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He cannot ascertain what temperature it is. The night is frigid; cold sea air seeps through the window molding causing the hair along his body to stand on end. Then there is the fierce ice grip on his heart as the record plays. Blore is cold inside and out.
“YES I KILLED HIM!” he yells and it burns his throat.
He dances, he screams, he laughs. Sweat and strain and the heat of alcohol work to stave away the discomfort, but only for minutes, and then he is awash in fear and cold again. He remembers the look of the young man in the cell; the key to his damnation. Landor’s face had been youthful and smooth, crowned by an elegant stroke of brown hair that Blore had wanted to sweep away with a hand. Now he drinks until the memory is blurry again, but as soon the image of that face dissolves completely instead it is Lombard in front of him. Lombard with the dark eyes and firm shoulders and a curl so artfully disheveled that Blore can only laugh. Lombard chuckles companionably (although he does not know what the joke is) and raises his glass. And Blore finds himself crying, except no one seems to recognize the difference.
The tears feel cool and cleansing and he squeezes his eyes as if more will come if he wills it. He needs water desperately, but there is none in sight except the dark rolling ocean outside and so he briefly considers throwing himself into its depths. The next line of the poem stares out at him from the wall. Ten little Indian boys, going out to sea. If he is next, is that his fate: to be buried under the crushing waves like he had longed for so many times? His cold body would never be found. Not that anyone would miss him. Good riddance.
Now his face is so hot, warm from physical exertion and warmer where it is pressed to the furnace of Doctor Armstrong’s chest. He clutches fiercely, the gentle rocking of the other man’s arms are strangely lulling. He breathes in the Doctor’s scent, impeccably masculine, and it grounds him. He thinks if Armstrong lets go he will fall, and he hopes not for he is tired, so very tired he would crash into the floorboards. But he does not worry too much for he can feel that the Doctor is strong.
Landor had been shivering in the cell, highlighting his body in all its curious fragile beauty. His soft look made him an obvious degenerate, even without having been caught soliciting himself. Blore feels phantom sensations in his fingers and once again his own hand is pressed so he can discern that there is lean musculature hidden underneath the boy’s shirt. Landor thought he would be free to laugh at Blore’s joke, he let himself be affectionately clapped on the shoulder, he had not moved from where their knees were pressed flush together. Blore remembers warm and hopeful eyes gazing back at him. Landor had sealed his own fate in those last moments.
Blore can feel the clenching of the Doctor’s throat. Anger? Is this too much? If Blore's wants are written on his face he is sunk. He cannot beat Armstrong as he had done Landor. Hell, he could not beat Lombard. These two men weren’t of that ilk, of course. They have all sinned, but he is the weakest here he is certain, so he stays cradled in the ironic illusion of safety that is the other man's arms. What has he got to lose, the alcohol asks, all you have is the garden and tomatoes cannot miss you.
They are an absolute a mess, but especially he. Blore thinks he has been broken for a long time, but in this moment he is acutely aware of it. He and the Doctor sway opposite the couple whispering to each other. Miss Claythorne and Lombard are locked together perfectly, he thinks. It makes sense, they are a man and a woman, youth with an envy-inducing certainty they can escape. It’s a desperate hope, but a hope they visibly entertain.
As his head begins to pound from the night’s vice, the puzzle piece fits into place: they are Mister and Misses Owen. Suddenly it seems painfully obvious to Blore and he should be afraid, but all he feels is bubbling anger at his own trapped circumstance. He had always desired to end by his own hand, but Providence, fitting with precedent, would not grant him that wish. No, instead he is going to die on this godforsaken island. The timing of that revelation is lost somewhere in the wash of candlelight and dribble of alcohol.
“I’m going to bed. The party’s over.”