NIGHT SWEATS

by Kitty Fisher

He didn't know who he was anymore. If it was Tuesday, did that make him Tom or Matthew? Or was he someone else today? Too many names, too many identities all rolled into a morass where picking one trait that could be seen as personality was near to impossible. Personality meant structure. Structure meant detail. Detail was too easy to get wrong, too easy to make mistakes with. Easier, by far, to be nothing. To be the proverbial grey man with a grey job in the boring and humdrum depths of Her Majesty's civil service. An everyman with a thousand names.

Chaos Theory taken personally. And he wasn't even sure that with this name, this identity, he should know what Chaos Theory was. The thought almost made him smile...

Oil. Rancid, week–old chip fat, reek of it making him queasy even before he knew what it was for... Ropes digging deep into his wrists. Kicked repeatedly, slamming into hard tile as they made their point, several times over.

Images rising like detritus in his brain. He swallowed, amusement gone, and turned over sharply, bedsprings squeaking. He tugged the sheets up over his shoulder, the cotton roughly dragging on his skin despite aromatherapy–scented 'Comfort and Ariel' for whites and God knows what else he'd been conned into buying on his last trip to Sainsbury's. Clean, crisp John Lewis Egyptian cotton, king–size sheets. So clean they should have been scented of the chemical ident of jasmine, not grease and dirt and blood and week old horror.

Quite still, staring with eyes wide in the darkness, he faced the memory. Like he'd been taught. Don't hide it. Admit the failure. Check for where it all went wrong so you'll get it right next time. Yes. Of course. So easy after all. He curled further onto his side, hand tucking under the pillow, close to the government issue Glock. Security with its safety catch on. Cold metal as a ward against his dreams.

Ticking clock. He's replace it tomorrow with a silent one. Slow slide of morning into day. Ache weighting him down into the bed. Ache like part of the memories. After all, he'd been beaten before. Knew how long it would take for the last bruises to dissipate, for his bones to feel less damaged. Knew more than he should, from both sides of that particular coin. But knowing about what his body could or couldn't deal with, didn't help his mind. His thoughts.

This was a new lesson. In guilt. In grief.

Screaming that ripped him apart with horror.

A lesson that was leeching him dry of everything but regret.

Her voice breaking with the knowing. His own in denial as the sweetly–foul stink of cooked skin smothered him.

Why? When ruining her hand should have been enough. Enough surely to show they meant business, that they were hard bastards. Hard enough to take him and any police he might be working with. Real men. Strong enough to hold her. Hurt her. While he lay on the floor and watched.

He should have known. Then. Should have been able to do something. Say something. But what?

Betray a thousand to save one?

Her people, too... and she had loved her job. Loved him a little. Maybe.

Soft skin close to him. Posing as husband and wife, so sharing a wide double bed. Knowing she liked him. Liked and maybe more. Hating that he couldn't reciprocate, could touch her in friendship, oh yes, but it couldn't be more. Because he couldn't be less than he was.

Regret like a spear buried somewhere in his gut. Remembering. Clutching at the sheets, jaw clenched until he wondered if his teeth would shatter.

Such fear. In her eyes. In every sweating pore of his body as she pleaded silently. The oil burning. Ready...

She hadn't died until the bullet had taken out half her face. He was sure of that. Whatever the PM report said. He knew.

Breath trapped in his throat he pushed back the sheets, stood up. Sweat–pants clinging to his skin. He walked to the window. London, there, dark and murky and full of 4am secrets. He could walk into any house and find pain and misery and crime. Secrets as the bedrock of society. Guilt. His own, too, mirrored back in the night–silvered glass.

Very still, shaking somewhere deep inside. Mourning alone. As openly as he was able.

She had trusted him to let her die. Trusted him. He rocked his head in denial, forehead burning on the cold glass. Tears blurring the shadows until they ran.

Promotion earned, job done. The country safe. While she was buried and gone.

And he killed a little of himself. Again.

END