“It was like what?” Roger regretted that they weren’t already home, or driving the back roads of Sussex where he could easily find a lay-by to pull in and let himself concentrate on his partner’s concerns rather on the road. With all they’d heard and witnessed today, he didn’t feel happy about finding a parking place on these back roads.
“Like I was back in one of my dreams. I had the sort of feeling I get during them, when we’re about to go into battle. Don’t laugh, please God don’t laugh.” Miles kept his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead.
“I don’t think I am laughing.” Maybe Roger’s sharp intake of breath had seemed like the start of one of his more sarcastic outbursts, the mutual mocking which the pair normally so delighted in. “I’m just astounded. Talk about it, please.”
“I’m not sure I can. Maybe if it had been the other way round, you could find the right words to describe it. I felt…” Miles paused, clearly struggling to find exactly the term he wanted, “I felt like I was aglow. More alive than I’ve ever felt and yet like nothing was real.” He began to chuckle. “Maybe you were right to laugh. It sounds absurd. It is absurd.”
“It wasn’t absurd back there. You were different somehow, unlike the Miles I thought I knew.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Bloody hell, no. Like I said, you were magnificent.” Roger reached across and touched his partner’s arm, suddenly aware of at least one potential advantage of not having to change gear. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you like that again. In our bedroom, for a start.”
“Cheeky bugger.” Miles squeezed Roger’s hand then placed it back on the steering wheel. “Two hands for the ship, please.” He yawned again, although he sounded more alert now. “I felt magnificent. Like I could have taken on the world.”
“Remind me never to get on your wrong side. I’d hate to see what scheme you’d come up with for getting rid of me. A perfectly executed plan of action. Alexander would have been proud.”
“Ah. I think I’d better confess something right now.”
Roger couldn’t help take a sideways glance, although Miles’s face couldn’t be read in the meagre light. “I don’t like the sound of that. Been arranging to meet our friend the lawyer for a little light dalliance over the files for the defence?”
“Daft beggar. No, it’s much worse than that. My perfect plan. I didn’t have one.”
“What?” Roger was glad he wasn’t driving on a narrow country road with a ditch at the side or they’d have been in it.
“I didn’t have a plan, not a detailed one, anyway. That’s why I couldn’t give you any particulars when you kept asking for them.” At least Miles sounded suitably ashamed.
“You busked. We went back there at the risk of getting our heads kicked in and you were busking.” There was a risk of Miles getting his head kicked in right now and it wouldn’t be the Phillipsons doing the kicking.
“You wouldn’t have let me come if you’d known. And it wasn’t quite as hazy as you make out. I had an idea while we were in bed, you know, doing it, and it got clearer and clearer as we drove down. By the time we met Strauss I knew what I had to ask him.”
“And when did the rest of your grand scheme come together?” Roger didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’d been had good and proper.
“I don’t think I dare admit that. It was when the Phillipsons walked in. I mean, I knew what I wanted to do but I didn’t have all the words until they were actually coming out of my mouth.” Miles squeezed his partner’s thigh. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so devious but it was a case of being economical with the truth or throwing in the towel. I didn’t feel I had much of a choice.”
“I don’t suppose you did. I’ll let you know if you’re forgiven when we get home.” The way Roger stroked his partner’s hand gave the likely outcome away.
“Thank you. Can I say in mitigation that I feel better than I’ve done in months?”
“You may not.” Roger smiled. Whatever fast trick had been pulled, the result seemed to have been worth it, and not just for the denizens of the Laurel Wreath. Maybe, as an unexpected bonus, this would eventually prove therapeutic for Miles, as well.
Epilogue
England, Aftermath
“It’s beautiful.” Roger turned the book in his hands. Divested of its gold-and-blue wrapping paper, it seemed half the size but infinitely more valuable. “How the hell did you get hold of a first edition?”
“That would be telling. Contacts.” Miles grinned. It had been worth all the effort to see his partner’s Christmas morning face, as excited as a little boy to see the precious copy of Fire From Heaven. “And it’s a present for me too. It’s been over four months now since I had one of those dreams. All those peaceful nights. Blissful.”
“Maybe you completed your mission or whatever it was that you’d been getting the wretched things for. I can’t get over the note Strauss put in with his Christmas card—four months since they’ve had any trouble.” Roger shrugged, still nursing his novel. “It’s been a strange year, all in all. Maybe I should write an allegorical story about it.”
“That sounds an excellent idea.” Miles tapped the handsome little hardback book. “But not this version. You wanted to know what my wishes are for the New Year? Write me a novel about the members of the Theban Band who survived.”
About the Author
As Charlie Cochrane couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries. She lives near Romsey, England, but has yet to use that as a setting for her stories, choosing to write about Cambridge, Bath, London and the Channel Islands, all of which are places she knows and loves well. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby, and a church service in the evening, with her husband and daughters tagging along, naturally.
Charlie’s Cambridge Fellows series, set in Edwardian England, was instrumental in her being named Author of the Year by the review site Speak Its Name.
Charlie’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc., with titles published by Samhain, MLR Press, Noble Romance and Cheyenne.
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9318-6
Copyright © 2012 by Charlie Cochrane
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