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It comes to a
head so
peacefully, rising slowly, curving gently, that he
hardly notices until
it's
done.
A beautiful,
early summer's
evening in Fennacombe Bay. Oddly
relaxed
in the Hatchards' garden, left alone while the couple
do� whatever it
is that
couples do when they have guests they barely know.
The
sea is somewhere in front
of them, in the distance. And
somewhere,
the same distance behind them, is the rest of the
world.
Between them,
two freshly opened
bottled beers squat on the short grass.
Tom lies on his back, ankles linked, arms
crossed behind his
head, eyes
closed against the brightness of the low evening
sun.
To his right Ben lies, propped up on one
elbow on his side, his crisp white cotton shirt
casually open at the
neck,
sleeves rolled loosely up his honey-tanned arms.
His fingers slide down the
neck of the condensation-cool bottle, the gesture
unconsciously erotic,
before
he lifts it to his lips, pouring the fizzy pale liquid
down his throat.
"Why?" he asks.
And Tom tells him.
"His name was
Gavin." A start which
for Tom
explains everything, for Ben nothing.
But he remains quiet and Tom continues.
"He was my sergeant,
before Scott. And maybe
that's why I
detested Scott, or maybe not. Gavin
was
very young and na�ve when he joined CID - the son of a
friend
who'd long moved
out of Midsomer - he was wise but not weary when he
left me.
"At first it
was like
dragging a bored student around after me.
But he learnt quickly, and along with wisdom
came friendship. He was
invited into our house as you've been
- and may I say you're as welcome as he was, whereas
Scott most
definitely was
not.
"He came round for
dinner, even for breakfast if we faced an early start.
BBQs in the summer, parties at
Christmas. He settled,
became a member
of the family, a part of life - my life - until I
couldn't imagine it
without
him.
"One evening
he came for
dinner even though Cully was in back London and Joyce was staying at
her Mother's for
the
week. We drank beer and
barbecued steak
and sat talking over the picnic table until the sun
set.
Then as dusk settled he leaned across the
table and kissed me. Slowly.
So certain of himself - of us.
"We made love in the
guest room where he sometimes stayed.
We
did it all night; dozing, sleeping, then waking into
each others' arms.
"In the
morning I made
him breakfast and we went to work like nothing had
happened. But it had.
And over the next six months it did again and
again. Lazy, stolen
afternoons in his rented flat in
town, nights when Joyce was away or evenings when
she was just out. Even
a weekend in Oxford under the pretence of
following up a lead.
"I knew he'd leave one
day. I was the one to
mention it first -
to push him into doing something about promotion and
moving on. He got caught
up in it and I think by the time
he realised what he was doing he was caught up in it.
He became an Inspector. He
took a
job in Middlesborough. He
left one spring
morning and I never saw
him again.
"We emailed
one another
for a while, promised we'd meet, have a couple of
drinks - book a room,
we both
knew what we meant even if we didn't say it.
It's two-hundred and fifty miles from Causton
to Middlesborough,
it
might as well have been a thousand.
"I don't know when we
stopped talking, when we lost touch.
Not
deliberately. It just
happened. I don't know if
he ever loved me or if I ever
loved him. But when we
were together it
worked and when he was gone I missed him.
I blamed Scott for everything - I hated him
just for being alive.
"And by the
time I saw
sense and that it wasn't his fault, he hated me too,
hated Midsomer and
everything it stood for."
Ben Jones still doesn't have
his answer, so he asks again, "Why?"
And Tom tells
him.
"Because I don't want to
do it all again. I'm too
old now."
That simple.
A simple lie, straightforward lie.
So now he gazes at Tom still
lying on his back a foot away, eyes closed; relaxed,
chilled even,
despite what
he's just disclosed. He
knows trust when
he hears it and it just draws him further in.
Maybe Tom's
remembering other
summer evenings.
"You put Gavin down to a
mid-life crisis and turned your back on something you
never thought you
needed
in the first place. Do
you ever think
Joyce wonders - if it wasn't a sports car and it
wasn't a twenty-one
year old
waitress called Tracy, then what or who was it?
Or do you think she saw the way you looked at
one another, saw the affection there and was relieved?
Because even though you were sleeping with
your sergeant - another man no less - you were never
going to leave her
for
him.
"Then he left
anyway,
and you stayed, and even though she tried to replace
him with Scott you
never
took the bait. And how
much of a relief
was it for her to know that you weren't ever going
to leave her, to
know her
marriage is forever safe?"
Tom turns his head on his
arms. Ben expects roaring
anger but sees
only a faint curiosity mingled with invited intimacy -
stolen
familiarity
mirrored back at him.
"What makes
you say
that?"
"Women know, Tom.
Women sense things, see things, smell things
that we don't even know are there.
When
I picked you up this morning she told me she found
this place too
blustery, too
cold, and was glad you were dragging me down here this
time around
instead of
her. When she said it
there was this
look in her eyes like she was wondering about me.
"And when we
arrived,
Mrs Hatchard said she'd make up our rooms but the
question in her eyes
was on
the plural. If she
hadn't already met
Joyce she might have even asked.
Like
Joyce, she was wondering why I'm here.
"But we both know.
"I'm here
because you
want to but you won't. I'm
here because
you think about it but won't act on it.
I'm here because every time I make a move you
push me away and
you think
this will make up for that - some silent gesture
that you need what I'm
offering but won't allow yourself to have it."
He looks at Tom the same way
he's always looked at him - a cautious mix of
subordination and heat -
and Tom
looks right back.
"Insightful
man, aren't
you, Ben?" he murmurs softly after a long time.
Ben nods once.
"It's what makes me so good at my
job." And his tone is
almost
teasing. Almost. Never
crossing that un-drawn line of master
and slave.
"Yes."
Tom nods decisively.
Ben watches, holds his breath
although he doesn't realise he's doing it, as Tom
unfolds one arm from
behind
his head and reaches out across the narrow space, the
palm of his hand
hovering
so close to Ben's left cheek that he can feel the
sticky heat from it.
"You're a
beautiful man,
Ben. I think I'm too
old that I don't
want to go through it all again.
But I
look at you and a part of me wants to take
everything I know you're
offering me,
sink into it. Into
you."
Ben can't help his arousal -
the delicate, caress of the words, the almost-caress
of the hand - and
he
thinks it must darken his eyes - or maybe it lights
them up - because
Tom
smiles like he knows and finally smoothes his thumb
over Ben's stubbled
cheek.
"You do the
same to me
every day," he admits, voice rough so that Ben would
have missed the
confession had he not been listening for it.
"You don't have to deny
yourself. It'll be a long
time before I
make Inspector."
And Ben
hesitates just to be
sure, before turning his head to kiss Tom's palm - a
kiss brimming over
with
promises.
"I suppose it
will be,
Ben. I suppose it will."
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