"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too." [33/???] [Midsomer Murders]

[k_s_b_l]

"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."


Chapter 32: Unanticipated Crossroads

A buzzing rang in Troy's ears as he jolted in his seat, sitting up perfectly straight. His foot slid from his knee, slamming into the seatback in front of him. Biting his tongue, he wrapped his hand around the toe of his shoe, though the side of his foot began to throb gently in spite of the pressure.

"-is that?" someone shouted in a high-pitched voice.

Who? Troy thought; the name came to him after a moment. Bloody director. His eyes had run around the auditorium when he first jerked in response to the sound, but they now went back to the stage. Cully was there, as was a middle-aged man, both peering out into the darkness, until Pearson yelled, "Go on!"

"'By-by the way, I came down for something'," the actor said, his voice wavering. And there was the buzzing once again. "'I forget what it was.'"

"'Your slippers'," Cully answered, not as strong as before.

The man turned away, glancing around his feet on the stage. "'Oh yes, of course. You shied'-" He stopped after yet another buzz, and now Troy shifted forward in his seat, the sound suddenly louder than he had realized before.

"Where the hell is he?" Pearson shouted again. "Where is he with that wretched phone?"

Troy's hand went to his pocket, grabbing the small mobile quickly. "Um..." he whispered, searching for the proper button with his thumb as the ringing continued. But as soon as he found the end button, he slammed it down, ending the noise. He almost pressed a hand to his throbbing chest before slipping the phone back into his jacket.

Several meters in front of him, someone rose from a chair, more a shadow than a person-and arms were already in the air, waving wildly. Troy slid back in his seat, his spine bending forward to mask his height. "Since we've already been interrupted," Pearson said as he reached the aisle, "let's discuss that mess..."

Only after Troy's breathing slowed did he realize it had accelerated at all...like he was afraid of something. Like hell I am, he thought, clenching his fingers around both armrests until his knuckles were almost white. Pearson had mounted the stairs to the stage and, once in the glow of the stage lights, he began again: yelling yet more shrill words here, dragging actors there...A shudder spread through each of Troy's limbs as Pearson took Cully's arm, dragging her across the stage, shouting all the while. Let her alone.

The scene seemed to go on for a few minutes, though Troy couldn't be certain; his head nodded and when it rose again, the cast had shifted, gathered around that short man in the center of the stage. But it wasn't just the cast. A number of the crew stood there as well, though they seemed more apt to run from the group for a second, fiddling with a prop or wooden set before returning. Another minute or so of murmurs passed, but they all retreated in the end: the cast found those spots where they had stood before and those mad men and women all in black melted away entirely. Pearson clamored down the stairs back into the auditorium, completely invisible before he shouted, "Again! 'You shied them at me.'"

The man left on the stage glanced at the set behind him, then to his feet before looking to Cully. "'Oh yes, of course'," the actor-Higgins-began again, his voice strengthening with each word. "'You shied them at me.'"

He crouched down and retrieved them before heading with heavy footsteps toward the edge of the stage. He had nearly disappeared from view when Cully-Eliza-no, Liza!-spoke again. "'Before you go, sir-'"

The man dropped his slippers as he turned around. "'Eh?'"

"'Do my clothes belong to me or to Colonel Pickering?'"

Higgins retraced his path, approaching her with his head askew, as though confused. "'What the devil use would they be to Pickering?'"

Even from the back of the theater, Troy recognized the anger on Cully's face. No, Eliza! he reminded himself. But Eliza and Cully were impossible to disentangle now. When she was that less composed girl at the play's start, seeing Eliza rather than Cully was simple. In the middle and at the end, as Eliza morphed into this increasingly confident woman, they melded together-

"'-want them for the next girl you pick up to experiment on.'" Troy blinked, his eyes and mind returning to the stage.

"'Is THAT the way you feel towards us?'"

Eliza waved her hand toward Higgins, though she also backed away. "'I don't want to hear anything more about that. All I want to know is whether anything belongs to me.'" Sadness now replaced the anger, or perhaps resignation. "'My own clothes were burnt.'"

"'But what does it matter?'" Higgins asked, tilting his head to one side. "'Why need you start bothering about that in the middle of the night?'"

"'I want to know what I may take away with me.'"

Back to her normal life, Troy thought. Life with her dad. Suppose we've all got to do it sometime. And god, there was the man again, an angry face peering at him from the bright stage. It was only in his mind-Troy knew that-but he still cringed. "Why didn't you answer your phone?" he heard the chief inspector ask.

"Well," he began to answer, "didn't want to interrupt the performance-"

"What performance?"

"Cully's final rehear-"

"Why the hell are you there? You've only been giving her lifts!" The cringe became a shudder. He didn't want to face knowing-

But there was no putting it off, Troy knew. It was poor form to hang up on anyone without answering...especially not knowing if the person on the other end was his boss. Could have been...Troy still didn't want to think the name, but it was inevitable. Could have been Barnaby. And who knew what he might want. Well, he did know, but best to be certain rather than dwell on a likely speculation.

Working his way to his feet-and this time, moving with caution down the row-Troy made his way to the foyer. Only the emergency lights shone, but he still squinted painfully as he stepped out of the darker auditorium. How can she do it? he wondered. She must go blind, looking into those lights. His vision still swimming, Troy had to find his mobile in his pocket by feel alone. But it was large enough to do so without much trouble. More difficult was managing to find or read anything on the keypad.

After a moment, his eyes ceased to ache and, a couple of seconds later, the words on the mobile's buttons cleared. He found his way through the menu swiftly and brought up the call log, expecting one of Barnaby's numbers; he had the chief inspector's office, home, and mobile numbers all saved. None of those waited at the bottom of the list, and he groaned as he read the name.

Mum

God, I don't need this, Troy thought, dropping his head back. I don't need this.

But...what to do? His mother knew the nature of his job-odd hours, whole days without breaks, weeks without a day off at the worst of times-and generally accepted that. Yet she must realize that he had not merely not answered, but hung up. And god, there was no way she would let it alone. No way in heaven, on earth, or in hell. Really, he might as well count the minutes until she called back. Or...I could just get on with it.

"Get on with it." "Yes, get on with it!" "Get on with it!" "Oh, I am enjoying this scene." "Get on with it!" Troy snorted as the scene ran through his mind-unexpected and uncalled for-but even that levity quickly dissipated as his right hand and the mobile fall.

Get on with it. Drawing a deep breath and not permitting himself further delay, Troy slammed his thumb against the send button on his mobile's keypad, then brought the phone to his ear. Two rings sounded before an answer came. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mum," Troy said, tapping the fingers of his left hand on the top of his thigh. It's just Mum.

"Oh, it's you," she said, her voice raspier than ever after decades of sucking down a pack of fags a day.

"Look-"

"You going to hang up on me again?"

Troy turned around to the back wall of the foyer, then stepped closer to it. No one else stood near him, but he still tried to muffle the sound by holding the earpiece even closer. "I didn't have a choice."

"You had to?"

"I couldn't answer-"

"I don't believe a-"

"Forgot I was in a theater and hadn't turned the-"

Troy paused as his mother coughed, the sound hoarse and deep. "The theater?" she said when her breath returned. "You?"

"It's nothing, Mum," Troy said loudly. Rather than continue on, he took another breath. Every conversation with his mother demanded extraordinary patience. "What do you need?"

"Not going to ask how I am?"

"How are-"

"Or let me know how you are first?"

"Fine, Mum."

"Wouldn't hurt you to call, occasionally."

His fingers drummed quicker against his upper leg, and his right hand was almost ready to join the rhythm against his mobile. "It's been mad out this way-"

"It only takes a few minutes-"

"I'm fine." He whirled around again, flicking his eyes left to right to check to see that the foyer remained empty. "What did you want?"

"Well," his mother said, letting a few seconds of silence settle before going on, "you know the summer holiday is coming up."

"Yes-"

"The 30th."

"Yes-"

"And you know the family is getting together for it."

"What-"

"Gavin, I sent it to you."

Hell, she was right. Troy had forgotten all about it, the handwritten card filled with his mother's perfect script. It had arrived several days ago, requesting a response as quickly as possible, but he had set it atop a neat stack of other letters, intending to address it at a later date. The card had not been buried, but it had disappeared from his mind. "Is that it? That's all you needed?"

His mother huffed at the other end of the line. "'Is that it?'"

Troy turned back to the wall of the foyer. Even if there was someone here whom he had not noticed, it didn't really matter for something like this. "Mum, I don't know-"

"It's just a question."

"I know-"

"Yes or no?" she snapped.

Troy began pacing along the wall, his eyes following his feet. "Mum-"

"Will you be there or no?"

"I don't know-"

"Gavin, please." She stopped; he could almost see her hand tightening and the knuckles beginning to go white as they always did when she did not want to give voice to her anger. "We're already past the polite time. You got the invite more than a week ago-everyone's going to be there and I need to know."

"But I can't give you an answer."

Her knuckles might be cracking now. "Why not?"

"Because-"

"That's not an answer at all."

Troy turned around, retracing his steps at a faster clip. "You have to understand-"

"Understand what?"

Troy sighed, pressing his free hand against the wall. The joints in his own hand were beginning to go white. "Got a lot going on, and haven't had a lot of time to think." His fingertips were almost white, too. "We've been working like mad to get things in place for tomorrow night-haven't been able to stop and figure-"

"What's tomorrow night?" his mum asked.

Troy shook his head. "What?"

"What's so important, Gavin, that you're more worried about doing it than deciding to see your family?"

"I didn't mean-"

"Course you did."

God, sometimes he hated talking with his mother. "Mum-"

"What is it?"

Troy let out the breath he had been holding without realizing it. "I had to make sure I could-"

"Louder, Gavin."

"I had to make sure I could see Cully in her play," he repeated. "Don't think she'd ever forgive me if I didn't. Had to get everything done ahead of that and I didn't have time-"

"Cully?"

"It's opening night tomorrow-"

"Cully?" she said again, her own voice louder. "Unusual name, isn't it?"

"Um...yes." Troy had thought the same thing the first time he heard it, but hadn't bothered to consider it since. "It is."

"'Her'?"

"Yes, Mum."

"What's her last name?"

"Mum-"

"Do I know her?"

Troy curled his fingers under his palm, forming his own fist against the wall. "Mum-"

"I'm only asking."

"It's nothing-"

"And I'm not trying to be nosy-"

"You are-"

"I'm your mother," she said before clearing her throat.

"Mum-" Troy began, but his mother cut him off again.

"And Gavin, love, after you and Maureen divorced, you've never-"

"I can't hear you," he said, pulling the mobile a few inches from his ear. God, this is too much. "Sorry-"

"Gavin-"

"I'll ring you later," he added, holding his phone even further away. "Can't hear a thing."

"Gavin."

"And I've got to go. Barnaby'll have my neck if I'm not back in-back at my desk." Well, neither version was really a lie, was it? Cully would probably throttle him for neglecting to silence the damn phone.

"Didn't you say you were at the theater?"

"Don't know what you mean," he said, dropping his gaze to his feet once more. "Sorry, Mum."

"Don't hang-"

"Talk to you later." Not waiting for her to say anything else, Troy hit the end button quicker than he ever remembered doing before. Of all the people...Best luck in the world, he thought, wrinkling his nose. Bloody luck.

There was no point in thinking about it any longer, Troy realized as he tucked his mobile back into his pocket. He knew what he wanted to do: ignore the invite and avoid the family. A melange of his mother's siblings might be present-his father's were another matter; they had rarely, if ever, attended such things since his parents' divorce-as well as a number of cousins toting along their children. And certainly Colin and Miranda.

Troy shuddered just thinking of them. On the rare occasions he saw them-Troy sometimes saw his cousin alone, but Miranda only ever visited when Colin was with her-Colin never passed up a chance to describe his career. No, he never passed up a chance to gloat about his career. Whether it was nattering on about the increasingly powerful computers he had access to or the various projects he was beginning or finishing, the man's job and future prospects never went unmentioned. And with a smug grin, Colin always asked Troy about his own job. "You still tracking down speeders and handing out ASBOs, Gav?"

More than a few times, Troy had wanted to heed his father's advice before Colin spoke: take his revenge first with a good smack upside the head. But he never did, nor did he do so after his answers detailing some of Midsomer's more vicious crimes were met with condescension. "Well, I suppose that's good for you. Must keep your mind occupied." Colin's face could do with-

Stop thinking about it! Troy reminded himself, turning away from the wall and taking the first steps toward the entrance to the theater. Might as well go if that's what you want to do. God, he needed to be back in the auditorium; at least the play would push Colin and Miranda and his mother out of his mind.

Slowly opening the door, Troy slipped through and immediately drew it closed with a sharp click. His vision swam again with the abrupt change from dim illumination to the harsh combination of stage lights and utter darkness. After his eyes settled, Troy had to bite his tongue to hold back his confusion. The set he last remembered had disappeared, replaced with a new backdrop and a fresh collection of props. And there was a new woman in addition to the familiar characters of Higgins, Pickering, and Cully- No, Eliza.

The new actress stared at Higgins, sitting straight with her grey hair pulled back atop her head. "'Very nicely put, indeed, Henry. No woman could resist such an invitation'," she said, and Troy saw Eliza gently nod her head.

"'You let her alone, mother'," Higgins shouted, rushing to and fro on the stage. Ah, Mrs. Higgins, Troy thought, leaning against the door, his legs aching again with the memory of the day's running around. Thought she showed up earlier. "'Let her speak for herself. You will jolly soon see whether she has an idea that I haven't put into her head or a word that I haven't put into her mouth.'" Pickering, seated quite close to Eliza, shifted in his chair, his knees moving from one side to the other. "'I tell you I have created this thing out of the squashed cabbage leaves of Covent Garden; and now she pretends to play the fine lady with me.'"

"'Yes, dear'," Higgins' mother continued, "'but you'll sit down, won't you?'" Striding to the only empty chair, the professor sat quickly, slouching against the chair's back and folding his fingers around the end of each armrest.

"'Will you drop me altogether now that the experiment is over, Colonel Pickering?'" Eliza asked suddenly, moving one hand toward Pickering.

"'Oh don't'," the colonel said, covering her hand with one of his own. "'You mustn't think of it as an experiment. It shocks me, somehow.'"

Eliza shook her head as she looked down to the basket in her lap. What is that? "'Oh, I'm only a squashed cabbage leaf.'"

Pickering slid forward to the edge of his chair. "'No.'"

"'-but I owe so much to you that I should be very unhappy if you forgot me'," Eliza continued, quieter than before.

"'It's very kind of you to say so, Miss Doolittle.'"

"'It's not because you paid for my dresses.'" She took her hand back, resting it atop that basket. "'I know you are generous to everybody with money. But it was from you that I learnt really nice manners; and that is what makes one a lady, isn't it?'" Mrs. Higgins, on Eliza's opposite side, nodded. "'You see it was so very difficult for me with the example of Professor Higgins always before me. I was brought up to be just like him, unable to control myself, and using bad language on the slightest provocation.'" Higgins now sat up properly, and even so far away, the rage was unmistakeable to Troy. "'And I should never have known that ladies and gentlemen didn't behave like that if you hadn't been there.'"

"'Well!'" Higgins yelled.

"'Oh, that's only his way, you know'," Pickering said; Troy would have said he was holding back a touch of guilt. "'He doesn't mean it.'"

Like hell he doesn't, Troy thought, taking the first cautious and quiet footstep down the aisle. They always do.

A/N: It probably goes without saying, but the scene Troy is randomly remembering is from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.