fic: The Kelpie - Part II Chapter 3

[readingrat]

Part II: Philadelphia

Chapter 3: Riddles in the Dark I

Knowledge is one thing, acting on it is quite another. When Lisa texts him a few days later suggesting that they meet for coffee, he doesn't reply, but at three, the time she suggested, he finds himself lurking outside the coffee shop. Fifteen minutes later he's inside, sliding into the seat opposite hers. She smiles in welcome, as though she never doubted he'd show. Is he that predictable? Somehow, they leave with hands loosely clasped, and he enjoys the feeling of her small smooth hand in his rough weathered paw.

From there it's a short step to what he guesses could pass for a date. It's hubris, of course, to expect something as complex and harrowing as an entire meal to go well just because he survived three-quarters of an hour in a coffee shop. The dress shirt and tie that he forced himself to don seem to choke him, the formal setting grates on his nerves, and before he knows it, he's terrorising the staff and aiming barbs at Lisa. He gets cold feet in the middle - he wishes it was consideration for her safety or her well-being that guides his feet, but it's plain panic at what he's getting himself into - so he excuses himself to go to the bathroom and escapes via the back exit. There he lurks in the shadows; after half an hour she appears at the entrance of the restaurant, the toss of her head and the briskness of her stride radiating anger. He expects her to drive off in a cloud of umbrage, but after she has slammed the door of the car behind her with a vengeance nothing happens.

He peers through the darkness, trying to see what she's doing, but the car is as much in the shadows as he is. He waits - maybe she's texting someone or switching to more comfortable shoes for driving. Still no movement. Finally he sneaks closer and peers into the car; she's sitting slumped over the steering wheel, all fight gone out of her. He raps on the window. She starts up, but when she sees it's him, she leans over to open the door, wiping over her cheek surreptitiously with the other hand. He folds himself into the passenger seat and stares out through the windscreen, tugging at his lower lip.

Finally, he forces himself to look at her. "What the hell are we doing?" he mutters.

She huffs out a long breath of air. "I have no idea." Shaking her head as though to clear it, she turns to him, some of her old energy returning. "Look, I'm sorry I've got you into this. I didn't mean to ..." She breaks off, leaning her forehead on her fingertips.

"Do I get another chance?" he asks.

"You really want to continue with this madness?" Lisa asks.

When he nods, she pulls a pen and a notebook out of her purse, scribbles something and hands the page to him. "Tomorrow evening at eight sharp," she orders. "Now go - I've had enough for tonight."

The next evening he arrives early at the venue she noted down; it's in a seedier part of town than he'd have expected of her, and the clientele that's entering as he arrives probably doesn't patronise country clubs or play golf of a Sunday morning. That's just fine with him, but he's finding it difficult to picture Lisa in here on a regular basis slumming it. Rock music spills out onto the sidewalk as he pulls open the door. Inside there's a bar, some tables along the walls and - a dance floor.

"No way, Jose!" he mutters. She can't be serious about this! He's never danced, isn't sure whether he can. It's not a question of hitting the right rhythm - he's certain he can handle that - but a matter of keeping his balance. He briefly considers legging it, but after his miserable performance last night, it isn't really an option.

Lisa breezes in at ten past eight in a stunning red dress with a flaring skirt, cut low in front and even lower behind, and her hair falling in loose curls onto her shoulders. She's looking about ten years younger than she is, her entire posture conveying eager anticipation as she joins him at the bar, her eyes alight and a rather goofy smile on her lips.

"Do you come here often?" he asks curiously.

She shakes her head. "One of the nursing staff told me about this place. The band covers the 70's and 80's."

"I've noticed!"

"Oh, come on! That's The Who, The Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin ...,"

"They aren't playing The Who," he grumbles. They're playing 'Staying Alive,' and he's ready to shoot himself.

She ignores him. "I haven't done this in years!" she says, scanning the dance floor.

"No loss," he gripes, earning himself a slap on the arm.

"It's fun," she insists, her foot already tapping in time to the rhythm.

"Then how come you haven't done it in years?"

"My boyfriends ... weren't the dancing type," she says, her brow furrowed slightly. "And after Rachel's accident, I had no time and no inclination."

It's time to play the cripple card. "I'm not sure whether I can do this," he says, giving his leg a significant glance.

"You don't have to do anything except sway a bit in time to the music," Lisa pronounces. "Most of the guys suck at it - no one will notice."

The band starts into 'Dancing in the Dark'. Lisa's eyes light up, while he rolls his eyes in dismay. Sliding off the bar stool she marches determinedly onto the dance floor, turning to crook a finger at him when he hesitates. He puts on a long-suffering martyr air as he slouches behind her, but she's impervious to his grouchiness. After a few minutes he decides that maybe this dancing thing isn't half bad; he really doesn't have to do anything other than shift his weight from foot to foot and take Lisa's hand every now and then to twirl her around. That makes her dress flare up, exposing her shapely legs. Lisa takes care of everything else, stepping around him as she shakes, twirls and swings her ass in time to the music, exposing enough heaving cleavage to keep him more than happy. Lisa's awareness of him is limited; she's enjoying herself with a youthful abandon that he hasn't seen in her to date.

He tips his head. "Why'd you bring me? You don't need me here."

"If I was here alone, the guys would keep trying to hit on me. So, yeah, I do need you here. Having fun?" she tosses over her shoulder as she prances a few steps away from him shaking her hips.

He isn't sure whether he's having fun, but his dick likes what he sees.

"Did you know," he says, closing the distance between them until her ass is a mere inches from his groin, "that there are fifty-seven metaphors that use dancing to refer to sex?" He's picked a random number, but he's sure he can recite twenty at the very least off the top of his head.

"You're supposed to use your legs, not your tongue," she reprimands.

"I'm good with my tongue," he says suggestively, leaning forward over her shoulder to leer down her cleavage.

She moves half a step back, grinding her ass into his groin, making him want to throw his head back and groan at the sensation. "Are you?" she says smirking.

His brain, deprived of its oxygen supply, refuses to come up with a witty repartee. When the music changes to 'Wonderful Tonight', he pulls her flush to him, his hands sliding down her back towards her tush. Her arms crawl around his neck.

"I can play this game too," he tells her as he tugs her in far enough that she can feel his hard-on.

She reciprocates by giving her hips a little twist that sends her pubis gyrating into his manly parts. "I'm better at it."

He tries to distract himself before he loses it completely and does something that'll get them thrown out. "A dolphin's penis," he says, "is prehensile and can swivel. He can use it like a hand to explore objects. And barnacles ..."

"I think I know that one," she interrupts. It's a pity since that's one of his favourite factoids. "Is it possible for you to open your mouth without saying something that is either offensive or a reference to sexual organs?"

"Most facts about the animal kingdom are about sex. Species have to procreate in order to dominate the ecological niche they live in. Nature is full of sleazy sex."

"It's possible to talk about procreation without constantly referencing the male sexual organ - or its female counterpart," she says acerbically.

"Be my guest!" he challenges her.

She bites her lower lip in concentration. "How about this: sea horses are monogamous in the wild. The male not only cares for the offspring but also carries and births the young. They have a complex courtship ritual that includes changing colours, swimming snout to snout, and holding tails."

He blows up his cheeks thoughtfully and expels the air in one short plop. "Judging by your choice of factoids, you're looking for a partner over whom you'll have exclusive rights, who'll care for your kid, and who is prepared to change for your sake," he interprets.

She rolls her eyes. "Everyone wants a partner like that, but you're reading too much into this. Rachel's class did a project on marine life, and she chose sea horses." She gives him a challenging smile. "Your turn."

It's no easy task to find a factoid without penises, not when Freud is dancing the polka on what's left of his brain, but as she begins to smirk in triumph he comes up with, "Galapagos giant tortoises take forty years to reach sexual maturity. When males meet in the mating season, the male with the longer ... neck gets the female."

"And that wasn't a euphemism?" she says sceptically.

"Now whose mind is in the gutter?" he asks, giving her ass a squeeze.

She tugs his hands back up a few inches. "My mind," she says pointedly, "is not down there."

"Your turn," he says.

"O-kay." Her face is scrunched up in thought. "Here: clown fish can change gender. In a group the biggest fish is the female. When she dies, the highest-ranking male changes its gender and becomes the female. Okay, Freud, give that one a spin so that it applies to my hopes and aspirations."

"The group represents the hospital, and the female is the dean. You're the highest ranking male. When your dean retires, you want to take his place." Her face is priceless.

It takes another two dances until she softens enough to agree to leave, two dances through which he suffers in uncomfortably tight jeans picturing his balls changing colour (rather like courting sea horses) while he feeds her with useless trivia.

"You do realise that the female hyena's pseudo-penis isn't exactly a turn-on?" she says as they make their way to her car, but her dilated pupils belie her words, as does the way her breath hitches when, walking hand-in-hand, his thumb caresses her wrist.

The horizontal tango they dance later that night in his hotel more than makes up for the evening's suffering.

---

He gets a job in a restaurant in Chinatown; nothing great, but at least he isn't using up his travel budget anymore. Some days, when he gets back to the hotel after work, Lisa is there. She never stays long, because he comes back late while she has to get up early, and they never discuss whatever it is they have. Their roles seem to have changed: she has abandoned all second thoughts or inhibitions about getting involved with him, while he feels guilty about the danger he's getting her into should James find out about him. Because he doesn't doubt that although she's with him now, in the long run she'll be returning to James Wilson MD. Anyone who is foolish enough to hold on to a man who ran his car through her house has to be insanely hormonal about the guy, and fucking a holiday flirt won't change those long-term behaviour patterns or pheromone addiction. If he were to stay around and they took a shot at a serious relationship, then things might be different: she might be persuaded to give J.E.W. the boot, and he would certainly do his best to protect her and make sure that Dr Wilson knew precisely what would head his way if he came near Lisa again. Or if he thought of coming near Lisa again. Or if he thought of thinking of coming near Lisa again. But he, Pete, is just here for as long as it takes him to put together a little stash of money, and then he'll take the wreck of a car that he's bought and check out his past.

He has decided to start off with renowned teaching hospitals along the East Coast: Dr Weller thought that he'd had medical training; Dr Weller said that he was a genius. Ergo, chances are that he got his medical training at some reasonably prominent place. He's decided on the East Coast because he's here already. He isn't sure yet how he'll figure out which school he attended, because even if he recognises a building or two, chances are that it's because he's seen pictures of them, not because he's been there in person. But maybe there'll be archives with yearbooks or old photo IDs, and very, very maybe he'll run into someone who will recognise him, because somewhere, at some medical school in the country, there has to be some member of the teaching staff who attended medical school with him. He's been working for three weeks now; another week and he should have the money for a short spree up the coast.

But Lisa doesn't know that. Lisa still thinks he's here because of her, since he hasn't told her that he has amnesia and is looking for his roots. Which, now that he comes to think of it, probably isn't quite fair. It was fine as long as she was pushing him away, but now that she's stopped doing that he's probably creating the same kind of false expectations that he aroused in Sharon. In this case his behaviour is even worse, because he's allowing her to believe that she's the reason for his presence in Philly; he's wilfully deceiving her, even though he knows that it's one of the reasons she's sleeping with him. He'd never thought he was that kind of a guy; what had happened with Sharon was regrettable and on some level he'd screwed up, but it hadn't been intentional. This time, however, ...

Then again, although her behaviour seems to indicate involvement, she's stand-offish on some level. So far, she has never suggested that he come to her place. Her daughter might be the reason - she seems the kind of mother who won't introduce a new love interest until that interest has become a fixed item in her life. There is something in her behaviour, however, that negates this simple explanation. She should be talking to him about everyday home things that anyone regardless of education or profession can understand. Instead, she skirts around her private life, preferring to relate anecdotes from her work life. He has no problems following her trials and tribulations, but that's only because he has a medical background that she's unaware of. The fact that she's inundating him with work talk which she must assume that he can't understand indicates that she's hell bent on keeping him off her private life. Other than protecting her daughter, why would she keep him at a stand-off?

About twenty-five reasons come to mind, most of them starting and ending with him being totally unsuitable as a partner for someone of her calibre: there's his personality, his (lack of) background, his disability, his financial status, his lack of domesticity, his abrasiveness, etc., etc. There's also the possibility that she's distracting herself with a little affair so that she doesn't fall back into Dr Wilson's arms quite so quickly, but without any intention of following up.

Whatever it is, it's a good thing. He'd rather not have her go all broken-hearted on him when he leaves, which would add to his growing discomfort at using her, because that's what this is, this relationship that can't go anywhere and will be over once he has found his past. For although he has no idea what he'll find out about himself, he has little hope that his former self is any more acceptable as a partner than his present self.

So, unpleasant though it will be, he has no choice but to tell her that he's leaving and to end the romance (or whatever Lisa considers this thing to be), and the sooner he does it, the better for everyone concerned.

There is one thing he can do for her before he goes, and that is wave a metaphorical pistol under J. E. Wilson's nose. It won't do much good if the fellow short-circuits again in a major way, but sometimes it helps people to rein in their baser instincts if they know that a third party is aware of them und just waiting to pounce on them should they step out of line. He'd go and tackle James at Mayfield, but psychiatric institutions tend to check with patients whether they are prepared to receive potential visitors, and James has no reason to consent to see a Peter Barnes from Bristol. So he has no choice but to await the next weekend when James will doubtless be released for the day to stay with Lisa once again. Lisa confirms his assumption by informing him that she won't have time for him on Saturday.

On Saturday he takes up position within sight of Lisa's apartment block and waits. Around lunchtime, Lisa, Rachel and James arrive, and he watches as James moves to the boot of the car, gets Rachel's wheelchair out and unfolds it for all the world as if he did it every day. No sign of guilt, no trace of 'I'm the creep who put this kid into a wheelchair'. No, Jimmy has all his limbs intact; Jimmy doesn't suffer from panic attacks when strangers loom too close to him; Jimmy kept his job at PPTH - why the hell wasn't he convicted?

He waits till mid-afternoon, and then he sends a text message to Lisa. "Injury at work - no insurance, cuz no work permit. Urgent! Come to hotel." Within two minutes she shoots out of the door carrying a small emergency case, and pulls away from the curb with screeching tires.

Once she's gone he walks to the front door and rings her bell. Over the intercom he hears Rachel's voice. "Hello? Hello?"

He doesn't answer her, and a moment later she presses the opener anyway. Kids are so dumb! As he walks over to the elevator he can hear her voice coming down the stairwell - she must be waiting at the open door of the apartment. "Mom must've forgotten something."

When he steps out of the elevator on the top floor, she's hovering outside on the landing in her wheelchair, her eagerness giving way to confusion and slow recognition when she sees him.

"Aren't you the man who came here before, with a book? Mom isn't here - she just left."

"I know," he says shortly and pushes past her into the apartment.

"Hey!" she calls indignantly, but he can't be bothered to cater to the sensibilities of little brats just now.

Once inside, he stops to orient himself. He's in a hallway with doors branching off; through an open door on his left he can see an eat-in kitchen with a small table and three chairs. The door on his right opens into the living room. He can see bookshelves from where he's standing, and windows that open out onto the rear of the building, and an armchair. He moves to the doorway and looks inside. The Other Guy, James Wilson, is sitting on the couch, staring in concentration at a chess board. He must have sensed a presence, because he says, "Rachel, I think you're cheating." And then he looks up and sees him.

The result is rather gratifying. He's always found the expression 'to see a ghost' risible, but in this case it seems to apply. James, Jimmy, Jim, or whatever, turns a nasty shade of yellowish-green. His hands, poised a moment earlier over the board, make little flapping movements. Those thick eyebrows make a concerted effort to meet up above his nose, while his lips open and close a few times without letting out a sound. Then a sudden movement of his hands almost knocks over the figures on the chess board.

"He walked in," Rachel complains indignantly from behind him, "just like that!"

James finds his voice. "It's okay," he says to Rachel as he rises slowly, carefully. "I'll take care of it."

Oh, will you? Pete leans casually against the doorframe - until Rachel's voice, trembling with righteous indignation, spoils the menace of his pose.

"You're in my way!"

He looks down at her; she's glowering up at him. "Oh, excuse me!" he says and moves aside.

She wheels herself back to the coffee table, peers at the board and says to James as though they had not been interrupted, "I did not cheat. I moved my rock from there," she points, "to there."

"Rook," Pete corrects automatically. He moves into the room, flashes James a smile choc-a-block full of false cheer and proffers his hand. "Peter Barnes," he says. "A friend of Lisa's. Call me Pete. And you are?" He raises an enquiring eyebrow.

James looks at his hand - for a moment it looks as though he may refuse to shake it, but then he stretches out his own tentatively. His handshake is dry and surprisingly firm for someone who looks so - fragile and shaken. Then he says, "I think you know who I am." His voice is quiet, but steady, with a hint of granite under that soft smoothness, and he has just taken the impetus out of Pete's opening gambit by refusing to play his game.

Pete can't keep the appreciative twitch off his lips as he lets himself down on the couch next to James and stretches out his legs. "Dr Wilson, right? Is it okay if I call you Jim?"

"I prefer James," James says. After a moment's hesitation he adds, "Or Wilson."

Right, the kid calls him Wilson, which is something she must have picked up from Lisa. It would be a good idea to clarify that things will change from now on. "Too formal. Let's take James."

"I took your pawn!" Rachel crows. "It's your turn, Wilson."

Pete casts a glance at the chessboard. James should be able to win in four moves. Six, in the unlikely event of Rachel showing the slightest smidgen of tactical skill. But James, squinting at the board with furrowed brows, ignores the white queen that is begging to be slaughtered by his bishop, instead placing a knight where it is easy prey for Rachel's rook. His opponent, however, spurns this generous offer. She moves a pawn forward, thus exposing her king completely. Pete, whose teeth are on edge just from watching this ridiculous 'Who can lose fastest' competition, would have finished her off quick and clean, but James is hell-bent on staving off his inevitable victory for as long as possible. He moves his knight again, and as he puts it down, he flicks a casually pointing finger along the unobstructed diagonal between Rachel's queen and his hapless knight. Rachel follows his finger with her eyes.

"Oh," she says. She smashes the knight right off the board, knocking over James's queen in the process. "You didn't see that, did you, Wilson?"

"No," James lies, righting his queen, "but be careful or you'll knock over all the pieces."

"But that's how they do it in Harry Potter, right, kid?" Pete interjects with an unholy grin. "They smash the pieces to smithereens."

"Yeah," she says, her glare slightly less inimical than before. Then she notes, "You're not talking funny today." She's right; he's doing without his British accent. So she isn't a complete moron.

"Today," he says with a side glance at James, "isn't 'funny talk' day."

"Rachel, would you like to get our guest a drink?" James asks.

"No! I'm playing with you. You want me to go so you can talk to him."

James sighs and prepares to sacrifice his queen.

"Quite the model dad, aren't you?" Pete mocks.

"He isn't my dad. I'm 'dopted."

"I do my best," James says quietly. "But I'm still learning."

"I don't need a dad," the brat says haughtily, quoting something she must have heard from her mother. She makes another of her kamikaze moves that leaves James's queen unsullied while it exposes her own queen mercilessly.

James frowns and kneads his forehead with his fingers. "This," he says wryly, gesturing at the board, "is turning out to be more difficult than I had anticipated."

Rachel grins, exposing a gap in her top incisors. "I'm a good player, aren't I?"

Pete can't suppress a snort. James gives him a warning glance. To Rachel he says, "You're brilliant."

"You're doing just fine, too," Pete says expansively to James. It's time to launch an attack.

"Thanks," James says, leaning back to muster Pete. It seems that he isn't fooled at all by the bonhomie that Pete is exuding.

"Yeah. I mean, it's good to know that you two are bonding. That way, if anything happened to her mom, she'd still have someone." He has picked up the knight Rachel knocked down and is running it up and down his knuckles, like a coin. "Accident-prone family, aren't they. Cars crashing into their house, hurricanes caving in the roof, ..."

"Don't!" Wilson says sharply, glancing at Rachel.

She is gazing at Pete in awe. "You're not supposed to talk about that," she informs him in hushed tones. "Not even Nana is allowed to mention that in front of me! Mom will kill you," she predicts with relish.

"Only if you tell her," he counters. He's beginning to wonder whom James was trying to kill when he drove his car into that house - the mother or the daughter. "Are you a tattletale?"

Stalemate! She glares at him, and then she takes out her frustration on the chessboard: her queen does an elegant little hop that combines diagonal with horizontal movements and includes jumping over a pawn, to knock over James's king. "Gotcha!" she says.

"Hey," Pete objects, leaning forward and waggling a finger at the board. "You can't ..."

"Shut up!" James says. To Rachel he says, "Well done! I, uh, didn't see that coming."

Pete extracts his wallet and pulls out a dollar bill. "Here, go and get yourself an ice cream."

The dollar is plucked from his fingers, but not by Rachel. "How ...!" James interrupts whatever he was about to say and starts afresh. "You can't send her out by herself to get an ice cream."

"Why not? Because she's a cripple?" he asks, plonking his prosthetic onto the coffee table, where the impact not only knocks down the remaining chess figures, but also causes a hollow thunk.

"No. Because she's seven!" James turns to Rachel. "Rachel, if you go to your room now and leave me alone with, ah, Pete, I'll go out with you later to get an ice cream."

"Oh-kay." She turns to Pete. "What's with your leg?"

"Peg leg," he says nonchalantly. "Your mom likes damaged people." A hard stare at James.

"But I'll only take you if you disappear now," James says to Rachel.

She grimaces and skims the wheelchair backwards to give herself room to manoeuvre. "I don't think my mom likes you," she says to Pete. "You're not very polite."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Pete replies, countering glare with glare. "Your mom likes me - a lot." He adds a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrow to the last sentence. And then he remembers James. Fuck! He had been determined to get through this confrontation without letting on that he was doing Lisa. That had probably been overly optimistic.

They are both silent until Rachel has wheeled herself out. Then James says carefully, "You're worried about more 'accidents'?" He doesn't sketch the quotation marks, but they hang in the air, nonetheless.

"Nope. It's all about controlling one's baser instincts, you know. Saying to oneself, 'I will not let that green-eyed monster take control.' Reminding oneself that one does not own the other person and has no right to let out one's anger and frustration on him or her. In this case, on Lisa."

"That ... sounds great," James says, staring at him with a mixture of amazement and stupefaction.

"Because, you see, if anything should happen to Lisa, I'll ..." He pauses and tips his head. When he'd planned this he'd had a scene in mind that would have the gritty texture of a film noire. But now that he's sitting here in the light atmosphere of the apartment, threats of mayhem and murder at his hands seem displaced. So he utters the only threat that he's sure he can carry out. "I'll ensure that you'll never have another happy moment in your life."

James gapes. "Who, me?" He's not only great father material, he's also a talented actor; he's got this puzzled confusion thing down really well.

"Yes, you, you moron!" Pete snaps, suddenly in no mood for genteel sparring matches. "Lisa seems to believe that you didn't drive your car through her house in order to kill her. I have no idea what you told her as an explanation for what you did: that you were knocking down the wall so you could build an extension or that you lost control of the car or that you were trying to commit suicide." At that, James's features twitch suddenly. "Okay, so it was the suicide story. Nice: it explains the presence of your car in her front room even while it plays on her guilt and her caring instincts. Couldn't have thought of a neater tale myself. Thing is, I don't buy it.

"So here's how this is going to work: from now on you'll start visiting other friends on your days out of the loony bin. If you haven't got any other friends, then buy yourself some. And when you're released, you'll move far, far away. Put at least three time zones between Lisa and yourself."

James massages the back of his neck. "I don't think, um, Lisa is going to be enthused when she hears that you're managing her friendships for her. She tends to be stubborn about that kind of thing."

"Lisa loves you. If she didn't, she wouldn't be indulging in this suicidal crap." He waves a hand that encompasses James's presence in Lisa's living room. "But I'm the one she's fucking now. You're history."

James looks surprised. "She is fu ..." He interrupts himself and lowers his voice. "She's sleeping with you? That's ... well!" He's stymied. And disapproving.

"Suck it up," Pete orders. Considering that he hadn't intended mentioning that he's intimate with Lisa, the satisfaction that rubbing it under James's nose is giving him should be tinged with a lot more unease and guilt. He was probably kidding himself when he'd resolved not to mention it - his subconscious must have been champing on the bit to blab it out. He gestures at the flat screen. "Think some chick flick where new boyfriend punches the living daylights out of abusive ex and rides off into the sunset with his gal."

James smiles faintly. "And here I was, thinking movie classics. The Philadelphia Story springs to mind."

Pete can't suppress a chuckle, even though he's supposed to be taking this guy apart. "Oh, you!" He waggles a finger at him. "Seeing yourself as Dexter Haven!" Apropos of nothing he adds, "Two of Cary Grant's wives charged him with domestic violence."

"I've always seen myself more as a James Stewart kind of guy." James leans forward and starts picking up the chess figures. Pete helpfully takes his legs off the coffee table, so James can reach the ones on the ground.

"So, when do you have to be back in the loony bin tonight?" he inquires, all affability.

"I don't," James counters smoothly. "I get to stay overnight."

Pete is upright in a flash. "Oh, no, you don't."

"Relax, I'm sleeping in the spare bedroom. She's got three here."

He should have seen this coming: that James's stays outside the institution would slowly be extended in length. But he wasn't reckoning with this yet, and he's also unprepared for the violence of his reaction, for the panic that overcomes him. This will give the bastard the chance to pick up his former relationship with Lisa and sneak back into her confidence again before he, Pete, has the time to set something against it.

And what exactly is he going to set against James Wilson? A steady long-term relationship with Lisa to stop her from returning to James? He's off to New Orleans next weekend - so much for long-term commitments and riding off together into the sunset. He could, of course, set up base in Philly and return here after his forays into other states, instead of packing up entirely and looking for new work and new accommodation wherever he went. That way he could keep an eye on things - make sure that James got the message and put half a continent between himself and Lisa as soon as his release papers were signed.

But first of all, he needs to get the message across to James that he means business and that he'll protect Lisa's interests. If necessary, he'll play dirty. He rises, goes to the glass cabinet and gets two whisky glasses out. He opens a few random cabinet doors below it, but as expected, he finds no liquor.

"Didn't you offer me something to drink when I got here?" he asks.

"You'll have to make do with water or juice," James says. "Try the kitchen."

"I'm a boy scout at heart: Be prepared is my motto." He returns to his spot on the couch and pulls his backpack towards him. Extracting a bottle of bourbon, he unscrews the cap, pours a generous amount into both glasses and pushes one of them over to James. The smile, he is happy to see, has faded from James's face. He moves a bit closer to James and swirls the liquor in his glass around. He takes a swig, and then he exhales into James's face. James is pale and his lips are tight.

"You - bastard!"

"Stress test - isn't that what they call it when patients are allowed out into their accustomed environment to see if they can cope? Can you cope, James, or should you opt for a longer, cosier stay in Mayfield, with visits to Lisa few, short and far between?"

The front door opens and slams shut again. Rapid steps approach. Lisa appears in the doorway, takes in the situation with one glance, and pounces. Gathering up the bottle and both glasses in one movement, she disappears into the kitchen. She reappears tight-lipped.

"I'd like to go back," James says in a low voice.

"Right," she says. She walks over to where he's still sitting, holds out a hand to pull him up, and when he's up she draws him into a quick, fierce hug. She lets him go again, and not even glancing at Pete, she asks, "Where's Rachel?"

"In her room," James tells her.

"Okay, go get your things. I'll take you back." She disappears.

Within a few seconds an altercation emits from the direction of Rachel's room. "I don't want to go to Louisa. It's boring there, and her cat smells."

"You are going there, Rachel. I'll be back in an hour."

"I don't want to. I always have to go there, and I hate it!"

"Rachel Cuddy, I haven't got the time for this. Take a book and your rabbit and go!"

Lisa reappears in the doorway of the living room. "And you, get out of here." They are the first and only words she addresses at him.

James is in the hall already, a small overnight suitcase standing next to him. Rachel streaks past in her wheelchair, a stuffed toy on her lap and a scowl on her face. Stopping in front of James, she complains, "You promised you'd get an ice cream for me."

"Next time," James says.

"It's not fair! I did as you told me to, and now I don't get my ice cream and I have to go to stupid Louisa!"

"Rachel, lower your voice. Everyone, out!" Lisa commands. She ushers James out, making sure to keep him as far from Pete as possible. Rachel follows reluctantly, and Pete brings up the rear, pulling the door to behind him. Lisa and James get into the elevator.

When James is inside he looks straight at Pete. "Goodbye," he says and smiles a wan, melancholy smile. Then the elevator doors close. He's odd, Pete decides, decidedly odd.


Bee Gees, Staying Alive
Bruce Springsteen, Dancing in the Dark
Eric Clapton, Wonderful Tonight

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	Chapter Index