The dishwasher had been stacked, the plastic Chinese containers stowed away in the recycle bin, the kitchen left tidy, worktops sprayed with disinfectant, just how Burgess liked it. Now in the living room, they sat side by side on the sofa, the brown leather warming Burgess’ arse and back, one of the dark-turquoise scatter cushions propping up his elbow. His chocolate-coloured curtains closed out the night, hanging in perfect pleats— and they had to be perfect. Burgess and Shaw had taken off their shoes, which Burgess had stored in the hallway cupboard, and order was maintained despite Burgess having a guest.
“Standards,” his mother had always said. “You have to have standards.”
It was a bit dodgy drinking wine, considering they might be called back to work at any time should something else kick off and Emerson needed extra hands on deck, but there it was, a bottle of white on the polished mahogany coffee table, and two glasses, coasters beneath all three. They’d only sipped a little, and Burgess intended to stick to just the one glass, seeing as he’d had a beer in The Pig.
The alcohol he’d already consumed thrummed through him, somewhat soaked up by the meal but still giving a warm and pleasant buzz. It relaxed him, being here with Shaw like this, the pair of them in mates mode, reminding him of other nights his partner had nipped round after work and they’d shared some takeaway or other while thrashing out details of cases—the only times Burgess allowed mess, the individual file papers scattered on the table, the floor, and the sofa beside them.
God, they’d been doing that for years, and Burgess couldn’t really remember a time he hadn’t worked with Shaw or had him in his life. That tended to happen, didn’t it? People got so used to someone and how their lives segued into certain patterns. Comfort and contentment took over to the degree that it obliterated all that had gone before it, as though it had never existed. Yet Burgess’ life prior to Shaw did exist somewhere in his mind, it just wasn’t something he cared to think about anymore if he could help it.
The past that he denied—too painful to dredge up in its entirety—was normally driven away by his need to bring justice to his world, to the worlds of others, but especially to himself and his mother. The fact of whether he would ever manage the latter was hiding in the future somewhere, but he’d keep going until some measure of a more solid form of peace was obtained.
There was a form of peace now, though, in this moment, and there was peace every so often in his day-to-day life, but only small pockets of it. Then Burgess reminded himself why he existed, what he was here for. Then the drive inside him exploded, that harmony scarpering, and work and all the angst that went with it was his go-to time-filler, his memory eraser.
If he focused on crimes and cases, he didn’t have to focus on the bad recollections—or acknowledge them with more than an absent-minded nod anyway. And although he’d locked them away for the most part, slivers still sneaked out intermittently, giving him a poke in the heart. Couldn’t be helped, he supposed. Sounds and smells and sights had a habit of triggering unexpected images in his head, and reminiscence pounced, its main aim to seize him by the throat with its bastard lump of emotion and try to force him to concede once and for all.
He usually resisted. Usually won the battle.
“I’m sorry I can’t do what you want,” he blurted. “I mean, I’m sorry I can’t open up the way you want me to. I know it’d make for a better me, but you playing therapist…not going to work.” He stared at the blank TV to watch Shaw’s reaction, not trusting himself to look at him in person.
Shaw didn’t look at him either, was perhaps seeing Burgess on the TV, too. “One day, when you’ve eventually killed the demons, as it were, you’ll be more able to loosen up. It’s a tough job being you. No offence, but I wouldn’t want to be Burgess Varley.”
“No offence taken.” And there wasn’t. He knew what Shaw meant.
“It’s a funny old world, isn’t it.” Shaw shifted forward for his wine. Sipped. Put the glass down. Rested back again, the leather chirring as he settled. “I’ve been a bit of a dick lately, playing games to wind you up, get a reaction so you’d blow your stack and finally let shit out, and I shouldn’t have put pressure on you.”
“Yes. I knew what you were doing. Trouble is, it just pushed me the other way. Pissed me right off, if I’m honest.”
Shaw laughed quietly. “I knew it would. Piss you off, that is. Still, lesson learned. Don’t sulk and act childishly to get at your secrets. Or steal your coffee.”
“Never steal the coffee. I might share more of it in the future, if you ask nicely. Now let’s get our gaming heads on so I can beat your arse.”
Chapter Eleven
Burgess woke to the sound of his mobile ringing. He shot upright, scrabbling for it in the darkness on his bedside table, but the bloody thing wasn’t there. It took a moment for the events of the previous night to sink in—too much wine (he’d had more than one glass in the end) and too much gaming—and he reached for his suit jacket, slung carelessly on the
