Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I was sitting in my office. It was a wet, dark, depressing afternoon. Evening had come early. I was dressed and my car was parked outside, but I had no recollection of driving to my office, no memory of the past few hours at all.

  My head ached and I had an intense pain behind my eyes. I thought about Dan and his description of me. Of course, he was right. The idea of forming a relationship of any kind with Alan was fantasy. Alan was a good-looking man, successful in his career; he could have the pick of any woman in the world, so he sure as hell wouldn’t pick someone as screwed up as me.

  Maybe Dan was my only hope. Maybe we could start again, forget the past, build a new future together. And how long would that last? A week? A day? An hour?

  I took the whisky bottle and a glass from my desk drawer and poured myself two fingers. It’s early in the day, but what the heck. Sip it, I thought, but instead I gulped it. All gone. Now what? Another two fingers. No. I still had some willpower. I had no wish to turn into my mother. But the bottle was tormenting me. I got up and poured the whisky down the sink.

  Then Marlowe jumped in through my partially open window. He sat on my lap and I stroked him. He brushed his head up against my body and purred.

  I thought about Alan. Did I really say that to him, did I really say that about his wife? I did. Why did I say it? Because I was scared. Witless. I was frightened of my feelings for him. I was attracted to him and he seemed to be attracted to me. I realised that there was a possibility that we could become lovers. And then what? He’d hurt me, like everyone else I’d offered my love to. Maybe physically, maybe emotionally, maybe both. The solution – make him hate me, say something that would make him angry, make him go away. Problem solved. No love, no hurt. Trouble was it still hurt even without him. In fact, it hurt even more and I realised that I didn’t really want him to go away.

  “I like him, for God’s sake!” I screamed in frustration. My yell startled Marlowe and he jumped out of the window. I sighed. Even the cat hates me now.

  I picked up my gun. Maybe the gun offered a solution. It would be so simple to place the gun to my head and pull the trigger. Who would miss me? Marlowe, maybe. But he was a survivor; he’d find someone else to open a tin can for him. Sweets? He was sweet, and maybe he did care, but he was a gnarled old cop, he saw sad events every day, he was immune to them, he’d soon get over it. I looked at the gun. I placed the barrel to my temple. Bang. No more hurt, no more pain. I closed my eyes. No more hurt, no more pain. Squeeze the trigger. No more hurt, no more pain.

  Then I heard footsteps on my office stairs. I levelled the gun, pointing it towards the door. A shape appeared in the frosted glass of my office door, a male shape. I placed my elbows on my desk and steadied my hands. The door creaked open. I wrapped my index finger around the trigger. I adjusted the tension on the trigger. Then I sighed with relief as Alan stepped into my office.

  He stared at the gun, raised an eyebrow and gave me a twisted grin. “Do you want to shoot me?”

  I shook my head, vehemently. I sniffed back a tear then offered the gun to him. “Maybe you should shoot me.”

  Alan took the gun from my malleable fingers. He placed it on my desk, the business end pointing towards the wall. Then he waved his hand over my client’s chair.

  “May I sit down?”

  I flicked my index fingers across my cheeks, took a deep breath and composed myself. “Do you want to hire me?”

  He smiled. His smile was warm and genuine, a mirror of the man. “If I had a problem of that sort, I would.”

  “Even after what I said to you?”

  He nodded, decisively. “There were extenuating circumstances. What you said hurt me, but I should have counted to ten and realised why you used those words. He provoked you; he pushed you into a dark place and offered himself as the only solution. I see it professionally time and time again. But this is personal, and I lost my sense of judgement, my sense of perspective. I’m sorry I stormed out on you. Please forgive me.”

  I gasped, taken aback by his words, his compassion. I shook my head as I wrestled with my feelings, as I struggled to keep my emotions under control.

  “Me, forgive you?” I stared down to my shoes. “I should be asking for your forgiveness. What I said was cruel and horrible. I feel so ashamed.”

  Alan reached across my desk. His hand covered my hand and I opened my fingers. Our fingers entwined and I looked up, trying to meet his gaze.

  “Enough, Sam.” He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “No more punishing yourself, okay.”

  I nodded. “Okay.” I tried to smile. It was a pathetic effort. “You’ve seen me at my worst.”

  His smile was broad, optimistic. “So things can only get better.”

  I held his hand with all the strength I possessed, with a level of intensity I wouldn’t have believed possible, as though terrified to let go. “I was so scared, so frightened. I thought, make him hate me and the hurt will go away.”

  “And has it?”

  “When you walked out of my door the hurt intensified.”

  “And now?”

  I shook my head, as though to clear my confusion. I placed my right hand to my forehead and rubbed my furrowed brow. “I’m very tired. I’m very confused.”

  Alan nodded. He squeezed my hand. “You need plenty of rest.”

  Then, from the back of my mind, a thought leapt forward. I had work to do, a murder to solve. I had no time for moping around my office, no time for wallowing in my own emotions. I had to get out there; I had my job to do.

  “I’ve got to get back to the castle, to Milton, Derwena...”

  Alan shook his head, the stern look on his face forsaking all argument. “Not today.”

  Of course, he was right. I was in no state to do my job properly. I hated myself for admitting that fact, but it was the truth. I would do more damage than good in my present condition. I had to gather my thoughts together and sort myself out.

  “Go home,” Alan advised, “switch off your phones, lock your door. I have a friend who works in the security business. I’ll ask him to make some arrangements. He’ll get his people to camp outside your door, discretely. He’ll make sure that no one bothers you.” Alan squeezed my hand. “Do that for me, okay?”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “You’re in no state to drive. I’ll drive you home.”

  “What about your car?”

  “I’ll get a taxi and come back and pick it up.”

  I reached into my shoulder bag and handed over my car keys. As I did so, we stood in the centre of my office. The rain was hammering against my window and the office was in darkness, just as well, I thought, because my sense of self was returning and I felt embarrassed about my appearance, humiliated by the events of the past eighteen hours.

  “I don’t deserve your kindness,” I mumbled in a small voice.

  Alan reached across. He brushed my tangled hair from my face, then placed the back of his hand lightly against my cheek. He sighed, “And that’s where you go wrong, Sam. You deserve what I have to offer and a lot more.”

  I took hold of his hand and held it against my cheek. It felt warm, comforting and I felt reassured.

  “Go home now,” he instructed. “Rest. Do that for me. Please.”

  “I will.”

  We were standing close, toe-to-toe. He was looking into my eyes and his lips were inching towards my lips. I closed my eyes. He kissed me. I let him. It was the least he deserved.