Believing the Lie

over him.

She watched him. That he’d awakened her from sleep was obvious. But what sort of sleep, how it had been induced, if it had been induced… These were suddenly troubling matters that he had to sort out. Or so he’d thought until he saw her expression: Acceptance, along with its clansman resignation, was in her eyes.

He said, “In a thousand different ways, I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” she replied.

He went to her. She wore only a thin nightgown and this she lifted over her head. He put his hand on the back of her neck — warm with sleep, it was — and he kissed her. She tasted of sleep interrupted and of nothing else. He broke from her, looked at her, then kissed her again. She began to undress him and he joined her in the bed, pulling the covers away, off, to the floor, so that nothing could come between them.

But it was there nonetheless. Even as their bodies joined, even as she rose above him and his hands sketched curves from her breasts, to her waist, to her hips, even as they moved together, even as he kissed her. It was all still there. No avoiding, he thought, no running, no escape. The pleasure of their connection was a celebration. It was also, however, a pyre that bore the touch of a torch and then did what pyres always do.

Afterwards, their bodies slick and satisfied, he said, “That was the last time, wasn’t it?”

She said, “Yes. But we both knew that.” And after a moment, “It couldn’t have worked, Tommy. But I have to say how I wanted it to.”

He sought her hand, which lay palm-down on the mattress. He covered it, and her fingers spread. His curved into hers. “This isn’t about Helen,” he told her. “You must know that.”

“I do.” She turned her head and her hair fell against her cheek for a moment. It had become mussed during their lovemaking, and he smoothed it for her, brushing it back and behind her ear. “Tommy, I want you to find someone,” she said. “Not to replace her, for who could replace her? But someone to continue your life with. Because that’s all life is, isn’t it? Just continuing, going on.”

“I want that as well,” he said. “I wasn’t sure at first and it’s likely there’ll be days when I step backwards another time and tell myself there’s no real life without Helen in it. But that will be a moment’s thought only. I’ll come through it and out of it. I’ll move on.”

She reached up and used the back of her fingers against his cheek. Her expression was fond. She said, “I can’t say that I love you. Not with my demons. And not with yours.”

“Understood,” he said.

“But I wish you well. Please know that. No matter what happens. I do wish you well.”

BELGRAVIA LONDON

It was half past three in the morning when Lynley finally returned to his home in Eaton Terrace. He let himself inside the silent house, felt for the light switch to the right of the heavy oak door, and flipped it on. His eyes lit on a pair of women’s gloves that had been resting in place against the newel post at the bottom of the stairway for the last nine months. He studied them for a moment before he crossed the entry, took them in hand, and held them briefly to his nose for a final scent of her, faint but there, the smell of citrus. He felt the gloves’ softness against his cheek before he placed them in a small drawer of the coat tree near the door.

It came to him that he was very hungry. The feeling was odd. It had been many months since he’d experienced real, honest hunger in the pit of his stomach. Mostly, he’d been going through the motions of eating just to keep his body alive.

He went to the kitchen. There, he opened the refrigerator and saw that it was well stocked as always. God knew he was pathetic as a cook, but he reckoned he could manage scrambled eggs and toast without burning the house to the ground.

He removed what he would need for his makeshift meal, and he began to search for the proper utensils with which to cook it. He had not got far before Charlie Denton stumbled into the room in his dressing gown and slippers, wiping his spectacles on his belt.

Denton said, “What’re you doing in my kitchen, m’ lord,” to which Lynley replied as he always had done with a patient, “Denton…”

“Sorry,” Denton said. “Half-asleep. What the bloody hell are you doing, sir?”

“Obviously, I’m making something to eat,” Lynley told him.

Denton came to the worktop and examined what Lynley had laid out: eggs, olive oil, marmite, jam, sugar. “What, exactly, would that be?” he enquired.

“Scrambled eggs and toast. Where do you keep the frying pan, for God’s sake? And where’s the bread? That shouldn’t require a search party, should it?”

Denton sighed. “Here. Let me. You’ll only make a bloody mess of everything and I’ll be cleaning it up. What were you intending with the olive oil?”

“Doesn’t one need something… So the eggs don’t stick?”

“Sit, sit.” Denton waved at the kitchen table. “Look at yesterday’s paper. Go through the post. I’ve not put it on your desk yet. Or do something useful like setting the table.”

“Where’s the cutlery?”

“Oh for God’s sake. Just sit.”

Lynley did so. He began to go through the post. There were bills, as always. There was also a letter from his mother and another from his aunt Augusta, both of whom refused to have anything to do with e-mail. Indeed, his aunt had only recently begun resorting to a mobile to make her pronouncements from on high.

Lynley set both letters to one side and unfurled a handbill from the elastic band that had kept it rolled. He said, “What this?” and Denton glanced his way.

“Don’t know. Something on the doorknob,” he replied. “They were up and down the street yesterday. I hadn’t looked at it yet.”

Lynley did the looking. He saw that it was an advertisement for an event at Earl’s Court in two days’ time. Not the normal sort of event, he found, but rather an exhibition of a sport. The sport was flat track roller derby, and he saw that Boadicea’s Broads from Bristol — love the alliteration, he thought — were going to meet London’s Electric Magic in an exhibition match-up that was described with large print that read The Spills! The Chills! The Thrills! Come to witness the spectacular artistry and skate-to-kill drama of the women who live for the jam!

Below this were the names of the sportswomen, and Lynley couldn’t stop himself from reading through the list, from looking for one name in particular, a name he had certainly never thought he’d see again. And there it was: Kickarse Electra, the nom de guerre of a large animal veterinarian from the zoo in Bristol: one Daidre Trahair, a woman who took the occasional country weekend in Cornwall, where he had met her.

Lynley smiled at this. Then he chuckled. Denton looked up from the scrambling of eggs and said, “What?”

“What do you know about flat track roller derby?”

“What in hell is that, if one might ask?” Denton enquired.

“I think we ought to find out, you and I. Shall I purchase tickets for us, Charlie?”

“Tickets?” Denton looked at Lynley as if he’d gone half-mad. But then he fell back against the stove, and he struck a pose, one arm lifted to his forehead. He said, “My God. Has it actually come to this? Are you — dare I say — asking me out on a date?”

Lynley laughed in spite of himself. “I appear to be doing so.”

“What have we come to?” Denton sighed.

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” Lynley answered.