She nodded again. “Freddie? Friend from where?”
“Headly Court? We were both there at the same time, although I was his patient. Afghanistan…”
She relaxed a fraction, and to seal the deal, he tentatively held out his phone. “I got your address from your boss, Brigadier Toby. He said to call if you were unsure.”
She relented entirely and waved toward the house. “Come on in…Freddie, was it?”
It was, as far as she was concerned. He had no intention at all of Tom ever hearing about this little visit.
He sat in her kitchen while she dashed upstairs to change.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen appeared to be in something of an eighties time warp. The units were spotlessly clean, but hideously dated. It reminded him a little of New Zealand, but whenever these sorts of thoughts came to him, he squeezed his inner Bartleby a little tighter and thought about something better.
When Janice remerged, she was dressed in some jeans and a sweatshirt, and her hair was very frazzled. She immediately put the kettle on, and they regarded each other over the reassuring rumble. Ollie hadn’t had any particular expectations of a female army colonel, one in the police especially, but if he had, Janice Collins would have done a good job of fulfilling them. She was wiry and strong and had an intelligent face without a scrap of makeup. She handed him some tea, and he noticed it was in a mug that, under two crossed swords, promised
Mens sana in corpore sano
. She saw him looking, and as she slid into a chair opposite him explained, “It’s Tom’s. I still have a lot of his stuff. Most needs dumping, but the mug stays.”
Ollie nodded and sipped his tea.
“Biscuit?”
“Oh, no thank you. I don’t eat sugar.”
Her brows rose. “You
do
know Tom.”
He didn’t comment on this and stared out over the garden instead.
“He’s in New Zealand, by the way, so I’m afraid it won’t be easy to meet up with him. What did you want to find him for?”
“Oh, I wanted to offer him a job. He did a wonderful job on me—at the rehab centre.” He’d worked out this story on the drive down. He’d once read a book where a private detective was trying to trace missing people, and he’d always claimed he was going to offer them a job. Good news like that seemed to make friends or family more willing to be helpful.
“Shame. He needs a job, too. I think the one he went to New Zealand for fell through for some reason.”
“Oh? Nothing bad I hope.”
“I don’t know. He was very cagey about it from the get go.”
Ollie was flicking his gaze around the kitchen, trying to gauge if there was evidence of dual occupancy. It was hard to tell, for it was all very neat and tidy. Also, he wasn’t sure what lesbian cohabiting involved. Very clean toilets?
He was forced to ask, “Do you live here alone now? Tom said…”
It was a weak ploy—create a space and force her to fill it—but despite being in the police and presumably well aware that she was being manipulated, Janice nevertheless finished Ollie’s trail off by confessing, “My boyfriend’s working over Christmas, but he’s coming home for the New Year.”
“Boyfriend!” Ollie saw the lies he’d come to face now beginning to tumble like dominoes around him. It was painful. But it was what he needed. Needed, of course, but desperately didn’t want at the same time.
Janice indicated to something behind him, and he twisted around to see a bookcase, and the picture of a handsome man in uniform, grinning through camouflage cream smeared all over his face. “Andy. That was taken in Belize last year.”
Ollie didn’t actually give the photo any regard at all. He rose in something of a daze and walked to the shelves. He hesitated then reached out a hand, brushing his fingers over a set of books.
“Oh. Those are Tom’s, too. They’re in the to-dump list.”
“Oliver Fitzroy.” They were all there—the entire Oliver Fitzroy series. Old and well thumbed by the look of them, too.
He sensed the woman standing behind him, and she plucked
No Boundaries
out, flicking the pages dismissively. “These books were kinda the confirmation I needed that he was gay—I think he kept them as a joke after that.”
Ollie felt his knees beginning to betray him. He sat back down heavily, and his tea slopped out on the table. Amidst apologies from him and some mopping from her, Janice muttered, “Sorry, I just assumed you knew Tom was gay…Shit, well, sorry. I hope it doesn’t mean you don’t want him to work…Bugger. Sorry.”
Ollie made a small gesture. “No. I knew, of course. He told me. It was…I didn’t know that
you
knew…being his
wife
…”
She chuckled a little and slid back into her seat. Perhaps annoyed that she’d let such a personal fact about Tom slip so easily to a complete stranger, she almost babbled, “It’s quite funny now when I look back on it all. I arrested him. He denied everything. We searched his room, and there they were—this one set of books. He was perfectly entitled to read anything he wanted to, of course, but
he
didn’t know that, and when I did that silence thing you did with me, he began talking. A lot. I think he was glad to tell someone at last.”
“And you still married him?”
She grinned. “Ah, well, I did the silence thing
in a pub
, and he did the talking thing right back
in a hotel room
. We just sort of clicked. I wanted to get married—Jesus, have you got any idea how often women in the army get called dykes? No, I guess you wouldn’t. And, Freddie, trust me, marrying Tom Collins was
very
easy indeed. Have you heard the expression eye candy? Sure you have, but I bet you thought it only went one way—senior officers ditching their old wives and turning up at mess functions with thin blondes on their arms. Perking up more than just their careers…Well, that was
me
. I turned up with fucking David Beckham on my arm and, trust me, life became very pleasant indeed. And Tom is a fun guy. I got fitter, that you can believe.” She laughed. “Jesus, I’m a motor mouth today. I think being alone on Christmas Eve isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. You’ve got a knack. Are you a psychologist or something?”
Ollie quirked a smile. “No, but I know a lot of them.” He was impressed that he could do as much as curl a lip.
Everything
had been a lie, and he’d swallowed it all down as easily and as willingly as he’d poisoned his body with sugar and pills and alcohol. Maybe Tom had that effect on everyone. A practised, slick, beautiful liar. A psychopath. Tom had known about the Oliver books all along. It made his betrayal even harder to bear.
Janice picked up the book and began turning it over in her hand. “He met the real kid, you know.”
“What? Sorry?”
She waved the paperback at him. “These books are based on the life of the author’s son, apparently. There’s a real boy who this little pervert is based on. Oliver. Tom actually met him.”
Ollie closed his eyes for a moment. “In New Zealand. Yes. I know.”
When he glanced back up, Janice was frowning deeply. “No, I mean years ago. Tom was an instructor at our mountain training centre in Wales, and this group of sixth-formers from some posh boarding school came for a long weekend’s climbing. Some bigwig in the army had swung it for them. And Tom said…there he was—the
real
Oliver Fitzroy. The kid never said a word about who he was, but the other boys told him, of course—thought it was funny. Tom said this kid was the nicest, saddest boy you could ever meet. Really shy and kind. And he
hated
the stuff Tom had them doing—really just wanted to be left alone with his book, but he got stuck in best he could and made a real effort. You know what we’re like in the army—it’s always the heart and soul you show that counts.” She pursed her lips, and Ollie watched this small movement with a fascination that he assumed was keeping his heart beating, because, for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine that anything else was. “He fell in love that weekend—realised for the first time how pure and good that emotion can be. I don’t think Tom had any idea what love was before that. He’d grown up in a council home, and though he never talks much about it, I think he was entirely…I used to think hollow, but it’s not that. He was entirely untried,
untested
—where it counts, in his heart. Maybe that’s why he broke down when I made him talk about the books. He hated this
Oliver
character even more after those three days in Wales. The way this little pervert lived his life had always made Tom disgusted to be what he was—gay.” She tossed the book onto the table. “I should burn them. Tom was brave enough to be the best. He fell in love with an eighteen-year-old schoolboy and finally realised that what he was could be good. I think he knew then that something had to change. That all the pretence in the army was completely self-destructive.” She leant back in her chair. “I wish he hadn’t gone so far away though. I worry about him.” She smiled. “If I give you his number, maybe you can offer him this job after all, and he’ll come home.”
Ollie nodded. “Could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?”
She frowned and then shot to her feet. “Do you need…?” She waved back toward the front door, and Ollie discovered a small cloakroom with a toilet and brought up the tea he’d drunk and some of the healthy breakfast he’d had before the long drive.
Vomiting was an old friend and brought back happy memories. He laughed as he washed his face at the sink and rinsed his mouth.
A three-day weekend in Wales.
Being shouted awake at five in the morning to run up Pen y Fan.
He’d only gone on the trip because the alternative had been sailing off the Isle of Wight. The kind young soldier.
Tom Collins
was the shaven-haired, pale, gangly young man in the starched white vest who’d been so kind to him. Tom had been the first person ever to say
well done
when Ollie had patently failed at climbing. The first person ever to say
never mind, you tried
when he’d had to be rescued abseiling. The first person in his life who, when he’d been caught scattering his sandwiches for the birds on the bleak hillside, had sacrificed his own lunch to add to the pile of breadcrumbs, and had chuckled and given Ollie his mandatory nickname—
St Francis
, and he’d called him that for the rest of the weekend.
Tom
. Ollie had gotten lost on the final night—orienteering in the dark on the slopes of the mountain. He’d only been gone five minutes when he’d discovered his map had fallen out of the open plastic end of the bag he’d stuffed it into. It was hard to navigate without a map, Ollie had discovered.
Tom
had found him. Shit, that skinny young corporal with no hair was Tom Collins! He’d looked for Ollie all night. All the other instructors had as well, to be fair to them—a missing public schoolboy on the Welsh hills overnight wasn’t to be taken lightly. But
Tom
was the one to find him. It had seemed important to Ollie, even then. And Tom had said
well done
—for staying in one place and keeping warm. Ollie had been given more
well dones
from Tom Collins that weekend than he’d ever had in his whole life before.
Tom.
“Are you okay in there?”
Ollie jumped. “Yes, sorry.” He came out and took the glass of water and spied another fresh cup of tea on the table. “Sorry. I’ve been ill. It still comes over me sometimes.”
As they drank their second round of tea, Janice pushed over a piece of paper. “This is Tom’s number in New Zealand. His mobile.”
Ollie took the number that he already knew by heart and slipped it into his pocket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was thirty degrees when Ollie landed in Dunedin in early April.
He’d left snow in Cambridge and had not packed appropriately.
He had shorts and a T-shirt at the crib, though, and sat for a while on the back steps to the beach, remembering, as he watched the curl and break of the beautiful turquoise waves. They’d been pounding on this beach for millions of years, and, he assumed, would continue to fold and break for a few million more. It rather put things into perspective.
He hadn’t had to return, but he’d wanted to. Being brave, he’d discovered, wasn’t all about looking forward and facing challenges head on. It was also about checking back and making sure that those behind you fared well too. Never leave stragglers. Never cause collateral damage. He needed to finish with New Zealand properly and bury the ghosts of his abortive attempt to find a world big enough to escape cowardice. No world that big would ever exist.
§§§
He walked first to the villa over the hill. It was empty and had a for sale sign on the driveway. Ollie wasn’t surprised. He already knew that the place was to be sold and that Tom Collins was long gone. His reflection stared back at him from the windows where he’d once tried to puzzle a remembrance from a familiar set of eyes. Tom Collins had done a good job of disguising the army corporal Ollie had once thought he’d never forget. Some of it was natural change, he supposed. In Wales, Tom had been only twenty-one. A man with eight more years of bulk and muscle and graft upon his bones was a very different person. But some changes, obviously, Ollie now knew, had been deliberate. The long hair, the thick stubble. But you couldn’t disguise eyes. Ollie had felt safe with Tom the moment he’d met him. Suddenly, Ollie laughed, and then grinned to see it in the window.
Adventures in Shit
. He’d needed a little kindness that first meeting.
No, it was nothing new for Ollie to find the old villa empty and for sale.
He’d had a letter from his mother the week of his return from visiting Janice Collins. Ronnie had sent it to his tutor at Cambridge a year before in immediate reply to his letter to her. Cambridge tutors took sabbaticals, however, and after his hastily arranged meeting with Ollie, Dr Richardson had flown to Norway. He’d been travelling somewhere very far north with reindeer herders for a year, researching the influence of Old Norse on
riksmal,
and although he still received emails, he didn’t, obviously, check his pigeon hole in the dusty, ancient mail slots outside his tutorial study.