Chapter 13 Suspicion and Sugar #2
We sat in companionable silence for a moment, and I found myself studying him. Really looking, the way I'd been trained to observe targets and threats and anything that didn't fit the pattern.
“How's work been?” he asked now, stirring his tea with the same restless energy he brought to everything. “Heard you were away for a few days. Somewhere exciting?”
My gut tightened. “Routine transfer duty. Nothing exciting.”
“Right, right.” He nodded, but his eyes were too sharp. “Must be strange, guarding the boffins after being on the front. All this quiet and routine instead of action.”
“Quiet's not so bad. Prefer it to getting shot at.”
“Yeah, but don't you miss it? The adrenaline, the purpose, knowing you were actually fighting instead of just... babysitting?”
Babysitting. As if keeping valuable personnel alive was somehow less important than pulling triggers. As if Art's work cracking codes wasn't worth protecting.
“Fighting's not what they show in the films,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Mostly it's boredom and terror in equal measure. This is better.”
“If you say so.” He took another drink, then: “That intercept business the other day. The one that had everyone in a twist. V-weapons or something? Must be intense, knowing what's coming and not being able to stop it.”
My hand tightened on my mug. “How'd you hear about that?”
“People talk. Can't help overhearing things.” Quick grin, disarming. “Not that I know details. Just that something big came through. Made Pembroke look even more haunted than usual.”
“Art always looks haunted,” I said, testing. “Comes with the job. Staring at encrypted text all day would make anyone look half-dead.”
“Art, is it?” Peter's eyebrows rose. “On first-name terms with the boffins now. Finch know about that?”
“Finch can mind his own business.”
“Fair enough.” He laughed, but his eyes were calculating. “Just saying, might want to be careful. Finch has been on the warpath since that speech about leaks. Looking for someone to blame. Wouldn't want him getting the wrong idea about you and Pembroke being friendly.”
Warning or threat? Hard to tell. Could be genuine concern. Could be subtle intimidation, letting me know he'd noticed the growing closeness and could use it if needed.
Either way, I didn't like it.
“Thanks for the sugar,” I said, tone making it clear the conversation was over. “Need to finish this and get back to patrol.”
“Course, course. See you around, Sarge.” He stood, tray in hand, and paused. “Oh, and if you ever need anything. Cigarettes, chocolate, whatever. Just ask. My mate can usually sort things out.”
He left before I could respond, disappearing into the crowd, and I sat there with my sweetened tea and a gut feeling that something was wrong.
Art was in the library and he was curled into the window seat, legs tucked beneath him, a book open on his lap.
The lamp beside him cast warm light across his face, catching the glint of his glasses and the dark shadows beneath his eyes.
He was so absorbed in whatever he was reading that he didn't notice me approach, didn't look up until I was close enough to see the title.
Spy fiction. Seemed fitting, given everything.
“Brought you tea,” I said, holding out one of the two mugs I'd carried from the canteen. “Thought you might need it.”
Art startled, the book nearly sliding from his lap. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, then softened when he registered it was me.
“Tom.” He took the mug, fingers brushing mine in the transfer. “You didn't have to.”
“Wanted to.” I settled onto the other end of the window seat, leaving space between us but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from the lamp. “Actually, I wanted to thank you. For the other night. When you came to check on me.”
Art's fingers tightened around the mug. “You don't need to thank me for that.”
“I do, though.” I stared down at my tea, finding it easier than meeting his eyes.
“You were the first person who. Who actually seemed to care.
Not about whether I'd completed the mission or followed orders or done my duty. Just about whether I was alright.” My voice roughened.
“Can't remember the last time someone asked me that and meant it. Really meant it.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us quite knew how to say.
“I did mean it,” Art said quietly.
“I know. That's why it mattered.” I finally looked up at him. “Everyone else sees the soldier. The sniper. The weapon. You saw me. And you came to find me anyway.”
Art's expression did something complicated. Softened and sharpened at once, like he was fighting back emotion. “You came back from France. You survived. And the first thing you do is bring me tea and thank me for caring.” He shook his head slightly. “You're a strange man, Tom Hale.”
“Takes one to know one.”
That almost got a smile. Almost.
“How long have you been hiding in here?” I asked, nodding at the book.
“Since my shift ended. Couldn't face my room.” He wrapped both hands around the mug, that familiar gesture of seeking comfort. “Too quiet. Too much space to think.”
“Know the feeling.”
We sat in silence for a moment, steam rising from our tea, the library quiet around us. A few other souls occupied the far corners, heads bent over books or papers, but no one paid us any attention. Just two more exhausted workers seeking refuge from the cold.
Art set down his mug. His hands were trembling slightly, that fine vibration I'd learned to recognise as his body processing more than his words could express.
“Tom.” His voice was careful, measured. “When you shot him. Brandt. What did you feel?”
The question hit like a punch. Not because it was intrusive, but because it was exactly the right question, the one I'd been avoiding asking myself.
“Nothing,” I said. “That's the worst part. In the moment, I felt nothing. Just. Training. Breathe, squeeze, watch, move. Like he wasn't a person at all, just a target.” My voice cracked. “The feeling came after. On the plane. In the dark. All at once, like a dam breaking.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“Everything. Guilt. Relief. Horror. Satisfaction that the job was done. Disgust that I could feel satisfied.” I looked down at my hands, at the fingers that had pulled the trigger.
“He had grey at his temples. Did I tell you that? Looked older than his photograph. Probably had grandchildren. And I just. I just—”
The tears came without warning.
Not the silent leaking I'd managed in front of Art before, but something rawer.
Something that had been building since I'd watched Brandt crumple through my scope and felt nothing and everything at once.
My shoulders shook. My chest heaved. And Art was there, suddenly, crossing the small space between us, his hand landing on my shoulder with uncertain but determined pressure.
“It's alright,” he said quietly. “You don't have to hold it. Not with me.”
I couldn't stop. Couldn't control it. Years of kills, years of faces, years of pretending I was fine because the alternative was admitting I was broken, and it all came pouring out in that small room with Art's hand warm on my shoulder and his presence the only thing keeping me from flying apart completely.
When it finally subsided, I felt hollowed out. Empty. But somehow lighter, like some of the weight had been transferred, shared, made bearable by witness.
“Sorry,” I managed, voice wrecked. “That wasn't—”
“Don't apologise.” Art's hand was still on my shoulder. “You needed that. Probably needed it for years.”
“Not exactly the stalwart soldier you were expecting.”
“I wasn't expecting anything except you.” Simple. Direct. The kind of honesty that Art wielded like other people wielded weapons. “Do you want to get out of here? I know a place. Somewhere quiet. Where we can just... be. Without walls and watchers.”
I looked up at him. His face was open, sincere, offering escape without judgment.
“Lead the way,” I said.
Art took me through a gap in the hedge behind the groundskeeper's shed, along a path so overgrown I would never have found it on my own. We walked in silence, breath misting in the cold, until the trees thinned and something unexpected emerged from the darkness.
A chapel. Or what had been one, once.
The roof was gone, caved in by what must have been a stray bomb early in the war.
The stone walls still stood, but they were jagged at the top, broken teeth against the grey sky.
Snow had drifted through the empty windows, piling in the corners where pews had once stood.
A few blackened beams lay scattered across what remained of the floor, half-buried in white.
“Luftwaffe raid in forty-one,” Art said quietly, picking his way through the rubble toward a section of wall that still provided some shelter from the wind. “Before the estate was fully operational. They were aiming for the railway junction three miles east. Missed.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“The groundskeeper's dog. Broke its leg running from the noise. They had to put it down.” He settled onto a fallen stone that might have been part of the altar, brushing snow from its surface. “The groundskeeper never forgave them. Not for the chapel. For the dog.”
I followed him, stepping carefully over debris, and sat beside him on the cold stone. The walls blocked the worst of the wind, but the open roof meant we could see the sky above us, heavy with clouds that promised more snow. No stars tonight. Just endless grey pressing down.
“Why here?” I asked.
Art was quiet for a moment, his gloved hands folded in his lap.
“Because it's ruined,” he said finally. “Because something terrible happened here, and it's still standing. Still... present.” He gestured at the broken walls.
“Everyone else sees destruction. I see survival.
The walls didn't fall. The foundation held.
It's damaged beyond repair, but it's still here.”
I understood. More than he probably knew.
“First week I was here,” he continued, “everything was too much.
The noise, the people, the constant pressure.
I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. I walked out one night, just walked, trying to find somewhere quiet.” He looked around at the ruined chapel.
“Found this. Sat where you're sitting now and cried until I couldn't anymore. Then I went back and decoded three intercepts before dawn.”
“You come here often?”
“When I need to remember that broken things can still be useful.” He glanced at me. “You're the first person I've brought here.”
The weight of that settled over me. This place was his. His refuge, his secret, his proof that survival was possible even after devastation. And he was sharing it with me.
“Thank you,” I said. “For showing me.”
He nodded, pulling his coat tighter against the cold. We sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind whistle through the empty windows, the soft creak of a beam settling deeper into the snow.
“So,” Art said eventually, a hint of challenge in his voice. “You've been learning. Let's see what you remember.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Testing me?”
“Evaluating your progress. There's a difference.”
“Alright.” I shifted on the cold stone, thinking. “Bona nochy.”
“Good. What else?”
“That omi over there has naff riah.”
Art snorted. “There's no omi over there. But grammatically correct. Go on.”
I thought harder, trying to string together what I'd learned into something coherent. “Vada the... the lattie. Nanti bona. Too much...” I struggled for the word. “Too much noise.”
“Too much screech,” Art supplied. “But close. You're getting the structure.”
“Your turn. Say something I won't understand.”
His eyes glinted with something like mischief. “That omi ajax has bona lallies and a dolly eek, but his riah is fantabulosa.”
I parsed it slowly. “That man nearby has nice legs and a pretty face, but his hair is... fantastic?”
“Wonderful. Marvellous. Over the top.” Art was smiling now, a real smile that softened the tired lines of his face. “You're actually good at this.”
“Had a good teacher.”
“You had a distracted teacher who kept forgetting which words he'd already explained.” He pulled out a cigarette, offered me one. I took it, and we sat smoking in the ruins of the chapel while the wind picked up outside.
“Try a full sentence,” Art said. “Something you want to say. I'll tell you if you get it right.”
I thought about it. Thought about what I wanted to say, what I could say, what was safe to put into words even in a language designed for hiding.
“Me joy trolling with you,” I said carefully. “Even when the lattie is naff and the nochy is... cold.”
Art went still.
“That's not...” He swallowed. “You remember that phrase.”
“You taught it to me. Said it means being glad someone's in your life.”
“It does.” His voice had gone rough. “It means exactly that.”
“Then I meant it exactly that way.”
The cigarette trembled slightly in his fingers. He took a drag, exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the grey sky above us.