by Julie Bozza
I do not dream, he declared to himself, even as he knew that he was. Strange - even repugnant - to be perfectly aware that he was lying asleep in bed, and yet be unable to prevent a dream occurring. I do not dream, he repeated. I will wake up now.
But he didn’t wake. And the dream itself seemed harmless: he was simply scrubbing up, preparing for an autopsy. He was alone, and the labs stretched large and empty and echoing around him. When his dream-self was ready, he walked through into the morgue, heading for the wall of drawers that each contained a body. He went to a particular drawer, and pulled it out.
When he lifted the sheet aside, he saw that the body was Fletcher’s.
Albert stared down at it, noting the dull pale skin, the traces of blue around the lips, the hair neatly combed back from the forehead, the cold rigidity of the posture. It wasn’t immediately apparent how Fletcher had died and Albert supposed he must now find that out - though the thought of cutting into that chest and cracking the rib-cage open was terrible.
In life, Fletcher had been warm and unpredictable, those blue eyes hot behind the unruly tumble of thick hair, his body enthusiastically joyfully sensual. Some unique combination of qualities had enabled him to see so much more than was apparent to anyone else. The hair at the centre of his chest was shaped like a flame; before they became lovers, Albert had longed to cool that flame with the flat of his tongue but once he had the chance, he’d felt the impulse was too foolish to indulge.
His dream-self simply stood there, staring down at the body as if mesmerized, hardly reacting at all, as if he must forever maintain the pretence that he and Ash were no more than colleagues.
But, to add to the confusion and the sense of dislocation, his dream-self was imagining a truer reaction. In his dream-self’s mind, Albert Sterne was crying.
He was still simply standing there, looking down at Fletcher, but this imagined-self was crying as if his whole life had shattered. He wasn’t sobbing, Albert noted, he wasn’t tearing his clothes and throwing a tantrum as he had at his parents’ funeral. He was simply crying, and his face was wet with tears and mucus, and his mouth shaped the sounds of grief. Inside of this shattered self, inside of him was nothing but a great empty yearning that couldn’t yet grasp the entirety of what he’d lost.
I will wake up now, Albert decided. Perhaps because he felt he had truly acknowledged the grief, he did wake. For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling, glad to be leaving the dream behind even though the vividness stayed with him. And then Albert realized that he was alone.
Another moment of that potent and physical apprehension. Easier to recognize the sensation for what it was now - fear for Ash’s sake, and fear for his own - though the revelation was hardly welcome. Where the hell was Ash now?
Twilight had invaded the room. No sign of Ash. The bathroom door stood open, revealing nothing more than darkness. Albert got out of the bed, pulled his robe on, and walked over to look through the nearer of the glass doors that opened onto the balcony. While the sky still held a glow fading from gold in the west through the deepest of blues to charcoal overhead, the balcony itself was sheltered by the dense foliage of a tree that grew immediately beside the hotel. And there in the shadows, of course, was Fletcher, standing at the railing, surrounded by leaves and branches.
When he heard the door slide open, Ash turned around and leaned back against the railing, still in contact with this small piece of nature. He was wearing an old pair of track pants and a T-shirt, and seemed comfortable enough, though his arms were folded. “Hello, Albert.”
Nodding once in reply to the greeting, having stepped just outside the door, Albert wondered how to voice his concern. “I should have stayed awake,” he eventually said.
“It’s all right, I didn’t dream,” Ash reassured him. “And you needed your rest as much as I did.”
Nevertheless, I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep, Albert thought, but he wasn’t about to tell Ash why, so he let the matter go.
Ash was, however, continuing. “You know, I had the best sleep I’ve had in years. Feels like it, anyway.” He smiled, both easy and self-conscious. “I was just thinking that maybe I can relax now, I know that sounds weird, but maybe I can finally let myself relax, because John Garrett isn’t out there anymore. Does that sound crazy?”
“Not at all,” Albert said, despite the fact that this calm and peaceful Ash was such a contrast to the man focused only on cleaning something that could not be scrubbed away.
“Don’t lie to me, Albert.” The smile broadened for a moment, then faded away. “I’ve been acting crazy, I know. I killed a man, you see, and I can rationalize it all I want because of what he was, but that doesn’t help. I did what I had to do but it’s hard to live with the fact I killed him. I think the blood-guilt will weigh on me all my life.” Ash nodded, seemed to still be examining this notion. “At first I thought I was contradicting myself, but it’s easy to live with the knowledge that he’s gone.”
“Good.” Albert walked over to sit in one of the wickerwork chairs. The darkness was complete now, and the night’s heat was leavened by a breeze that rustled the leaves around Ash.
“This is a nice place,” Ash said, indicating the hotel with a lift of his chin. “Thanks for arranging it. You were right: I appreciate both the privacy and the comfort.” He looked around at the little to be seen in the darkness. “It must be one of the older places, done up, right?”
“I assume so.” Everything indicated this to be the case, from the cast iron railings Ash was leaning against to the inconvenient layouts of the rooms. Often in these situations, for instance, the bathroom used to be a dressing room.
“It’s great.” But Ash could not be distracted for long from what was on his mind. “I’m sorry about how I’ve been, it can’t have been easy for you to deal with.” He left a pause, as if to allow Albert the chance to accept this apology. “I feel sort of clear now. Empty and clear. And light - I might just float away.”
“You haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours,” Albert observed.
A noise emanated from Ash that might have been a snort of amusement. “You are so damned practical,” the man said. And then, very gravely, “Yes, I think I could eat something.”
It was a matter of one phone call, and thirty minutes’ wait, to have one of the local restaurants deliver a meal. Wanting to tempt Ash to eat while suspecting the man wasn’t really hungry for once, Albert ordered a variety of small servings. He took advantage of the wait to dress in a shirt and trousers, and to locate the cutlery and crockery in the kitchen, and set it out on the table on the balcony. Ash had fallen silent and didn’t talk much through the meal, but he was in a contemplative mood rather than a crazed or depressed one, so Albert willingly left him to it.
Whether it was due to Albert’s strategy or because Ash would always be hungry no matter what, the food was devoured in a short space of time. Then Ash sat back and offered Albert another smile. “I love it out here,” he said. “This tree is magnificent. But I think I also need to be in your arms right now. In fact, I definitely need to be in your arms. Any chance?”
Albert glanced around, which was superfluous. He’d already ascertained that they were enclosed on two sides by the tree and that not even the nearby streetlight could illuminate them through the foliage. The third side of the balcony was overlooked by nothing more than a tall brick building that had no windows above the first floor and was in total darkness. The only other balcony on this side of the hotel was directly above them. Feeling safe enough, Albert got up to turn off the light they’d eaten under, and to take one of the cushions from the chairs. He sat on the floor of the balcony, with the cushion between his back and the iron railings. “Come here,” he invited.
Ash responded with alacrity, walking over to sit between Albert’s legs, leaning back against his chest, settling in comfortably. “Thanks, love.” He sighed, though it sounded happy enough, or at least satisfied. “Do you have any idea how therapeutic your hugs are?”
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br /> Rather than replying, Albert asked, “Is your skin causing you discomfort?”
“No.” Ash shifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Not really. No more than anything else.” He reached a hand to where the tree had invaded beyond the railings - Albert reflected that he would have cut back the new season’s growth before now - Ash gently rubbed the leaves in his fingers. And, finally, Ash began asking questions and talking, not about hugging and other nonsense, but about the matters that were concerning him.
Easing his arms around Ash’s waist, Albert pressed a kiss to the man’s temple, very casually, as if it were an insignificant gesture.
“You know,” Ash was saying, “John Garrett made himself a popular man. I mean, even though I knew what he was, I could still see how he attracted people. Young men, in particular. It was like he was everyone’s favorite uncle. If that had all been genuine, if he really was the person he pretended to be, he would have been a great guy. But he wasn’t, I know very well he wasn’t.” A moment, and then, “How did the men who worked for him take the news? I’m sure it was hard, finding out what he’d done and how he died. Who went to tell them?”
“Halligan,” Albert replied. “I believe he took two officers who also had friends or relations working there. He wanted to question the boy you met at Garrett’s house.”
“Steve? Poor kid, he had no idea. I hope Halligan handled it all right.”
“He would have dealt with them appropriately.” Albert offered the truth: “Perhaps not as sympathetically as you would have.”
“Hell,” said Ash, “I can’t handle this myself, let alone help them through it. Much as I’d like to.”
“If you can admit that you are in no condition to help anyone else, then stop worrying about them.”
But Ash continued, “When I think about how many victims there are. Not just the twenty-two deaths, terrible deaths, but the families who lost sons and brothers. Even the people who knew Garrett, his acquaintances will be hurt, betrayed by their own judgment. They won’t trust so easily next time. I figure no one will ever be the same again.”
“Give yourself time to work through it. Don’t let fear of what you feel hinder your healing.”
A brief silence. “I hate it when you’re wise about me but you won’t apply it to yourself as well.”
It was easy to ignore this petulant statement. Albert said, “I understand that the boy Steve was resentful, of course, and scared. But he corroborated the facts of what happened last night, as far as he was able. You underestimated his powers of observation, Ash. He’d realized there was tension between you and Garrett.”
“They gave me one thing, Steve and John Garrett.”
“What was that?” Albert prompted after a time.
When he finally spoke, Ash asked, “Did you listen to the tapes?”
“I heard some of it.”
“He knew I understood him. That was one of the reasons he decided to talk to me about it. He could see there’s a part of me that understands what it is to kill.”
“Ash -”
“Let me finish, Albert. He knew that was why I’ve been obsessed with this case.”
“It was hardly the only reason,” Albert said.
“But it was a reason.” Ash drew a deep breath. “Garrett suggested that he should demonstrate what he did on Steve. He suggested that I witness it, or even participate. Albert, I had the perfect chance then and there, I could have done it, could have done anything I wanted with the boy. Then killed Garrett, too, like I did - and blamed Steve’s death on him.”
“No, you couldn’t.” Albert frowned. “And obviously you didn’t.”
A relieved moan, and Ash twisted deeper into Albert’s embrace. “That’s still the first thing you say, that I couldn’t do it? Even when it’s obvious I’ve thought about it?”
“Of course. You’re no murderer, Ash.”
“I know that now. That’s what they gave me, you see. At the time, the only thing on my mind was getting Steve safely out of there. I didn’t even consider taking the opportunity, didn’t even think about it. It was only afterwards I started thinking, and my imagination did it all for me, even to the point of tidying it up afterwards and blaming it on Garrett. Though you would have found me out, wouldn’t you? I couldn’t have hidden all the forensic evidence.”
“I doubt that you could have, unless the investigators were incompetent or didn’t look beyond the obvious.”
“Last night, I also discovered I can lie. Maybe I could even have lied about Steve’s death.”
Surely, after all these years, it was time to end this line of speculation. “You are no murderer,” Albert repeated. “The empathy that allows you to understand John Garrett also allows you to have pity for his victims, their families, and even the people who knew him. If you were ever in a position to victimize someone - and you are probably in that position every day - your empathy would make it impossible for you to inflict pain. You would show nothing but compassion, mercy and understanding.”
“Got you fooled, haven’t I?” Ash said weakly.
“John Garrett only saw the understanding. While I am sure you showed him compassion, I doubt that he was capable of recognizing or responding to it.”
“Really.” Usually, when either of them reacted with that word, it carried a bite of sarcasm or challenge. This time, Ash was unable to even attempt the right tone.
“I am not paying you a compliment, Ash, there is no need to be shy of accepting it as such. I am simply telling you the truth.”
The man sat quietly in Albert’s arms, subdued. Finally he said, “Love you, Albert. Haven’t told you that lately, have I?”
Unwise, Albert blurted out, “Your compassion obviously extends even to me.”
“But you so rarely require compassion.” Ash’s tone was light, and Albert was relieved when the younger man didn’t pursue the topic. Instead, Ash said, “You’re right, I did feel sorry for Garrett. Not for who he became but for the boy he used to be. If someone could have helped him twenty years ago, he might never have become a whole or happy person, but he could at least have avoided the violence and the death.”
A timeless while of silence again, until Albert said, “Your compassion, in fact, extends to everyone except yourself. You said that you can’t handle this situation but then you talk of everything peripheral to yourself.”
“It’s no good talking about it, Albert. You probably expect me to rationalize it away, but I can’t do that. I killed a man. If anyone deserved death, he did, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about the fact that there’s one less life now because of me.”
Albert said, “Of course you are going to react to that emotionally rather than intellectually.”
“That’s what you don’t understand, right? You’d be able to deal with the whole thing on a purely intellectual level.”
“Perhaps,” Albert replied, trying not to withdraw from the man in his embrace. If Ash thought Albert only ever reacted intellectually, then Ash was wrong - but it might be as well not to disabuse him of the notion. “I am unlikely to ever find myself in such a situation.”
“Count your blessings,” Ash said dryly. “To go there on my own, knowing what the outcomes might be, that was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. Leaving you behind, knowing I might not see you again, that was ghastly. And I had to listen to a whole lot of stuff I really didn’t want to know about. It’s going to take a while to sort through all that.” A moment, and another change of tone, before Ash continued, “But, beyond all that, the worst thing by far - he deliberately goaded me into killing him, you know. His death was suicide and murder and self-defense all at once. He was goading me into it but the worst thing is that I goaded him into it, too.”
“Explain that.”
“I was provoking him the whole time. I wanted to get behind his defenses, to get him to admit the truth to me, to make a confession, to let me arrest him. But, by provoking him, I put him in a situation where he onl
y had two options: to kill me or to be killed. He didn’t see there were other options.”
“It is not your fault that Garrett refused to be arrested.”
“I should have guessed that might be the case. So many of them get suicidal towards the end. He even - He showed me this terrible scar on his arm. You would have seen it.”
“Yes, his left forearm. It was some years old.”
“He told me he did that after his first murder. He didn’t understand why but he’d tried to suicide afterwards. Maybe he didn’t understand why he was showing me, either, but now I think he was trying to tell me that he was prepared to die. That he’d tried to carry out his own justice once before but I must do it for him this time. What do you think?”
“That is all possible but I really cannot say. You are in the best position to judge.”
