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Sep 22, 2023

Only in the Scant Light

Half a scoff escapes his mouth before Harjit manages to rein himself back in. Having recomposed himself his next words are careful and controlled. “It’s not that—” Harjit glances around the room and lowers his voice a bit. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of grief; grief alone I could handle. In truth, it’s not knowing how to feel about Lucian that I struggle with. The constant shifting between mourning him, to feeling like a fool for doing so because clearly he must have just become bored of me and left and then despising myself because what if he’s out there lost or injured while I just sit here forgetting what he looks like? Any one of them I could cope with but all at the same time? I don’t know what to do with that.” In a pub down in Fallen London, after a long afternoon walking the beat, a conversation take the turn to the personal.

[AO3]

It had not been a particularly productive morning. Having already worked through the streets neighbouring Mrs Chapman’s over the past few weeks you had been forced to set off further afield in search of new census subjects. This was easier said than done given the significantly more ambulatory nature the buildings of London had developed since their descent through the earth. Early this morning you’d set off in a random direction searching for new territory, trying to remember the little tricks Harjit had taught you to prevent oneself from getting turned around (Keep the destination clear in your mind. Sometimes you must move backwards to go forwards. Do not panic.) but more than once you’d found yourself right back where you’d started. Then when you finally managed to reach an unfamiliar street all the reward you got was a brief look at the Ministry insignia attached to your chest and a door slammed in your face. Eighteen damn times in a row.

Dejected, you unpin the badge from your lapel and slip it into your pocket as you turn back towards what you hope is home. If not, you’ll likely be wandering until evening and have to face Griz over the dinner table with nothing to show. Again. Picking your way through the cobbled streets you allow yourself to be consumed by your annoyance. Is it helpful to grumble about ungrateful, ignorant people who can’t even be bothered to answer a few simple questions? No. But it makes you feel better, so you let yourself indulge.

Turning the corner onto what is either a familiar street or confirmation that the butcher’s shop that used to be three roads over from Mrs Chapman’s has moved again you spot a familiar figure. Even from the back Harjit Singh is unmistakeable in his blue constable’s coat and turban. He’s not that far ahead so you go to call out his name in greeting but find it sticks in your throat. Maybe you’re embarrassed to reveal you might be lost to someone who always makes traversing these streets look easy, maybe you’re still feeling sore about your morning and don’t want to inflict your distemper on an innocent party, maybe you just want to be left alone. Whatever the reason you regret it almost instantaneously; he’s travelling in the same direction as you and now you’re stuck walking behind him. Not so close for your behaviour to be considered rude but still, it’s awkward. With every passing footstep the thought repeats itself in your mind, just do it, just say something. Instead, the momentum of your inaction carries you forward and you continue on in silence, too caught up in thinking about speaking to actually do so. At least he’ll probably lead you back towards home.

Harjit however is an observant man and you are not particularly light-footed; it doesn’t take him long to notice your tread following him. One hand travels to his hip as he tenses and spins on a heel to face you, clearly prepared to dispatch some hideous beast that had begun stalking him. His eyes widen with surprise when, instead of monster or criminal, he encounters your slightly sheepish face. Unlike yourself he shows no hesitation in calling out your name, “Were you following me?”

“No,” you lie.

His eyebrow cocks in a way that suggests he knows you’re not being truthful but, if so, he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he waits patiently for you to catch up to him and then sets off once more on his original bearing. The two of you walk side by side, a respectful distance between you.

“Are you returning to Mrs Chapman’s?” he asks.

“Yes, not that I’ve got much done this morning. I’m going to grab some dinner but I’ll need to set out again in the afternoon. If I can bring myself to,” you mutter the last sentence under your breath.

“You’re still working on the census?” He looks at the front of your coat, presumably noticing the absence of the ministry pin that you had taken to always wearing while on ‘official’ business.

“Yes, for all the good it’s doing me,” you sigh, “I know I sound terribly ungrateful and I’m not. Griz really stuck her neck out getting me this job and she didn’t have to. I needed the money, still do to be honest, so I’m very grateful to her. It’s just not work that I enjoy. Or that I’m any good at.”

“You seemed well enough suited to it when you interviewed me.”

“Try telling that to the fine residents of…” You turn to point back the way you came, acutely aware that you aren’t actually certain what direction that is. “I honestly have no idea what road I was just on. But they made it quite clear they were not interested in any questions I might have. It was different with you; I already knew you. That made it easier. Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me whine the entire way back to Mrs Chapman’s… err, if that is where you’re headed?”

“It is. I thought you might be lost— “

“I was not!”

“—so I was going to walk you home. But, if I’m not needed, I can just continue along my rounds…”

Panic sets in. You could probably find your way back from here, maybe, but you haven’t been paying much attention to where you were going since you joined up with Harjit, concentrating instead on the conversation and content to let the man whose job it was do the pathfinding. You try to school your face so your anxiety doesn’t show. You are a grown adult after all who can definitely find their own way home, not some lost child. When you think you’ve gotten your expression under control you look up to meet Harjit’s eyes and— oh, the bastard is smirking!

“You’re quite cruel.” Are you pouting? Surely not.

Harjit chuckles, and dear god you might be pouting.

“And you are quite lost,” he fires back.

“Fine.” You deflate, the tension dropping from your shoulders as your gaze drifts sideways, no longer able to look Harjit in the eye. “I may have gotten a little turned around.”

“And you would like my assistance in getting home.” It’s not a question.

“That would be much appreciated, thank you.”

Harjit offers his elbow to you and you link your arm through it. You feel slightly ridiculous, promenading along like a debutant at a ball but if Harjit feels self-conscious he doesn’t show it. He just walks alongside you, gently steering you in the correct direction whenever you go to make a wrong turn on your journey home.

“Thank you,” you say again, a little further into the walk when the buildings begin to look more recognisable.

“It’s no trouble, it’s my job.”

“No, not that. Well, yes that as well. But I was thanking you for the company, I was in a foul mood before and you’ve managed to knock me clean out of it.”

“Any time.” Harjit pauses before continuing, “Actually, if you’d like you could accompany me along my route some time? It might help you to get a little better orientated. Only if you wanted to, naturally.”

You mull the offer over. You’ve walked with Harjit before today of course, but only when you had enlisted him specifically to show you to a new location. Most of the conversations the two of you had shared had been on the occasions when he visited Mrs Chapman’s: either when he stopped by on his rounds to check in on the household or the times he arrived specifically to see Archie or yourself with some query, often about Lucian. Walking around the neighbourhood might be helpful and not just from a navigation perspective. It would be nice to have something to do outside of your room. Something a bit more normal than collecting overly personal information for your sinister, becloaked employer or the potentially treasonous activity Archie had roped you into helping him with.

Taking your hesitation for nerves Harjit carries on, “I wouldn’t take you anywhere dangerous and if anything happened, I am armed. I’d keep you safe, I swear it.”

As if your safety had been a concern! The idea any harm would befoul you with Harjit by your side had never entered your mind but his comment jars you into realising you had yet to answer him.

“Yes, I’d like that. Although wouldn’t I get in the way?”

“You’re not that much trouble. You just get a little turned around sometimes,” Harjit looks at you fondly as he speaks, “and a second pair of eyes would be helpful.”

Yes, accompanying Harjit sounded like a very fine way to spend an afternoon. Much more pleasant and interesting than, say, the tasks you currently had planned for the rest of today. At that a question springs into your mind and you find yourself unable to resist asking, “Did you patrol the neighbourhood this morning?”

“No, but I am due to this afternoon.”

Perfect. “Perhaps I could accompany you after lunch?”

“Today? I thought you were going to work on the census again later?”

“Oh, to hell with the census!” you curse and Harjit looks a little startled at the outburst. “Sorry. I mean it though. I could stay out all night and likely as not get the same result I did this morning. Besides, even if I did get any more forms filled out who knows what the Masters are doing with them? Perhaps it’s better for everyone that I’m terrible at my job.” Taking a breath to steady yourself you continued, “What I meant to say is: yes, I’d like to accompany you this afternoon if that’s possible. Maybe then I’ll actually feel like I’ve done some good at the end of the day.”

As the pair of you round the corner you’re on the familiar front of Mrs Chapman’s reveals itself right where you had left it. Your stomach rumbles with anticipation. Having set out so early this morning you had skipped breakfast and now you were feeling it.

Even mushrooms seemed appealing.

Harjit stops and turns to face you, unlinking your arms. “Then I will leave you here and return shortly once you’ve had something to eat.”

“What, not going to walk me to the door? How ungentlemanly of you!”

“I thought even you could manage to safely navigate your way unchaperoned to a building clearly in view, but perhaps I’ve overestimated you,” Harjit teases but even so he starts walking alongside you again.

“Maybe I was just worried I’d be carried off by giant rats the moment you turned your back.”

“I’d have watched you safe to the door, have no fear.”

Testing the handle to your lodgings and finding in unlocked (as was, perhaps unwisely, the custom given how many people came and went from the building during the day) you turn to Harjit and ask, “When shall I expect you?”

“I’d need to have set off by one o’clock, is that enough time for you?”

“Plenty!” You give an awkward little wave at him from the door and then, cursing yourself, scurry inside before you can see his reaction.

... ... ...

You wolf down the leftover mushroom stew that Horatia had left out for you in record time and then sit thumbing your way through this morning’s newspaper without managing to take in a single word on the pages. It was perhaps a little silly for you to be so excited to shirk your job just to help out someone else with theirs but for once you were looking forward to the afternoon’s labour. That had been a rare state for you these past few weeks so who could blame you for enjoying it?

Well, Griz might if she got wind of it.

The house is surprisingly quiet for this time of day so there’s little to distract you from your waiting. You can hear Horatia banging about down in the basement doing god knows what but she doesn’t show her face. Later, as you begin to methodically rip the corners off the broadsheet you’ve given up on reading, Archie passes you with a quizzical look on his way out the door, his little doctor’s kit in hand, but he doesn’t stop to say much more than a brief greeting to you. Griz thankfully is nowhere to be seen.

True to his word Harjit knocks on the door shortly before the clock in the parlour strikes one. Instead of racing to answer it like you want to you remain seated for what feels like the appropriate amount of time to signal ‘no I wasn’t sat by the door waiting for you, I am an interesting person with other things going on in their life’. Only then do you carefully place the now mutilated newspaper back down on the table and approach the door. You open it to reveal Harjit on the doorstep looking much the same as you’d left him.

“Punctual as always Constable Singh,” you greet him.

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he replies.

“Oh, don’t worry, you didn’t! Just give me a second to fetch my coat and we can be off.”

You collect your coat from the back of the chair where you’d tossed it upon your return. Shrugging the garment onto your shoulders you stop to readjust it and check you have everything before leaving. The outer pockets contain mainly scraps of partially completed census forms and other detritus, the inner one holds your house key and what few Echoes you currently have to your name. You give it quick pat down to confirm nothing is missing and, satisfied by the clinking you hear, step out into the misty London air closing the front door behind you. Harjit is patiently waiting for you on the pavement and you scurry down the steps at the front of the building to join him.

“So, what do you need me to do exactly?” you ask as the pair of you set out across the damp paving slabs.

“For now, just walk with me to the end of the street. Then we’ll each take a side and patrol along it. All you have to do is keep your eyes out for anything untoward or out of place, or anyone in need of help.”

“How are we defining out of place? Rats wielding tiny rifles out of place? Sentient swarm of bees out of place? Giant, blood thirsty, man-eating bat out of place?"

There’s a twitch of a smile on Harjit’s face, one he suppresses quickly to avoid encouraging you.

“Anything that you would be alarmed to find. If you’re in any doubt just call me over, better to be safe than sorry. Also, there are a few buildings I will need to check on. You can accompany me into some of them but if I ask you to stay outside, I need you to do as I say. Understood? If you can’t do that then I’ll have to call this whole thing off and you can return to Mrs Chapman’s right now.”

He’s deadly serious, there is no trace of your earlier banter.

You nod in agreement. “Understood.”

Besides, you’ve heard horror stories about what now lurks in the darkened corners of London and if Harjit says a building is not safe then you have no interest in entering it.

Satisfied you’ll do as you’re told, in this instance at least, Harjit walks you down to the end of the road and directs you across to the other side. Then the two of you work your way back up the parallel pavements. It’s quiet outside Mrs Chapman’s for once but you enjoy the gentle exercise and the peace while it lasts. Out of the corner of your eye, through the blanket of light fog, you keep watch of Harjit as he works. He searches with a practiced ease, the picture of efficiency, spending just enough time at each door and alley entrance to determine all is well without wasting a single unneeded second. You try to keep pace with him but it’s impossible to do so and remain satisfied that you’ve paid sufficient attention to your surroundings; in the end you settle for falling behind him. If it bothers him when he has to wait for you at the corner he doesn’t show it.

The remainder of the afternoon is spent in much the same way, the pair of you slowly working your way around Harjit’s designated beat. Not all streets are as quiet as the one Mrs Chapman’s sits upon.

On one a lady stops you to report a burglary. She launches into her complaint so quickly and with such frenetic energy you can’t quite manage to get a word in edgeways to explain that, whilst you might be accompanying a constable, you are not actually one yourself (as so readily demonstrated by your lack of blue coat and badge). Instead, you have to resort to frantically waving Harjit over, an action she takes great umbrage with. Luckily Harjit manages to calm her slightly as he jots her statement down in the little police notepad he carries around with him - although he does have to assure her that you will be suitably reprimanded by a superior for being out of uniform before she’s willing to let the two of you leave. Once you are out of her earshot Harjit drops his head to yours and explains close to your ear that such reports have become increasingly common in the neighbourhood and there was little hope of much recourse for the woman. Whatever had been stolen would be long gone.

On another road you find yourself distracted by a young lad with rosy cheeks and a cherubic face who stops you to ask very politely for directions. You’re about to tell him he couldn’t have picked a worse person and call Harjit over to assist when you turn and notice that he’s already standing right beside you; clutched in his grip is the wrist of a second boy, one whose hand had apparently been reaching into your coat pocket. Realising the jig is up the first lad bolts with such haste you only just catch a glimpse of the tattered back of his jacket disappearing into the gloom of a nearby passageway. The second lad struggles for a moment, clawing futilely at Harjit’s grip while unleashing a torrent of profanity that would make even the most hardened docker blush. Then he goes limp. You, naively, take this for capitulation instead of the feint it is and are stunned when next the boy launches a swift and brutal kick at Harjit’s shin. It has its desired effect, the pain causing Harjit’s grip to loosen just enough for the urchin to break free and flee after his accomplice. Harjit looks set to chase the pair but you talk him out of it. After all, you reason, it’s not like you even have anything worth stealing in that pocket. The worse the boy could have made off with was a crumpled handful of census forms and if the lad could find a use for them he would already have been doing better than you.

Harjit occasionally stops at buildings along your route just as he warned you he would when the two of you had set off. Some are populated and there he exchanges hushed whispers with whoever comes to the door. You stand off to the side, curiosity not quite able to overcome the manners drilled into you. More often the buildings are abandoned. With most of these he doesn’t invite you to follow him (although he rarely expressly forbids it) and on the whole you are content to wait outside; there’s something unsettling about these buildings: the way you could swear they didn’t exist until Harjit stops and points them out to you, the strange shadows at the windows that you have to turn away from to convince yourself it’s just a trick of the light.

This feeling of unease follows you into the one building you decide to accompany Harjit inside of. He on the other hand seems perfectly at home in the strange, decrepit house, more comfortable even than he appeared on the street outside. You cleave close to his back, hand poised ready to reach out and grab his coat sleeve at the slightest danger although it proves unnecessary. When you arrive at your destination, a room toward the back of the house, he invites you to look at the wall. At first there’s nothing there, just musty old wallpaper but you humour him and keep your eyes trained on it. Then it happens; the writing appears. Faint at first, a dull red. Then it grows brighter, amber to yellow to a blazing white like a fire stoked. The lettering is like nothing you’ve seen before, some esoteric ancient script no doubt. You feel the beginning of a headache come on and Harjit, sensing your distress, leads you out of the room. He explains on your way out of the building that some people react poorly to the writing but it should pass quickly now you’re no longer in its presence. Indeed, stood on the steps outside taking in deep breaths of cold, damp London air you feel much better. Harjit apologises and promises you needn’t accompany him into any further buildings, he says he just thought you might find it interesting. You wave his concern off and as you walk away your thoughts flick back to the symbols, turning them over in your mind. They were interesting. Maybe a future expedition to study them in more detail is in order. One when you are better prepared.

Later, after you had reached the halfway point of the route and begun to loop back toward home, you find yourself being hailed over to the other side of the road you’re on by Harjit. Down a darkened alley he shows you to his find - a seemingly abandoned litter of kittens, their piteous mewling clearly audible from the discarded crate they find themselves in. You crouch down to get a better look. They’re darling little things, barely old enough to open their bright blue eyes and you can’t help reaching out a finger to gently pet the closest silken head. Your mind promptly sets to work conjuring all manner of excuses to give to Horatia to convince her to let you keep them: they can live under my bed, I’ll feed them scraps from dinner; when they’re grown they’ll keep the rats out of the basement; just look at their tiny faces, how can you say no to them. Your thoughts come crashing to a halt however when it turns out the litter is considerably less abandoned than originally thought. Their mother returns, hissing and spitting contempt at the two of you and you beat a hasty retreat before she can sink her fangs into any wandering fingers.

By the time you two have circled back round to Mrs Chapman’s the afternoon has slipped well into evening. It’s hard to tell time without the sun to guide you but the lamps have been dimmed somewhat into what passes for dusk in the Neath. Your feet ache a little but it’s a pleasant ache. The ache of a job well done. You’re about to climb the steps when Harjit stops you just short of the door.

“You did well today,” he says.

“I got pickpocketed by an eight-year-old and nearly mauled by a tabby cat,” you respond but even the deadpan tone of your voice cannot negate the smile tugging at your lips.

“No beat is ever entirely smooth. I have colleagues who would have handled it worse.”

“Then that is a damning condemnation of the constabulary. But thank you. For all of this. I enjoyed it, and well, I do feel like I’m a bit better orientated in the neighbourhood.”

“How about a test then?” There’s mirth in Harjit’s eyes that from anyone else would have you worried you were about to be made the butt of a joke. “And if you’re not needed elsewhere perhaps a celebratory drink if you pass?”

Curious and thirsty you agree, “Why not?”

“Do you remember the public house we passed on our return leg? Three stories, green door. There was a drunken man hanging out of one of the upper windows singing.”

You have to rack your brains a bit but you think you know the one he’s referring to; a rendition of ‘Down Among the Dead Men’ that tuneless sticks in the memory.

“Do you mean The Gold and Fleece?”

“I do.” Harjit nods. “Do you think you could make your way back there unassisted?”

Up on the surface The Fleece had been your local, although it went by a different name then, but since the Fall your patronage had become sporadic. It had moved and the clientele had changed. You had changed. There had been that period when you hadn’t left your room much (or at all, to be truthful) and even after your recovery you hadn’t felt much up to the kind of socialising one does in a pub. You’d barely recognised the place when you passed it earlier, but yes, you believe you could find your way back to it.

“I do.”

“Then lead on.”

... ... ...

Luckily your confidence was not misplaced and you lead Harjit along the way back to The Gold and Fleece without any embarrassing missteps. The pair of you spend the walk in a comfortable silence, you concentrating hard on which way to turn next and Harjit politely allowing you the time to think. It doesn’t take you long to reach the pub but by the time you arrive you’re ready for a drink. You stop in front of the building before entering, the sound of patrons inside just about audible through the closed green door.

“Well, here we are,” you say with a little flourish of your hand toward the pub sign flapping gently above your heads.

“Well done.”

“Did you ever doubt me?” you tease.

Harjit only gives you a smile in answer, allowing you to draw your own conclusion, then he reaches past you to the handle and opens the door. You step into the warmth of the pub paying little attention to the publican yelling at you to shut the damn door before you let the heat out. Inside is cosy and bright, a pleasant contrast to the chill outdoors. London was never exactly known for its balmy climate but now it finds itself stuck in a cave the weather tends toward mild at best and almost Siberian at worst. At least rain has, for the most part, ceased to be an issue.

It’s reasonably busy inside but not so much that you’ll struggle to find somewhere to sit. Most of the crowd is congregated around the bar but there’s a steady trickle of movement throughout as patrons collect their drinks, drift toward the fire to warm themselves or change seats in an attempt to avoid a particularly raucous neighbour. Occasionally a voice raises above the general background noise of the room and you catch a snippet of conversation; the price and quality of what passes for ale seems to be a popular topic. Harjit’s hand briefly touches your shoulder to attract your attention.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks.

“Anything’s fine, whatever’s cheapest!” you reply, straining to be heard above the din.

“If you’re sure? It is my treat.”

“I'm sure, I’ll go find us somewhere to sit.”

You slip into a side room and onto a bench where it’s quieter as Harjit heads for the bar to order. When he returns he’s carrying two small measures of a dark liquid. Whisky, or an approximation thereof. Not your favourite unfortunately but, well, a free drink is a free drink. You’ll just have to make sure you get the next round in and pick something more palatable. He rests your glass in front of you on the slightly sticky tabletop and places his own opposite before picking up a discarded stool from the floor to set himself down upon.

You pick up the drink and hold it out in front of you in a toast. “To not getting lost! Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Harjit echoes you while reaching out and pressing his glass against the rim of yours before the two of you drink. His lip twitches in amusement as you grimace when the whisky hits your tongue, woody and unpleasant. “I was like that at first. Lucian forced me to drink it until I developed a taste for it.”

You swallow and despite the taste the alcohol is pleasantly warming as it settles in the pit of your stomach.

“And so you plan on doing the same to me?” you ask.

His smile grows, almost reaching his eyes, as he speaks, “Yes.”

“And what if I never develop a taste?”

“Then you can sit there and grimace while we drink.”

Despite the smile on his face there’s a melancholy in his eyes. One you’ve begun to recognise. Harjit can be difficult to read, he keeps his emotions close to his chest and not out on his sleeve. Pleasant, polite, dutiful Constable Singh; at first you’d thought that was all there was to him. Then you thought he was just private, deliberately keeping everyone at a distance with a civil mask. Over the past few months of your relationship however you’ve come to suspect it’s not so much that he’s intentionally distancing himself, it’s just he no longer has anyone close enough to share the parts of him deeper than surface level with. In particular, you’ve started to become familiar with the little tells of sadness behind the brave face he puts on which appear only when he’s thinking of Lucian. In previous conversations you had tried to avoid mentioning his missing lover unprompted but now you think it may be worth changing tack.

“Any progress with Lucian?” you ask.

“No. It appears no one has seen him after you did that night.”

Your curiosity from earlier comes flooding back. “Was that what you were asking about, when we stopped at those houses?”

“Some of them yes. Others I was just checking in on the residents. Sometimes I hear news of a man matching his description but every time I follow it up it’s not him. I’m starting to think there’s a reason he’s disappeared so completely.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a reason!” you’re quick to respond. “A very good one no doubt.”

“I meant more that he may have left intentionally and covered his tracks. He was always good at going unnoticed when it suited him.”

“Ah…” You aren’t quite sure how to follow that and go to take another sip of whisky to cover up your reservation. Luckily Harjit continues speaking, removing the need to come up with a response.

“I’m not sure I’d even blame him. There are days when I wake up and can’t picture his face at all, not until I jog my memory with his portrait. It’s only been a few months. I could understand losing some of the finer details of his appearance but to be unable to recall it entirely… Maybe there’s something wrong with me, maybe I was never that taken with him if I can forget him so easily, maybe Lucian picked up on that and left.”

There’s a thought that springs to mind as he speaks but you’re hesitant to voice it, knowing it might be a mistake; that you might be crossing a boundary. The two of you are undeniably friendly but your friendship is still relatively new. Your conversations before this one rarely touched on deeper sentiment; even when discussing Lucian they had been more focussed on practical advice instead of any emotions involved. You sometimes get the feeling Harjit might want to open up about some of the things he avoids speaking of but your relationship had never felt close enough for you to be comfortable bridging the gap. It still didn’t in truth, but you had to put your comfort to one side. This was something you thought needed to be said.

“Please don’t be offended by this–” Harjit tenses as you speak but it’s too late to back out now, “–but I think you should be kinder to yourself.”

You half expect him to clam up or demand you drop the topic. Instead, Harjit looks at you with wary eyes, silent but apparently willing to hear you out.

“I mean it. There is nothing wrong with you, in fact I think you’re dealing with all this remarkably well. This thing with Lucian... you’re going through a terrible loss and you’re handling it with a strength I think very few could manage.”

“Terrible? There are people down here who have lost entire families, lost their homes and businesses or their lives. Loss is hardly unique in London these days, even if the circumstances around Lucian’s disappearance are unusual. He’s just one man. One man who was only in my life for a few years. I still have a job and a roof over my head. I’m still breathing. That puts me in a far better position than plenty of people down here.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to grieve—”

Half a scoff escapes his mouth before Harjit manages to rein himself back in. Having recomposed himself his next words are careful and controlled.

“It’s not that—” Harjit glances around the room and lowers his voice a bit. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of grief; grief alone I could handle. In truth, it’s not knowing how to feel about Lucian that I struggle with. The constant shifting between mourning him, to feeling like a fool for doing so because clearly he must have just become bored of me and left and then despising myself because what if he’s out there lost or injured while I sit here forgetting what he looks like? Any one of them I could cope with but all at the same time? I don’t know what to do with that.”

His confession momentarily stuns you but it doesn’t surprise you as much as it could have. There had been moments when Harjit sounded conflicted over Lucian, when you’d written off the bitterness in his voice as being from stress and obviously not directed at his missing lover or worse, himself.

“Right, well… perhaps you could try to cope with them one at a time then?” That had sounded less foolish inside your head. Harjit cocks his eyebrow but doesn’t otherwise respond, giving you the opportunity to clarify. “I mean it. Take some time and allow yourself to properly grieve him, and time to be angry at him, and time to worry about him. You don’t have to say anything, and it certainly doesn’t have to be to me, but I think you should try working through these feelings. Maybe in writing?”

You had expected Harjit to be silent, or at least to take his time replying but his response is instantaneous, “No, if I’m going to go through all this it may as well be with you. I have no interest in writing this down and, well, there’s no one else that I could even begin to get into this with.” He looks around, there’s still no one sat by you but the previously quiet room is beginning to fill out. “But not here. Too many people.”

... ... ...

Harjit leads you back towards your lodging house without saying a word further but unlike before this silence is tense. For a while you think his destination is Mrs Chapman’s but he stops short, on the same road but further up at a building you’d not paid much attention to previously. In fact, you struggle to find evidence of its existence in your mind before this moment. Same as you had earlier in the day the pair of you walk up to an unbarred door and enter the abandoned building without any issue. This time, instead of walking through to the back of the house he leads you into what was probably the former drawing room. This building seems in better shape than the other you visited. The wallpaper appear less decrepit, you are less worried that the ceiling will collapse in on you and there are no traces of the strange writing, or at least they are as far as this room goes.

There’s a small amount of furniture remaining, visible only in the scant light coming through the half bordered up window, dusty but otherwise intact. Harjit pulls two of the chairs close to one another but instead of sitting he hovers by the arm. Only when you take a seat opposite him does he finally lower himself into the chair and even then he remains perched on the edge.

“Alright so… shall we start with the first thing you mentioned, with grief?” you query, finding it almost physically painful to break the long silence.

“We’ll start with grief,” Harjit agrees.

You pause ready to see if he’ll continue speaking but he seems to be waiting for you to prompt him. You’re not sure what to say, not sure if what you might say won’t just make this worse but you’ve come this far and if he is willing to trust your judgement you can summon the courage to try.

“So, let’s assume Lucian is dead,” you begin. “He died that night I saw him, or maybe later during the Fall. What would you do?”

There’s another long pause before Harjit speaks and for a moment you think you’ve started too harshly and he never will, that the rest of the evening will just be the two of you sat in awkward silence and dirty chairs. Then his voice cuts through the room, stronger and clearer than you were expecting.

“There were so many times I’d thought him dead before. Times when he disappeared off on some ill-conceived mission and I didn’t hear from him for days after he was supposed to have returned. But then he would reappear. He would always reappear. I suppose it trained me to always expect relief after any concern. I don’t know what to do now it seems he’s gone for good.”

“He’d disappeared like this before?”

“No, never like this. But it wasn’t unknown for him to be untraceable for a bit. He often got himself involved in things he shouldn’t have. The Great Game, he called it. I’d asked him to be more careful in England when I agreed to come with him, but he laughed me off. Here he had home court advantage, he said, and it would be much easier. Evidently, he was wrong.

“It still feels like any day now he’ll just walk back through the door like he did in the past. I’ve not even tidied up his belongings, they’re still exactly as he left them; although how I haven’t gotten sick of the clutter is a mystery. I wasn’t able to bring many of my own effects with us on the ship here, I travelled with little more than the clothes on my back. So, I suppose they at least stop our— my— the room from looking barren.”

“And would you want to return home, to the Punjab?” you ask, “I know that’s not really a possibility at the moment, but if it were, assuming Lucian isn’t coming back?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Lucian was the only reason I came to England, with him gone it should be an easy decision to return. I left all of my family and friends behind and have not replaced them here with anything equal to their weight. I’ve not replaced them with anything really, I had Lucian and that was it for the most part. With him gone, I miss them terribly.

“But my decision to leave was not a popular one. I didn’t reveal the true extent of mine and Lucian’s relationship when I announced I was planning to go with him back to London, even the ones who would not have censured me for loving a man would have drawn the line at a British soldier. I know they would happily welcome me back, but I heard so often from them in those last few days before our departure that there was nothing in England for me. Perhaps I simply do not want to admit they may have been right.

“I am an outsider here; a fact this city is incapable of letting me forget and, while I have been amused at London’s quite literal fall, there is still so much of it I cannot stand. But these buildings—“ he gestures around the room, “— these pathways and places that are forgotten to most except the scant few people whose memory they inhabit. London has no shortage of outsiders and here in these secret places perhaps I feel a kinship.

“So, even if the option becomes available to return, I cannot say if I will take it.”

There’s a sort of finality to Harjit’s last sentence that suggests he’s gone as far as he’s willing to with discussing any grief he may feel be it toward Lucian, his homeland or otherwise.

“Do you want to move on?” you ask, “Or we could stick with this topic for a little longer?”

“No, let’s move on. That may not have truly counted as a discussion of any grief I might have over Lucian but I believe it is as close as I can get at the moment.”

“So, next we deal with the idea he may have, er, left you intentionally, was it?”

“Yes.” He nods stoically but there’s anger and hurt in his eyes.

“Alright, so let’s say he has and then you stumble across him on the street. What would you say to him?”

There is no hesitation this time when Harjit begins speaking and you suspect this is something he has wanted to get off his chest for a while, perhaps even to himself, “I’d want to know why. Why leave? Why leave in that manner? To disappear without a trace, without a word. More importantly, why bring me here in the first place? I just don’t understand why. If I was just some silly exotic toy he picked up that was to be discarded later, why let me come all this way?! He knew what it took to get me to agree to follow him to England, he begged and pleaded for me to leave my entire life behind, to take a chance on him. Was that all a lie?

“It took so much to get me to trust him. It went against my every instinct. But I was in love and I thought he loved me, that we would be together until the end of our days; I would not have gone with him for anything less. Was he planning on abandoning me all that time, was he really that cruel and I that stupid? Was it a game to him? To see how long he could string me along for, how far he could get me to go. And then, once some unknown win condition had been met or when he had simply become too bored I was tossed to the side. Could I have prevented this if I was smarter, less naïve? That question haunts me.

“Or did I do something? Did I put too much pressure on him? Did he see something in me that he could no longer love? That I’m the sort of person who would drag a friend from what was supposed to be a celebration to rant at them about the imagined failings of a man who might be lost somewhere, dead or dying! If he did who could really blame him for fleeing in the night?”

You had steeled yourself to sit back, to quietly listen and let Harjit talk himself through this (that was, after all, the whole purpose of this endeavour) but you are unable to let his last comments go unaddressed. “This is what I meant when I said you should be kinder to yourself. You hardly dragged me here, I’m the one who bought this whole thing up. Besides, it’s perfectly natural to feel angry at someone who has betrayed you.”

“I don’t even know if he has. That’s not natural, it’s completely irrational!”

“Those two things aren’t contradictory. And anyway, the whole point of this exercise is we work through your feelings from the assumption that the given scenario is true. For the sake of this Lucian has left you, abandoned you with no word.”

Harjit doesn’t respond, his face a stoney mask. You aren’t sure if he’s conceding the point or if he just cannot bring himself to argue any further. Perhaps you’ve gone too far with that last statement.

“Do you want to move on onto the third thing you mentioned?” Despising yourself, the third thing Harjit had mentioned was despising himself, but you can’t find it in you to voice those words out loud.

“I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

You recognise the deflection for what it is and allow him the out, but not before getting a comment of your own in, “Of course. But Harjit, I need you to know. There’s nothing you’ve said here that makes me think any less of you, that would make any reasonable person think any less of you. You’re a good man, one of the best in London—”

“That is rather faint praise.”

“Hush while I’m complimenting you,” you chastise him fondly, and are relieved at the reappearance of what might be the shadow of a smile on his face. “As I was saying, you’re a good man. And I have interviewed what feels like half of London at this point so I am qualified to make that statement. If Lucian couldn’t see that, then that’s his fault not yours. And if he has died, I am sorry and I hope you get some closure in whatever form you need it.”

“Thank you.” Harjit stands and brushes the dust from his coat. “Now, let’s get you home, I’ve kept you much later than I’d planned.”

You follow him back through the dark hallway back toward the street outside. Harjit holds the door open for you and you step through the threshold into the chill of the night’s air. The gas lamps lining the street have dimmed further reminding you of how late it had gotten but across the road there are still lights on at Mrs Chapman’s.

You turn back to face Harjit as he hovers in the doorway and voice a question you’re not sure you want to hear the answer to, “Do you feel any better?”

“Not really.” This is what you feared might happen. “I think it has helped to say some of it out loud, some of the things I couldn’t even truly admit to myself. But right now I feel terrible and exhausted. It’s been a long day for both of us and I just want to sleep.”

“I think that’s to be expected. You’re not going to be able to process these things in one conversation or one night. I’m just… I’m glad you felt comfortable opening up. You do so much for this community, you deserve some support yourself. Even if it is only from someone like me who doesn’t know what they’re doing and can’t tell left from right.”

He says your name, suddenly looking almost vulnerable, “Do you think he abandoned me?”

You answer him the only way you can: honestly, “No Harjit, I don’t.”

“And do you think I’ll find him again?”

“I– No. I think he’s gone. I’m not sure if he’s dead but whatever was done to him, I don’t think there’s any coming back from. I’m sorry.”

The look on Harjit’s face is that of a man confronted with a truth he’d known for a long time without being willing to acknowledge.

“Thank you for being so candid with me. I don’t think I could have coped with you lying in some vain attempt to spare my feelings,” he says.

“Anytime. And if you ever need a second pair of eyes with your rounds again, well, you know where to find me.”

Harjit nods. “I’d best get you back home now.”

You offer your elbow to Harjit and allow him to walk you the short distance back to Mrs Chapman’s. You had considered protesting that it was unnecessary given how the building was just across the street or even insisting that you should be the one to walk him back to his lodgings but you suspected given the events of the evening that would be a step too far for his pride. It had ended up an abnormal evening for the pair of you and the familiar ground of escorting someone home might do him good. The walk across the road takes only moments but by the time you two are standing at the door, ready to part, the discussion in that room feels a million miles away.

It's late enough that the front door to the house has been locked and as you fish around in your pocket for the key Harjit speaks, “I would welcome your company if you do feel like joining me again.”

“I’d like that.” You smile as you produce your house key and turn it in the lock. “And next time we go down the pub I’m buying!”

“Maybe you’ll even be able to drink the whisky without wincing.”

He’s not going to let you live that down is he, you think.

“Ahh, probably not.” you reply with a lopsided grin and, after the pair of you exchange your goodnights, as you turn toward the warmth of Horatia’s parlour and leave Harjit at the door you catch just a glimpse of the smile returning to his face.

#mask of the rose #fallen london #harjit singh #fic: one shot

finerandbonnier