AUTHOR: vatwoman
RATING: FRT
SUMMARY: A Peter Salter (‘Spooks’) ABH. Peter, you, and a safe house. Written as a series of short scenes.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: BBC owns Salter/Spooks. The title of the story is part of a line from the song ‘Ghost Story’ by Sting.
FEEDBACK: Yes please, to vatwoman@yahoo.co.uk
Different voice. Changing of the guard. It must be Friday. With videos but no television, and books but no newspapers, this is the only way you have of measuring the passing of the days - the guards change on Fridays.
Not that they consider themselves guards, of course. You’re their star witness and they’re there to protect you, lay down their lives for you, if necessary, but you walking away and not doing this isn’t going to be an option; and so they’re guards. And everyone knows it.
This one is new, you’ve not seen him before; closer to your age, a little older. The face is at least interesting - you’re sick of smooth young things – strong lines, strong jaw.
He looks at you as the handover continues and you know they’re talking about you. He nods his head, says ‘fine’ and ‘ok’ and never takes his eyes from yours. Then they leave - the smooth young things whose names you’ve never used – and he stays.
You continue to stare at each other for what seems like a lifetime until he breaks the silence. "My name’s Peter."
You turn on your heel, dismissing him, and don’t quite slam the bedroom door in his face.
>>>>>>
When he doesn’t call you out for dinner you know that he believes you’re playing some sort of game.
As if you care about games. As if you care about him. As if you care about anything anymore.
>>>>>>
"If you need to use the bathroom, can you use it now?" He looks up from his computer and stands, all height and solidity, and you shudder, remembering a time when you had someone in your life who was that there for you. It makes your anger such an easy thing to call on. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Why do you sleep in the bathroom?"
"Because I don’t like being watched when I’m asleep."
He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nods slowly as if he’s found some deeper meaning hidden behind your words.
"I’m ok, thank you." He answers your first question. Ignores the second.
"Then the bathroom’s off limits."
You clutch the blankets, pillows and duvet closer to your chest and for the second time that evening shut a door between you.
>>>>>>
The cold hard tiles are merciless in their enthusiasm for magnifying the sound of your weeping.
He’s a sudden presence in the room, a dark shape silhouetted on the wall above you as the bathroom door opens and light from the room beyond leaks in.
"Can I help?"
You don’t want what you can hear in his voice - at least not from him.
"Yes, you can stop asking me bloody stupid questions!"
You shrink away from his shadow as it falls down the wall and over the bathtub where you’re lying, but as the door closes silently the last vestige of him slides across you and you feel the shock of it as if he’d reached out and laid his hand into yours.
>>>>>>
Saturday has always been your ‘home’ day – shopping, housework, friends for
dinner – but not here. You add another mark to the simple, ironic, tally that you’re drawing on the kitchen wall, and that’s it.
Twenty-three days of ‘that’s it.’
You gave up the bathroom to him. Ate breakfast with him. Now you sit on the back step, coffee in hand, looking out over the garden at the sea beyond. The wind in your hair and the sun on your face feel good. The sweet smell of summer meadows surrounds you.
"I’ve been out of the country for a couple of months - I’d forgotten how beautiful it can be on days like this."
"It doesn’t last."
You sound ungracious, though the anger of the night before has gone, but you don’t want to owe this man anything, not even the small pleasure of gentle conversation.
You drink your coffee and watch the seabirds wheeling overhead and close your eyes as he turns and walks away.
>>>>>>
You find it odd sharing a house with this man. He’s so much more contained than the others have been, almost unobtrusive, but his eyes follow you everywhere, watching. Watching for signs of weakness, for signs of madness.
And you think that maybe you are going mad because deep within you you can feel the scream building, clamouring to get out.
>>>>>>
As the light from the tiny torch he’s carrying flashes across your face and shows him that you’re awake, you can tell he’s surprised. He gestures you up and you see the gun in his other hand. He presses his face against yours and turns off the light. You blink to clear the sparkling after-images.
"There’s someone outside." He breathes in your ear. "Stay here. Stay down. Lock the door behind me." And he’s gone.
You crawl over to the door and turn the key in the lock. Your skin is icy cold. You try to count the minutes but lose track somewhere around eleven or twelve, and then he’s knocking on the door and calling your name and kicking his way in when you don’t respond.
He kneels down beside you on the bathroom floor, looks into your eyes and mutters, "Shit." He says your name again but you just can’t seem to get a reply out beyond the buzzing in your brain. "We have to leave." He gives you a small shake, hands on your shoulders. "Come on." The buzz becomes a roar and it’s crashing over you like a tidal wave, and your head snaps back as he slaps your face. He takes your head between his hands and forces you to look at him. "We have to leave. Pack. Now."
There’s a strained hush before you jerkily nod your head. He lets go of you immediately. "I’m going to put the light on for exactly fifteen seconds. Grab what you can."
2.46 a.m. Sunday and you’re running again.
>>>>>>
Dawn. Another house. And the smooth young things are back. You let the cacophony of voices go on around you and hold the steadiness of his gaze. He nods his head, says ‘fine’ and ‘ok’ and then they leave.
It seems like madness as you cross the room, reach him, and touch his side, but he doesn’t stop you, so you push up his shirt and the undershirt beneath it. They bunch across his chest and he holds them out of the way for you. The bandage is new and stark white against the dull ivory of his skin.
You look up into his face and see exhaustion in his surprisingly sad eyes.
"When is this going to end?" You ask of him.
"When you’ve testified and they’re behind bars." He lets his clothes drop back into place. "Why don’t you go and get some sleep."
"I don’t sleep."
>>>>>>
But you do dream. Waking dreams, riven with all the 3-D technicolour splendour of memories stripped bare…
… your lover’s eyes, his smile, his touch, the sound of his voice … the faces of the terrorists that you saw as they shot and killed their target, then the man you’d loved all your life, two people you didn’t know who rushed to your aid, the policemen who tried to stop the getaway vehicle … the faces of the terrorists you saw standing in the identity parade, smiling at you through glass they couldn’t see through knowing you were there … your car cart-wheeling into the air as the bomb exploded prematurely … the safe houses … the endless parade of minders … the wild swooping motorbike escape of a few hours ago … the blood on Peter’s shirt …
… a light tap on the bathroom door drags you back to the present.
"Yes?"
"Can I come in?"
"Yes."
He pushes the door open slowly and asks, "Ok if I put the light on?"
"Yes."
You sit up and the glaringly bright lights make your eyes burn. He stands in the doorway with his shirt open. "I need to change this." He pulls the shirt apart and you can see the bandage again now stained red by leaking blood.
You nod, and he comes in. The first aid box is in the cabinet above the sink. He opens the box and fishes around inside finally finding a bandage and tape. His back to you, he drops his shirt onto the floor, twists slightly and reaches under his left arm to get at the soiled bandage. His body is dotted with scars and marks and you find your guts clenching up at the sight. You must have made some sort of noise because he turns to face you.
"I’ve been lucky – nasty scars, but very few of them were really nasty wounds." He tries a tentative smile and glances down at his side before looking back up at you, "This is ok."
"You have a unique definition of what’s ‘ok.’ "
"Maybe." He busies himself with the clean dressing and curses quietly when the tape wraps itself around his fingers. Tearing off a new strip he holds it out to you, "Would you? Please?"
You sit there motionless, knees hugged to your chest, for a very long time. "This isn’t going to make me trust you."
He looks down for a moment, away from the shimmering fear in your eyes, and his chest rises and falls in a sigh. When he looks back up his own eyes are bleak, "I don’t need you to trust me. I only need you to do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it."
You stand and walk to him. His body is warm and hard under your hand as you clean and dress his wound. You’re not gentle with him, but he says nothing. "And that’ll keep me alive?"
He rotates his arm to test if the bandage will hamper his movement then bends down and picks up his shirt. The reply to your question is offered almost as an afterthought. "No. It’ll keep me alive."
This time it’s he who closes the door.
>>>>>>
‘This existence is …’ you were going to say ‘killing me’ but that would be an insult to the people who have actually died and so you substitute … what? You can’t think of one word, but you can describe it: you feel as if you’re transparent - like an old shirt worn thin by the wearing - everything about your life on show for the whole world to see.
Days pass and you have nowhere to think. Nowhere to breathe. Nowhere to live. Nowhere to grieve.
>>>>>>
You break, eventually, as you knew all along that you would, and he’s there for you, the man you’ve done your best to alienate for the past six days.
You stand in the middle of the kitchen with tears rolling silently down your face, deep tremors shaking your body, a tea cup smashed on the floor at your feet. He comes to you, tilts your head up so he can see into your eyes, and offers a grim, knowing, smile.
"I didn’t mean to drop it. I’ll pay for the damage." The inanity of the comment hits you as soon as it comes out of your mouth. You smile, giggle … and then the laughter starts. It’s an ugly sound - harsh and gasping as if it’s struggling to find life – and it goes on and on and on and he holds you through it, strong hands on your upper arms, stopping you from falling. The laughter ceases on a choked gasp, "I’m pregnant. That’s why David and I were in the restaurant. We were celebrating. Twins."
You drop your head onto his chest and you both just stand there, leaning on each other. Leaning on each other. He’s leaning on you. You look up and for the first time you see him properly - the pain hiding behind his sad eyes.
He smiles at you and you at him. He tells you nothing and yet he’s told you everything.
>>>>>>
He places you in the house’s only bed and, as always, the dreams are vivid ones. When they wake you, as they always do, you find him sitting by the bed, watching over you.
And in the half-light of dawn you hold out your hand to him, and he comes to you, silent and strong.
>>>>>>
The guards change on Fridays. They’re smooth young things, certain of themselves and of their lives. The handover is brief, a few words. You see him say ‘fine’ and ‘ok’ and then he picks up his bag.
The look he gives you is one that remembers the forgiving warmth of dawn’s early light, and then he leaves.
And you’ve never used his name.
And the door swings open slightly behind him.
THE END
7th August 2002