guilt. "I'll have them sent to the Strand later today, ready for you. As for the ammo, you'll have to do without, for this mission. Take an M1 instead."
"Yes ma'am," he said. Something wasn't right. He could feel it in his gut. But whatever it was, it would have to wait until after the mission. Then, just maybe, Bucky could help Stark dig himself out of whatever hole he'd gotten himself into.
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"I see dead people," he confessed. The couch was comfortable, the setting cosy. Here, he felt like he could truly open up. "Not actual dead people, because… you know… that would be really bad. But sometimes I catch a glimpse of someone out of the corner of my eye, and I think they're somebody else. Just for a moment, they appear to be people that I lost in the war. Men I served with. Friends I had to mourn."
"I see."
"It started a few weeks ago." Much as he wanted to think of it as a recent thing, it wasn't. Not quite. "I was in the Fiddle, and there was this guy there playing the piano. And I saw his frame, and his red hair, and for the briefest of moments, I was so sure it was Carrot. But… I saw Carrot die. I was with him. Helped bury his body. Then a short time ago, it happened again. I thought I saw Hawkins, walking around London. Caught a glimpse of Tipper on a tram. Spotted Wells watching me shopping with Steve. And every single time, it felt so real. Like my dead friends really had come back, for just a brief moment." He paused to wrestle with the question that had been weighing on his mind despite the piece of paper saying he was sane. "Do you think I'm mad?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Jeez, thanks. Way to console a guy when he's down."
"I don't know what you expect from me," said Mr Chipperton. "I am a hotel concierge, not a head-doctor. And please take your feet off there immediately!"
"But your reception couch is so comfortable!"
"That is an 1826 original Carlin chaise longue, and I would appreciate you not dirtying it with your boots."
"I polish them daily."
"That's beside the point. It's manners and etiquette. You're in England now, Sergeant Barnes, not Texas."
"What do you think I should do?"
Mr Chipperton sniffed. It was a slow day at the Strand; the latest bunch of recruits had been shipped out, and the next wasn't due until tomorrow. The Commandos had the hotel almost entirely to themselves, but they'd all gone to the Fiddle to make the most of the next three days. It was a rule that they weren't allowed to drink the day before a mission, so they had a lot of future-catching-up to do.
"I think you should see a head-doctor."
"I already did. He said I was perfectly sane."
"Then I think you should get a second opinion."
"Yeah, maybe," he agreed, then sighed. "Have you ever lost anyone close to you, Mr Chipperton?"
"You don't get to my age without losing several someones," the concierge admitted. "It's perfectly normal to see the people that you've lost in others. Why, I had a cousin who swore he saw his dead wife's face in a pile of snow. The likeness of her face, of course, not her actual face. Sometimes, when I glance in a mirror, I see the face of my father looking back at me. And my brother was certain he saw dear old dad sitting in the front row of our local church every Sunday. My point is, Mr Barnes, that the mind is an unreliable thing. It looks for connections where there are none, and enjoys playing tricks on us. Pay attention to those tricks. Acknowledge that they exist. But don't dwell on them."
"Sometimes not dwelling is easier said than done."
"True. But that is something I can't help you with. That's something you have to learn to do on your own."
"I guess so." He stood and stretched. "Well, thanks Mr C, I appreciate you taking the time to listen."
"Might I make one final suggestion?"
"Of course!"
"Give your family a call. Sometimes it can help to hear a familiar voice. It may give you some perspective."
Bucky glanced at the clock behind the reception desk. "It's getting pretty late… but I'll definitely call them tomorrow. For now, I'm gonna head off to the Fiddle. Big mission coming up, I've got to fit in a lot of drinking before then."
"I'm sure you'll manage to get suitably sauced. Good night, Mr Barnes."
He gave the concierge a mock salute. "Goodnight, General Chipperton."