by Josh Lanyon
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
I forced my attention back on Stephen. “Nothing really.”
“Were you knifed or shot?” He sounded angry again.
I said vaguely. “A screwdriver, actually.” Then, at the tension in his face, “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know.”
“Has anyone looked at it?”
“Countless people. It was quite the topic of conversation on the plane.”
He was unamused.
“It’s fine,” I reassured. “It’s healing.” It had stopped bleeding at least. I’d changed jeans on the airbus. I’d had to run to make the flight, and the wound had come open again. Stressful for the other passengers but nothing serious. I needed new stitches, but that was nothing that would keep me out of action for long. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to play doctor with Stephen.
“That’s right,” he said. “You’re a valuable commodity. Your employer will want you fighting fit again as soon as possible.”
“Asset is the word you’re looking for,” I said.
“Is it?”
I hated that cool tone. I hated the fact that he didn’t look at me. I realized for the first time that coming back here might have been a mistake. A worse mistake than leaving.
I said, half-joking—trying to sound like I was joking anyway, “Still. Good to know someone cares if I live or die.”
“I don’t want you dead, Mark,” Stephen said. “I just want you out of my life.” He didn’t smile. I felt my own fading.
I gazed out the window at the fields of a vineyard. Rows and rows of green leaves glistening in the sun. An occasional billboard flew by. After a time I put my head back and slept.
Chapter Two
“We’re home.”
The words sounded hard, unwelcoming.
I opened my eyes. Stephen had the car door open and stood beside it, holding my bag.
I blinked at him, wiped my bleary eyes. “You what?”
“We’re at the house.”
“Right. Yes.” Still half-asleep, I fumbled around with the seatbelt and then unfolded awkwardly from the car, reaching for the door to steady myself.
We were parked in the shady circular drive in front of a white mansion. Built back in the 1800s, the house was a blend of traditional Queen Anne architecture and stone and shingled New England cottage. Pretty. Prettier than I remembered. Inside it had high ceilings and hardwood floors and a lot of antique furniture. I recalled the huge old bed I’d shared with Stephen, the moonlit nights and the sound of the geese down by the lake, and lazy, sunny mornings with breakfast in bed—not that I recollected eating a lot of breakfast. Truthfully, I didn’t remember much about the house—never thought of it really, beyond being where I could find Stephen. I realized now that it was lovely. And, unexpectedly, it looked like home.
My leg was stiff and uncooperative after the long drive; I staggered a little as I stepped away from the car. Stephen moved to steady me—reluctantly. I could feel that reluctance to touch me as though he’d said it aloud, and it hurt worse than my leg.
Strange, because his arm felt so familiar against my back. It was like my bones and muscles recognized his touch. I didn’t understand how it could feel so right to me, but not to Stephen. I wanted to ask him about that, but it was hard to think of how to put it without further offending him. And yet he used to be the easiest person in the world to talk to. There was a time when I’d thought I could tell him anything.
“All right?” he asked.
I nodded vaguely, looking toward the house as a large chocolate-brown dog, a Chesapeake Bay retriever, rose from the long covered porch and came toward us barking and wagging his tail in an excess of nervous energy.
“Buck,” Stephen warned the dog.
“Hullo, Buck,” I said, putting my hand out. I was prepared for rejection here too; Buck was pretty much a one-man’s dog. But he snuffled my hand with his cold snout, and made that funny growling that Chessies do when they’re pleased to see you. “He remembers me,” I said, foolishly pleased.
“Yes,” Stephen said. “He never was much use as a guard dog.”
I laughed, and then Stephen smiled too—wryly. Buck nuzzled my fingers, pushed past and thrust his nose in my crotch, and I jumped—which hurt the ribs and the leg…considerably.
“Goddamn it, Buck,” Stephen said, shoving the dog away, still keeping hold of me.
There were several funny things I could have said but I just stood there stupidly, and something changed in Stephen’s hold. Grew…kind.
“You are tired,” he said from a distance.
“Yes,” I agreed politely. My eyes kept closing although I wanted to look at him, explain—or just show him I was paying attention.
Very important that last bit. Very important.
“Mark?” Stephen said from the other end of the tunnel.
The next time I opened my eyes I was lying on an examining table in a doctor’s office. Like one of those kinky dreams. Stephen leaned over me. I couldn’t see his expression—there was a bright light blazing over his shoulder—but he was holding my cock. I smiled at him, encouraging him to do something besides hold me in that cool, clinical grip. Just that was making me hard though.
And then I realized that he was furious. Not just furious. There was something like fear in his shadowy face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to sit up. I realized that I was naked—that I had no idea where my pistol was. That was like a totally different kind of dream.
I shoved Stephen’s restraining hand aside, the tissue rustling loudly as I rolled off the table—and then crumpled to the cold tile floor as my leg gave way. The pain nearly blacked me out again; I balanced there on my hands and knees, taking deep breaths.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Stephen said. He sounded almost distraught.
Bewildered, I raised my head to stare up at him. I gasped, “I thought something was wrong.”
He was looking at me as though I’d shinnied down the bed sheets when the orderlies weren’t watching.
“I thought you were in trouble,” I said. The surge of adrenaline drained away, leaving me sick and shivering. My heart was still racing in fight-or-flight response. Could you have a heart attack at twenty-nine? Could you keel over from plain old exhaustion?
Incredulously, he said, “You thought I…?” Whatever he saw in my face must have convinced him I was speaking the simple truth. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, bending over me. “Lovers and madmen.” He half-lifted me up. I’d forgotten how strong he was. It was startling. I resisted the desire to wrap my arms around his neck and refuse to let him go, cooperating instead in getting to my feet and clambering onto the table again.
Stephen helped me lower myself to the crumpled tissue covering the padding. My ribs protested forcibly. An assortment of hitherto unacknowledged aches and pains announced their arrival, and I swore. Loudly.
Stephen swore right back. “Goddamn it, Mark. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
It had a rhetorical ring to it. I said, “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”
“Well, let’s start with the physical,” he said. “At least we can fix that. You’ve got a bruise on your right cheekbone where someone punched you. You’ve got two cracked ribs where you were kicked. I can tell that from the boot-shaped bruises on your chest and back and hip. Assorted lacerations, scrapes, contusions. And a stab wound in your inner thigh—from a screwdriver, according to you—where someone tried to carve your dick off. There’s a scrape…” He stroked a gentle finger along the length of my cock—which twitched wearily in response. “You look like a piece of carved meat.”
I wished he’d keep brushing my cock with that delicate tracing touch. I wished he’d wrap those long, cool fingers around me and work me with that easy expertise I remembered so well—or, better yet, take me into his mouth. I used to dream about that minty-fresh mouth of his and the things it did to me.
“Garden parties,” I sa
id. “They do take it out of a bloke.”
He shook his head, not seeing the humor. Which was sad because before we’d always managed to find something to laugh about.
All at once I felt very tired. Old. I closed my eyes, closed out the harsh lights and Stephen’s grim face. If I lay very still, I’d be okay. It was only moving that hurt. And thinking. And breathing. And as much as this hurt, it was still better than the alternative. That was the rumor anyway.
“Can you manage to walk upstairs?”
I opened my eyes and caught his expression before it changed. And I thought then that perhaps the rumors were greatly exaggerated, because Stephen looked sorry for me, and I wasn’t sure I could take that.
“Of course,” I said. I wondered what he’d do if I said I couldn’t manage it. Would he carry me? Sweep me up the stairs like Rhett Butler scooping up Scarlett O’Hara? The idea held a certain charm. He must have lugged me in from the front yard—and what a pity I’d missed it. Better not to try my luck or his patience again. He was liable to leave me here in the cold.
He moved away, returned with a little paper cup full of water. “Here. I know you don’t like pain pills, but take these.”
I sat up, peeled the tissue paper off my damp skin. I took the offered cup, popped the pills, and washed them down with lukewarm water.
He was saying briskly, “I’ve stitched up your thigh again, given you a tetanus booster and a vitamin B shot and pumped you full of antibiotics. I should retape your ribs.”
“Nah. They feel wonderful,” I assured him. I was wondering how long I’d been out. More than a minute or two, clearly. I touched the dressing on my thigh. “Did you stitch a secret message into the embroidery?”
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t really a smile. I moved gingerly off the examining table, and he steadied me. I couldn’t help myself. I reached for him. Slung an arm around his shoulder and leaned into him, pressing my face in the curve of his neck—just holding him.
Stephen didn’t move, neither rejecting nor accepting, just standing still, breathing quietly, steadily. His skin was warm and smooth against my face, and I could feel the pulse in his throat and hear his even exhalations. I could smell his aftershave, and that faint persistent hint of antiseptic and mouthwash, and the cottony-laundered scent of his polo shirt.
After a time he put his arm around me and stroked my back, the weight of his hand slow and soothing down the length of my spine. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I; we just stood there.
Finally I pulled away. I could feel him searching my face, and I was glad that there was nothing to see.
“You just need a good night’s sleep,” he said.
I didn’t remember the guestroom, although I don’t suppose it had changed since J.E.B. Stuart last slept there. It was a large, sunny, second-floor suite with a view of the old magnolia trees and the little lake beyond. There was a lot of spindly cherrywood furniture and white wallpaper with tiny violets.
Stephen helped me into the bed, and I inched myself around trying to get comfortable. The feather mattress was like sinking into a cloud, and I couldn’t help groaning my relief. I closed my eyes. Heaven.
“Yell if you need anything,” he said.
I smiled, not bothering to open my eyes.
I thought he’d gone away but then he put his hand on my forehead. It felt nice. Cool. He brushed the back of his hand against my cheek. Pleasant to be on the receiving end of this attention, so I didn’t bother to assure him that I was perfectly all right.
Perhaps he thought I was already asleep. He ran his hand lightly over my hair. A slow caressing sweep. And then again. I kept my eyes closed. I figured if I opened them he’d stop, and the feel of his cool dry hand stroking my skin and hair was wonderful. I thought of a line from Little Dorrit: “It came like magic in a pint bottle; it was not ecstasy but it was comfort.”
I didn’t make the mistake of making too much of this comfort. I recognized the impersonal kindness of it—like a vet might stroke a tranquilized tiger. But I kept still and soaked it up and the next thing I knew I was waking from what felt like a long, deep sleep.
The dying afternoon sun streamed through the window, bathing the room in the last rays of golden light. I turned my head on the feather pillow, feeling crisp linen beneath my scraped cheek, my battered body cushioned and comforted by the down duvet and the plump mattress. It was like being in a cocoon. It felt…safe.
For quite a while I lay there not thinking at all, simply enjoying that feeling of well-being, listening to the peaceful sounds of the coming evening in an elegant old house.
A long way from the fiery winds and dust storms of arid Kandahar. But I didn’t want to think about Afghanistan now. Didn’t want to think about Barry Shelton. Didn’t want to think about cities in rubble or crying women—Afghan women, English women—didn’t want to think about fields of bloodred poppies, or hand-held heat-seeking missiles, or ancient statues blasted into oblivion.
The world will not find rest by simply saying “Peace.” Just like the bastard to quote an Afghan proverb at me. But I didn’t want to think of the Old Man. Couldn’t. I turned my head, relaxing as I spotted my Glock lying within easy reach on the nightstand. The magazine was beside it, and I smiled faintly despite the clear message of Stephen’s disapproval.
I used to think about Stephen nearly every night before I fell asleep. I liked picturing him in this old, comfortable house in this quiet corner of the world. It was comforting somehow to think of him here, to think of how far removed he was, how safe he was, from everything I knew. From everything I was.
It had kept me centered, focused, believing that I could one day come back here and be part of this life—of Stephen’s life. In a way it had given me the strength to keep doing what I had to do.
The lacy curtains across the windows stirred gently in the breeze. It was cool now. The humid heat of the day was only a fever memory. Outside the window, birds twittered in the trees, settling down for the night. Homely sounds floated up from the kitchen. The beams and rafters popped like cracking knuckles. The scent of magnolias drifted through the open window—and suddenly I was restless.
I tossed off the duvet, sat up wincing, favoring the ribs. The sight of my bruised, bandaged body in the oval mirror over the dresser was startling. I eased out of the bed and padded over to the mirror.
I spy with my little eye…
Something starting with “B.” Broken? Bruises? Blood?
I looked like I’d been beaten within an inch of my life—which was not far from the truth. It was only seeing it through Stephen’s eyes that made me realize…
And I was still a lot luckier than Barry Shelton. Or Arsullah Hakim. But I wasn’t going to think about Barry. Or Mrs. Shelton throwing a peeler—and then the bowl of potato peelings—at me. I was out of it. I was safe. I was home.
Except…as Stephen pointed out, this wasn’t my home.
I examined a foot-shaped bruise over my hip and then looked up into my mirrored eyes. My expression gave me pause. I looked…different…but I couldn’t define how. I looked tired, of course. Black shadows under my eyes—and the beard looked alien now. The bruise on my cheekbone didn’t help, but British GQ wouldn’t have been pounding on my door in any case. I didn’t remotely resemble Pierce Brosnan or Daniel Craig. Nor did I want to. In my line of work, the less memorable the better. Looking like everyone else was an advantage, and in Afghanistan dark-haired, dark-eyed, sharp-featured, slightly-built men of medium height were very much everyone else.
Turning from the mirror, I hunted for something to wear. My bag sat by the dresser, but the blood-soaked jeans were nowhere to be found. Nor were the clothes I had been wearing when I arrived. Probably still down in Stephen’s examining room. I found a robe hanging in the antique wardrobe and pulled it on. It was too big for me, but I liked it. It smelled faintly of Stephen’s soap, although I suppose that was really the scent of his laundry detergent.
Making my way downs
tairs, I found Stephen in the kitchen. He was grilling steaks with onions and tomatoes—British style, the way I liked them—and my heart lifted a little.
“Smells good,” I said.
He glanced around quickly. “I didn’t hear you.”
No one ever heard me. That was the point. I said, “That’s the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”
“It’s the only sleep you’ve had in a long time,” he said dryly. “I thought you’d be out for another hour at least. I was going to bring you something on a tray.”
“Not necessary.” I limped over to the table and sat down. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I smelled food cooking. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten. It was a little vague. Someone had given me an ORP on the military transport plane, and the Old Man had offered me tea during my debriefing. Tea. That still seemed comical. Scones and sandwiches and tea. I’d thrown them all up in the toilet on my way out of the building.
It occurred to me that by now everyone would be well aware I hadn’t turned myself in for medical evaluation and treatment. But of course they’d have already known. They’d have known about my visit to Devon and Barry Shelton’s mother within the hour.
I said, talking myself away from it, “I wasn’t sure you’d be here. I thought you might have been called into the hospital.”
“It’s just a little community hospital,” he said. “Twenty-five beds.”
“You’re not at Winchester Medical Center now?”
“No.” His eyes were very green and very direct. “I decided it was time to make a few changes in my life.”
“Ah.” That would have been the last birthday. The milestone birthday where he turned fifty. I offered a smile, but he had turned back to the stove.
Stephen continued to prepare our supper; he could have been by himself for all the attention he paid me, and yet it was rather relaxing. I liked watching him. He was built well. Strong but not burly. He moved with a sort of easy, long-limbed grace. Comfortable in his skin. I liked his quiet and his calm. The mark of maturity, I thought. He had worked out what he wanted from life and he was at ease with his choices, with who he was. But then he had fought for that privilege. His family had wanted very different things for him.
