Chapter Text
The flush of the toilet preceded Thomas’s arrival in the kitchen. Light travelled faster than sound, but sound travelled faster than melodrama.
“Good morning!” he said, clad in an unfashionable combination of red waistcoat and pink dressing gown. He picked a post-it note off the counter, and read it aloud. “‘How goes the night, boy?’ I take it this is Act Two?”
Humphrey nodded. “Act Two, Scene One. Shortly before Macbeth murders Duncan, we’re given a glimpse of his thoughts on the witches’ prophecies, creating a contrast between Macbeth and Banquo.”
“Because they’re dramatic foils, etcetera, etcetera.” Thomas yawned. “I still prefer Frankenstein.”
“Ah, but you see, Macbeth is a riveting tale on treason, supernatural forces, fate, and, of course, the woes of ambition.”
“And Frankenstein is a masterpiece on botched humanity, secrecy, alienation, and the horrific acts that university students will commit under extreme stress.”
“I don’t think that’s quite the message Mary Shelley had in mind when writing it.”
“Regardless,” Thomas said, “it’s a good novel. Do you have any hot cross buns? I’m famished!”
“Yeah, they’re on top of the bread bin.”
Thomas grabbed a hot cross bun. “I assume we’re meeting up at Alison’s as usual?”
“Yep.” Humphrey picked up another post-it note.
I am afraid to think what I have done.
“No need to get personal, mate,” he muttered.
“Morning!” Alison was unusually cheery today. Perhaps she and Mike had finally finished their renovations. “Mike’s not here today, sorry. Busy with work.”
“Alas, for it seems dear Michael’s life is forever hobbled by work. But at least you are here, Alison!”
“Thanks,” Alison said. “I think. You two are early, by the way. Nobody else is here except Robin.”
“I told you we would not be plagued by traffic today!” Thomas said to Humphrey.
“And for once, you were right,” Humphrey said. “Morning, Alison. How’re the renovations going?”
“Still ongoing, but the roof hasn’t collapsed on us yet, so we must be doing something right,” she said.
“Probably. Where is Robin? Feels like we haven’t talked in ages, but that might just be ‘cause we never talk.”
“Oh, he’s out mowing the lawn,” Alison said. “We hired him as groundskeeper.”
“Last week he was your cook, and the week before that he was your cleaner!” Thomas said. “Whatever next?”
“Well, there’s still plumber, electrician, and dog manager up for grabs.”
“Dog manager?”
“Yeah, don’t ask.”
“You want anything to drink?” Alison said. “Tea? Coffee?” She tried to think of more drinks. “Tea and coffee?”
“Tea, thanks,” Humphrey said, playing with the collar of his shirt. “Tea and coffee together sounds … well, disgusting.”
“You’re right, it does. It’s just frustrating that I can’t offer you more variety.”
“Alison, you already do enough for me—all of us, really—as it is. You don’t need to give us more, especially when you’re so tight on money.”
“Thanks, Humphrey. That—that means a lot.”
“Except for Robin. I still don’t understand your deal with Robin.”
“Yeah, me neither. He just kind of showed up one day, and he’s been here ever since.” She frowned. “Are you alright? You keep fiddling with your collar.”
“Oh, that? It’s not the shirt,” he said. “It’s the necklace.”
“Necklace?”
He knew what she would say next. What everyone always said next, just on instinct. Is it your mother’s/wife’s/daughter’s/girlfriend’s/aunt’s/continue until list of female relations runs out? Never mind that he didn’t have a wife or a daughter or a girlfriend, never mind that there was no reason it couldn’t have been his. Of course it must be a woman’s.
“Yes,” he said. “No. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?”
“Bit sad. Bit funny. Bit boring. Mostly just … a long, long time ago.”
Alison looked curious, but not in the way he’d expected. Which made sense, since she wasn’t quite like anyone else he knew. “How long is long ago?” she said.
“Fifteen years, coming up on sixteen.” Four times four. A square expanse of time. Contrary to popular belief, time didn’t move forward in a strictly linear fashion. No, it expanded outwards, faster and faster and faster until the dot where it had started disappeared from view.
That was how time worked with memories, at least. He couldn’t speak for science.
“That’s—” Just as Alison was about to reply, the doorbell rang. “You’ll have to talk to me about it later,” she said, and then she was up on her feet, dashing to the door.
The host act would’ve been nicer if it wasn’t obviously exhausting her.
“Who was it?” Thomas said. He was curled up in one of the armchairs like some kind of sentient cat, clutching a mug of coffee to his chest. Humphrey could almost imagine him purring.
“It was Julian,” Alison said. “He’ll be here once he’s finished chatting to Robin, I think.”
Thomas took a sip of his coffee. “So in about three hours, then.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“I have no clue what they see in each other,” Thomas said. “I mean, let’s face it, I’m far prettier—Alison, are you alright? You appear to be choking.”
“When people are shocked,” Humphrey said, “sometimes they react weirdly.”
“Shock? Shock has nothing to do with the truth!” Thomas exclaimed.
Alison spluttered. “Yeah, sure. You keep telling yourself that, but I think”—she coughed—“we should move on.”
“I think you’re probably right,” said Humphrey.
“…and that’s how you perform the Danish Dinner Party manoeuvre,” Julian finished. He’d come inside, which had been fine, and then he’d made himself a mug of tea with a bit of milk and ten sugars, which had been mildly disconcerting, and then he’d launched into a raunchy tale about some party in Helsinki in ‘98, which had just been disturbing. Humphrey was beginning to feel that, like Robin, he should be kept outdoors. Not because he was one with nature (that was Robin’s thing), but rather because it was much harder to hear someone through a brick wall.
Alas, this was a support group, and as such they all had to talk.
“Moving swiftly on,” Alison said. “Has anyone done anything interesting recently?”
Robin put his hand up. “Won the lottery last week,” he grinned.
“Oh, that’s nice! How much?”
“Ten pounds,” he grunted. “Got a new shirt.”
“Really?” Thomas said. “It doesn’t look any cleaner.”
“Not this one, stupid. Haven’t worn it yet.”
“That explains it,” Thomas said with a grimace. “Is there anything more unfashionable than—”
“There’s more to the world than your offensive fashion tastes, Tommy.” Julian was smirking like he didn’t wear ripoff trousers six days a week. (On Sundays he wore booty shorts.)
“Stop calling me that!” Thomas shrieked. It was hard to imagine a more undignified reaction.
“Come on, guys,” Alison said, “can't we all just—”
“Cooperate? Nah, mate, cooperation is a lie peddled by leftists—wait, no, the politically correct way to phrase this is ‘peddled by capitalists’—for attention.”
“I don’t think it is,” she said. “How about we all just sit down and relax? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“I’m here for gardening,” Robin retorted.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Alison said.
Here was a fun game to play if you were bored by the constant feuds at Button House: find an alcoholic drink and take a sip every time Alison swore, Thomas shrieked, or Julian made an inappropriate sex joke.
Well, it was a fun game if you wanted cirrhosis of the liver.
As the ridiculousness of everybody’s arguments increased, Humphrey quietly pulled up a copy of Macbeth. It was infinitely more interesting than watching whatever this was.
He knew that, deep down, they loved each other. It was only a shame they expressed it through verbal abuse.
“So,” Alison said. The lounge was empty now: Thomas had retreated to one of the upstairs bedrooms, muttering about ingrates, and Robin had dragged Julian to the garden to solve a crossword. An odd place to do so, but each to their own. “What’s the story behind the necklace? You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“It’s a rather long and tangled affair,” Humphrey said wryly. “And some odd things happened, although not quite as odd as Thomas’s cousin revealing himself as head of a criminal empire. Even I didn’t see that coming.”
“Yeah, it was a bit of a shock the first time I learnt about that. But what about you?” she said. “What’s your story? You’re always really quiet when the other Ghosts come to visit.”
Calling their support club the Ghosts had been a rare stroke of creative genius from Thomas, who had pointed out that most of them had, in one way or another, nearly died at some point. Despite the Captain’s protests of how ludicrous a name it was (given they had “nearly died, not actually died, I’ll have you know!”), it had stuck.
“I don’t think they want to hear what I have to say,” he admitted. “I suppose it’s just easier to disappear beneath the shouting.”
“I care,” Alison said.
“Thank you,” Humphrey said. “Well, it all started in some town in the south of France that I don’t remember the name of…”
“Off to a great start, then.”
“In my defence, it was twenty-four years ago. It all started outside some pub in some place in France. There was this girl, you see, and though I didn’t know it at the time, this chance meeting in a place that time forgot would alter the course of my life, or at least mix things up a bit. She didn’t speak any English and I didn’t speak any French. I don’t even think she liked me that much, which I guess puts a damper on the idea of this being some epic love story. But she was memorable.”
“What was her name?” said Alison, who was vibrating with excitement, or maybe just caffeine.
“Sophie,” he said with a wistful smile. “Her name was Sophie.”