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As I have previously stated in my accounts of Raffles’s and my adventures in the South African War, we did not return to England unscathed. Raffles had suffered a terrible wound which I could not help but feel responsible for, since it was for my benefit that he had remained with me after I had gotten myself shot at.
My own wound gave me much trouble at first. It is admittedly still giving me trouble while I am writing down these lines, but I am making certain not to be bothered by it any more. I have learned to walk with the help of a walking stick, and am hobbling about as best I can.
We do not go out any more, neither to have dinner, nor to enjoy the sporting events at Lord’s. We scarcely ever take a walk in the gardens that surround our new home.
Being the invalid war veterans that we are, we were graciously (if under somewhat false pretenses, as I have to admit) offered rooms in a place that is buzzing with people helping us in our daily lives. It is quite a luxury to be living here.
Or at least that is what Raffles keeps telling me.
"My dear Bunny," he often cries, "we should have gotten ourselves shot at much earlier if this is what you get from it!"
I see a sparkle in his eyes, and I know he is making fun of me. He is making fun of us both, for I know how much he misses the freedom we used to have in the old days. Back when he was living in the Albany, and we would plot our next big coup. When he would spend the summers being a celebrated for his marvellous bowling, and I would admire him from the audience. When we would go to all sorts of parties and bask in the shine of countless diamonds, and take home some of them ourselves.
All this is scarcely possible now, not just on account of our close acquaintances with the police, but also due to our, shall we say, problems of health.
Mine, at least.
I often try to persuade Raffles to go out on his own, but he is entirely faithful to the thought that he would not have much fun without me, and that he would never leave me alone again, which do find quite extraordinary of him. I am endlessly thankful.
Despite all the good that is surrounding us, there is an inexplicable sadness within me. I often try to share my thoughts with Raffles, but the sadness disappears whenever he fixes me with those bright eyes of his, and gives me a smile that would drive away the clouds on any rainy day, if you permit me such poetic nonsense. I feel quite silly to be in such a sad state then.
Still, the sadness is there, in my heart.
Perhaps it is just because I miss our freedom just as much as he does.
Or perhaps I am mistaking my fear for something else. Fear that we will one day get caught, get thrown in prison again, or hanged, or all of it. That we will be separated.
Separated in the way the maids make sure we are separated when I have talked about Raffles to them again. I do not much like the way they look at me then. And I do not much like the evil stuff they make me drink, the one that makes me sleepy and forgetful.
The one that sometimes makes me forget Raffles for days, almost as if he had never been with me.
And this is when the sadness is greatest.
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As I am reading these lines now, with a clear mind, a sad mind, I marvel at my own illness.
And I wish the nurses – for I know they are nurses; in moments like this I understand everything – would not give me their vile medicine any more. I wish they would let me be the melancholy, but nevertheless content man that I believe myself to be most of the time.
I marvel at my mind for playing these cruel, these wonderful tricks on me.
I will not take their medicine tonight. I will go back to the life I am sharing with Raffles.
The beautiful, imaginary life.
And I will be content again.