She had gone to the door, but she turned to answer. 'He's everything to me,' she said. 'Loyalty, devotion, affection, warmth. He's given me things—'
'Do you love him?' The question was shaken this time. 'At least can you say that you love him, Deborah?'
For a moment he thought she might leave without answering. But he saw Lynley's power sweep right through her body. Her chin raised, her shoulders straightened, her eyes shone with tears. He heard the answer before she gave it. 'I love him. Yes. I love him. I do.' And then she was gone.
He lay in bed and stared at the shifting patterns of black shadow and dim light on the ceiling. The night was warm, so his bedroom window was open, the curtains were undrawn, and he could hear, occasionally, cars rumbling along Cheyne Walk just a block away, the noise of their engines amplified by the open expanse of the river. His body should have been tired — demanding sleep — but instead it ached, muscles excruciatingly tense in his neck and shoulders, hands and arms feeling strung with external nerves, chest sore and constricted as if pressed by a weight. His mind was a maelstrom in which were swirling fragments of former conversations, half-formed hazy fantasies, things needing to be said.
He tried to think of anything other than Deborah. A fibre analysis he needed to complete, a deposition he was due to give in two weeks, a conference at which he was to present a paper, a seminar in Glasgow he had been asked to teach. He tried to be what he had been during her absence, the cool scientist meeting commitments and facing responsibilities, but instead he saw the man he really was, the coward who filled his life with denial and distraction to avoid running the risk of vulnerability.
His entire life was a lie, founded on noble aphorisms in which he knew he did not believe. Let her go. Let her find her own way. Let her have a world of expanding horizons filled with people who could give her riches far beyond the paucity of what he had to offer. Let her find a kindred soul with whom she could share herself, one unburdened by the weaknesses that plagued his own life. But even this listing of the specious regulations that had governed his behaviour still left him safe from having to confront the final truth.
Fear dominated him. It left him useless. Any action he chose could be the source of rejection. So he chose by not choosing, by letting time pass, by believing that conflicts, difficulties and turmoil would sort themselves out on their own in the long run. And indeed they had done so. Loss was the result.
Too late he saw what he should have seen all along: that his life with Deborah had been a long-forming tapestry in which she had held the thread, had created the design, and had ultimately become the fabric itself. That she should leave him now was a form of dying, leaving him not death's peace of the void but an infinite hellfire of recrimination, all of it the product of his contemptible fear. That the years had passed and he had not told her how he loved her. His heart soared in her presence, but he would not say the words. Now he could only thank God that she and Lynley planned to take up a new life in Cornwall after their marriage. If she was gone from his presence, what remained of life here would at least be bearable.
He turned his head on the pillow and looked at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock. It was ten past three. The effort to sleep was useless. He could at least admit that. He switched on the light.
The stack of photographs still lay on the table next to the bed where he had placed them over two hours ago. In what he knew quite well was an act of deliberate avoidance — more cowardice for which he would despise himself with the dawn — he picked them up. As if this action could eradicate Deborah's words, as if the knowledge of how she had once wanted him were not tearing at his soul, he began to examine them, a study in detachment with his world in ruins.
Without emotion, he looked at the corpse, its mutilation, its position near the sofa. He observed the debris that lay in the room: the letters and envelopes; the pens and pencils; the notebooks and folders; the scraps of paper covered with writing; the poker and fire irons tumbled to the floor; the computer — switched on — with black floppy disks spread out on the desk. And then closer to the corpse, the glint of silver — perhaps a coin — half- hidden under his thigh; the five-pound note, a small wedge torn from it, lying disregarded near his hand on the floor; above him the mantel on which he had struck his head; to the right the hearth to which he had fallen. St James flipped through the photographs again and again, looking for something he could not have identified even if he saw it. The computer, the disks, the folders, the notebooks, the money, the mantel. He thought only of Deborah.
Giving up the game, he admitted that there would be neither sleep, nor peace, nor even the possibility of a moment's distraction. He could only make the hours till dawn slightly more livable. He reached for his crutches and swung out of bed. Throwing on his dressing gown, belting it clumsily, he headed for the door. There was brandy in the study. It would not be the first time he had sought its oblivion. He made his way down the stairs.
The study door was partially closed, and it swung inwards noiselessly upon his touch. A soft glow — dancing between gold and dusky rose — came from two candles that should have stood on the overmantel but had been placed side by side and lit upon the hearth. Hands clasped round her knees, Deborah sat on the ottoman and watched the candles' flames. Seeing her, St James wanted to retreat. He thought about doing so. He didn't move.
She looked towards the door, looked away again quickly when she saw it was he. 'Couldn't sleep,' she said unnecessarily as if she thought she needed to explain her presence in his study — wearing dressing gown and slippers — after three in the morning. 'I can't think why. I ought to be exhausted. I feel exhausted. But I couldn't sleep. Too much excitement these past few days.'
Her words were casual enough, well chosen and indifferent. But there was something hesitant in her voice. It tried and failed to ring true. Hearing this, he made his way across the room and lowered himself on to the ottoman next to her. It was the sort of gesture he'd never made before. In the past, her place had been on the ottoman, while he sat above her, in the chair or on the sofa.
'I couldn't sleep either,' he said, laying his crutches on the floor. 'I thought I'd have a brandy.'
'I'll get it for you.' She began to rise.
He caught her hand, stopped her. 'No. It's all right.' And when she kept her face averted, 'Deborah.'
'Yes?'
The single word was calm. Her curly mass of hair hid her face from view. She made a quick movement, like a lifting of her body, and he thought it was prelude to rising and leaving. But, instead of doing so, he heard her take a choked breath and realized with a swift dawning surprise that she was struggling not to cry.
He touched her hair, so tentatively that he knew she couldn't possibly feel that he had done so. 'What is it?'
'Nothing.'
'Deborah—'
'We were friends,' she whispered. 'You and I. We were mates. I wanted that back. I thought if I talked to you tonight… but I just couldn't find it. It's gone. And I… it hurts so much to know that. If I talk to you, if I see you, I still feel torn. I don't want that feeling. I can't face it again.'
Her voice broke. Without a thought, he encircled her shoulders with his arm. It didn't matter what he said.
Truth or lie made no difference. He had to say something to alleviate her pain.
'We'll survive all this, Deborah. We'll find our way back. We'll be what we were. Don't cry.' Roughly, he kissed the side of her head. She turned into his arms. He held her, stroked her hair, rocked her, said her name. And all at once felt flooded by peace. 'It doesn't matter,' he whispered. 'We'll always be mates. We'll never lose that. I promise.'
At his words, he felt her arms slip round him. He felt the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest. He felt her heart beating, felt his own heart pounding, and accepted the fact that he had lied to her again. They would never be friends. Friendship was absolutely impossible between them when with so simple a movement — her arms slipping round him — every part of his body lit on fire for her.
Half a dozen admonitions rang out in his head. She was Lynley's. He had hurt her quite enough already. He was betraying the oldest friendship in his life. There were boundaries between them that couldn't be crossed. His resolve was acceptance. We aren't meant to be happy. Life isn't always fair. He heard each one of them, vowed to leave the room, told himself to release her, and stayed where he was. Just to hold her, just to have her like this for one moment, just to feel her near him, just to catch the scent of her skin. It was enough. He would do nothing else… save touch her hair again, save brush it back from her face.
She lifted her head to look at him. Admonitions, intentions, boundaries and resolves were shot to oblivion. Their cost was too high. They didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Just the moment, now, with her.
