More Broken, Part 2
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Lucas awoke to a pervasive, pungent smell that made his eyes water. Coughing reflexively, he lifted his head, and when he could breathe normally again, he saw Harry watching him, rolling an empty capsule of smelling salts between his fingers.
"Look out the window," Harry said. "We're home."
Lucas turned obediently. The skies outside were grey, it was raining, and away to his left, there was lettering on the building. He could see the letters eathrow. It was raining, Lucas thought. It never rained in Moscow in the winter. There was always snow. It must be true, then, they were back in England.
"Do you need any help, gentlemen?"
Lucas glanced up sharply, but it was only a stewardess.
"We're fine," Harry told her.
"Oh, Sleeping Beauty is awake," she said, smiling at Lucas. "I hope you had pleasant dreams."
Her direct gaze was too much, and Lucas looked away, feeling himself blush with embarrassment.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," Harry said, standing up, and Lucas staggered to his feet as well, looking around the plane. It was all but empty now, except for Adam and a few stragglers making their way up the aisle on the other side. His legs feeling uncharacteristically wobbly, Lucas had to hold onto the backs of the seats to keep himself upright as he followed Harry, but by the time they got to the exit, he was able to stand without support.
Harry handed him his overcoat, which he must have taken while Lucas was asleep, but Lucas didn't put it on. In comparison to the Moscow cold, the wind in London was positively balmy, and Lucas breathed deeply in appreciation, lifting his face to let the rain fall on it. The air tasted so good, so fresh and moist, that he was disappointed when they had to get into a nearby bus and be driven to one of the many gates that led indoors. Casting only occasional glances at the five other passengers on the bus, Lucas mostly stared out of the window, watching the rain and the activity on the tarmac. He was in London. He was really in London.
They went through an accelerated line at Customs and Immigration, no doubt due to Harry's connections, and emerged in the Arrivals area. It was very crowded, with people bustling everywhere, one girl even running into him by accident, and Lucas felt pathetically grateful to Harry for letting him sleep through the flight. Here, he could sense panic creeping up on him again, but at least there was a chance of escape.
"I'll get the car," Adam offered, just as Lucas opened his mouth to say, "I need the toilet."
In the men's room, Lucas locked himself in one of the stalls, used the toilet and then just sat there, glad of even a few minutes of this artificial solitude. He wanted to stay there forever, he thought. He wanted to be back in his cell where nobody was staring at him, nobody was jostling him, it was quiet, and he knew exactly what was going to happen next. No, he realized. He didn't want to be back in his cell, he just wanted to be alone. And as soon as he could really believe it, he was going to be glad to be in England, glad to be home, and definitely glad to see Lina again.
The thought of Lina helped overcome his reluctance to leave the stall. Washing his hands at the sink, Lucas stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering what she'd think of his appearance now.
"I haven't changed as much as I thought I would," he said out loud, acutely aware of Harry watching him. "I thought I would be an old man."
Harry smiled gently but didn't speak.
Lucas squinted at his chin and cheeks, identifying isolated grey hairs among the dark ones of his stubble. "Do you think Lina will still recognize me?"
"I recognized you," Harry said, sidestepping the question.
"Does she know I'm out?"
"No," Harry said. "We haven't told her yet."
"And my mother?"
"We didn't tell her you were in," Harry said. Lucas' mother was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's disease and one of the last things he'd done before flying to Russia was to visit her in the hostel where she was taken care of. She'd had some lucid moments then, but she certainly wouldn't know him now.
Harry cut off any further questions by walking to the door, and Lucas followed. When they reached the car, Harry motioned for him to sit in the front. Lucas baulked for a moment, then realized that it was an English car, a Range Rover, the steering was on the other side, and he would be in the passenger seat. Feeling sheepish, he slid in.
"I got you some more coffee," Adam said, indicating a cup in a cup-holder underneath the dashboard.
"Thank you," Lucas said, taking the cup and struggling to remove the plastic lid. The smell reminded him that, according to his stomach, it was past lunchtime and he was hungry. He counted his sip as he took it, and thought of how Lina always took her coffee with two milks, but no sugar. She'd never liked tea, he remembered, just coffee, and he wondered if she was drinking some now. There was a billboard ahead, advertising a brand of tea that Lucas had once liked, and the Christmas theme caught Lucas' eye.
"Harry, what day is it to-day?" he asked.
"It's the third of December," Harry said, and Adam added, "Tuesday."
Tuesday, Lucas thought, and the random thought shot through his head that Aleksander Dmitrovich had always come on Saturdays. But he didn't want to think about Aleksander Dmitrovich just now, he wanted to think of Lina.
"So I haven't missed Christmas," he said aloud, sipping his coffee again. There was still plenty of time to buy something for Lina. He wondered what, if anything, could make up for his years away from her.
"That's what we were hoping for," Harry said.
Lucas made his coffee last for a record-breaking twenty six sips, taking the last one just as they pulled up at the medical clinic attached to Thames House.
"Lunch first," Harry told him, "and then a check-up."
The canteen was about one third full, just enough to make Lucas uncomfortable, but not enough to make him panic. He tried hard to ignore the other people and concentrated on the food instead. It was simple, chicken soup and sandwiches, but to Lucas, it tasted exotically delicious. He ate slowly as always, to make it last, and was full even before he'd finished.
"More?" Harry asked, and Lucas glanced up in surprise, then shook his head reluctantly.
"Then let's get you to the doctor," Harry said.
The medical and dental examinations took all afternoon and some of the evening, and included every kind of probe known to man, including x-rays and an MRI scan from head to foot. The MRI tube should have reminded him of prison, Lucas, thought, as narrow and confining as it was. Truthfully, however, he saw it as a welcome break, a precious allowance of solitude. Lying on the stretcher, Lucas let himself drift off into a daydream of Lina, remembering how he'd only found out her full name, Kapitolina, when they'd decided to get married. "Don't laugh," she'd warned him. "Funny names run in our family. My great-grandmother was called Barikada."
"Born in 1917?" Lucas had guessed. "Well, it could have been worse, instead of Barricade, she could have been named Revolutsiya."
"That was my other great-grandmother," Lina had told him, quite deadpan. "And she married a man named Dazdapetrak."
"The first tractor?" Lucas had translated automatically. "Are you serious?"
"About as serious as you were when you told me you had a middle name and it was Bear, Mister Lucas Bear North," she'd replied, and they'd both laughed.
The memory of Lina's giggles made Lucas wonder what he'd say when he saw her again. "Hello," seemed too ordinary, and "Did you miss me?" was too desperate. Maybe he should tease her by saying, "How you've grown!" More than once, she'd proudly told him, "I'm quite tall for a gymnast!" and had straightened up to her full height of five foot three. She barely came up to his shoulder, and he always had to put his head down if she wanted to give him a kiss. Sometimes, Lina asked nicely, sometimes, she grabbed him by the ears and pulled. He liked it best when she put her arms around his neck and gently put pressure on the back of his head to make him lean down. Just remembering it made him smile.
He'd never seen Lina do any gymnastic moves except the occasional stretch. She'd had to retire at age sixteen, she'd told him once, because of a repeat injury to her back, and was always very careful not to get hurt again. But she'd remained flexible, even while studying English and European law. Before he could remember just how flexible she'd been, however, the scan ended, and Lucas was rolled out of the MRI machine.
At long last, all of the physical examinations were finished, and the dentist had filled several cavities in his teeth. Lucas was informed that he was not HIV-positive and did not have tuberculosis, the two greatest dangers in Russian prisons, nor did he have measurable brain damage from the torture, which was a relief. On the other hand, he was malnourished and had head lice, neither of which was very surprising. They gave him a bottle of vitamin tablets, then sent him to a nearby treatment room. There, a nurse fastened a plastic sheet around his neck as though for a haircut, then rubbed a generous application of Lice Fighter into his hair and massaged it into his scalp. She let it sit for ten full minutes before leading him to the sink and washing it out. It stank voraciously of chemicals, even after several rinsings, and he could still smell it as she went through his hair with a nit comb. When she was finally finished, she cleaned the comb, picked up the bottle of cream rinse, and put them both in the plastic bag that already held his vitamins. "You'll need to reapply this after seven days, and get someone to comb you out. Every day would be best. Now, if you'll just go to the waiting area, we'll inform Mr Pearce that you're ready."
Lucas took the bag and wondered what Lina would say when he asked for her help. Hopefully, she wouldn't get lice herself. It would be very difficult and time-consuming to run the nit comb through her long, thick hair, and she'd probably feel humiliated as well, because she hadn't been the one in prison. Sitting down in the waiting area, as far away from the other occupants as he could get, Lucas thought of Lina's hair. He loved to run his fingers through it, and sometimes she even let him brush it. He'd told her often that she should never have it cut, and she'd assured him that she wouldn't, that she'd let it grow out after she'd retired from gymnastics, and never wanted it short again.
The sound of footsteps made him raise his head, and he looked up to see Harry come into the waiting room, a young black man following him.
"Lucas, sorry to keep you waiting," Harry said smoothly. "This is Tim Forster, he'll be your minder at the safe house."
"Glad to meet you, Lucas," Tim said, putting out a hand.
They shook, and then Lucas stood up, suddenly drenched in fatigue. "Safe house, Harry?"
"Just for a few days," Harry said blithely. "Fish and chips for supper, then?"
Lucas' stomach growled audibly, and Tim smiled. "I think that's a yes, Harry."
"Yeah," Lucas agreed. Fish and chips. It was the most English thing he could think of, the meal farthest removed from Russian prison fare. He hadn't eaten it for years, even before he'd been captured, but now he couldn't think of anything he wanted more.
It was dark outside, and raining even more heavily than during the day. This time, Lucas did put his coat on, and after that, sat quietly in the car. He was too tired to make conversation and simply watched the lights of the city speed by until they stopped outside a chip shop. Tim turned off the engine and turned to him. "You want to come in?"
Seeing a happy couple strolling into the shop under one umbrella, their arms looped so closely around each other that they had to turn slightly to fit through the doorway, Lucas shook his head. "No, I'll wait here."
"Suit yourself," Tim said, and got out. He'd barely shut the door when Lucas became aware of a car pulling up behind them. He shifted in his seat and watched as the occupants got out, stiffening in alarm as they appeared to approach the Range Rover. At the last minute, though, they turned and raced across the street to enter an Indian takeaway. Lucas relaxed somewhat, and in the light of the streetlamp above them, he caught Harry staring at him from the back seat. Embarrassed, Lucas turned away, and was glad when Harry didn't comment.
Tim returned about five minutes later with a large bag that he shoved into Lucas' lap. It was hot and steamed aromatically. "You can dig in now if you want, but if you can wait another two minutes, the safe house is just around the corner."
Tim hadn't been exaggerating; the safe house was not more than two hundred meters up the next street. As the car pulled into the driveway, it obviously triggered a motion sensor, because the entire front of the house lit up, revealing a vaguely familiar facade. Lucas supposed he must have been here at least once before, though he couldn't remember the details now. Harry rang the bell, they were immediately buzzed in, and a short, plump woman met them in the front hall.
"Hello, Harry," she said, but her voice sounded more stern when she added, "Hello, Tim."
"Joan, this is Lucas North. Lucas, this is the housekeeper, Joan Hudson."
"Hello," Lucas said. Although the house was familiar, he didn't remember her. But it had been eight years, after all, and things changed in eight years.
"I'm glad to meet you, Lucas," she replied without a hint of a smile or the offer of a handshake. "If you need or want anything, just ask, and I'll get it for you. Tim, next time you spill the sugar while making coffee, clean it up."
"Sorry, Joan, I was in a hurry." Tim apologized without visible remorse, and Joan's expression turned even more stern.
"I can smell that you've got your supper, so I'll leave you to it." Joan turned and went into the front room, closing the door firmly behind her.
"Battle-axe," Tim whispered conspiratorially to Lucas, then caught Harry's disapproving glance and straightened up. "Right, let's eat. I'm starved."
He led the way into the kitchen and began unpacking the food, handing round the drinks first and then the individual portions. Lucas bit off half a chip to find that it was unpleasantly greasy. He ate it anyway, nibbled at the fish, then took a sip of Coke. The soft drink was so sweet that it made his teeth ache, and he winced.
"If I'd just spent eight years in a Russian prison, I would throw myself on fish and chips," Tim said conversationally, taking a huge bite.
"I see the nickname Tactless Tim wasn't an exaggeration," Harry murmured, and Tim grimaced.
"Sorry," he said, sounding almost as though he meant it.
Lucas leaned back a little and looked around. He was in a safe house, in London, in England, and there was a chip shop around the corner. Realization flooded through him that he didn't have to eat slowly and stretch out his meals to make them seem bigger. He could gobble down all the fish and chips he wanted, or even Indian takeaway, and Harry or Tim would buy him a second portion if he asked. Heartened, he took a larger bite– and promptly choked on it.
Tim pounded him on the back, and when he could breathe again, Harry handed him a drink. Ignoring the sweetness, Lucas gulped it down, then sat back.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tim babbled. "I didn't mean to kill you!"
"Tim, shut up," Harry suggested, and Tim snapped his mouth closed.
"It's all right," Lucas wheezed. He coughed a few and took another drink of Coke. "I'm still alive."
"Thank goodness for that," Tim said. "How would that look on the report, eight years in a Russian prison and then killed by a piece of battered haddock?"
There was an awkward pause until Harry visibly decided to ignore that remark, and sprinkled more vinegar on his chips before starting to eat again. Lucas took another drink, felt flustered when he realized he'd forgotten to count the number of swallows, told himself firmly that he didn't need to do that anymore, then bit off a smaller piece of fish. He knew that Tim was watching him intensely in case something else happened, and glanced away as the younger man's mouth folded over three chips at once. They finished their meal in silence.
Neatly folding up his chip paper, Harry got to his feet. "Lucas, I'm going to leave you here now. Tim will bring you to Thames House to-morrow at nine for your first de-briefing session, and he knows how to get in touch with me or Adam if there are any problems. All right?"
"Harry—" Lucas started, then stopped. Harry gave him an encouraging expression, waiting patiently for him to speak again.
"When can I call Lina?"
It seemed to Lucas that Harry hesitated, or maybe Tim just spoke too fast. "Who's Lina?"
"My wife," Lucas said, then said her name aloud, enjoying every syllable. "Kapitolina Sergeevna North."
"Your wife?" Tim asked. "I thought you were divorced, it says so on your file."
"What!" Lucas exclaimed, looking to Harry for reassurrance that this was not the case and that Tim had gotten it mixed up. Harry sat down again, slowly, his face grave, and Lucas felt the same sickening dread that he experienced whenever he knew that an interrogation session was about to begin.
"I didn't want to tell you right away," Harry said quietly. "I'm sorry, Lucas. She petitioned for divorce about three years ago."
Lucas stared at him and repeated the words, not understanding. "Petitioned for divorce?"
"Didn't you know?" Tim asked. "Didn't she need your consent or something?"
"You can petition for divorce without the consent of your partner if you can prove you've been living apart for more than five years," Harry explained in a soft voice. "She contacted us for help with that proof."
"Did she say why?" Lucas asked. He was amazed he could still speak, but there was no pain, not yet, just shock and surprise.
"I think she'd met somebody else."
Lucas slumped. "Oh." Of course, that had to be it. Lina was such a lively girl, she enjoyed the company of others, and he hadn't been there for her. Eight years was a long time to wait. Things changed in eight years.
"I'm sorry," Harry said again. He got up and laid his hand on Lucas' shoulder, left it there for a moment, then walked away. A moment later, Lucas heard the front door open and shut.
"I'm sorry," Tim said as well. Lucas stared down at the table, still too shocked to feel anything except surprise. There was a long silence.
"Uh … you want me to show you which room you'll be sleeping in?" Tim finally offered.
With an effort, Lucas responded, "Yeah," and heaved himself up from his chair. He followed Tim up the stairs to a bedroom at the back of the house and listened to Tim's nervous chatter.
"You've got a television and a stereo, don't know what kind of music you like, but you can just tell me and I'll get some CD's for you. Um, I bought some clothes for you this morning and they're in the wardrobe. The bathroom's right next door if you want to take a shower." Tim paused. "I'll just leave you alone now, all right? I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
He said again, "I'm sorry," then he went out and shut the door.
Lucas stood in the middle of the room. It was a little nicer than a B&B, but just about as impersonal. He remembered the flat that he and Lina shared. Had shared. She'd decorated it, added personal touches, made it homey with pictures that she'd taken herself, stuffed animals she'd collected when she'd gone abroad to gymnastic tournaments, and a few other knick-knacks that she'd bought especially for the purpose. What had she done with all of his things, after he'd gone? Had she put them into storage? Kept them until she'd stopped hoping that he would come back, then donated them all to Oxfam? Had she moved somewhere else, or did she still have the flat? Was she sharing it with another man even now?
The pain hit him then, like a physical blow. Staggering the two steps to the bed, Lucas collapsed onto it, turning onto his side and hugging his arms to his chest. Lina. Lina! When had she given up hope that he would ever come home again, when had she first started thinking about the divorce? Soon after he'd been captured, or years later? It hurt to think that she might have been waiting impatiently for the time period to be over so that she could start the paperwork.
In a way, Lucas thought, it would have been easier if Harry had told him that Lina had died, in a car crash perhaps, like his father, when Lucas had been at university. If that had been the case, he would still lay here, grieving, but also imagining that she had died waiting for him. This was worse, much worse. She was still alive, but she wasn't there, not for him, anyway. Her warm smiles and her strong hugs were directed towards someone else now.
Lucas' heart ached, literally. Until he'd gotten word of his father's death, he'd always thought the word heartbreak was figurative, but now, as then, he realized it wasn't, it was bloody accurate. Surprisingly sharp pain radiated from the left side of his chest, and there was an unfamiliar ache in his stomach as well. Eventually, Lucas realized that this pain had nothing to do with heartache, and leaned over the side of the bed just in time to vomit all over the floor. He continued heaving long after he'd brought everything up, and gradually, the heaves turned into sobs. Tears overflowed his eyes and, feeling more broken than he'd felt after any interrogation, Lucas let himself cry.
The End
written April 2008
Lucas awoke to a pervasive, pungent smell that made his eyes water. Coughing reflexively, he lifted his head, and when he could breathe normally again, he saw Harry watching him, rolling an empty capsule of smelling salts between his fingers.
"Look out the window," Harry said. "We're home."
Lucas turned obediently. The skies outside were grey, it was raining, and away to his left, there was lettering on the building. He could see the letters eathrow. It was raining, Lucas thought. It never rained in Moscow in the winter. There was always snow. It must be true, then, they were back in England.
"Do you need any help, gentlemen?"
Lucas glanced up sharply, but it was only a stewardess.
"We're fine," Harry told her.
"Oh, Sleeping Beauty is awake," she said, smiling at Lucas. "I hope you had pleasant dreams."
Her direct gaze was too much, and Lucas looked away, feeling himself blush with embarrassment.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," Harry said, standing up, and Lucas staggered to his feet as well, looking around the plane. It was all but empty now, except for Adam and a few stragglers making their way up the aisle on the other side. His legs feeling uncharacteristically wobbly, Lucas had to hold onto the backs of the seats to keep himself upright as he followed Harry, but by the time they got to the exit, he was able to stand without support.
Harry handed him his overcoat, which he must have taken while Lucas was asleep, but Lucas didn't put it on. In comparison to the Moscow cold, the wind in London was positively balmy, and Lucas breathed deeply in appreciation, lifting his face to let the rain fall on it. The air tasted so good, so fresh and moist, that he was disappointed when they had to get into a nearby bus and be driven to one of the many gates that led indoors. Casting only occasional glances at the five other passengers on the bus, Lucas mostly stared out of the window, watching the rain and the activity on the tarmac. He was in London. He was really in London.
They went through an accelerated line at Customs and Immigration, no doubt due to Harry's connections, and emerged in the Arrivals area. It was very crowded, with people bustling everywhere, one girl even running into him by accident, and Lucas felt pathetically grateful to Harry for letting him sleep through the flight. Here, he could sense panic creeping up on him again, but at least there was a chance of escape.
"I'll get the car," Adam offered, just as Lucas opened his mouth to say, "I need the toilet."
In the men's room, Lucas locked himself in one of the stalls, used the toilet and then just sat there, glad of even a few minutes of this artificial solitude. He wanted to stay there forever, he thought. He wanted to be back in his cell where nobody was staring at him, nobody was jostling him, it was quiet, and he knew exactly what was going to happen next. No, he realized. He didn't want to be back in his cell, he just wanted to be alone. And as soon as he could really believe it, he was going to be glad to be in England, glad to be home, and definitely glad to see Lina again.
The thought of Lina helped overcome his reluctance to leave the stall. Washing his hands at the sink, Lucas stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering what she'd think of his appearance now.
"I haven't changed as much as I thought I would," he said out loud, acutely aware of Harry watching him. "I thought I would be an old man."
Harry smiled gently but didn't speak.
Lucas squinted at his chin and cheeks, identifying isolated grey hairs among the dark ones of his stubble. "Do you think Lina will still recognize me?"
"I recognized you," Harry said, sidestepping the question.
"Does she know I'm out?"
"No," Harry said. "We haven't told her yet."
"And my mother?"
"We didn't tell her you were in," Harry said. Lucas' mother was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's disease and one of the last things he'd done before flying to Russia was to visit her in the hostel where she was taken care of. She'd had some lucid moments then, but she certainly wouldn't know him now.
Harry cut off any further questions by walking to the door, and Lucas followed. When they reached the car, Harry motioned for him to sit in the front. Lucas baulked for a moment, then realized that it was an English car, a Range Rover, the steering was on the other side, and he would be in the passenger seat. Feeling sheepish, he slid in.
"I got you some more coffee," Adam said, indicating a cup in a cup-holder underneath the dashboard.
"Thank you," Lucas said, taking the cup and struggling to remove the plastic lid. The smell reminded him that, according to his stomach, it was past lunchtime and he was hungry. He counted his sip as he took it, and thought of how Lina always took her coffee with two milks, but no sugar. She'd never liked tea, he remembered, just coffee, and he wondered if she was drinking some now. There was a billboard ahead, advertising a brand of tea that Lucas had once liked, and the Christmas theme caught Lucas' eye.
"Harry, what day is it to-day?" he asked.
"It's the third of December," Harry said, and Adam added, "Tuesday."
Tuesday, Lucas thought, and the random thought shot through his head that Aleksander Dmitrovich had always come on Saturdays. But he didn't want to think about Aleksander Dmitrovich just now, he wanted to think of Lina.
"So I haven't missed Christmas," he said aloud, sipping his coffee again. There was still plenty of time to buy something for Lina. He wondered what, if anything, could make up for his years away from her.
"That's what we were hoping for," Harry said.
Lucas made his coffee last for a record-breaking twenty six sips, taking the last one just as they pulled up at the medical clinic attached to Thames House.
"Lunch first," Harry told him, "and then a check-up."
The canteen was about one third full, just enough to make Lucas uncomfortable, but not enough to make him panic. He tried hard to ignore the other people and concentrated on the food instead. It was simple, chicken soup and sandwiches, but to Lucas, it tasted exotically delicious. He ate slowly as always, to make it last, and was full even before he'd finished.
"More?" Harry asked, and Lucas glanced up in surprise, then shook his head reluctantly.
"Then let's get you to the doctor," Harry said.
The medical and dental examinations took all afternoon and some of the evening, and included every kind of probe known to man, including x-rays and an MRI scan from head to foot. The MRI tube should have reminded him of prison, Lucas, thought, as narrow and confining as it was. Truthfully, however, he saw it as a welcome break, a precious allowance of solitude. Lying on the stretcher, Lucas let himself drift off into a daydream of Lina, remembering how he'd only found out her full name, Kapitolina, when they'd decided to get married. "Don't laugh," she'd warned him. "Funny names run in our family. My great-grandmother was called Barikada."
"Born in 1917?" Lucas had guessed. "Well, it could have been worse, instead of Barricade, she could have been named Revolutsiya."
"That was my other great-grandmother," Lina had told him, quite deadpan. "And she married a man named Dazdapetrak."
"The first tractor?" Lucas had translated automatically. "Are you serious?"
"About as serious as you were when you told me you had a middle name and it was Bear, Mister Lucas Bear North," she'd replied, and they'd both laughed.
The memory of Lina's giggles made Lucas wonder what he'd say when he saw her again. "Hello," seemed too ordinary, and "Did you miss me?" was too desperate. Maybe he should tease her by saying, "How you've grown!" More than once, she'd proudly told him, "I'm quite tall for a gymnast!" and had straightened up to her full height of five foot three. She barely came up to his shoulder, and he always had to put his head down if she wanted to give him a kiss. Sometimes, Lina asked nicely, sometimes, she grabbed him by the ears and pulled. He liked it best when she put her arms around his neck and gently put pressure on the back of his head to make him lean down. Just remembering it made him smile.
He'd never seen Lina do any gymnastic moves except the occasional stretch. She'd had to retire at age sixteen, she'd told him once, because of a repeat injury to her back, and was always very careful not to get hurt again. But she'd remained flexible, even while studying English and European law. Before he could remember just how flexible she'd been, however, the scan ended, and Lucas was rolled out of the MRI machine.
At long last, all of the physical examinations were finished, and the dentist had filled several cavities in his teeth. Lucas was informed that he was not HIV-positive and did not have tuberculosis, the two greatest dangers in Russian prisons, nor did he have measurable brain damage from the torture, which was a relief. On the other hand, he was malnourished and had head lice, neither of which was very surprising. They gave him a bottle of vitamin tablets, then sent him to a nearby treatment room. There, a nurse fastened a plastic sheet around his neck as though for a haircut, then rubbed a generous application of Lice Fighter into his hair and massaged it into his scalp. She let it sit for ten full minutes before leading him to the sink and washing it out. It stank voraciously of chemicals, even after several rinsings, and he could still smell it as she went through his hair with a nit comb. When she was finally finished, she cleaned the comb, picked up the bottle of cream rinse, and put them both in the plastic bag that already held his vitamins. "You'll need to reapply this after seven days, and get someone to comb you out. Every day would be best. Now, if you'll just go to the waiting area, we'll inform Mr Pearce that you're ready."
Lucas took the bag and wondered what Lina would say when he asked for her help. Hopefully, she wouldn't get lice herself. It would be very difficult and time-consuming to run the nit comb through her long, thick hair, and she'd probably feel humiliated as well, because she hadn't been the one in prison. Sitting down in the waiting area, as far away from the other occupants as he could get, Lucas thought of Lina's hair. He loved to run his fingers through it, and sometimes she even let him brush it. He'd told her often that she should never have it cut, and she'd assured him that she wouldn't, that she'd let it grow out after she'd retired from gymnastics, and never wanted it short again.
The sound of footsteps made him raise his head, and he looked up to see Harry come into the waiting room, a young black man following him.
"Lucas, sorry to keep you waiting," Harry said smoothly. "This is Tim Forster, he'll be your minder at the safe house."
"Glad to meet you, Lucas," Tim said, putting out a hand.
They shook, and then Lucas stood up, suddenly drenched in fatigue. "Safe house, Harry?"
"Just for a few days," Harry said blithely. "Fish and chips for supper, then?"
Lucas' stomach growled audibly, and Tim smiled. "I think that's a yes, Harry."
"Yeah," Lucas agreed. Fish and chips. It was the most English thing he could think of, the meal farthest removed from Russian prison fare. He hadn't eaten it for years, even before he'd been captured, but now he couldn't think of anything he wanted more.
It was dark outside, and raining even more heavily than during the day. This time, Lucas did put his coat on, and after that, sat quietly in the car. He was too tired to make conversation and simply watched the lights of the city speed by until they stopped outside a chip shop. Tim turned off the engine and turned to him. "You want to come in?"
Seeing a happy couple strolling into the shop under one umbrella, their arms looped so closely around each other that they had to turn slightly to fit through the doorway, Lucas shook his head. "No, I'll wait here."
"Suit yourself," Tim said, and got out. He'd barely shut the door when Lucas became aware of a car pulling up behind them. He shifted in his seat and watched as the occupants got out, stiffening in alarm as they appeared to approach the Range Rover. At the last minute, though, they turned and raced across the street to enter an Indian takeaway. Lucas relaxed somewhat, and in the light of the streetlamp above them, he caught Harry staring at him from the back seat. Embarrassed, Lucas turned away, and was glad when Harry didn't comment.
Tim returned about five minutes later with a large bag that he shoved into Lucas' lap. It was hot and steamed aromatically. "You can dig in now if you want, but if you can wait another two minutes, the safe house is just around the corner."
Tim hadn't been exaggerating; the safe house was not more than two hundred meters up the next street. As the car pulled into the driveway, it obviously triggered a motion sensor, because the entire front of the house lit up, revealing a vaguely familiar facade. Lucas supposed he must have been here at least once before, though he couldn't remember the details now. Harry rang the bell, they were immediately buzzed in, and a short, plump woman met them in the front hall.
"Hello, Harry," she said, but her voice sounded more stern when she added, "Hello, Tim."
"Joan, this is Lucas North. Lucas, this is the housekeeper, Joan Hudson."
"Hello," Lucas said. Although the house was familiar, he didn't remember her. But it had been eight years, after all, and things changed in eight years.
"I'm glad to meet you, Lucas," she replied without a hint of a smile or the offer of a handshake. "If you need or want anything, just ask, and I'll get it for you. Tim, next time you spill the sugar while making coffee, clean it up."
"Sorry, Joan, I was in a hurry." Tim apologized without visible remorse, and Joan's expression turned even more stern.
"I can smell that you've got your supper, so I'll leave you to it." Joan turned and went into the front room, closing the door firmly behind her.
"Battle-axe," Tim whispered conspiratorially to Lucas, then caught Harry's disapproving glance and straightened up. "Right, let's eat. I'm starved."
He led the way into the kitchen and began unpacking the food, handing round the drinks first and then the individual portions. Lucas bit off half a chip to find that it was unpleasantly greasy. He ate it anyway, nibbled at the fish, then took a sip of Coke. The soft drink was so sweet that it made his teeth ache, and he winced.
"If I'd just spent eight years in a Russian prison, I would throw myself on fish and chips," Tim said conversationally, taking a huge bite.
"I see the nickname Tactless Tim wasn't an exaggeration," Harry murmured, and Tim grimaced.
"Sorry," he said, sounding almost as though he meant it.
Lucas leaned back a little and looked around. He was in a safe house, in London, in England, and there was a chip shop around the corner. Realization flooded through him that he didn't have to eat slowly and stretch out his meals to make them seem bigger. He could gobble down all the fish and chips he wanted, or even Indian takeaway, and Harry or Tim would buy him a second portion if he asked. Heartened, he took a larger bite– and promptly choked on it.
Tim pounded him on the back, and when he could breathe again, Harry handed him a drink. Ignoring the sweetness, Lucas gulped it down, then sat back.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tim babbled. "I didn't mean to kill you!"
"Tim, shut up," Harry suggested, and Tim snapped his mouth closed.
"It's all right," Lucas wheezed. He coughed a few and took another drink of Coke. "I'm still alive."
"Thank goodness for that," Tim said. "How would that look on the report, eight years in a Russian prison and then killed by a piece of battered haddock?"
There was an awkward pause until Harry visibly decided to ignore that remark, and sprinkled more vinegar on his chips before starting to eat again. Lucas took another drink, felt flustered when he realized he'd forgotten to count the number of swallows, told himself firmly that he didn't need to do that anymore, then bit off a smaller piece of fish. He knew that Tim was watching him intensely in case something else happened, and glanced away as the younger man's mouth folded over three chips at once. They finished their meal in silence.
Neatly folding up his chip paper, Harry got to his feet. "Lucas, I'm going to leave you here now. Tim will bring you to Thames House to-morrow at nine for your first de-briefing session, and he knows how to get in touch with me or Adam if there are any problems. All right?"
"Harry—" Lucas started, then stopped. Harry gave him an encouraging expression, waiting patiently for him to speak again.
"When can I call Lina?"
It seemed to Lucas that Harry hesitated, or maybe Tim just spoke too fast. "Who's Lina?"
"My wife," Lucas said, then said her name aloud, enjoying every syllable. "Kapitolina Sergeevna North."
"Your wife?" Tim asked. "I thought you were divorced, it says so on your file."
"What!" Lucas exclaimed, looking to Harry for reassurrance that this was not the case and that Tim had gotten it mixed up. Harry sat down again, slowly, his face grave, and Lucas felt the same sickening dread that he experienced whenever he knew that an interrogation session was about to begin.
"I didn't want to tell you right away," Harry said quietly. "I'm sorry, Lucas. She petitioned for divorce about three years ago."
Lucas stared at him and repeated the words, not understanding. "Petitioned for divorce?"
"Didn't you know?" Tim asked. "Didn't she need your consent or something?"
"You can petition for divorce without the consent of your partner if you can prove you've been living apart for more than five years," Harry explained in a soft voice. "She contacted us for help with that proof."
"Did she say why?" Lucas asked. He was amazed he could still speak, but there was no pain, not yet, just shock and surprise.
"I think she'd met somebody else."
Lucas slumped. "Oh." Of course, that had to be it. Lina was such a lively girl, she enjoyed the company of others, and he hadn't been there for her. Eight years was a long time to wait. Things changed in eight years.
"I'm sorry," Harry said again. He got up and laid his hand on Lucas' shoulder, left it there for a moment, then walked away. A moment later, Lucas heard the front door open and shut.
"I'm sorry," Tim said as well. Lucas stared down at the table, still too shocked to feel anything except surprise. There was a long silence.
"Uh … you want me to show you which room you'll be sleeping in?" Tim finally offered.
With an effort, Lucas responded, "Yeah," and heaved himself up from his chair. He followed Tim up the stairs to a bedroom at the back of the house and listened to Tim's nervous chatter.
"You've got a television and a stereo, don't know what kind of music you like, but you can just tell me and I'll get some CD's for you. Um, I bought some clothes for you this morning and they're in the wardrobe. The bathroom's right next door if you want to take a shower." Tim paused. "I'll just leave you alone now, all right? I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
He said again, "I'm sorry," then he went out and shut the door.
Lucas stood in the middle of the room. It was a little nicer than a B&B, but just about as impersonal. He remembered the flat that he and Lina shared. Had shared. She'd decorated it, added personal touches, made it homey with pictures that she'd taken herself, stuffed animals she'd collected when she'd gone abroad to gymnastic tournaments, and a few other knick-knacks that she'd bought especially for the purpose. What had she done with all of his things, after he'd gone? Had she put them into storage? Kept them until she'd stopped hoping that he would come back, then donated them all to Oxfam? Had she moved somewhere else, or did she still have the flat? Was she sharing it with another man even now?
The pain hit him then, like a physical blow. Staggering the two steps to the bed, Lucas collapsed onto it, turning onto his side and hugging his arms to his chest. Lina. Lina! When had she given up hope that he would ever come home again, when had she first started thinking about the divorce? Soon after he'd been captured, or years later? It hurt to think that she might have been waiting impatiently for the time period to be over so that she could start the paperwork.
In a way, Lucas thought, it would have been easier if Harry had told him that Lina had died, in a car crash perhaps, like his father, when Lucas had been at university. If that had been the case, he would still lay here, grieving, but also imagining that she had died waiting for him. This was worse, much worse. She was still alive, but she wasn't there, not for him, anyway. Her warm smiles and her strong hugs were directed towards someone else now.
Lucas' heart ached, literally. Until he'd gotten word of his father's death, he'd always thought the word heartbreak was figurative, but now, as then, he realized it wasn't, it was bloody accurate. Surprisingly sharp pain radiated from the left side of his chest, and there was an unfamiliar ache in his stomach as well. Eventually, Lucas realized that this pain had nothing to do with heartache, and leaned over the side of the bed just in time to vomit all over the floor. He continued heaving long after he'd brought everything up, and gradually, the heaves turned into sobs. Tears overflowed his eyes and, feeling more broken than he'd felt after any interrogation, Lucas let himself cry.
The End
written April 2008