Chapter Text
The first time he mentions her, the first time he says her name out loud, she brushes it off. It didn’t seem unusual that he would react to her presence, out of the blue. When he saw her face, and heard her voice, unexpectedly appearing on the screen. She was his principal, then she died, and the people responsible were taking the stand that morning.
The television had been on in the background, while Ella and Charlie were at the kitchen table, each of them chewing mouthfuls of toast as fast as they could. She had been standing beside them, stealing the crusts from Charlie’s plate as she folded washing into the basket beside the table; and he, well, he had been standing in the kitchen, his back to them all, busily making himself a cup of coffee.
He had arrived early that morning, just as their children had risen from their beds and the four of them had shared their new morning routine together. He had made the toast, tea for her and then had been halfway through his own coffee when the sound emanating from the television had caught his attention.
He had stilled immediately; one of his palms pressed down against the counter, the spoon he had been using dropped down against the bench with a clatter.
“Julia.”
He had whispered it under his breath, and she had barely been able to hear him. She had watched as his back tensed and his shoulders rose and she slowly moved her attention from him to the television. It had just been background noise, but it was now the focus of the attention from both the adults in the room. Ella and Charlie didn’t notice; they continue on with their eating. But she watches as the television replays footage of the late Right Honourable Julia Montague. The volume is loud enough for her voice to be heard, as she challenges her opponents about the danger of secrets, of people plotting to overthrow governments and no-one, least of all the government, knowing what they were doing.
She watches as the snippet ends with Julia fixing a stare at her political opponents and then, just as she turns to take her seat next to the former PM she brushes the back of her hair delicately, tucking a loose curl behind one of her ears. A mixture of power and precision at the same time. She knew what she was doing. Vicky has always known this about her, or if she’d hadn’t known, she’d assumed. Of course, they’d never met. The only contact they’d ever had was Vicky seeing her on television, her face on the front of the paper and then Dave telling her that he was to be her PPO, a promotion for his work on the First of October.
As soon as he’d started to work with Julia, her life and the lives of their children had been constantly turned upside down. There had been explosions and gunshots outside the school, snipers attacking ministerial vehicles and then a bomb. One that had detonated and had claimed the life of its intended target. The day she had found him, a muzzle burn to the side of his head, with three letters written and waiting, she’d wondered if he’d ever be the same again.
She had given up long ago on the old Dave returning, the one before his service, before Helmand, before scars; both mental and physical reared their ugly head, time and time again. So, she’d told him to leave, she’d been unable to stop pretending that everything was okay, that she was able to lay next to someone and sleep soundly when she worried that one wrong move from her would lead to his hands holding tight around her neck. So, she had added to the scars, told him they had needed to separate. She’d broken him just a little bit more, and the man she once fell in love with, all deep blue eyes and dazzling smile, had disappeared.
But, she’d never stopped loving him. Never stopped hoping that the old Dave would return. But she’d moved on. Or at least had tried to. Her new partner was a doctor who she had known for a few months. He was calm and reassuring and she had been enjoying their burgeoning relationship, and then there had been another bomb. Well, of sorts. First came the knowledge he had been sleeping with the late Home Secretary, and then an actual bomb, strapped to his chest in the middle of a park.
There was a large chance that he would explode, literally into pieces, right in front of her. It was enough to stir up feelings she’d believed were dead, and when he had come to pick Ella and Charlie up to take them away for the weekend, he had asked her if she’d wanted to come with them. Instead of brushing him aside and not entertaining the idea at all, she had readily agreed.
Two days later, late one evening as they’d sat at the kitchen table, long after Ella and Charlie had fallen asleep, he’d offered to tell her more about what had gone on between himself and Julia, though he’d never said her name. He only called her “the Home Secretary” and she had decided she didn’t need to know. Julia was in the past now… all of what had gone before couldn’t be changed, and this was their chance at a fresh start.
But, as she watched his shallow breathing from across the room, she wonders if she should’ve asked more questions and for a moment, a fleeting one, she feels as if maybe she is second best ... his second choice … and she found herself wondering if Julia hadn’t been killed, if he would be standing there with them at all.
The news moves on to the weather and the high chance of rain this afternoon and she hears the spoon begin to stir around in his mug once more. When he turns to look at her, his face displays no sign of discomfort as he raises the mug to his lips and then takes a small sip, before lowering it and smiling at their son. “Remember Charlie Bear, you need your football kit for after school.”
She smiles as he steps closer to the three of them, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair back into Ella’s braid, before he takes the t-shirt from her hand that she has stilled in folding. “Vick,” he says softly before questioning, “you’d better be going?”
She nods as he shakes the shirt and then folds it deftly between his fingers, laying it on top of the rest of the washing. He then leans to kiss her cheek, as if his reaction from before has been quickly forgotten. He doesn’t mention it and neither does she. She pats one of his hands, kisses the top of the heads of both their children and then leaves the house. For the rest of the day, she tends to patients, people with wounds she can see, but all the while she wonders about the wounds Dave has hidden from her and whether she will ever see him clearly again.
The second time she hears him say her name, he thinks he’s alone. He is outside, in the garden, staring up at the black sky. He and Charlie had been playing football for hours, while she and Ella had made a cake for a school fete the next day. They had laughed as they’d watched the ball sail past Dave’s head on numerous occasions, hitting the back of the makeshift net, before Charlie raised his t-shirt over his face and ran in circles, screaming “CHARLIE – SEVEN, DAD – NIL.”
Ella and Charlie had been decorating the cake, preoccupied with how many chocolate chips would cover the top. Charlie had also been eagerly explaining to Ella about the new book he had been reading at school. David had been watching the two of them wistfully before he had excused himself back into the garden. She had watched as he had carefully folded the net away and tucked it back behind the rubbish bins, before he reached down for the ball and began to throw it up and down.
His head is raised towards the darkened sky, the ball still landing in his outstretched hands. She approaches him carefully. She knows she cannot startle him, knows of his intense reflexes well, and his ability to strike out when he believes he is under attack. But she stops before she reaches him. She can hear him whispering, and as she moves one step closer, she hears a lone word leave his lips.
“Julia.”
She knows immediately why he is thinking of her now. It makes sense. He has always been convinced that she was responsible for Charlie getting into the special school he had needed to attend. At the time the letter arrived, he had spoken of someone pulling strings, and then on their first visit to the school for parent’s evening, he revealed to her that he knew Charlie had been given preferential treatment. Treatment that came from somewhere high up.
Vicky was grateful for the change in her son’s circumstances. She only ever wanted the best for her children, and if the late Home Secretary had seen it fit to help Charlie jump the queue, she would have no hesitation in thanking her; should she have still been alive. But she is not, and Vicky has started to wonder if she is competing against a woman who she seems to have no chance of beating. Alive, Julia Montague seemed like formidable competition, but dead, when everyone is remembered as ten times better than they were alive, the competition seems tremendously swayed towards the other woman.
David turns before she reaches him, his eyes leave staring at the sky and he smiles as he throws the ball towards her. She catches it easily, as he begins to speak.
“Charlie,” he says proudly, “I think he might actually get a game this weekend.”
She nods back at him, as she stands opposite him and begins to copy how he had been throwing the ball up and down.
“Are you alright?” she questions cautiously.
He nods and smiles. “Aye, of course. I’m the father of a future football star,” he chuckles before adding, “and one who will be able to read as well as he kicks goals.”
She laughs, a hollow chuckle, a laugh made because she thinks she has to laugh at his attempted joke. He doesn’t realise she heard him, or if he does, his ability to pretend everything is fine has only increased with the therapy sessions he has been attending.
He throws an arm over her shoulder easily. “Is it your turn for the dishes, or mine?” he questions as he nudges his side into hers.
She raises an eyebrow, he knows it is his turn. So tonight, he will read to both Charlie and Ella, come downstairs, wash the dishes and then they will engage in polite chatter, usually about the children and then eventually he will kiss her goodbye and then go home to his flat while she remains in their house with their children. She doesn’t really understand what is happening in their relationship, neither of them are dating anyone else, but they aren’t dating each other either. Nor are they acting married, like the paperwork still states they are.
She flicks the ball upwards toward his head and he headbutts it upward, bouncing off the side of his face. The side where a faint scar still lingers, remnants of a gunshot to his temple, a time when he thought he couldn’t live without a certain person in his life. She isn’t here now, but he clearly still thinks about her. He’s alive, but she wonders if he is truly living, and then she wonders if she is, too. Or are they both living with a ghost? Someone who will always be hanging over their heads, and life is never going to be the same.
He nudges her again. “First one inside has to read the longest book?” he suggests, a devilish smile plays across his lips. As their children grow, so do the length of bedtime stories.
She reaches out and pokes him in the shoulder, and smiling back, she plays along with his teasing. “Sure,” she replies, before she spins away from him, “but I get the head start.”
She hears him laugh as she reaches the door first, but still she wonders about the strength of his laugh. Is it real? Or is it as hollow as hers is? Or is she reading too much into things? Maybe it is possible he has come back, that when he laughs now, he means it. That his laugh doesn’t mask the pain the way it used to. She continues thinking and overthinking, until Ella and Charlie are arguing about where the cake should be placed in the refrigerator and her thoughts about the ghost of Julia Montague disappear.
The third time she hears him speak her name, it hits her like a freight truck. He’s asleep on her sofa, having dozed off in the middle of the two of them watching a movie. It had been her turn to choose and she had chosen a romantic comedy. He had been snoring softly before the lead characters had declared their feelings for one another, and by the time the movie had almost ended, he was sleeping soundly with his head resting on her shoulder.
She had reached out to run one of her hands through his curls, a lone finger brushing through the grey streak that adorned his forehead. He had smiled in his sleep before he whispered her name.
“Julia.”
She had felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs. His whole face was smiling, his eyes still closed, but the corners of his mouth had turned upwards, before he sighed peacefully. Her heart sunk. She had forgotten what he looked like when he really smiled ... the same face she had seen on their wedding day, the days he had held Ella and then Charlie for the first time. She hadn’t seen him smile like that since before Helmand. If she was honest, she had thought he didn’t do that anymore, that he didn’t know how.
But perhaps he just didn’t smile like that for her anymore. Those smiles were saved for a ghost. He had told her he’d needed to visit the Home Office earlier today; his new principal had taken a meeting with Julia’s incumbent. He had even admitted to her that it had been strange to be back there, especially when some of the same staff had remained after the bombing.
She could’ve written off the mention of Julia as related to where he had been that day, a reminder of the time they had spent in that building together. The mention was fine, she reasoned, but the smile...
No. She couldn’t just write that off.
This hadn’t been working. Maybe she had been kidding herself for ever entertaining the possibility that it could. He was never going to be the man that she had fallen in love with and she wasn’t the woman he had fallen in love with anymore either. It had been reckless for them to try again, too much had happened, too many wounds were keeping them separated.
It wasn’t just the lingering of a ghost.
She had switched off her movie just as the credits began to roll, the main characters kissing passionately as the final scene ended. Life wasn’t a movie. She cursed herself for thinking that she could go back, that they could... Maybe when he had offered, she should’ve listened to what had gone on between him and Julia, maybe then they would’ve been able to finally bury the ghost and move forward with their future.
She had carefully slid her shoulder out from under his. He only stirred slightly before his head rested back against the arm of the sofa. She stood slowly, delicately covering his lower body with a blanket. She had watched him for a moment, deciding she wouldn’t send him home tonight. He could stay, because in the morning they would need to talk.
The fourth time she hears him say her name, she’s more shocked than ever. She had been expecting to hear him talk about her today, maybe, possibly. But never like this. Never for this reason.
Today marks a year since the attack at St. Matthews. The two of them, however, are no longer pretending they can be married. They both decided that whilst they still had feelings for one another as the parents of their children, the love they once had for each other had dissipated, and it wasn’t fair to either of them to keep holding on to something that was broken long ago.
She never told him about the time she had heard him whisper her name in his sleep. She hadn’t felt the need to. What good would it have done him to know that she knew he had dreamt of Julia while he had been with her.
The two of them are in his flat eating dinner alone. Ella and Charlie have both gone to a sleepover with two of their friends, who are also conveniently brother and sister.
Vicky hadn’t known if he would need her to be with him tonight, but just in case, she had organised for the children to be away for the night and had swapped her shift to the daytime. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to eat together as they co-parent their children. Though it had taken some time, and a few heated arguments, they’d finally settled into a comfortable co-existence in the last few months.
So, they’d been sitting upstairs, a pizza box in front of them, two slices left. She had been waiting for him to say something. They had discussed all their usual topics of conversation: his job, her job, Charlie’s latest goal at football and Ella’s persistence in suggesting that she wanted to give dancing lessons another try.
She had considered asking him about his therapy, about his continued progress, but every time she starts to, she stops herself. Maybe tonight is not the best time. She has noticed that he is smiling more, he no longer seems to walk as if the weight of the world is crushing him with every step. She smiles, she’s happy if he’s happy.
He smiles back at her as he lifts the pizza box, wiggling it underneath her nose, “Dessert will be here soon,” he remarks. “D’you want another piece?”
She shakes her head. “Surely you need lunch tomorrow,” she teases and she watches as his eyes narrow, she can see him attempting to think of a witty comeback, but she is saved by a soft knock on the door. He is on his feet before she thinks she heard the sound. “Now I know why I am constantly buying biscuits,” she teases as David moves towards the door, “our children have your sweet tooth.”
He laughs. “Aye,” he begins turning back from the door to stare at her, “I suppose you don’t want any of this dessert then?” he questions with a flourish as he gestures into the air.
She rolls her eyes. “David, just open the door. You can’t leave the poor delivery man out there all night.”
He chuckles and nods rapidly as another soft knock lands on the door. “Okay, I’m here.” He says with a laugh as he reaches out to pull the door open.
Vicky watches as he opens the door. His back stiffens, and his whole-body stills. She stares at his back for a minute, her pulse racing as she begins to stand. Whatever is outside the door has startled him. She takes two steps forward before he speaks, his voice low and almost disbelieving.
“Julia.”
Vicky’s feet move faster now, though it feels as if she’s moving In slow motion when she places one hand on the side of the wooden frame, opening the door wider. David hasn’t said anything else, just the name of a ghost. A heavy silence hangs in the air.
She doesn’t look the unexpected guest in the face first. She begins at the ground instead. Plain white trainers adorn feet, followed by simple black ponte pants and a large white woollen cardigan. Vicky takes a small breath as for the first time she meets hazel eyes, wide and blinking at her in obvious confusion.
Her hair is longer than it used to be on television, it falls below her shoulders and is perfectly straightened with a black beret sitting atop her head.
The hazel eyes blink again, moving between her and her ex-husband, as Vicky hears David breathing shallowly beside her. He is staring cautiously, as if he cannot believe what or who he is seeing standing in front of him.
Vicky thought she’d been competing against a ghost, an invisible presence, this whole time.
But Julia Montague is not a ghost, she’s very much alive.
Her attention turns back to David and she sees his eyes filled with unshed tears and his lips beginning to smile at the corners. He cannot help it.
Vicky never stood a chance; she knows that now.
And then, the ghost speaks.
“David.”