Chapter Text
He makes it home to the shack, alone, to find that Camille has fallen asleep on the couch. He had given her free rein of the drinks cabinet, such as it was, and notes a glass of rum on the floor, barely touched. He considers letting her sleep, then decides that the position she’s in doesn’t look particularly comfortable. He nudges her foot with his shoe. ‘Camille?’
‘Comment- oh. Um…’
‘Neville.’ He supplies.
‘Yes, je sais.’ She sits up with a yawn.
‘You can stay if you like. I just thought you’d want to make yourself comfortable if you are. I can lend you a shirt and tracksuit bottoms or something.’
‘That’s kind but I should go back home.’
‘I’ll call you a taxi then.’ He offers, but she waves the offer away.
‘I’ll do it, thanks.’ She makes the call while Neville decides to pour himself a rum and coke and silently offers her water.
‘So I told her.’ he says when she hangs up.
‘And?’
‘Not a yes, but not exactly a no. More of a “not right now, stick a pin in it and we’ll come back to it later”. But you were right, it feels good to know we had the conversation.’ She nods and smiles. He decides to keep the kiss to himself. ‘And you? Have you done what you came to do?’
‘Yes. We had a good catch-up, me and Harry.’
‘I didn’t know that Harry’d been here since your time.’
‘Yes. Richard and Humphrey used to feed him.’
‘And to think I nearly tried to get rid of the poor fella.’
‘You what?’ the blaze of fury in her eyes would be amusing if it isn't so damn terrifying.
‘Water under the bridge, I promise. We’re good mates now. But there was a moment when I thought he was making me come out in a rash. By the way if you see another lizard that’s his girlfriend Shaniqua. And before you ask: no, I didn’t name her. Or invite her, for that matter, but I was overruled.’
‘He likes bugs mashed up with fruit.’ Camille says. ‘In case no one told you.’ It hits home for Neville how weird this is, that this is someone whom he hasn’t met in all his time on the island, and yet she knows it better than he ever could. He suddenly feels the weight of memories in the little shack, the ghosts and stories it could tell, and shivers.
‘Um…I’ll do the bugs if I can but I’d worry about the fruit attracting bitey things. Mosquitos and the like. Speaking of which.’ He starts putting up the mosquito nets and lighting citronella candles as Camille watches bemusedly, sipping her water.
‘You really aren’t built for the Caribbean, are you?’
‘Not really.’ He admits as he pulls the nets across the windows. ‘That’s part of why I hesitated to tell Florence how I felt. Because… I like it here, the people, the work, but…could I stay forever on an island that wants to kill me?’
‘Sometimes it creeps up on you.’
‘What, the island?’ Neville asks with an exaggerated yelp, looking out the window dramatically. It’s a stupid joke, and Camille’s answering laugh is harsh and raucous. Neville suddenly feels like she’s exactly the sort of person he wants as a friend, and not just because the thought of being her enemy is terrifying. He considers the vague image of Richard he has in his head, buttoned-up and repressed and shy, and of Camille, and the idea of the two of them together makes him smile. Quite the odd couple. Once she stops laughing she shakes her head.
‘No, I mean…it creeps up on you, being away from home. I’ve spent a lot of my life in Paris. And when you do that…live away…it changes you. In ways you don’t see until you go back, and suddenly you realise…you’re not exactly here…but you’re not entirely there either.’
‘Sounds uncomfortable, being split like that.’
‘Not split. More like…spread out. Like…butter. Your heart gets bigger but it doesn’t break.’ Neville considers this and smiles, remembering a moment when he sat on a sandy beach with a glass of rum, the ocean dark and huge before him. The odd, bittersweet feeling of his little world expanding to encompass Ste Marie, just at the moment when he was due to leave.
‘You might have something there.’ He murmurs. There’s the beep of a car horn outside and Camille stands and shoulders her bag.
‘Well.’ She says. ‘DI Parker.’
‘DI Bordey. Safe travels if I don’t see you.’ She grasps his outstretched hand and leans forward to peck him on both cheeks.
‘Remember what I said. About the tea.’
‘I remember.’ He says, and she reaches into her bag.
‘Maybe…’ she pulls out the photo, and hesitates.
‘I could get that framed, if you like. Hang it up in here.’ Neville suggests, anticipating her request. ‘Actually, I could ask the others for photos as well, from down the years. Maybe do a little wall. That way we can all be up there together, and whoever comes after me can put faces to names.’ Camille hands over the photo, looking suspiciously teary. An insistent beep from the taxi hurries her out the door. Neville looks at the photo, at his colleagues-in-spirit, and feels his heart grow a little bit to accommodate their names and memories.
‘Well Richard.’ He says. ‘Quite the little legacy you started.’ he turns the photo over and looks for a pen to write the names on the back. ‘PC Fidel Best. PC Dwayne Meyers. DS Camille Bordey. Commissioner Selwyn Patterson. Ms Catherine Bordey. DI Richard Poole. 2011.’ He doesn’t have a spare frame to hand, so for the time being he pins it on the wall. Richard looks back at him: a tad reluctant, a tad rueful, as if saying well, if you must. Neville raises his glass. ‘Cheers, Rich.’ A warm wind whips through the cabin, making the boards creak and the photo flutter, and for a moment Neville could almost swear it sounds like an exasperated sigh.
‘Sorry, Richard.’ He smiles. ‘…Here’s to us, mate.’