Dreams of a Hero (6 page)

“More than you can do here.” He pulled Alex through the door. “Excuse me,
gentlemen.
” The last word sounded more insulting than “faggot” had.

“I’m sorry…” Miles’s voice trailed off. The Phillipsons must have been halfway down the block before anyone else spoke.

“You’re either a genius or a head case.” Roger came over and pulled his partner away from the door, shutting it against the night and anyone else who might want to come in and cause chaos. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“I know I am. I think I need a drink. Any of that wine left?”

“About half a glass, although I’m prescribing tea, hot and strong. Can you manage that?” Strauss turned to the waiter, who still stood transfixed, in exactly the same place as he’d been when Miles had gone to shake Alex’s hand. The entire restaurant resembled a tableau that was only now slowly coming to life.

“Tea? Yes, sir.” The waiter scurried away, grinning, as the first smatter of applause broke out then spread across the room.

“Thanks, gentlemen, we’re here all week.” Miles waved airily, nodded, then suddenly collapsed into his chair.

“Behave yourself.” Roger couldn’t keep the pride from his voice. “Look at the state you’re in. You’ll be having two sugars in that tea and no arguments.”

“I’m not sure I’ll argue about anything ever again.” Miles took up his wineglass with unsteady hands.

“I don’t know if you’re a lunatic or a genius.” Roger finished the dregs from his own glass, wishing he wasn’t driving back and could risk a stiff double brandy.

“Genius in the short term, maybe.” Strauss rubbed his forehead with tense fingers. “What happens when they come back and all hell breaks loose?”

“
If
they come back. You didn’t see the son’s eyes close up. I did.” Miles’s hands were steadier at last, and he could risk picking up the cup of tea, which had appeared on the table, without getting it everywhere. “He wasn’t just angry or confused, he was scared.”

“Scared? I didn’t think anything could scare those bastards.”

Roger held his breath; all conversation in the café had stopped, everyone hanging on Strauss’s words and Miles’s replies.

“Maybe only the unwelcome truth could rattle them. I drew a bow at a venture and I have a feeling I hit the mark.” Miles downed his tea almost in one, scalding hot as it must have been, and held out the cup for refilling. Roger did the honours, unsure his partner would be up to handling the pot. “I thought I’d rely on the old maxim no smoke without fire. Men of my dad’s generation seem to swear by it. I think we—you—have got more working for you now.”

“I think I’m being particularly obtuse.” Strauss scratched his head. “Care to explain it in words of one syllable?”

Miles grinned. “I bet the rest of my holiday dollars that, even if I made Eddie up, there’s a Steve or a Josh somewhere and Daddy’s got no idea. Up till now.”

“Maybe Alex will be feeling his Dad’s fists tonight.” Roger shivered, an unexpected frisson of compassion tainting their triumph.

“Perhaps. And maybe he’ll be lying through his teeth still. But it gives you some breathing space.” Miles turned in his chair, addressing all the diners. “You should find the guy Alex has got hidden in his past—or his present—and make use of him. Drive a wedge between father and son. A house divided can’t stand.”

Nods and murmurs of approval ran around the room, Miles basking in the light of his success.

“You were right. Not illegal but highly immoral. On all counts.” Strauss sat back in his chair. “I have some dealings with private investigators in my job, as you can imagine. I’ll see what one of them can rustle up.”

Roger listened while his partner and the lawyer talked to some of the regulars, putting together a plan of action about tracking down Alex’s lover, if the man existed. It was all constructive, Miles—ever magnanimous in victory—suggesting there might even be an occasion in the future when Alex would be in need of being rescued himself, and how they might have to find it in their hearts to man up and forget the past. Healing wounds rather than licking them, yet still keeping the upper hand, might be the best long-term solution.

They sat late over coffees and chat, reluctant to take their leave. Despite the offers of as much coffee as they could drink any time they wanted, and always on the house, Roger had no desire to return to the Laurel Wreath, and he could tell from his partner’s demeanour than Miles felt the same. Their work was done here, had been done from the moment Miles had sent the Phillipsons packing. When they shook hands with Strauss for a final time, exchanging email addresses and promising they’d look him up if they were ever in Boston again, it felt like closing the page on a chapter that couldn’t be reread.

“You did well.” Roger started up the car, easing out onto the road and still having consciously to remember not to change gear. Another reminder of how unfamiliar this country felt. “A virtuoso performance.”

“Really? I can hardly remember anything about it.” Miles looked dog-tired, struggling to keep awake.

“Have a nap if you want. I’ll be fine driving.”

“It’s not your driving which concerns me so much as the navigation. I don’t want to end up in Niagara Falls. Literally.” Despite his protestations, Miles had begun to manoeuvre himself into the ideal napping position.

“I think I can remember how to do this journey from earlier today. Sleep if you need it.”

“No, my body clock’s already all to pieces. Talk to me and keep me awake or I’ll never get over the jet lag.” Miles yawned, then shook himself, forcing his body to sit upright and behave itself. “Tonight still feels a bit unreal. It was like…”

“It was like what?” Roger regretted that they weren’t already home, or driving the back roads of Sussex where he could easily find a lay-by to pull in and let himself concentrate on his partner’s concerns rather on the road. With all they’d heard and witnessed today, he didn’t feel happy about finding a parking place on these back roads.

“Like I was back in one of my dreams. I had the sort of feeling I get during them, when we’re about to go into battle. Don’t laugh, please God don’t laugh.” Miles kept his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead.

“I don’t think I am laughing.” Maybe Roger’s sharp intake of breath had seemed like the start of one of his more sarcastic outbursts, the mutual mocking which the pair normally so delighted in. “I’m just astounded. Talk about it, please.”

“I’m not sure I can. Maybe if it had been the other way round,
you
could find the right words to describe it. I felt…” Miles paused, clearly struggling to find exactly the term he wanted, “I felt like I was aglow. More alive than I’ve ever felt and yet like nothing was real.” He began to chuckle. “Maybe you were right to laugh. It sounds absurd. It
is
absurd.”

“It wasn’t absurd back there. You were different somehow, unlike the Miles I thought I knew.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Bloody hell, no. Like I said, you were magnificent.” Roger reached across and touched his partner’s arm, suddenly aware of at least one potential advantage of not having to change gear. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you like that again. In our bedroom, for a start.”

“Cheeky bugger.” Miles squeezed Roger’s hand then placed it back on the steering wheel. “Two hands for the ship, please.” He yawned again, although he sounded more alert now. “I
felt
magnificent. Like I could have taken on the world.”

“Remind me never to get on your wrong side. I’d hate to see what scheme you’d come up with for getting rid of me. A perfectly executed plan of action. Alexander would have been proud.”

“Ah. I think I’d better confess something right now.”

Roger couldn’t help take a sideways glance, although Miles’s face couldn’t be read in the meagre light. “I don’t like the sound of that. Been arranging to meet our friend the lawyer for a little light dalliance over the files for the defence?”

“Daft beggar. No, it’s much worse than that. My perfect plan. I didn’t have one.”

“What?” Roger was glad he wasn’t driving on a narrow country road with a ditch at the side or they’d have been in it.

“I didn’t have a plan, not a detailed one, anyway. That’s why I couldn’t give you any particulars when you kept asking for them.” At least Miles sounded suitably ashamed.

“You busked. We went back there at the risk of getting our heads kicked in and you were busking.” There was a risk of Miles getting his head kicked in right now and it wouldn’t be the Phillipsons doing the kicking.

“You wouldn’t have let me come if you’d known. And it wasn’t quite as hazy as you make out. I had an idea while we were in bed, you know, doing
it,
and it got clearer and clearer as we drove down. By the time we met Strauss I knew what I had to ask him.”

“And when did the rest of your grand scheme come together?” Roger didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’d been had good and proper.

“I don’t think I dare admit that. It was when the Phillipsons walked in. I mean, I knew what I wanted to do but I didn’t have all the words until they were actually coming out of my mouth.” Miles squeezed his partner’s thigh. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so devious but it was a case of being economical with the truth or throwing in the towel. I didn’t feel I had much of a choice.”

“I don’t suppose you did. I’ll let you know if you’re forgiven when we get home.” The way Roger stroked his partner’s hand gave the likely outcome away.

“Thank you. Can I say in mitigation that I feel better than I’ve done in months?”

“You may not.” Roger smiled. Whatever fast trick had been pulled, the result seemed to have been worth it, and not just for the denizens of the Laurel Wreath. Maybe, as an unexpected bonus, this would eventually prove therapeutic for Miles, as well.

England, Aftermath

“It’s beautiful.” Roger turned the book in his hands. Divested of its gold-and-blue wrapping paper, it seemed half the size but infinitely more valuable. “How the hell did you get hold of a first edition?”

“That would be telling. Contacts.” Miles grinned. It had been worth all the effort to see his partner’s Christmas morning face, as excited as a little boy to see the precious copy of
Fire From Heaven.
“And it’s a present for me too. It’s been over four months now since I had one of
those
dreams. All those peaceful nights. Blissful.”

“Maybe you completed your mission or whatever it was that you’d been getting the wretched things for. I can’t get over the note Strauss put in with his Christmas card—four months since they’ve had any trouble.” Roger shrugged, still nursing his novel. “It’s been a strange year, all in all. Maybe I should write an allegorical story about it.”

“That sounds an excellent idea.” Miles tapped the handsome little hardback book. “But not this version. You wanted to know what my wishes are for the New Year? Write me a novel about the members of the Theban Band who survived.”

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