#blakesecretsanta2019

"Missed a spot," from behind them.

The man...the man is your friend...the man is Matthew.  Not Matt, not Matty.  Move the string of lights to the left, and he nods in satisfaction.  Release a breath of relief. 

"Lucien?"  All her fear in that name.

Lucien...yes, your name is Lucien.  Not Louie, not Lucky, not these names other people have been calling you since the darkness lifted. You didn't question the darkness; didn't everyone's life start in the dark?  

"Yes, darling?"  You find it easier than saying a name that means nothing, and there's always a glimmer of hope in her eyes when you say it.

"Why don't you help me start dinner?" she says, forcing cheerfulness. 

An instinct tells you to hold out your hand to help Jean stand, which she takes and her slim finger slips along your bare ring finger.  She'd asked if you'd lost your wedding ring, but she's really asking another question. You lie, and say you don't remember where you lost it.  

The gold band had been the first thing you sold for food, an easy act in the moment of gnawing hunger. It had meant nothing, and the act gave you no pause to question 'where's this wife?' The only force more powerful than the hunger and pain in your skull was this need to hide, to stay in the shadows, a sense that a pursuer wanted to take your life. Surely no woman waited at home as this Jean said she had. No hearth was warm, no supper ready, no bed soft. Only the dark cold cobblestones of the back alleys felt comfortable.

The first night in this house, Jean took you to a large bed under a flickering golden ceiling.  Her pale arms wrapped around you, her breasts heaved against your chest from her rapid breathing. "You're home now, my love.  I never lost faith." 

It would have been easy to complete this act. You were urgent and hot between your bodies, her scent was intoxicating. Her touch seemed as familiar as that of a longtime lover, but she was a stranger.  For all these months you'd been another man, not her Lucien, women had reached for you, offered you this but something had stopped you. Had it been her holding your urges in check?  

You'd left the bed, her embrace, and slept on the floor wedged between a dresser and a corner. This felt right and familiar. Later you moved to a bedroom by the front door; easier to leave when this all becomes too much. It is nearly too much;  you vibrate like a plucked violin string all the time.  

The other woman breaks your paralysis as she rises from the lounge chair where she's been reading a psychology book. "I shall help with the preparation as well." She is Alice, and she tells you that she worked with you in your role as police surgeon. An odd thing for a lady to do, but her steady, competent gaze shows she could dissect a corpse with ease.

You see dead bodies when you close your eyes, and you didn't know why.  Or why you were a doctor if these thoughts fill you with dread.  Shaking your head, you trail the others to the kitchen.  

"Lucien, why don't you peel the potatoes for us?"  The one called Alice remains cool and controlled, even as your wife bunches her shoulders at the sink and scrubs the carrots much too hard. 

"Ever since I came to work at the hospital, you've made me welcome in your home at Christmas time," Alice explains as she takes down the china from the cupboards.  "I'm an awful cook, so I try to help by setting the table, and bringing the wine."

You smile encouragingly.  She cocks an eyebrow.  No, you don't remember. 

Matthew limps to the table where a bowl of potatoes waits.  "I'm a much better help."  Waving the paring knife at Alice, he notes, "You should be able to slice and dice a spud if you can butcher a man like a suckling pig."

"That's simply a matter of anatomy," she counters, "from years of study. I've not had the time to apply myself to cookery."

"Leave her be," Jean says sharply.  "She doesn't need to cook."

You don't like to see her upset.  "What's going to be on for dinner beside potatoes?"  What do people eat at Christmas Eve?  "Goose?"  Once, there was a goose...but not here. Not in this bright light. Dim evenings, lamplight casting into dark rooms from the streets outside.  A roaring fire, not these warm Australian summer nights.

Although she's not happy that you don't know, she's relieved that you're trying.  "Goodness no. Too greasy.  We do a nice pork roast, with roasted potatoes, pumpkin, honeyed carrots, buttered brussel sprouts and my Nanna's plum pudding for afterwards."  

You can smell the pork even though you know it's still sitting raw on a plate in the fridge.  "It's delicious," and she gives a genuine smile.  

"Yes, yes it is, if I may say so myself."  

Matthew clears his throat and you look down at the unpeeled potatoes.  Picking up the knife with one hand and a spud with the other, you are uncertain what's next.  Matthew still watches, and slows his motion so you can observe.  Carefully, mustn't cut a finger, the curl of peeling gives satisfaction.  You're surprised to find your forehead moist with sweat when you finish.  

The meal is equally torturous, with many more prompts: as host, you pour the wine, slice the meat, pass the dishes.  

Finally Alice lifts her glass and offers a toast that makes no one feel better: "To old friends, together again."

All through the meal, there is a tension beyond your missing past.  It has form and shape.  You've watched the lurking figure in the shadow out of the corner of your eye. Jean doesn't see it, Matthew seems to ignore it, Alice keeps her back to it.  But you see it.  You want to trust these people, but can't from the way Matthew and Alice meet gazes, then their eyes dart away.  They whisper near those shadows, then part, watching Jean to assure she hasn't seen.  They watch you too, checking if your attention is caught.  Months on the streets of Melbourne have taught you how to keep your attention one place, while the hunter's heart watches another.  

"I suppose I should be getting home," Alice says, beginning the process of giving her farwells, gathering her handbag, and moving to the door.  You stay back at the table, observing the scene, alert for that deception that weighs heavily on your shoulders.

"Lucien, aren't you going to thank our guest for coming?"  Jean is losing patience with you, but it doesn't matter.  You will bring light to the shadows. 

Matthew is equally nonchalant, tossing a "Seeya then," to Alice, then wandering back to the lounge and his newspaper.  

You face Alice and don't like how her level gaze probes. Give a smile, a kiss on the cheek, and she pulls back, containing a shudder.  Sometimes moving closer will push someone away.  

The door shuts. "It's been a long evening. I think I'd better go to bed," you announce.  Jean steps into your kiss, holding her close until you can feel her fingers' grip through your shirt. Retreating through the bedroom doorway, the heavy walnut door closes off her pained expression.

When the darkness covers the entire house, and the only sound is the low buzz of frogs, you leave the house and wait in the deep shadows by the garage. Patience is rewarded. The front door cracks open and a figure stumbles through. In the time it takes Matthew to lock the door, you dart to the auto, slide into the backseat, holding the door closed but not latched. Matthew comes to the driver's door and gets behind the wheel. As he slams his door, you can secure yours.  

The auto moves slowly down the drive then picks up speed after turning onto the street.  Minutes pass until Matthew stops and turns off the engine.  You press down on the floorboards, holding your breath so he won't notice you.

His dragging steps fade away. Sliding from the auto, you crouch in the carpark, spotting Matthew as he goes through a side door of a large building.  It's the hospital, quiet and still this late on Christmas Eve.

You follow, silent on light feet. The hunt feels good after weeks confined in that house.  Matthew's distinct footfall is easy to track through the tiled corridors.  You seem to know where you're going, and it's not necessary to trail him closely. Downstairs, as he travels from spot to spot of light, you remain in the shadows.  At the end of a corridor, he pauses, glancing behind him and you melt back into an alcove.  He goes through a swinging door.  You wait, but he doesn't come out, minute after minute passing.  Finally, you move forward.  At the door, you listen.  Low voices, speak, long pauses, speak again with urgency but you cannot make out the words.  

You dare to push open the door the slightest of cracks.  Easing closer, you peer through.

There's a small Christmas tree on a stainless steel topped gurney.  Two glasses of champagne sit beside it, untouched.  Your gaze refocuses at the sound of movement....and Matthew Lawson and Alice Harvey are engaged in an act of intimacy across the room.

Stepping back, you carefully ease the door shut and reflect. You dare to murmur, "Bloody hell." If they are involved in any conspiracy, it is none of your business.  Retracing your steps, you find your way outside and look up and down the street. On Christmas Eve, there are no cars or taxis.  It's a warm summer night, the sky full of stars. A walk will do no harm.  You know you were once a larger man because your clothes now hang on your frame.  Jean tries to fatten you up, but if you had an interest in extra pudding, it's fled. Sturdier limbs would be welcome.  

A mile along a dark street, headlights catch you.  The urge to flee is strong, and when the vehicle is revealed to be a blue police car, it's nearly overwhelming.  It stops beside you.

A blockish face peers out.  "What's up, Doc," says the policeman, a sneer on his lips. 

You are a doctor.  You are Doctor Lucien Blake. "I'm out for a stroll."

"Pretty far from home."

"The time escaped me."

"Get in and I'll give you a ride."  It was not a suggestion, but an order.  

You take the passenger seat after pausing at the back door, wondering if you should sit in the criminal's place.  

"Out drinking."  Again, not a question.  The policeman drives swiftly but not recklessly.

"No."  You realise that you haven't had a drink in days, weeks, when was the last time you drank?  But you tasted whisky on your tongue the moment he said drink.  

"Jean will wonder where you got to." 

You don't like the way this man says your wife's name.  You have no reply. 

He's turned down your street--how do you know your street?--but as relief washes over you, he speaks again. "It would have been better for everyone if you'd stayed dead."  He pulls into the drive.

You don't reply until you're out of the car.  "But I am back and I'm not going anywhere."  Every day you want to leave, but saying it aloud means it's true.  

You don't thank him for the ride.  

Inside the front door that you open as quietly as you can, Jean is standing, her sheer dressing gown flowing around her slender legs, her face white, her knuckles tight on her clenched fists.  "Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk."

"You've been gone for hours."

She's the watcher, not Matthew and Alice. 

"I lost track of time."  It's a foolish thing to say.  

Her fingers lace with yours.  "You're freezing."

"It's a warm night."

"You're freezing," she repeats, and tugs you past the first bedroom door and down the hall to the magnificent room that she calls your bedroom.  It's made you ache to enter it.  It speaks to a special sort of marriage, where there's the intimacy of two people spending time alone before a fire, one reading aloud from the many volumes lining the room while another listens; her knitting while you warm your socked feet; of time spent in the large bed set at the middle of the room like a throne.  

She pulls you down to the bed, and slips her dressing gown from her shoulders before holding you close. "We don't--please just let me hold you. Warm you up."  Her skin is heated and smells welcoming. Your head drops to her shoulder as you're suddenly exhausted. 

"Tired, my love?"

"Always."

The two of you stretch out atop the bedspread, and stare at the dead fire, suddenly muted.  Finally she asks again, "Where did you go?"

After considering lying, you keep it short. "I followed Matthew.  I wanted to know where he was going so late."

She goes bolt upright.  "Oh, Lucien!"

"What?"

She flops back down.  "Did you see anything?"

You don't want to shock Jean--

"You did.  I hope you didn't embarrass them."

"I'm sure they didn't see me."  You clear your throat.  "They were occupied."

Her arms around you, her legs twining with yours.  "Just don't tell anyone.  It's their secret."

"But you know."

 "Silly," she calls you. 

"Do you want me to go?"

"Please don't."  Her arms tighten.  

Forcing yourself to relax, you listen for your memory in her soft limbs and steady breathing.  She remains a stranger but you still close your eyes, and allow sleep to come.  

Christmas day dawn filters around the heavy curtains, waking you before Jean.  In the night, she's rolled over, her back to you.  Sunbeams illuminate her spine--you see pearls down her back, she's turning to hand her bouquet to a young woman--

Your fingertips trace this sharply focused picture along her vertebrae, causing her to murmur and roll to face you.  Sleepily, her eyes open then widen at your intense gaze.  "Do you remember something?"

You need to respond to her pain-filled hope.  "I've never forgotten I love you.  Never."  

Even as she collapses against your chest, you know that's not enough.  If you loved her, why didn't you come back?  Why did you stay away all these long months?

She kisses you anyway, tentative at first, then soft and warm, her chilled fingers plucking at your shirt buttons.  Her spine arches and presses her writhing body to yours, and memories don't matter.  Just this feeling of belonging to someone--this someone who seems to fit with your limbs like puzzle pieces.  

A ringing from across the room; the phone is ringing.  

"Jean--"

She wriggles free.  "It's probably Christopher calling to wish us Happy Christmas.  I don't want to miss the call."  She does lean over for a quick kiss, and promises, "I'll keep it short though." 

But when she picks up the receiver, her expression becomes worried.  "Danny?"  She half-turns away.

Danny...sandy-haired lad in a blue uniform.  You in court again, more charges for petty larceny.  None of it matters.  A night in jail is a night with a bed and supper assured.  But this time, one of the coppers in the seats waiting for his case called out: "Doc!"  He was calling to you, recalling another life that you could not remember.   

"Are there more charges?" Jean murmurs, winding the phone cord around her nervous fingers.

His fines had been paid, the shop owner repaid handsomely for his troubles.  He'd been carried away from Melbourne in a large auto, this woman, this wife, his Jean beside him, her hand clinging to his arm tightly enough to hurt.  

"Yes, yes, you can come by--"  She glances to you, and you rise, straightening your clothes.  "Charlie's with you too?  What's wrong?"  Frustrated, she says, "Alright, we'll be ready for you."  She rings off.

"They'll be here in about twenty minutes."  She moves to the wardrobe.  "You've met Danny, but Charlie is an old friend as well."  She's become used to introducing everyone to you before we met again. 

She hands you a set of fresh clothing, and you take them slowly.  It feels as though you're dressing for a tribunal.   

Two young men arrive, the one called Danny in a uniform, and a stranger in a dark suit with a portfolio under his arm.  They are not dressed for a Christmas Day visit, and their faces are grave.

Jean, her hands shaking as she grips the tray with teapot and cups, leads them to the lounge.  After she pours, she sinks down beside you on the settee to face them.

"This is Charlie Davis," says Danny, "he's a detective with the Melbourne police."

"A detective," you repeat. 

The two men lock eyes, as though gathering their courage.

Charlie removes a photograph from his portfolio and puts it on the table before you.  "Do you know this man?"

It's an older man, about your age, with blank sullen eyes and a scar along his jaw.  You touch your beard that covers your scars.  You know they're there even if you can't see them.  

"Who is he?" Jean asks. 

You keep staring at the picture.  "He's dead."  You know this because his very image crushes your chest, makes your eyes burn, causes blood to rush in your ears.  

Jean grips your hand tightly but you don't acknowledge her.

"His badly decomposed body was found three weeks ago, downstream from the bridge where you were last seen."

"You don't believe--" Jean gasps.

"A suicide note was found inside his pocket," Charlie quickly explains, meeting gazes with Danny again.

"At the same time that you disappeared, Doc," says Danny, "A woman named Vera Griffith was found murdered in her home.  Her husband was missing."  He nods to Charlie, as though they were passing a football back and forth.  

"When I did my initial investigation of the murder scene," Charlie says, "Lucien's fingerprints were found on the doorknob."

This time, Jean can't even protest.  She sags against you, but your body is frozen with terror.  

Danny doesn't look at his aunt when he admits,  "We kept this from you, Auntie Jean. We weren't sure what had happened--"

She spits out, "That's why you shut down any inquiries I made--"

"We were protecting you, Jean," Charlie offers but she only huffs louder.

Your question stops the argument: "Did I kill this poor woman?" 

Shaking his head, Charlie taps the photo.  "This is Michael Griffith, her husband.  The suicide note was saturated with water, but our forensic scientists were recently able to decipher it.  He confessed to the crime and that he was killing himself as well."

Jean sputters angrily, but your heartbeat thumping erratically between relief and anxiety.  

"With the discovery of Griffith's body," Charlie says, "I searched their house again; tore it apart."  He removes a thick folder from the portfolio.  "I found a number of letters from Doctor Blake."

Jean turns to you.  "Did you know him well?"

A flash of irritation. Of course you did. The blood in your ears has become pounding waves, and bury your head in your hands. It was cold and dark on the bridge. Shouting voices--you wanted him to come to you, to stop talking madness, why was he covered in blood?  Why so much blood?

Jean takes the letters.  "What's in them?" 

"We need you to give us that answer," Charlie says to you, not Jean.  "They're one side of the correspondence and don't tell us much. We're hoping his letters are here."  Now he asks Jean, "Did you find any letters from Griffith?"

She shifts away on the settee, blushing. You're confused at her embarrassment.  Of course she would go through your things when you disappeared, trying to find an answer.  

"Just a bit," she admits, "But I know one place I didn't look."   She hops from the settee and hurries from the room.  You remain staring at the picture until she returns with a large metal box.

"Let me get that for you, Auntie Jean," Danny says, but she holds it away, giving it to you instead.  

"It's Lucien's."  

The box is heavy. You open the lid slowly and are confronted by a charcoal drawing of an unspeakable act being done by a Japanese soldier to a child.  Jean watches you turn the drawings, one after the other.  These are horrible images, but you cannot look away.  Each one must be carefully examined.  When the final one is seen, there's a bundle of letters underneath. You say, "Mike did the drawings.  He didn't want to keep them after the war, but I couldn't see them destroyed.  He thought if he burned them, those memories would go away.  They never go away."

Jean stands. "Why don't you boys go down to the station. Matthew's on shift for the holidays."  She's ordering them out of the house, and they know it. After looking yearningly at the letters, they leave.

When she returns from shutting the door behind them, she says, "Drink your tea."

"I've got to go through these letters."

"Drink your tea," she orders more forcibly.   "I'll organise them."

As you down your tea thirstily, she puts the letters together, yours and Michael's, by postal mark date. 

"Do you want to read them, or shall I?" she asks.

You touch the stack carefully, as one would lift a hot kettle.  "I'll read the ones I wrote. Can you read Michael's?"

She hesitates, then nods.  The first letter is from Michael.  He had reached out to Lucien Blake after years of silence, reminding him that they had been in the same prisoner of war camp but had gone separate ways after returning to Australia. Now he wrote in distress.  

"Sorry to be a bother, mate, but I saw your wedding announcement in the paper and thought I'd drop a line.  How are you getting on?  ...I can't stop the nightmares, haven't slept in days. "  Jean puts down the page and looks expectantly at you.

"I am so very sorry to hear things are getting you low, Mike, and that I hadn't replied sooner. I've been on my honeymoon. If you need to talk, I'm up in Melbourne now and then."

The letters went on in the same tone, Lucien trying to help Mike, until the week before your disappearance. 

Griffith had written: "No matter what I do, I can't keep the dark thoughts away.  I'm just so bloody angry.  Vera does nothing to help, always yapping at me to try harder. I do try, and find myself right back in this hell. How do you keep the wife off your back?"

You look down at the page before you.  "Vera only wants what's best for you. Just as Jean knows the man I can be, so I work every day to be that man. You were a great artist at the darkest time and you can be great again.  I'm coming to Melbourne to follow up on a case next week.  Let's get together, and see if we can get you through this."

Jean taps the empty table.  "That's the last of them. Why didn't you tell me about meeting up with Mike?"  She's the most hurt that you've seen her.

"Our life was going so well.  My troubles were behind us.  If you saw this...afraid that you'd come to fear me as Vera rightly feared Mike."  These are less certain memories of Lucien Blake, more words that just appear on your tongue.  

She starts to protest, but then stops.  Carefully, she says, "I can never know what you feel, but I do want to help."

 Lifting her hand to your lips, you press a kiss to it. 

She turns her hand to cradle your cheek.  She whispers, "Do you remember what happened?  Were you there when he did it?"

You cling to her hand as the room goes dark.  You whimper, "I don't want to go back."

"If you go back to that day, perhaps you can go back to the day before and the day before that, and find yourself," she says urgently.  "And I'll be there.  I'll always be there to catch you when you fall."

You're shaking.  "It's cold. I'm cold."

Her mouth is close to your ear. "Is Mike there?"

"Yes."

"What's happening?"  She pulls you into her arms and holds you with fierce strength.

"I went to their house.  Vera was already dead.  I told Mike we had to go to the police.  He laughed.  Said I would do the same some day. I'd snap."  You're babbling.  "I tried to force him to his car and he knocked me down.  When I got up, he'd run...run to the river....the bridge."

"You tried to stop him."

"Yes."

"But he'd already planned to jump."

"S'pose."  You're so very tired.  Can barely speak. 

"He wanted to take you with him," she breathes, clinging to your heaving back. 

"Did he?"

"You never would have jumped."

"No. But I had to try to stop him.  I had to," you sob.

"Yes, you always need to try."

"Then he was falling...I was falling....we were falling."   

"You survived again.  He fell, but you lived."

You can't even hold your head up.  You accept her embrace, your face in the shelter of the crook of her neck.  "But your Lucien is gone."

"For now."  Her hand makes soothing circles on your back. Minutes pass.  Her hand presses your chest over your heart.  "But this Lucien, perhaps he's come home to stay."

"Perhaps," you choke out.  The photos have been everywhere, people talk about Lucien Blake--his humour, his compassion, his passion--as though he's not the man whose body you live in.  Surely you're not enough for her?  

Gently she disentangles herself and goes to the tree.  She plucks a small gold box from one of the branches.  Sitting beside you again, she cradles the box, seeming nervous. 

"You remembered our wedding?"

"I think so.  Parts."  I feel as dizzy as if dancing. Music playing--

"The Christmas before our wedding, I set the date.  Perhaps we should make that our new tradition."  She turns my hand over and places the box in it.  "Will you marry me again?"   

Opening the box, I see a wedding band inside.  After staring at it for a long moment, I ask, "Jean...you'd marry this man?"

"You have come back to me, don't you see that?"  

I barely nod. The stone as been cleaved, and memories are seeping through. 

Her chin goes up.  "So, then, will you marry me?  On our anniversary?"

March, our anniversary is in March.  "Let's do the ceremony in the sunroom.  I'll get my kiss this time."

She's breathing as though running.  "You haven't answered my question."

I face her, tracing the tears on her cheeks with my thumbs.  "I will, Jean.  I will marry you."