Chapter Text
I wanted the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,
whoever I was, I was
alive
for a little while.
– Mary Oliver, Dogfish
A small hand led him down a narrow path, trees appearing and disappearing in his periphery– flashes of dark greens and orange, then black. The bricks underneath were a dark shade of brown and littered with cracks, though he had half expected them to glow yellow. James’ head was aching, threatening to split open from some kind of foreign pressure. The closest comparison that came to mind was the sensation of a plane landing. The grip around him tightened and urged him to go faster. This was his dream, so why did he feel like he was late?
Slowly, the woods cleared and revealed a house in the distance. Not just any house, but his house. His father’s house. The white pillars by the entrance seemed to grow out of nowhere, the entire building appearing taller and wider as they got closer, like it was about to swallow them up– him and the strange child leading the way. Hesitantly, James reached for the door, held back by a stubborn pull on his arm.
You don’t want to go inside?
The boy, letting go of James’ hand now, shook his head. Right. Evidently not. Looking around the property as if help would reveal itself, he sat down by the door, next to the child. For a while, they simply observed the path that had led them here disappear, the woods with it, until only the house remained. In any other scenario that would have been cause for concern, but when you knew it was all just imagination, there was a strange serenity to it all.
I thought it would be nice , the boy said. A slight, dry breeze brought tears to the child’s eyes. I thought it could be– you know. Like it was.
I think I know what you mean, James admitted, hunched over and arms resting on his thighs. It was nice for a little bit, wasn’t it?
The boy with his pale face and paler skin nodded, understanding completely. Of course he would, James realised, after all, he was talking to himself. No room for misunderstandings.
I guess you can’t go back , said the boy and, this time, James had heard him properly. I really wanted to. Badly. But nobody can.
Sorry.
James waited, wondering if it was narcissistic to comfort this crying child. He let the boy lean against him a little, then closed his eyes to end the dream. It was a neat trick, one he had been able to pull from time to time, learned for the purpose of getting quick intervals of sleep during endless training days. At present, he didn’t want to think about the person who had taught him.
Back in his old room turned guest room, the sun was rising, a soft glow illuminating the space by the window and the bed. Had he not awoken himself, it would have served as a particularly kind, natural alarm clock. James turned onto his back, the movement sending the novel he had fallen asleep with tumbling to the ground and, simultaneously, startling Duchess. The dog had migrated from the armchair to the end of his bed, where she had slept curled up until two seconds ago. Now, she was staring at him, though not moving or complaining.
“All apologies,” he told Duchess in a dry tone, his own voice barely there yet.
James sat up, back against the headboard. Rolling his shoulders and wiping both hands across his face, he noticed they came away wet. The best cause of action would have been to blame the dog somehow, but he knew what this was about, still felt the knots in his throat, chest and stomach. It made him laugh for some reason. At himself or with himself, he wasn’t so sure. Duchess jumped at the noise, planting herself in his lap– the lightest, warmest weight. James let one icy hand rest on her fur, not stroking but rather holding onto her and warming up, the other hand reached for his phone on the bedside table reflecting the morning sun.
It was a bad idea, he so clearly knew it was. In fact, he had never been more sure of anything. His thumb hovered above the name in his contacts he had tried and failed to exorcise from his mind several times in the past. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“Is this a fucking joke?” River Cartwright complained on the other end of the line.
Duchess looked at James, who in turn looked at the screen, realising he had already dialled the number, and now had to live with the consequences. She barked, or maybe sneezed, or did whatever it was old dogs tended to do to notify people of their continued existence.
“River,” James said.
“Is there a dog with you?”
“Nevermind that.”
“Right, back to my original question, then.”
In a way it definitely was a joke, only that James wasn’t the one playing it. Rather, it was– well. Not fate. The equivalent of fate for rational people, though he didn’t have a word for that. The same thing that had put him in River Cartwright’s path all those years ago, had given him ideas of getting ahead thanks to a name and good relations, had made him desire and resent the other man for everything he was and James wasn’t. Could never be and never have. The very same thing that had let him win and lose their strange game within the span of an hour.
Bringing the phone to his left side, James inquired, “You aren't surprised?”
“Oh, what? That you managed to pull your head from the noose again?” River scoffed and it sounded like he let himself fall into a chair. At Slough House, most likely. “I phoned the hospital that night and found out. Sorry to piss all over your grand reveal. What do you want?”
James had many answers to that, the majority of them not appropriate or, frankly, bearable to entertain. He flexed the hand resting on Duchess, focusing on the single ring adorning it.
“Lamb’s circus is still open? That’s a pity.”
“Fuck you. I should’ve used that cushion on you when I had the chance.”
“You– did you–”
“Yeah, I fucking did. Obviously I did.” Cartwright sounded resentful, even though his voice was much softer and more restrained than one would expect. “Can’t fucking help myself.”
“I see. Using a coma patient to distract yourself from your own miserable life.”
“Well, Spider. Call me ahead of the next one, I’m already missing the quiet You.”
Maybe James missed the silence, too. He certainly didn’t have to contend with weird dreams, annoying dogs and irrational decisions back at St. Nicholas. The other line crackled, the connection unsurprisingly shit. River, in the meantime, had said something else of little value. All that mattered to James Webb was the revelation that, at times, he had not been completely alone in that hospital bed. He hung up on Cartwright without a goodbye, staring down the contact info for a long time after the call had ended. He would delete it eventually. The next time. When he remembered.
When he made his way downstairs, paws trailing him, James found the living room empty, except for some lights by the sofa being switched on. Quickly he realised his mother had taken to sitting outside, on the terrace, overseeing the lawn and empty pool. Grabbing a blanket and sliding open the glass door, he joined her, the dog choosing to stay inside where it was warm.
James sat in the identical wicker chair next to his mother. In his mind, there should have been a table as well, separating them by some more inches, but no such luck. Mum held a steaming cup in her hands, her light hair pulled back in a neat bun. He usually didn’t appreciate hearing about how much they resembled each other, but yesterday in the café it hadn’t seemed all that horrible of a connection anymore. Here, in the morning light, he still didn’t take as much offense as he should have.
He couldn’t quite tell if she was ignoring him, or letting him get to whatever he needed to say in his own time. In any case, it set James on edge. He should just remain silent, unmoved, much like her. Unfortunately, he felt that he owed her an apology. Or, at the very least, somewhat of an explanation, even if he had never been good at either.
“I came–” James broke himself off, coughing at the sudden sensation of cold morning air hitting the back of his throat. “I came back, because I don’t really know what to do.”
This wasn’t the entire truth, of course not, but the moment he said it, the statement felt more significant than planned. James crossed his legs, leaning slightly to the right, resting against the arm of the wicker chair. He was waiting for a response, a shift, anything that would make it absolutely clear his mother had understood. In a way he had been waiting for a very long time.
Mum’s grip on her cup tightened. “You are welcome to stay as long as you want, darling.”
“Oh. Thanks,” he said, wondering if it sounded as sarcastic as it felt.
It was a good thing that he was already sitting, otherwise this oddly heavy feeling in his chest would have pulled him further down. James placed a cold hand over his heart, perhaps a bit further right than that, pressing down on it. He didn’t have a hole in his head , but that didn’t mean the rest of his body was intact or healed or oblivious to the past. The first time had been worse; he recalled it more clearly. More painful, too, as often was the case with these things– their first dog’s death had distanced him from the idea of ever getting another one. Life was funny sometimes.
“You know, you could always ask Aaron about a job interview.”
“Aaron? Who’s divorcing my sister currently? That Aaron?” James shook his head, trying to regain control of his facial features. A shiver ran through him. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m sure it would be fine.”
I’m really cold , James thought. Or said. He wasn’t certain. I’m cold.
You can’t go back.
Your sister is not the one at my dining table with a hole in her head.
I hate to see you young people around here
The hand on his chest balled into a fist, bunching up the soft material of the blanket slung around his shoulders. There was something so ridiculous about it; why could he not stop this, it used to be his best trick. People died, he could not have cared less. He had died and, under most circumstances, he wouldn’t have had to care about that, either. But that was not the world James Webb found himself in today. As it stood, his life had been upended more brilliantly than any career that had had the misfortune of crossing his path at The Park.
And his mother was talking, looking straight ahead, where leaves still lay carefully raked together. “--maybe ask Charlotte when she comes by.”
“Mum?” someone asked, because it couldn’t have been him, weak as it sounded. James swallowed. This was his turn to look anywhere but the person next to him. “I’m cold.”
“Then we should get inside.”
“No, I mean– I can’t get warm.”
Both of them chose this moment to make eye contact again, as if an outside force had made them decide to ground themselves with each other’s presence. His mother set down her cup on the ground, next to her chair, and angled her body towards him.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted.
Willing himself to not break away, James shifted and grabbed the arms of his chair with both hands, fingertips steadily turning white.
“Why didn’t you visit me in hospital?”
“Well,” Mum's brows drew together, lines appearing around her eyes and forehead. “I didn’t think you wanted me there, darling. To see you like that.”
“Right. Just– I didn’t want anything. I was dead.”
Dead. Died on an unspectacular day, to be taken care of by the cleaners. Maybe he had been wrong all along, maybe that had suited him much better than any other potential demise that now awaited him– old age would be the worst, so surely it’d turn out to be that. James coughed up a laugh which tasted bitter and felt wet, burning behind his eyes.
A hand found its way to his arm, it could have been there the entire time. After all, there was no barrier, no gap to bridge. Through his sleeve, James felt how cold his mother’s fingers were. How she was trying to conjure up some warmth.
“James.” She patted his arm. “Let’s get inside. I’ll make some more tea.”
In the living room, Duchess had made a home on the sofa. She probably wasn’t supposed to, though it mattered little. James sat next to her, watching as his mother prepared another cup for him– dark blue with white dots on it.
As she poured steaming water over the teabag, James wondered what he would dream of the following night. Perhaps he would find himself in a hospital room, the TV set on an old movie. A car park with an angry man and shattered windows. A small café with reasonable prices and a kind waiter. A quiet, peaceful darkness. Or maybe, just maybe, a disembodied voice would reach out to him, like from the other side of a phone, and talk to him about nothing. Nothing at all.