Page 170 of Crocodile Tears

He didn’t want to go back to bed in case the nightmare returned. He couldn’t face it again. He glanced at his watch to find it was nearly 3a.m. He longed to go to the gym, find a sparring partner, and lose himself in a fight, but did he really want to show up at work in a few hours with more unexplained bruises, especially with the nation’s press camped outside?

He had to have a distraction. He’d go mad without it. There was only one other thing he could think of – a poor substitute, but it’d have to do. He strode along the hall to the box room and wrenched open the door.

The room was small and contained only one thing: a heavy punch bag he’d hung from the ceiling many years ago. It wasn’t the same as going to the gym, or the satisfying sensation of punching real flesh, but it was all he had.

He didn’t bother to turn on the light, tape up his fists, or put on the gloves hanging from the back of the door. He wanted it to hurt.

Pounding away at the bag, he tried to lose himself in the repetitive sensation. When he was in the zone, he could forget about everything else. He hit harder, faster, chasing that elusive oblivion, but it didn’t come.

Details of the past few days played out in his head: Dacre’s corpse lying in that room full of ghostly holopics; the press hounding him; the mystery of who had sent the gun to Inquisitus; the red car standing reproachfully in the garage, only half polished… and Alexander Lytton sitting on the swing in the garden, looking so lost.

“You should move on. Let me go and move on,”Peter’s voice said.

“I don’t want to let you go.” He redoubled his efforts, hitting the punch bag with all his might.

“It’s been seven years, Joe. That’s a hell of a long time, even for you. It’s driving you crazy.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look it.”Peter gave a ghostly chuckle.“You’re attracted to Alexander, but it’s driving you nuts because you think it’s a betrayal. It’s not, you know. You can’t betray me because I’m dead. You should know that – you were there.”

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he screamed, punching harder, sweat pouring down his face.

His heart was beating fast, his knuckles were red, covered in his own blood, but all he could see was Peter’s blood, pumping out over his hands as he tried uselessly to stem the tide.

Peter left at first light the next day, with Hattie beside him. Josiah took her head in his hands and gazed into her loving brown eyes.

“Be a good dog,” he ordered. “And take care of him, because I won’t be there to do it.”

She snuffled her agreement, and he kissed her soft black face and petted her silky ears. Then he walked around to Peter’s side of the jeep, leaned in, and kissed him. Finally, he stepped back, stood to attention, and saluted.

Peter rolled his eyes, then gave him a half-salute, half-wave in reply,the dawn sun glinting on the gold ring on his finger. Josiah’s heart skipped a beat. His ring, on Peter’s finger. He waved back until the jeep became a tiny dot on the horizon and then disappeared from sight.

Returning to his quarters, he threw himself on the bed. He was going to take a shower, but he couldn’t bear to wash Peter’s scent off his body. For the past two weeks he’d spent nearly every second of every day with him and Hattie. They’d only been gone a few minutes, but already he missed the warm weight of his fiancé’s body, and the familiar snuffling sound of Hattie’s snoring.

He sat up suddenly. What the hell was he doing? He’d finally found love, and a family, and he’d sent them away – and all because of his stupid, unbending principles. He was an idiot.

He got up, rammed all his belongings into his knapsack, and ran outside to commandeer a motorbike.

Pausing only to pull on leathers and a helmet, he took off at breakneck speed, going so fast that he zoomed past Peter’s jeep, parked on the side of the road, an hour later. He saw it in his mirror and braked, tyres screeching, then swung the bike around and rode back.

Peter had stopped for breakfast and was sitting with the door open and his legs up on the dashboard, Hattie lolling beside him.

Pulling up beside them, Josiah jumped off the motorbike and strode over to the jeep, unbuckling his helmet as he walked. Hattie came running towards him, making high-pitched whines of excited recognition as if she hadn’t seen him for weeks rather than just a couple of hours.

Peter was on his feet, reaching for his gun, when he noticed Hattie’s reaction. Josiah took off his helmet, and Peter sank back against the vehicle, clutching his chest.

“Christ, Joe – you almost gave me a heart attack!” Peter put down his gun. “What are you doing here? Did I forget something?”

“No, I did.” Josiah placed his helmet on the bonnet of the jeep. “I forgot that I’m sending you back to a fucking war zone, with scavs all around. There is no way… no way” – he paused, his breath heaving in his chest – “you are going back into all that danger without me by your side.”

“What about joining the MPs?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It can wait until you’re ready to give up running convoys and let me make an honest man of you.”

“Fine, but I’ll never give up the Kathleen Line. You know that, don’t you?”

“All the more reason to come with you. You’ve clearly got a death wish; someone has to look out for you.”

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