* * * * *
“David.”
David Powell didn’t remember falling asleep. He’d been sitting on the floor with his elbows resting on his drawn up knees, thinking. He thought he’d only rested his head on his forearms for a moment, but when he looked up again the light and shadows had noticeably shifted.
Now the room – so much like yesterday’s cell, only smaller – had an odd cast to it, as though the ancient clay dust had been kicked up from the floor to paint the air with a muted haze.
“David.”
The priest started at the sound of his name spoken again, and started further when he saw his friend was conscious and sitting upright against the near wall.
“Lew—!”
“David,” the policeman said a third time, his voice steady, if hardly more than a whisper. “Let’s forget for a time that each of us has an Englishman for a father…forget the cold Victorian for a moment.”
“…I don’t understand,” David returned, shifting to sit face-to-face with his friend. Lewis looked about as awful as he had before – all pale and such, perhaps even a tinge bluish – and now his face was twisted up with a strange wash of emotion and effort. The intensity of his gaze held the priest’s captive.
“As an Englishman,” the sergeant rasped, “I can tell you I’ve always admired your courage, from the time when you defied your very formidable father to take orders, to even now as you work tirelessly for the people the rest of us seem to have forgotten.”
He paused to draw a ragged breath, and David realized he’d been holding his own.
“I told you before how much I regret that you’re here, that I’ve made myself useless to you by fighting when I should’ve stopped, that—”
“—Lew,” the priest interrupted, wanting to silence his friend’s needless apology, but the policeman held up a hand.
“I’ve seen the likes of this before, David.” Lewis lifted his other hand, which he’d held pressed to his mangled side while they’d been speaking; the bruises visible through his shirt tatters were now alarmingly larger than before. “I can’t walk. I couldn’t even stand when I tried a few minutes ago. Unless I get to hospital soon, it’s done for me.”
“Surely…” the priest began, but his friend wasn’t finished.
“And I know something’s amiss with you. The brutality of our world can shake any man’s faith – even in what he most strongly believes. Especially when that brutality comes from those claiming the opposite.” He inhaled with a rattling wheeze. “But whether or not the words mean anything to you, say them for me. A simple choice—”
Lewis broke off suddenly and nearly doubled over in a coughing fit. As the wracking effort shook the policeman’s frame, he clutched at David’s arm, his grip like a vice even after the fit subsided.
“I’m drowning, David: I can taste it,” he gasped, head still bowed.
“Then what can an Irishman do for an Italian?”
“Hold me as I die,” whispered the policeman. A plaintive gaze met the priest’s. “I love you. As only a brother can. And you love me the same.”
David opened his mouth to say something, but his thoughts shattered.
“Please.”
* * * * *
“Sir! We’ve caught sight of Harker!”
Constable Little couldn’t keep the elation out of his voice as he stuck his head into Inspector Tipple’s office. The detective stood up sharply.
“Explain.”
Convicted Innocent Page 12
