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I had hoped it all to be a dream; prayed for it to be nothing more than a horrible, twisted trick of the imagination to awaken me in a pool of pungent sweat. There were also several bruises, cuts, and a rather unappealing discoloration along my left cheekbone. The latter of these must have been perfectly dreadful the night before, which earned me more than a few raised eyebrows from the few people mulling about the hotel lobby when Keane and I came stumbling in close on one. We were revered as two buffoons. We had no baggage, nothing beyond the tattered clothing on our backs and the odds and ends hidden within our pockets. Fortunately, that included our passports and money.
I groaned and gingerly threw an arm over my sore eyes. What had begun as a child’s drum tittering near the base of my skull had expanded into a full military band pounding and blaring until any bit of sanity was completely out of the question. At the climax of this mighty roar came one roaring bang that rang like gunfire through my ears.
“For heaven’s sake, Keane,” I moaned groggily. “Don’t slam the doors.” The thunder of even footsteps approached the bed and springs screeched of a new pressure as the mattress dipped slightly. A grunt above me proved my companion was not above the mortal scrapes and woes of such adventures to which we were constantly subjected. His voice was more of an elongated groan than individual words.
“I do apologize. Now, move your—language, Lawrence—move your arm away.” I reluctantly did so and found myself overshadowed by a complete stranger who lacked all the dignity and grace I recognised. His iconic tweed suit had been replaced by a ratty, white dressing gown, and his combed, wavy hair shot out in damp, unruly curls. His right hand pressed a hot water bottle to his forehead, while the other sported a small collection of sticking plasters, winding together until they covered his little finger. Where the scents of crisp cigarette tobacco often lingered was now nonexistent. Instead he smelled only of soap. Boring, lavender soap.
I moaned and turned away from him and buried my face into the pillow, the motion shooting a burst of pain through my neck and into my battered skull.
“My head hurts like I was trampled by a herd of elephants on parade.” Keane chuckled dryly, a sound that both amused and hurt me as it reverberated through my deteriorating brain. Something pleasantly hot and rubbery was gently laid on the side of my head as he stood from the bed. I was vaguely aware of his clear, blue eyes still lingering on my prostrate form, but it mattered little in comparison to the three ring circus between my ears.
“James will be here soon, Lawrence, and it would be prudent if you washed that filth from last night out of your hair. Don’t bother with trying to salvage those clothes. Take everything out of the pockets and put them in your jacket. I must say it puzzles me why you brought that heavy garment with you. It isn’t as though we traveled to the North Pole.”
“It’s my trademark.” I muttered, suddenly aware of a dry grating in my throat. “Besides, it’s durable and practical; two things of which you have always approved.”
“Indeed.” Keane peeled the leather RAF jacket from the floor and promptly held it away at arm's length. “It may take some effort to get the stench of petrol out of it, but effort does not mean impossibility. I already started the hot water. Ten minutes, Lawrence.”
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WHILE THE RING MASTER did not cancel the performance on the account of a flooding of senses, the hot water and steam worked miracles on my aching muscles. Much of the dirt and grime fell easily from my battered flesh, and what did not dissipate immediately was quickly persuaded by the bar of lavender soap lying idle on the porcelain edge. As the water gradually cooled, I slowly became reacquainted with myself. Long, jagged scrapes wrenched their way up my arms, and my legs were no better. What skin was not torn or cut was infinitely sore. Even my hair was slicked with bits of oil and dust. There was not an inch left untouched.
Not even my mind.
It was well past ten minutes when I emerged from the now tepid water and began drying my cleansed flesh, the dripping ends of my hair dropping long rivers of water along my shoulders. A fresh shirt and trousers had been hung on the back of the door. They were not an ideal fit—I had to roll the trouser legs up a bit and the shirtsleeves were an infinite battle—but it was far better than that with which I was naturally born. Swaddled in my new, ridiculous wardrobe, I reentered the main portion of the hotel room to find Keane in a rather amusing conversation with another man. He was about the same height and build as my companion, though perhaps a tad bit smaller in both areas of consideration. Where Keane’s hair was a greying blonde, this man’s was entirely white without so much as a speck of any former colour. His features were rounded and centered with an upturned nose that had been broken at some point in its existence. The lines on his face were partially masked by a dark tan that approached his shirt collar with no signs of stopping. But, beneath the sun’s marks, he appeared pale and nervous; twitching erratically at times or touching the tail end of a scar that ran along his cheekbone. Had the man’s fingers not held such a fascination with the deformity, I might not have noticed the thin etching at all.
He stood as I entered the room, prompting a bewildered Keane to do likewise. It was always startling to remember the one eternal difference between the revered professor and myself.
I was a woman and he was a man.
I shook James Harrison’s hand, nodded to Keane, and sat down on a rather extravagant settee. Apparently money did more than merely talk. It breathed. The red, almost gaudy, upholstery was heavenly to a weary traveler and I understood why Keane had decided to spend the night there, rather than the bed as I suggested. There was no doubt in his gentlemanly nature, just as there was no questioning his stubbornness, or the fiery streak within him that flamed a temperament which could topple the strongest of men and the most prominent government officials.
He also looked uncomfortable.
“Keane, isn’t that suit jacket a bit—er—snug?” My companion self-consciously tugged at the sleeves of the offending article. Perhaps snug wasn’t the right word. Short was more accurate. The suit—well-tailored and reasonably expensive—appeared something Keane might have owned at some point in his life. Just, not now.
“As soon as you called saying something about lost bags, I bought it from one of the finest taylors I know.” Harrison explained. “I went off of measurements from last I saw you. When was that?” Keane chuckled.
“Almost thirty years ago. Orthello, I believe it was.”
“Was it really that long? We were young then.” The director grinned roguishly. “And you, Brendan, were the ladies man, as I remember.”
“Yes, well . . . ” Keane tugged fiercely at his left ear, his blue eyes sparkling in nostalgic wonder. I had always thought these two reflections of embarrassment far more endearing than the reddening of one’s face, and, as with everything, my companion retained the utmost dignity.
Dignity. Always dignity.
“You weren’t completely faultless yourself. Started drinking at eight in the morning and carried on the entire day.” The director smiled ruefully and pressed a hand firmly into his abdomen.
“I’m afraid those days are behind me. Have you ever had an ulcer, Brendan? Well, hope to sweet Jesus you never do. Hurts like shit.”
What a pleasant American saying.
Keane grimaced and turned to me, face completely bereft of anything more than an anatomically correct facade.
“Lawrence, I’m positively famished. Could you go down and order something? It doesn’t matter what it is so long as it is hot and edible. Don’t bother with the tea, though.” My companion glanced at Harrison. “Tea always seems to be a weak point in this country.”