The Things We Never Say

“Here, Commander,” the staff nurse pointed at the fine, dotted line, just as the church bells across the road chimed ten times. Distracted he placed his scrawl underneath the official discharge form, waited for his copy and folded it into his breastpocket, while he walked out of the hospital. His stay at Mayland had been perfunctory, making sure he was unharmed by the lack of oxygen during that submarine accident which nearly had cost his life. Unlike Nina Barry’s his health had not suffered at all.

Nina. Their last exchange, only minutes ago, kept intruding on his thoughts.

The things we never say.

Her eyes had held the answer to that. For the fragment of a second, then it washed away in that liquid regard she awarded the world with, a doe on the surface, fierce inside.

She had always been like that, right from the start, so long ago. Loyal, conscientious, incorruptible, and willing to go through hell and back for him. It had taken him years to understand this, and more years yet to grasp the why and the how. And down there in that crushed metal sphere, looking death straight into the face, she had owned up to it, had all but told him out loud.

He stepped through the entrance and walked into the parking lot, casting around for his car. Foster and Alec had brought it earlier, knowing how much he hated taxis or having to ask for a ride. He wanted to drive himself home, alone. He needed to find his calm again, and mechanical tasks did that to him. The whole experience had not been a nice, or a rewarding one.

The things we never say.

Had it been approaching death that made Nina acknowledge her feelings for him? And why, after so many years had he still felt unable to respond? Down there, why still that rigid adherence to a military code that had crushed even the slightest thought of treating staff as anything other than off limits from him. So utterly beyond even the idea of anything but a professional relationship, that for a long time he had failed to see the extent of her devotion.

The car pulled out into the country road, wind-blown, with leaves slicking the wet tarmac. He had never liked November much. Half an hour and he would be home. No shift duty until Monday morning either. He had a whole weekend to himself, at Alec’s and Jackson’s insistence. He was not so sure whether that had been a good idea.

The things we never say.

Should he have said something? Should he have recognized her love, a love she had not admitted to until the very last moment of her life? Or so she had thought. Rejecting her again, with the most inadequate of all concessions, had not felt acceptable at all this morning. So why had he hurt her yet again?

The heavy limousine swept past reclusive country homes, along empty village roads. It was a quiet Saturday morning. Nary a car passed him, part of him would have welcomed the usual bustle. At least it would have kept his mind occupied.

It was not as if there had been, ever, any question of responding to her in kind. Her long silence, spanning so many years, showed just how well she understood, and that her affection extended to include the wish not to raise any dilemma for him. Little did she know that she had already been the last nail in the coffin for his marriage. Nina of all possibilities, the one woman who not only loved him, but had been resolved up to the moment of her death to not accost him with that love.

The things we never say.

He turned left for Iver at the townhall of Hayes, barely noticing the clock read a quarter past by now. His usual route was a half hour drive, at a leisurely pace. The typical British November drizzle had set in, so different from the crisp cold weather Boston would have now, or the icy Northeasterners washing through the town at short notice. Instead the fine rain laid itself on the countryside like the palest of burial shrouds. Straker burrowed deeper into the soft leather seat.

He had no answer. Not a real one anyway. The closest to one had been the memories of Mary and John, these regrets which had pushed themselves in on him right then, when he had faced the fact he was dying. And with those had come the feeling of betraying Mary, even though he had not done that, had not even dreamed of ever doing something like that. This was nothing to tell a woman who had hidden her love for him for so many years. Nothing he could tell a woman who had been the cause of his divorce, inspite of that.

The things we never say.

As always the queasy feeling as he drove through the narrow tunnel underneath the Orbital. Shroeder had been too enthusiastic then, he thought with a sigh. Almost home now.

No.

He heaved a deep breath, shaking his head, though no one was there to watch. Irritated he stilled himself. He had to cease lying even to himself. Those photos were not the reason why Mary had left him.

Today, after all these years, after such a close brush with death that indeed his life and his regrets had shown themselves to him, he needed to accept that if it had been only this one suspicion, then Mary would have forgiven him. After a while. Maybe even listened to what he had had to say.

The things we never say.

He turned right for Iver Heath in the middle of the village, slowly, so the heavy car would not skid on the cobblestones. Home shortly, he thought, and winced when the memory intruded in full force. That memory he had shoved aside even down in the submarine, even at the moment of death.

He really had buried that, hadn’t he? So like his father. And something he had never wanted to be. Never.

It had not even been the look of utter shock and humiliation on Mary’s face, nor the expression of fear, which had stopped him in his tracks then. Mortified beyond any recourse. It had been that one sliver of a second where he had felt satisfaction. That reprehensible, that awful satisfaction in the resounding slap he had dealt her, the cracking sound, the deep sting in his hand, which he knew right then had to be so much worse for Mary. That satisfaction.

The things we never say.

He stopped the car between villages, letting it roll onto the curb and hugged himself closely, laid back his head, in the attempt to stave the tears which burnt, harsh and salty, in his eyes. They spilled anyway.

Wife-beater.

That was how he had called his father just before leaving home. With such absolute contempt. So cocksure that he never would do this to any woman.

There was another word for what he had done, not just for that act of violence either. Abuse. That covered all that he had inflicted on Mary. All those empty hours of waiting, all the thoughtlessness and neglect.

No. She had not left him because of those photos. He had treated her with disrespect, with contempt even, and in the end, just as an inconsequential burden at times. Not like his wife, not like a breathing, living human being, who was entitled to his love and caring.

And then, when she had drawn the consequences at last, after years of neglect, and yes, also resentment, he had hit her. Right in the face. Hard.

The things we never say.

He was unable to stop the tears now, they were streaming down his face. Realisation and insight. And so much shame. At last. After so many years. He was shaking with the effort.

Hunting for some handkerchief in his briefcase, he kept rubbing at his cheeks and eyes. Even alone and safe here in his car he was unable to accept the pain. He found a towelette, steeped in eau de cologne, and ripped the envelope open. The sharp tang of alcohol and perfume, the cooling of his skin, helped him pull himself together.

He started the car again, made for the road and instead of going straight, he turned left at the next crossing, for Wexley.

The things we never say.

He stared at the digital display. A minute to eleven.

The long stretch of lawn was the same. The trees were higher, and the bushes fuller. Beautiful beds of roses, marguerites and cornflowers. He had not been here since John’s death.

Straker killed the engine, left the car and walked up the path to the entrance. Drawing a deep breath, he tugged his jacket straight and stretched out his hand to ring the bell, but the door swung open before he had touched it. He moved back a step, suddenly afraid he would have to face Steven.

“I am sorry,” he said, and watched Mary’s eyes widen with what she read in his.

Listening.

© June 2011

As with all my UFO stories this one is transposed to the current day, with general technology updated, but none of the other facts altered in any way. This story takes place directly after Subsmash.

A one hour piece.