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Dr. Brown put his car in park and turned around in his seat. His worried eyes shimmered earnestly in the low light of the streetlamps. He watched Mrs. Wylit as she put the flask to her lips. She offered it to him, and he waved it away. “You’ve been drinking,” he said, “Because of the pain?”
“I ought to stop, I suppose.”
“Not immediately.” Dr. Brown looked at James, who was nestled in the small back seat of the little tan auto as well, close enough to smell Mrs. Wylit’s sweat mixed with the remains of her perfume and her alcohol-saturated breath. “If you’ve been like this for some time, cutting off the supply cold turkey could be very dangerous. Fevers, seizures, the like. It depends on how long you’ve been like this.”
“As long as I’ve known her,” James said taking responsibility for Mrs. Wylit’s side of the conversation. “But that’s only been about a year.”
“That’s long enough.” Dr. Brown frowned and shook his gray head. “I recommend cutting back, of course, but until she’s ready to be put under a doctor’s care, it’s dangerous for her to dry out all at once.”
“Besides,” Mrs. Wylit took another dram of liquor, speaking on her own behalf to remind the two men she was with them in the car, “if I’m not drunk, I don’t see the future, do I?” She elbowed James in the ribs with a gentle poke. “Then how am I supposed to be of use to anyone?”
Dr. Brown’s eyes bulged a moment and he shared a meaningful glance with James. “Are you sure you don’t want to check in to my hospital? You’ll receive the best of care. We can treat your alcoholism as well.”
Mrs. Wylit shook her head. “We’re on a journey, and the lads need me to see it through. How are the knights of the round table supposed to complete their quests without a witch or a wizard or a green man or some such?”
“Mr. Wilde...”
James sighed. “I won’t force her. Besides, how can I? I have no legal right to do so. I told you she doesn’t have any family that I’ve been able to locate.”
Dr. Brown lifted his hands from the steering wheel with a helpless flap. “All right, then. Well, goodnight. I hope to see you both again soon. And Silas asks you to please write.”
“I will,” Mrs. Wylit promised.
“Again, sorry about the... dramatic entrance.” James opened his door and went to the other side to retrieve Mrs. Wylit.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Dr. Brown waved, shook his head again in pensive disbelief, and drove away. The street was quiet in the dark hours of the night, and the rental flat was dark.
“Oh God, they’ve been arrested,” James lamented after a quick search of the flat did not reveal Lance or Arthur.
Mrs. Wylit emptied the pear brandy bottle and tossed it in the kitchen sink. “No, they’re not,” she wavered after a watery burp. “They’re out at the pub.”
“At the pub? That’s—”
“Your oracle has spoken.” Mrs. Wylit wove her way down the hall to one of the bedrooms, decorated simply in wood, red, and white. She flailed her feet out of her shoes and collapsed on the lacy white coverlet, leaving a smear of lipstick on the pillow case.
James went to the window and threw back the curtain. His eyes scanned the street for Arthur and Lance, but the shops and the sidewalks were deserted. He paced for several minutes before he gave up and trotted down to Mrs. Wylit’s room.
He expected her to be passed out, but she lay on the bed as a corpse in a coffin, hands threaded together by her fingers over her midsection, blank eyes fixed on the ceiling. James had to check twice to be sure she was breathing.
“Come on, Vi. You’ve got a decent bed to sleep in tonight, you might as well be comfortable for once.” He took her elbow. She eased up, a pliable doll, but lapsed back into an eerie frozen position, deflated, her arms laying in her lap like an unused marionette.
“Get undressed. Come on, now. Look, if they’re at the pub like you said, there’s nothing to worry about.”
She was silent. She did not blink.
“Vi, you’re scaring me. Stop it this instant.” Shaking her shoulders gave no result. With a heavy sigh, James took off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. “My arm’s on fire after that awful matron threw me into the wall,” he complained, “but all right, let me take care of you, my fussy baby.” He winced as he said it, even as it came out of his mouth. Baby. Baby Maggie. Crushed by the chimney.
In recompense, he patiently undressed her down to her slip, and eased off her stockings. He hung up her jacket in the closet, and rinsed out her blouse and nylons in soapy water. These he hung on the shower rod and opened the bathroom window to let in the cool night air. They’d be dry by morning. When he returned from the loo, she’d collapsed back on the pillows, but still fixed her eyes on nothing, her face entirely vacant. He scolded her again and took a wet handkerchief to the smear of lipstick on her face, and then climbed onto the bed to sit beside her and brush her hair.
She clung to him suddenly, her arms locked around his ribs, as if the world was spinning and she didn’t want to be thrown off of it. He wheezed as she squeezed, but he put his arms around her when he realized the silent, bloated tears had erupted from her eyes again.
Not knowing what else to do, James hushed her, patted her like a scared dog. “Listen, Vi, you scare me when you’re like this. Totally numb and... I think you ought to...”
She made no indication that she heard him.
“Let go,” he said, and lay back with her cradled against him on the cool pillows. “Let go. Let go, Vi. Stop holding it in.”
“Holding what in?” The preternaturally flat voice was back, the one he’d heard in the meeting, so hollow and empty. It made his scalp creep to hear it. “I said it all at Silas’s meeting. Well, no I didn’t. I suppose there’s plenty of misery left. It was my fault, you know.”
“Maggie... was your fault?” He scoffed. “Vi, it was the bloody Nazis who—”
“We’d all taken to sleeping in the same bed,” Mrs. Wylit continued as if he’d never spoken at all. Her tears flowed over her lips and spattered when she spoke. “But it was a small bed, and I was so tired. Sean sprawled out like a starfish, and that left Maggie and I a little sliver to lie on. She was asleep on my arm, and it was getting all pins and needles. I only wanted a good night’s sleep. I was so tired.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “So I picked up my baby and I lay her down in her room, on her little mattress, covered her up with her pink blanket. And then I went back to my bed and I went to sleep, deep sleep. I only woke up when I heard the whistle. And the chimney, well, the chimney fell through Maggie’s room, on a bed that should — have — been — empty.” Mrs. Wylit heaved as if struck with a convulsion. James clung to her. Was this one of the seizures the doctor spoke of?
The dam broke, and Mrs. Wylit pitched her face into his chest. Her sobs shook her uncontrollably as her loose fist beat the pillow and James' stomach. James let her strike him for a few moments before he anchored her arm under his. Her tears and spit soaked his shirt. He lay in silence and held her.
“Sean — never — forgave — me,” she hiccupped after several long minutes.
“You never forgave yourself.”
She bucked in his arms again and renewed her wails, though they were muffled against his shirt and suspenders. They went on for what felt like hours. James lay with her until he felt his muscles would give out from applying the constant pressure it took to keep her still. At last, he had to relax his grip. She was a stone woman in his arms. James eased himself away and settled her down on the pillows. Vi was fast asleep, her face that of a plaster saint.
He stepped away from the bed on trembling legs, folded the coverlet up to her chin, and shut the bedroom door.
It had been some time since they’d slept in any relative comfort or privacy. The flat had two bedrooms and a recently updated loo that James knew he ought to take advantage of— have a real shave and a shower, air out his clothes, wash a few items in the sink. Yet, he found himself on the sofa near the window with a random novel he’d found on a shelf. He pretended to read it in the low lamplight, and checked out the window every few moments for Arthur and Lance.
Despite what Mrs. Wylit had said, he became convinced, as the hours passed, that Lance and Arthur had been caught and arrested. Of course Arthur could defend himself in lock-up, and he would protect Lance. But if there was any notion, any inkling by prisoner or bobby as to their sexuality, they would be in real danger. There were criminal charges for that, too, layered on top of the trespassing and burglary.
James had just made up his mind to pick up the flat’s telephone and ask the operator to connect him to the local police station when elated laughter floated through the open window. He leapt out of his seat to look. There was Arthur, with Lance at his side, the two of them chuckling like a couple of school mates. Arthur carried a battered leather suitcase at his side. James' breath whooshed from his lungs and his muscles relaxed, so much so that he had to flop back down onto the sofa to avoid falling to the floor.
He rose to his watery legs as their heavy-footed steps stomped up the stairs. James managed to stand as Arthur opened the door with a hollow thud as it swung into the wall. “So then, so then I said,” Lance giggled from behind Arthur’s hulking shape, “so then I said, ‘who invited Buddy Holly?’”
Arthur’s shoulders shook as he tried to stifle the laughter and shove it back down his throat. “Ssshh.”
“Come in and shut the door,” James ordered, and Lance complied. “Where have you been? I was worried to death. Hush, now, Vi’s asleep.”
“She could sleep through Gabriel’s trumpet.” Lance kicked off his shoes and stumbled a bit to the side. He caught himself on the wall and grinned at James from beneath a sheaf of his wheat-blonde hair. Then he winced, righted himself, and gently rubbed his midsection and ribs.
“Are you drunk?” James looked from one to the other. Instead of answering, Arthur clomped over to the small oval table in the kitchen. James managed to move the candle holder and the doily beneath it out of the way before Arthur slammed down the suitcase.
“You’re both pissed, aren’t you?” Impressive, James thought. It took a solid ten pints for Arthur to really feel the effects. No wonder they’d been gone for hours.
“Well, we had to celebrate a... theft well-burgled.” Lance punched Arthur’s meaty shoulder. “And have a good long chat, right Artie?”
James gaped at them. Arthur had never let anyone call him Artie. James hadn’t ever wanted to, but even Arthur’s parents never called him Artie.
Lance winced and pulled his shirt free of his pants. He hiked it up to display his flat, hairless stomach. “Not bruised up yet,” he slurred, “but I’m sure it’ll be purple in the morning, eh?”
“What happened?” James demanded.
“Scuffle at the pub.” Arthur drove his elbow into Lance’s shoulder for a quick jab. “Got the suitcase, all right? Are we going to open it, then?” Arthur spun the case around to face James' side of the little table.
James set down the candle holder and doily on the kitchen counter, and unbuckled the leather strips that held the case closed. The hinges were rusty, and the suitcase opened with a resistant moan.
It was sad, really, how little Mr. Blanchard possessed at the end of his life. Inside the case was a military dress uniform littered with moth holes. There were a few books, a stereoscope with a set of stereographs depicting images of the French Riviera, and a pile of old photographs.
“Look at this one.” James lifted a weathered image of a pack of Tommies lounging in front of a white tent. Some were seated on crates with their legs balanced on gunny sacks. They wore their uniforms, complete with forage caps, but were clearly at ease, arms around one another. “Lance, this has to be the young Mr. Marlin. He looks exactly like you. Look, there.”
The soldier farthest to the right sported a dark, swooping mustache, but otherwise seemed an exact copy of Lance’s face.
Lance smiled, and held the photo closer to the light. “That’s Granddad, all right. And one of these others must have been Mr. Blanchard.”
James set aside the crumbling photos with careful fingers, and moved a worn pair of shoes out of the way. There was a small box that contained a dried boutineer and woman’s wrist corsage, a couple of buttons, and a few foreign coins. The suitcase was empty now, except for a yellowed manila envelope. James lifted it and used two fingers to gently coax it open. He turned it over, and a packet of papers slid out onto the table.
“D’you think there’s anything to eat in here?” Lance groaned as he sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
“Really, Lance, now?” James sifted through the pile of papers. There were some old love letters, addressed to someone named Ellie, and Mr. Blanchard’s birth certificate. There were also two death certificates for a Mrs. Clara Blanchard and a Mr. Maximilian Blanchard. “Based on the dates,” James mused, as he squinted at the spindly handwriting of the county coroner, “these must be his parents.”
“Where did it say they’re from?” Lance asked as he opened and shut cupboard doors.
“Bath.”
Lance shrugged. “Well, I suppose we could go there and ask everyone in town if they knew the Blanchards.”
“We have their former address,” James said. “We could start there.”
“Seems like a long shot.” Arthur crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
“I hope we find something—” James' breath caught in his throat as he unfolded the final piece of paper from the bundle. His eyes shot over the page like a train cutting through the countryside. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.” He turned the paper to face them. It was curled on the edges and covered with professional-looking calligraphy and smeared typeface. “If I’m reading this correctly, this is the deed to a cottage in Portree on the Isle of Skye. And look here.”
James' finger indicated where someone, probably Mr. Blanchard himself, had penciled one word in the margin of the legal document. The word was MATTHEW.
They stayed up a few hours more speculating. Of course, after Matthew Barlow pretended to commit suicide, he’d need a place to live that was off the beaten path, a place no one would recognize him. Mr. Marlin or Mr. Blanchard had purchased the cottage in the far northwestern region of the Scottish Highlands. They couldn’t be sure he was still there, by any means, but it was a clue, a direction so desperately needed.
At last, exhausted, they turned in to sleep as the dawn pinkened the horizon. Lance curled up on the sofa in the living room. James checked on Mrs. Wylit. She hadn’t moved since he’d left her. He returned to the other bedroom to find Arthur undressing. James closed the curtains and turned out all the lights except the small lamp next to their bed.
Arthur closed the door behind them.
It had been an endless span of days, it seemed, since they’d had a bedroom to themselves, and any semblance of privacy. Still, they had to be silent, but they were used to it — the walls of Mrs. Wylit’s house were thin enough to warrant caution.
They made love. After, James dozed in his partner’s arms as tiny fingers of dawn crept through the lacy curtains.
Arthur shifted, and James turned to him. They lay forehead to forehead. Arthur stared into James' face with the intensity of someone trying to, perhaps, memorize something they wouldn’t see again for quite some time. James was sleepy, but the sad wistfulness of Arthur’s expression needled him. He opened his mouth to speak. “What’s—”
“There’s—” Arthur said at the same moment.
James paused. “You first,” he prompted after a time.
“Nothing,” Arthur said. “You were saying...”
James swallowed. “N-nothing. I forget what I was going to say.” He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so exhausted.”
When he turned back, Arthur was still staring at him.
“Aren’t you tired?” James asked.
“Yes.”
“We should get some rest.” James kissed Arthur’s lower lip, a brief peck, and closed his eyes.
“Suppose so.” Arthur turned away from him and pulled up the blankets.
James stared at the back of Arthur’s head, dread gnawing at his guts, until he had no choice but to fall asleep.