There is knowing
Written for caelly , as a present (16 days before Christmas); Dimitri, after the events of 9.01. Coming back to London.
We want
to grasp the heart, to hear what is beyond our hearing, but have
only these words that disappear like mist from the tip
of a wave,
or the phosphorous trail a swimmer leaves in the sea.
Richard Jackson; Silence
Dimitri is sure that the time it takes to call in, liaise with the Navy, and check the containers is no more than minutes, but he measures it in pulses; through the blood which courses to exit wounds, the dull ache that sparks to the ends of his fingers, the grit behind his eyelids as he blinks. The wideness of Theo's eyes and the weight of another man's struggle as he forced the air from his lungs. A heartbeat, from ship to sea to body, steady in his ears.
He cradles his arm, grateful for the engine's steady beat beneath his feet; there is the haze of England, waiting ports, navy boats clarifying in the distance. The sun is sharp, glancing the ocean, causing bright bursts against his eyes. He breathes deep, a lungful of petrol and salinity, waits.
_
The feeling of having just killed a man rankles heavy, crawls under his fingernails. He squares his shoulders, turns his eyes to Theo. He hates that the other man flinches as he steps toward him, palms held out, exposed in surrender.
“Cut it,” he says, flicking his fingers toward the wrist ties. His voice sounds cracked, unsteady. He feels it in his lips, the skin which splits with word movement. Theo moves quickly, the ties severed with a snap; Dimitri is aware that he is careful not to touch their hands, careful not to touch the swirls of drying blood that mark his wrists. Careful not to make eye contact, either.
Dimitri has the flare of suddenly wanting to strike out at him for his caution, the rattle buzzing in his fists; he feels it, at bone level, the connection between jaw and knuckle, the drawback, until he blinks and pivots away before he can act on it. He leaves the bridge, clamouring down the stairs toward the containers, flexing his fingers to shake the thought from them, the residue of anger.
_
Setting foot back on solid ground brings with it a weakness in his knees, an uninhibited sense of relief. The dirt streaking Theo's face is mirrored in his own, eyes still holding an edge. “What do I tell them?” he asks.
Dimitri watches him carefully. “The ship got hijacked, you were rescued by the Royal Navy.”
“And what do you do?”
Dimitri smiles. “The same thing.”
“But you're -” Theo hesitates.
“Captain of a merchant vessel that got captured by pirates in international waters,” he persuades. “Nothing else.”
(Except soldier. Spy. Tinker, tailor, perhaps not.)
_
With the rattle of passing trains, he dreams of Greece. Roofs of churches as blue as the ocean they looked upon, the smell of Athens, the light, the roots. Vowels run his head, stringing back to form words, sentences, a chastising remark bouncing the whitewashed, sunlit walls. Daylight wakes him, bare and gray; there is the smell of wet concrete, the fug of the Thames. He breathes it in fractions, daring the dream to dissipate.
He walks parts of London, like forming a mind-map of reminders. Gets lost. Revels in such insecurity; figures his way out, and then re-learns it. He trails the river for as far as he can, and catches the Tube back; remembers how much he hates being underground, out of view of the sky.
Ruth is passing her bag through security when he arrives at Thames House. She gives a small smile, standing aside as he puts his card through. He falls into step beside her, in companionable silence across the foyer and into the lift. The doors close, and she asks, in her cautious way, if he is ready for this (code for: does he know what he's getting into).
(There is knowing, or thinking of knowing, and knowing, with solid conviction in your chest.)
(All he has is a knot of nervousness.)
He nods in response, looks away. Reminds himself, over and over, the difference between soldier and spy. Holds his hands in his pockets, and thinks of that distinction on the lift ride up.
end.
We want
to grasp the heart, to hear what is beyond our hearing, but have
only these words that disappear like mist from the tip
of a wave,
or the phosphorous trail a swimmer leaves in the sea.
Richard Jackson; Silence
Dimitri is sure that the time it takes to call in, liaise with the Navy, and check the containers is no more than minutes, but he measures it in pulses; through the blood which courses to exit wounds, the dull ache that sparks to the ends of his fingers, the grit behind his eyelids as he blinks. The wideness of Theo's eyes and the weight of another man's struggle as he forced the air from his lungs. A heartbeat, from ship to sea to body, steady in his ears.
He cradles his arm, grateful for the engine's steady beat beneath his feet; there is the haze of England, waiting ports, navy boats clarifying in the distance. The sun is sharp, glancing the ocean, causing bright bursts against his eyes. He breathes deep, a lungful of petrol and salinity, waits.
_
The feeling of having just killed a man rankles heavy, crawls under his fingernails. He squares his shoulders, turns his eyes to Theo. He hates that the other man flinches as he steps toward him, palms held out, exposed in surrender.
“Cut it,” he says, flicking his fingers toward the wrist ties. His voice sounds cracked, unsteady. He feels it in his lips, the skin which splits with word movement. Theo moves quickly, the ties severed with a snap; Dimitri is aware that he is careful not to touch their hands, careful not to touch the swirls of drying blood that mark his wrists. Careful not to make eye contact, either.
Dimitri has the flare of suddenly wanting to strike out at him for his caution, the rattle buzzing in his fists; he feels it, at bone level, the connection between jaw and knuckle, the drawback, until he blinks and pivots away before he can act on it. He leaves the bridge, clamouring down the stairs toward the containers, flexing his fingers to shake the thought from them, the residue of anger.
_
Setting foot back on solid ground brings with it a weakness in his knees, an uninhibited sense of relief. The dirt streaking Theo's face is mirrored in his own, eyes still holding an edge. “What do I tell them?” he asks.
Dimitri watches him carefully. “The ship got hijacked, you were rescued by the Royal Navy.”
“And what do you do?”
Dimitri smiles. “The same thing.”
“But you're -” Theo hesitates.
“Captain of a merchant vessel that got captured by pirates in international waters,” he persuades. “Nothing else.”
(Except soldier. Spy. Tinker, tailor, perhaps not.)
_
With the rattle of passing trains, he dreams of Greece. Roofs of churches as blue as the ocean they looked upon, the smell of Athens, the light, the roots. Vowels run his head, stringing back to form words, sentences, a chastising remark bouncing the whitewashed, sunlit walls. Daylight wakes him, bare and gray; there is the smell of wet concrete, the fug of the Thames. He breathes it in fractions, daring the dream to dissipate.
He walks parts of London, like forming a mind-map of reminders. Gets lost. Revels in such insecurity; figures his way out, and then re-learns it. He trails the river for as far as he can, and catches the Tube back; remembers how much he hates being underground, out of view of the sky.
Ruth is passing her bag through security when he arrives at Thames House. She gives a small smile, standing aside as he puts his card through. He falls into step beside her, in companionable silence across the foyer and into the lift. The doors close, and she asks, in her cautious way, if he is ready for this (code for: does he know what he's getting into).
(There is knowing, or thinking of knowing, and knowing, with solid conviction in your chest.)
(All he has is a knot of nervousness.)
He nods in response, looks away. Reminds himself, over and over, the difference between soldier and spy. Holds his hands in his pockets, and thinks of that distinction on the lift ride up.
end.