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DI Neville Parker is not as useless as he appears.
Yes, he's allergic to pretty much everything, asthmatic, prone to nosebleeds, and lacking in basic survival skills, but to be fair, Ste Marie requires an entirely different set of survival skills to Oldham. His comfort zone isn't so much a prison or box as a set of systems and rules designed to keep the worst-case scenarios at bay.
He just wishes someone on Ste Marie would see it that way.
The island does not respect his comfort zone. It flings him from it almost daily, leaving him reeling, upside-down and often as not with a mouthful of sand. He's not expecting a pat on the back for living or anything, but it is true that living on this island comes harder to some than others, and no one ever seems to acknowledge that.
He's not daft. Despite what the commissioner apparently thinks, you don't get to be a DI without some measure of people skills. He has to manage a team after all, and he's good at it, good at remembering things like birthdays and spouses' names. So when they roll their eyes at his latest medical mishap, or his tendency to stick to familiar food because he knows for a fact it won't kill him or set his stomach alight, he notices. It rankles. He sets his jaw and smiles through it of course, because no one likes a whiner. He lights his citronella candles and puts up his mosquito nets and does his best not to keel over in the sun, and after a while, he does build up a tolerance to certain things.
But he still orders his chicken and chips of an evening, and still goes home before dusk, and they still roll their eyes.
* * *
One hot and dull afternoon, on a week when he's overloaded with work and the commissioner has been hovering more than usual, Florence mutters 'pute' and slaps her arm, where there is already a red blotch growing. Without looking up, Neville holds out his tube of after-bite. 'Thanks, sir.'
'Proper boy scout, me.' He replies, absently. It’s too hot and he’s too bored to put on his usual jovial tone.
'Boy scout?'
'Their motto is "be prepared."'
'Never thought of you as being that prepared, sir. More disaster-prone.' says Marlon with a cheeky smirk, and suddenly Neville really isn't in the mood, so he picks up his rucksack and empties it out on his desk, earning looks of alarm from his team.
'Epi-pen.' He says dully, pointing to the first item in the pile. 'In case I accidentally eat peanuts or eggs or raw stone fruit and die, because that's what would happen and after you've ended up in the hospital a couple of times for anaphylactic shock you learn to be careful. Do you have any idea how many foods on this island have peanuts in?’ the atmosphere in the station shifts, becomes tense, but he for once doesn’t move to change it. He holds up another item. 'Spare shirt, because I sweat in this heat, which uncontrolled makes me come out in a rash. Best to control that, seeing as my boss has a tendency to turn up unannounced and doesn't need my help thinking I'm unprofessional and out of my depth. Deodorant: same reason. After-bite: because when you average 10 bites on a good night you tend to prefer to not be constantly itching. Mosquito repellant. Antihistamines to stop me from coming out in a bleeding rash and sneezing fit when I come into contact with yet another mystery plant. Torch. Spare batteries, in case we have to investigate somewhere dark or the lights go out in the shack again. Sunglasses. Hat. Ice pack. Portable charger. First aid kit: bandages. Plasters. Antiseptic wipes, blister plasters, tourniquet, resuscitation masks, plastic gloves, tweezers.' He looks up at the team, who are staring at him as if he's gone mad, except for Florence, who's looking at him with something else in her expression. Guilt, maybe.
'Maybe I am a magnet for disaster. That's why I'm prepared. I shouldn't have to tell you all how dangerous this job can be.' Neville says, deliberately avoiding Florence's eyes as he does so. 'And where I come from, back in Manchester...you don't just get the odd drawing-room murder followed by seeing home the village drunk. I know it looks like I'm set in my ways or a bit English for some people's tastes, and yeah there are some things I could afford to loosen up with but...there are also some things I can't negotiate on. Things I never chose to have to worry about. It's not weakness, it's not being fussy, it's just facts and circumstances that I have learned to adapt to and work around, lessons that I've learned the hard way, just like I work around the mosquitos and the sun and living in a shed on the beach. If I'm being honest I'm a bit sick of being looked at like I'm mad for it.' He stops, hearing his own voice rise in pitch and volume. He didn't mean for this to be a bollocking. 'Sorry.' He says. 'I think these reports've been getting to me a bit.' Florence silently hands back the after-bite. 'Sorry.' He says again.
'You don't have to apologise, sir.' JP says. 'Honestly since we had the girls I've been thinking about it a lot. Being safe. Keeping them safe.'
'Well you're got a certified First Aid instructor right here.' Neville says with a rueful smile. 'You're safe as houses.' And then he meets Florence's eyes. She smiles a sad, tight sort of smile, and he nods, acknowledging that there are some things he can't protect her from (he actually has had training in dealing with bullet wounds in the field but now's not the time to go into that). He packs his backpack again and sits back down, and the team carries on in silence.
* * *
The team heads out for a drink at the end of the day while Neville stays behind to do some more paperwork. Once he's alone he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up, unbuttons his collar, reapplies his mosquito repellent. Then he puts his head in his hands and groans, not for any particular reason except for the satisfying feeling of being able to fill the room with his voice, of being able to hear himself.
'You're still working, Inspector?' The too-familiar, ever-dreaded voice of the commissioner sails into the station and cuts him short.
'I still have work to do, sir, so yes.' Neville replies, realising too late that he has forgotten to be polite. 'Um...that is to say'
'Carry on.' Selwyn holds his hand up. 'I just would have thought that you would want to socialise with your team, get a bit more involved in island life.' It occurs to Neville that if the commissioner hadn't found him at the station, he probably would have gone to Catherine's bar to make a snide comment about him not working enough.
'With all respect sir' Neville retorts, as the no-nonsense tone seems to be working for him today, 'it's a Tuesday. I have socialised with my team nearly every night this week, and now I have work to do. Back in Manchester my working day probably wouldn't be over for at least another hour or two at which point me and my team would have toddled home unsocialised to our beds to try and sleep before the next round of nonsense came in. That or I'd be on some godforsaken night shift.'
'But you are not in Manchester.'
'No, sir. I'm aware.'
'Are you sure?'
'That I’m aware of where I am? I’m a lot of things but I’m not stupid.' Neville says, and for once meets the commissioner's gaze head on. He's really not sure what's gotten into him tonight, only that he suddenly cannot be arsed to be the butt of the joke anymore. He sees Selwyn freeze under his glare, pinned down by it. 'There is not a minute of the day when I am not painfully, itchily, embarrassingly reminded of where I am, and how much where I am seems to hate me. But it's been six months and I'm still here, and still alive, and I've solved...what, seven murders for you? With full confessions, no less.'
'I have never doubted your abilities as a detective.' Selwyn says, uncomfortably.
'Yes you have. Since day one. But it's alright, sir.' Neville says, and he feels his habitual smile returning. 'You can look down on me or dislike me or whatever you want. And I will continue to be bloody good at what I do, and I will make this island like me, even if it does insist on constantly making me itch and bleed and sneeze.'
'I can't think why you would bother.' The commissioner replies, with a frown. Neville shrugs, because the real answer is complicated and nuanced and hard to define.
'Because I like it here.'
'Some might say that your persistence borders on madness.'
'A kinder person might call it resilience.' Neville replies levelly. There's an awkward pause. 'Sir, did you have something to do, or-'
'No no, please carry on.' The commissioner replies, looking somewhat perturbed, and shuffles out. Neville gets back to work.
* * *
Two hours later he walks home past Catherine's bar. He isn't planning on stopping in- he somehow feels as though he has a point to prove, he can make his own dinner for one night, can't he?- but the others see him and call him over, so he wanders in and is promptly handed a beer.
'Are we celebrating something?'
'We're celebrating you getting your paperwork done.' Says Florence with a smile, taking his hand and pulling him into the seat next to him. Well that's new, he thinks. 'Catherine, il est là, on est prêt.' Catherine arrives, and to Neville's bafflement she's carrying not one but four plates of chicken and chips.
'Um...looks delicious Catherine, but I'm not that hungry' he says, and the others laugh and distribute the plates, one each.
'Well I was thinking sir.' Marlon says. 'Every night you get this and every night I think, 'that looks good, I should try it. Turns out, wouldn't you know, we all had the same idea at the same time.'
'Did you now?' Neville asks, unable to stop the grin which is spreading across his face.
'Funny huh? Says JP. 'I guess we're just that in-sync.'
‘Quite the cohesive unit.’ Neville agrees.
'Mm, who needs flavour anyway?' Florence chimes in, and Catherine promptly brings over ketchup and mayonnaise and chili sauce and some other condiments Neville's never seen before. He raises an eyebrow as Florence chucks something dark and vinegar-sweet over her chips. 'Rome wasn't built in a day. I promise I’ll work my way up to the really bland stuff.' She teases. 'Here, you have to try this-' he stills her eager hand as she makes to pour it willy-nilly over his plate. She looks at him with sparkling eyes, and the little part of his brain which is always whirring murmurs careful, now. He drops his hand.
'Alright you maniac, calm down. Just...just let me look at the list of ingredients first, alright? Then I'll put it on the side of my plate like a sane person. Deal?'
'Deal.'
This. This is why I'm here. Neville thinks, contentedly, and sure enough as soon as he thinks it he feels a sharp slap to his cheek.
'What the hell Florence-'
'Mosquito.' She says, her butter-wouldn't-melt smile holding for approximately two seconds before the entire table creases up with laughter. Neville shakes his head, good-humouredly.
'Bloody menace. Where's my bag?'