Aftermath

Have you forgotten yet?
For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...
Have you forgotten yet?
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.

(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)

Part One

There was a warning of thunder in the sultry air, and a yellow moon, fat and sensuous. The terrace was perfumed with a soft hint of roses and the comforting scent of damp earth. She lay back in the reclining chair and played with the stem of her champagne glass. The starry sky was a mockery. She had no one to share it with.

It was her fault, maybe.

Or his fault, perhaps.

Phryne closed her eyes and considered. It was everyone's fault, and nobody's fault, and if only it was that easy. The real answer was far too complicated and haunted by ghosts of the past. She hadn't wanted any of this. It wasn't supposed to happen. A new life and a new beginning. She was never going to fall in love again. Loving someone and being in love was a guaranteed ticket to heartache. She was done with the misery and inevitable hurt when the whole thing went up in flames.

Love was fun and frothy like good champagne, with all of its pop and sparkle, an amusing little game between grown-ups who relished the thrill of the chase. The climax, when it eventually came, should be a banquet of spine-tingling pleasure. No provisos and no complications which could lead to disillusionment and pain.

Until him.

Until Inspector Jack Robinson.

She reached for the bottle of Bollinger, fingers slipping on condensation. The damned thing was wretchedly empty, and dropped back into the bucket with a clang. It hadn't made her mood any better. In-fact, she was feeling much worse. Biting her lip, she stared up at the moon. There were times when she almost despised herself. So much for being strong, for being modern, she was as giddy as a lovesick girl. And gutless. God, she was a coward. The real truth was a bitter pill to swallow. She was living a lie and deceiving herself. Most of all, she was hurting him.

He wasn't foolish enough to suppose she might change. He neither asked nor expected it of her. Instead, he'd grown distant, more formal, and she'd seen the desperation in his eyes. He had the look of a man who'd faced up to defeat– the look of a man who'd lost everything. Resignation and a strange kind of longing for something too far out of reach.

She got up and paced the veranda, her body restless and filled with energy. She'd seen the same broken look in too many men's eyes both during and after the war. It always came back to the bloody war. Would there never be an escape from it? She and Jack…they were both of them victims, always trying to beat back the shadows. Still bearing their pain like a sacrament and attempting to cover their scars. It was hopeless and doomed to failure. Every atom, every grain of sense decreed it. She was trying to outrun the nightmare whilst Jack was still tethered to the past. So different – so very different, and yet both of them damaged and damned.

More champagne, she smiled hollowly. Perhaps another bottle would do it. It would undoubtedly bring sweet oblivion, and an end to the raging tumult in her head. Turning swiftly, she moved across to the doors and paused on the threshold of the drawing room. It was quiet and painfully empty. He would not be coming tonight.

Not yesterday, not tomorrow.

Not since her bloody recklessness. She'd watched as he'd visibly withdrawn from her, and the teasing lilt had died in his smile. The man she really wanted was in love with her. It was terrifying, cruelly paradoxical. The attraction which flared brightly between them had ended up piercing his heart.

With any other man it would be easy. Crook her finger and they would come running. Flash her eyes and they became soft as putty, fell like dominoes into her bed. Not Jack, though. No matter how it hurt him. He was steered by a traditional set of values. He remained resolute with his unwavering rules and his ironclad moral compass. It was typical and horribly ironic, and Phryne felt a sudden stab of pain.

Champagne…she straightened her shoulders. It wouldn't do to get sober. She might ask Dot to draw her a bath, and get the ice-bucket taken upstairs. A combination of booze and hot water with some of that frankincense bath oil, and with luck she'd forget the Inspector and float away on a cloud of sleep.

"Miss?"

The soft enquiry was worried and jolted her out of her reverie. She'd been too absorbed in self-pity and hadn't heard Dot enter the room.

"It's getting a little chilly out there," her tone was a little too hard and bright as she drew her silk shawl over her shoulders. "Can you ask Mister Butler to bring more champagne? I'll have a hot bath and take it upstairs."

"I'll do it now," Dot turned obediently, her voice a little distracted. "Hugh Collins called earlier to cancel our date, so I'm not going out after all."

Phryne lingered briefly on her way to the door and tried not to show too much interest. "Hugh Collins reneged on you?"

"There's a big raid tonight at the docklands and all police-leave has been cancelled. Something about rival gang warfare and they're expecting a shipment of arms."

"I'm sure there's no need to worry," Phryne spoke automatically. "Our worthy police force will have it covered. All police-leave, you say?"

"You know how stupid men get about these things," Dot twisted her hands together, missing the nuance in Phryne's question because of her distraction. "Hugh Collins was thrilled about it. Just like a little boy."

"They must be anticipating trouble?"

"He thinks there's going to be a shoot-out, just like they have in the talkies. Reckons they're expecting casualties, gangsters and guns and the like. Detective Inspector Robinson is leading the raid so Hugh will be right in the thick of it."

Phryne moved swiftly across the room and placed a gentle hand on Dot's arm. "I don't really want that bath any more. Let's go and put the kettle on. I think a strong cup of tea in is in order, don't you? It's always good for calming the nerves."

Later on, she was to wonder whose nerves needed calming as midnight came and went with no answers. They were sat at the kitchen table and the tea had grown cold in the pot. Bert and Cec had been in a couple of times and Phryne was growing impatient. Dot plied her skill with a needle and occasionally glanced at the clock.

"I've half a mind to send for the car," Phryne tapped her crimson nails on the side of her teacup. The last effects of the Bollinger had well and truly worn off and she was edgy and raring to go.

"Oh, no, Miss," Dot looked up anxiously. "I don't think that's a good idea. They were going to barricade all the roads to the wharf so no one could go in or out. Besides - " She sighed and looked wistfully towards the back door. "I made Hugh promise to call me as soon as he possibly could."

Phryne patted Dot's hand automatically, but it wasn't Hugh Collins she was worried about. The young constable was focused and sensible, and well aware he had too much to lose. Jack, on the other hand… she gave a small sigh and tried not to dwell on the negatives.

The usually oh-so-sensible Jack Robinson had been acting rather out-of-character. He'd been preoccupied and distracted, and more than a little depressed. She remembered his face the last time she'd seen him, and the way his eyes had devoured her. The anguish in them had been palpable and pierced right through to her soul. Everything he felt and wanted was there. His heart exposed and bared open. The force and intensity had thrown her off balance. Their little dance was no longer a game.

No reproaches and no declarations. He hadn't once told her he loved her. Never blamed her for flirting so wantonly or damned her for the type of life she led. He'd pulled away into a dull grey world and built barriers of distance and duty. As though detachment and public obligation could resign him to everything he'd lost. She'd seen it before, Phryne exhaled abruptly, and memories rushed back to haunt her. A certain look on the faces of soldiers no longer afraid of death.

Some seemed to know when the shadow fell. A few even seemed to welcome it. Carrying on gamely and bluffing it out with a gay sense of inevitability. Others became brooding and quietly withdrawn, filled with fear and bitter desperation. All of them were hopeless and fatally aware of a strange mood of predestination. Phryne felt someone walk over her grave, and shivered at the ghastly old adage. There had been too many times and too many men. Ice seemed to form in her breast.

She clenched her teeth, feeling cold and hollow, as though the marrow had been scooped out of her. Forced to acknowledge she was suddenly afraid…horribly afraid for Jack Robinson. She pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet, knocking cold tea from her cup onto the tablecloth. The dark liquid spread like an omen. For a brief moment, Phryne saw blood.

TBC