| Call Me Daddy
© Xeen PART 7 “What was I thinking?” It was only Lynley’s fourth or fifth outburst for the past hour. A record, since they had resolved to come back empty handed from their search of the surroundings of what was left of Terndell’s barn, thought Buchanan. Apart from digging a trench right here in the middle of the pub, there was nothing more Detective Inspector Lynley could possibly accomplish today except driving him gradually mad with his endless pacing. Lynley had gone into self centred mode, eyebrows furrowed, a deep crease in the middle of his forehead. There was little left of the polish gentleman Buchanan was accustomed to. After reluctantly nibbling into a bad lettuce tomato chicken sandwich and a handful of crisps, his Lordship had eventually decided to find the light inside a glass of vodka. Well, several glasses, as a matter of fact. Bad habits die hard. However, Buchanan considered it a limited victory that he had finally managed to switch him from liquor to ale. He retrieved yet another beer from the counter and handed it over to Lynley. Lynley took it and gave the American an oblique glance. For the time being, he seemed unable to keep his irritation at bay. “You're one of those players who doesn't show up to the tracks unless they have a horse in the race,” he said provocatively. “I'm just looking to help.” Above all things, Buchanan wanted to avoid antagonising him. Havers had been eloquent enough when it had come to deal with Lynley’s bad temper, not that she had not a peculiar temper of her own, he thought jokingly. The thought brought him right back to the task at hand. “You’re not!” Lynley growled. “We’re inside a tangle of leads and every one of them can direct us in the right direction.” “Ah, ah, thank you for stating the obvious!” “Man, as I said, I’m only trying to help here. I damn think you should go easy on the bottle and call it the night.” For a moment, he thought that Lynley was either going to punch him in the face or hug him. He did neither. “I’m sorry,” Lynley sighed, putting one hand on Buchanan’s shoulder. “I… it’s been a rough year… you know.” “I know. Barb told me everything.” “I bet she did,” Lynley muttered, letting his hand go. Anger along with a fluttered feeling came crawling back at once on the fringe of his mind. “She did because we became close friends and because you’re his friend too…” Buchanan hesitated, “… and because she couldn’t help being concerned by what you’ve been going through since the moment your wife’s been shot,” he finally said grittily. He took a deep breath, perfectly aware he was on the verge of losing his temper too. He would not achieve anything by jumping on Lynley. “You wanna know what I think? I think she left England to make you proud of her but she never got over the fact that she was abandoning you to your grief,” his voice raising to a higher pitch. “She did not renounce helping you because she had to move on with her life or because she wanted to see new places or because she was eager to make new friends. No, she did not! She left to give you some space, so that you may reflect on your relationship… with her.” “But I wanted to boost her self esteem, she’s my partner! She knows I will never let her down!” “Well, technically, she’s your DS as you told me once. And theoretically you have… let her down, I mean. Man, it would have been easier to lend her some of your own self esteem.” “How dare you?” shouted Lynley. The whole pub went silent. “Man! Come on! You challenged her to get into that training programme in New York.” He uttered the name of the city as if spelling every letter. “That’s exactly what you did. Didn’t you?” Lynley was livid. “Yes I did and I still believe it is the best thing which has happened to her in years,” he snarled. “And it’s not your fault,” Buchanan trailed. “Don’t push me….” said Lynley, dangerously closing the distance between them. His pint slipped from his fingers and crashed down onto the floor, splashing his Savile Row tailor-made trousers and Church’s loafers. “Right now, I’m not too wild about you either; you don’t want to try me, Lynley,” Buchanan said with a nod. Then, he took notice of their fully focused audience. “Don’t mind my father,” he said loudly, waving around playfully, dancing from one foot to the other. “He has... dementia. He doesn't even know what he's saying,” he shrugged. Someone laughed out loud in one booth. “You see?” he insisted, sweeping Lynley away from their curious ears, “you can tell that his mind is gone, come on, daddy.” “Daddy?” “I bet you never thought you'd hear me call you that,” Buchanan said quietly, leading him firmly to the nearest seat. Lynley obediently slouched down onto a stool and looked at him with a smirk on his face. Buchanan ignored it. The pub went back to its usual business and instantly the sound of voices, glasses and chairs scraping the floor covered their conversation. “You know how shy and stubborn she is, always ready to crawl back into her shell or to roll into a tight ball of denial, the way she dresses, the way she sees things… You know everything about her ‘petty’ life as she likes to say, you know about her family, her Mum, the nursing home. What exactly did you want to accomplish? You never imagined she would pursue. Your vote was a vote of defiance all along.” Lynley stared at Buchanan in disbelief. How could he? He resisted against the renewed urge of hitting him. “But did you know that she had to sell her car to cover for her expenses? Fortunately, Azhar found some cousins of his going to the “Uni” and interested in a cheap rent for a few months. She had to rent her flat to cover her mortgage; and the guys at the Met put together a little something to get her started. Did you imagine for one minute that she could afford to go over there? It must be so easy to make quick decisions on a full stomach.” “I… had no idea…” “You had no idea? How could you not? You’ve been to her place as she’s been to yours, for crying out loud! I bet she barely dares to breathe let alone move a finger when she’s at your place because she is too afraid to do wrong. You’re telling me you can’t you tell the difference between Acton and Belgravia? Come on, man, are you putting me on? You’re deliberately insulting my intelligence.” It was all Lynley needed to pull himself together. Everything he wanted to keep at a distance to avoid being harmed was suddenly pouring in, as if a dam has broken down. The long nights they used to spend on her sofa, stacks of files sat on the coffee table, discussing a case over a bad toast, an instant coffee or a tasteless cup of tea; the embarrassment in the morning when he accidently brushed her arm in the kitchen, the endless stake outs inside the Bristol. God, he misses her. It was one thing that she was abroad or working a case in Scotland or Yorkshire with some local detective but it was another all together that she was M.I.A. “I HAVE to find her,” he said after a while. “You bet Sherlock, I cannot agree more. But, for now, you’re wasted. It’s time to get some coffee into you and throw a good night sleep on top of it if you want to tag along and find her tomorrow. Be happy that no other body than Trendell’s was retrieved in the vicinity of the fire. You may add to the mix that we had no notice from hospitals. I say it’s a good sign. In fact, we should celebrate! She simply cannot vanish into thin air without leaving a trail behind her.” Buchanan hoped he was convincing enough because he did not feel convinced. He was rapidly losing hope of ever finding her. -- “Thank you Morveren. It is delicious.” “I will give you the recipe if you like, Helen, ‘been in the family for generations, you know.” “Oh, I would like that, but I’m not sure I am much of a cook.” “You don’t know that dear. You can barely remember your name and you still don’t know what you do for a living. As far as we know, you could be a Chef!” Havers smiled politely. She felt awkward in her burrowed clothes. Her right hand mechanically went over the pleats of the heavy tweed skirt. “I think I should know. I certainly don’t feel like a Chef,” she smiled. “Dear, you can be anything you want,” said Morveren. “That’s the beauty of it. Maybe, you’ll never find out who you were in the first place and you will have to start all over again. I’d like that,” she smiled. Havers was not sure SHE would like that. Losing all her bearings, never finding out who she was and what happened to her the last couple of days, the last couple of years in fact. “For heaven’s sake, Morveren, leave the woman alone! Can’t you see she’s tired? Maybe if you’d spent the night in the woods in half a raincoat, probably you wouldn’t remember anything either.” “I would not remember you for sure, Jory Penhaligon, and I wouldn’t want to remember you at all ever again!” “Is that a fact?” “Leaving me all alone in the woods?” “Morveren! It is hypot… hypothe…” “Hypothetical,” said Havers. “Exactly! Now, let her have some rest. I will call Dr Dugan.” “I don’t think I need a doctor, Mr Penhaligon…” “That is Jory to you!” “Jory,” she said with a smile. “I feel fine. I don’t want you to go to all that trouble on my behalf.” “Seen your ankle lately? And your hands? And what about your head? I say when you can’t remember where you live or why you sleep in the woods, it’s time for a doctor to call on.” “He’s right dear. Get some rest. I set a bed ready for you. It was my daughter’s room. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly comfortable.” “Thank you, I’m sure I will be.” And now she was waiting for the good doctor to show up. Finding herself alone in the flowery bedroom was even worse than the thorough examination Morveren had put her through the entire morning. It was a girlie bedroom indeed. There was even a curious iris and jasmine scent to match the patterns of the curtains and bed cover. She felt slightly sick to her stomach and she decided to lie down. She was exhausted but she knew she would not sleep; her mind was working non stop to no avail. It only seemed to keep her coming back to the emptiness of her memories. Was it a sign? Did she deserve a clean slate? As far as she knew, she could have broken out of a female prison, escaped from the grasp of a jealous lover or fallen off of a train… It was the afternoon early hours and she was already desperate for some action. Her memory loss was an unwanted change of pace in her active life, she knew it. No memories of a city, of renting a flat, of a line of work were left. Jory seemed to think she was a Londoner. Her being here, wandering alone in unknown woods in cheap clothes, could it be occupational hazard? She pursed her lips imagining herself being the arm of the law, a successful magistrate or a brilliant detective with Scotland Yard. No, not a magistrate, she pondered. She did not picture herself as a young urban professional locked up inside a building, day in day out. She’d rather work outside in the open air; and oddly enough, she sensed that magistrate was beyond her area of expertise. Not that she could not acquire that expertise if she put her mind to it, for god’s sake, she felt quite fit for the challenge. It simply did not feel right, plain and simple. If only she could put a name on the tall comforting silhouette she could describe to the last detail, she knew all her memories would come back at once. She did not remember anything else really. She focused on the mental image of the man, slowly and carefully unfolding the layers that kept him locked deep inside oblivion. Nice expensive clothes, educated elocution, dark hair and an infectious smile. Was he a lover, her husband, a friend? He may be paramount to her though. She got lost inside her reverie and eventually fell asleep. The door bell rang, startling her. It was dark outside. She sat up on the bed and tried to get a grip on herself. She let out a frustrated cry. His name had eluded her again. Tears started running unexpectedly, shaking her body from head to toes, wearing her out. She drew the blanket over her head and went back to sleep in an instant. “I’m afraid she’s still asleep, doctor,” said Morveren, taking a look at the crumpled form. “Shall I wake her up now?” “No, no. Let her get all the rest she can,” said the physician in a comforting voice. “It was my last visit anyway. You’ve done well, M’am. All she needs for the time being is probably more sleep. I bet she’ll be all right in the morning,” he smiled. “You know we lose a couple of tourists from the big city each year in these damn woods.” “Yes, you’re right,” Morveren chuckled. “Exactly what Jory told me already. Not that they usually lose their memory though. Well, thank you doctor, we’ll see you in the morning then?” She closed the door behind him and went back to her book. TBC |
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