Kapitel 29: Chapter XXIX
The room was starkly lit. Too brilliant in its luminescence, to no ones avail, and fell from the old parlour chandelier, crossed with the beams of the Atwood oil lamp on the table, and the bouillotte lamppost on either side of the sofa; alighting the scene of James's music-room with its paintings and upright piano, and two seated young men, facing each other. The door to the veranda was closed. The overgrown lavender waving softly outside. The shellac finish on the Boudin reflected starkly against the light overhead, and gave the picture a lifeless, flat impression. No more interplay between mist, fog, sunlight, and clouds. No more fine pencil strokes and brilliant weaving colours that crossed and mismatched. No more glamour. No more life.
James Henry Guilory, two deep lines etched into his forehead, was staring fixedly at Richard's shoulder as the fathom fire around Richard banked higher still. The flames had followed him, all the way here. Had hunted him, relentlessly, trailing a path to show: come and see, there's a coward on the run.
Seconds ticked by. Richard's throat was dry. He watched as James swallowed and the sickness in his own stomach swirled and churned. Unwelcome tears stung in the corner of his eyes as the silence grew, morphed with the flames in Richard's head, spewing out huge, wisping tendrils of smoke, encasing them, smothering, suffocating. Richard's fingers curled into fists to stop them from trembling as the sickness slowly ebbed into pain. The brass clock poised before the book-spines on the middle shelf of the single armoire in the room beat loudly through the seconds.
Guilory's face was flushed. His lips were pressed together. His eyes glued to Richard's shoulder.
The overweight feeling of having lost wouldn't leave Richard. It just wouldn't. And he knew well enough that it might never will. It was a worming panic just underneath his skin, creeping through his veins, the force of it slamming into his chest, almost knocking him to the ground, the realisation… she's gone, she's gone, she's gone…
He shouldn't have been there.
He shouldn't even be here.
Richard's presence made it worse. That woman saw him, whether he wanted it or not.
"I shouldn't have been there," Richard's voice came out rough, a croaking, horrified realisation made into words. He hated the sound of it, hated how true it felt, and how horrible. "I shouldn't be here."
"No, you probably shouldn't," James agreed, and then lifted his eyes to meet Richard's. They were too wide, flicking between Richard's and the empty room, as if looking for a reason to flee. "But now you are — perhaps we should make a decision about what we're going to do, while we're both in our right minds."
"Our right minds!?" Richard took a deep breath.
James shot upright in his seat, pointing at him, his eyes even wider: "Don't— don't you start shouting again! Don't—"
"What—?"
"Just— please."
Richard nodded hesitantly. James reclined again. Slowly. His eyes trained on Richard.
Richard thought about the feeling of the cushion behind his back as he was seated on the couch. He thought about the way Mathi had looked, nearing death, all sharp, panicked, and desperation to flee. He thought about the blood. The moisture. The messy, filthy push that had kept on going, and had made him feel like the ground had been kicked out from under his feet. He thought of the tiny tremors that had now started in James's fingers as he was watching Richard, the way his collar was pulled open and creased on one side, tugged sharply until it was half unravelled.
Richard thought himself extremely far from his right mind.
"I need to leave," he said. "That's what I should do."
Because once he was away from here, he might recover. Maybe. The desperate, restless itching might simmer down, break apart and fade. Without him being in Paris, and the deeply affected James next to him, it may be pushed to the background. It was the sensible course of action. It was the course of action that would be best for James, which made it in Richard's sectionable mind the only course of action he could take.
❧
For all that Richard was deeply relieved to leave the house behind. The walk that took him to the Rouxel was aggravating; and he was shivering. An onlooker regarded him curiously. Richard avoided their gaze and focused on the pavement and James's heels; his friend was only two steps before him, but he couldn't feel more distant. How on earth Guilory was remaining this composed was a mystery to Richard. It was still hard to breathe through the raw, stinging burn of his throat, broken only by the deep stabs of agony from inside.
James had stopped trying to catch his eye.
The Rouxel was parked at the kerb. Richard Crawford opened the passenger door, seeking to ignore the desperate, wounded look James had plastered on his face before he slowly slumped inside. He hid his hands between his thighs as to conceal their shaking. The air between them felt sharp and jagged. Everything was all wrong, oscillation too fast, tones too dark, and Richard didn't know how to remedy any of that.
The first thing he needed to do was get out of the city.
James had not said a word since they went outside. But he'd let James do what he needed to do, whether he needed Richard there for it or not. Richard could see how exhausted his friend was, he could read the guilt, and the flaring edges of anger that James kept desperately crushed down. James Guillory had never looked this broken. And it terrified Richard.
They'd go to Richard's place, pack some essentials, then to the station, they'd go there—
"James?"
He saw James was not ready yet. His fingers squeezed and twisted on the wheel; he was clawing for words.
"James?" Richard's own voice sounded threaded and unreal, as if he was trying to gather himself back together but hadn't managed to find all the pieces.
"Right," Richard said. It came out raspy and thick, nothing like he wanted.
To Richard, even the car had begun smelling like cold sweat and blood.
Richard wanted James to say something, something reassuring: that James didn't blame him for anything, that none of it was his fault. But it was all still too sharp, too close, too soon, and the words were all clogged somewhere in his throat.
James Guilory curled his hands round each other. He sighed then, raised his head, and turned the ignition.
Half an hour fled. It was five in the morning, and they had passed Folies Bergère two minutes ago. Up high, the two towers of Saint-Vincent de Paul came rising between the chimneys, and Richard reckoned they would be at Gare du Nord in another five. Guillory drove and sat still, knuckles white from throttling the steering wheel, energy focused entirely on the scarily lighted patch of road in front of the car. Not allowing his thoughts to run amok. Richard regarded the man behind the wheel as utter deification filled his mind.
"James?"
"Sleep."
"I can't."
"Then for G—my sake, act like you can."
"I can't."
"Then sit and be silent."
"James...?"
Guillory's voice faltered. "Just shut up, Richard. Just...— shut up."
He did. And they drove in silence. The lights beside the road enlightened them one moment and plunged them into darkness the next. It was during long, nightly car rides that Richard loved to think; but no longer. His mind was filled with apprehension. Fear, dread. More for himself than for James, and the fact both unnerved and braved him.
"You think they'll get me?" He asked.
"I don't know," James whispered.
"You think they think it's me?"
"I don't want to know."
"They saw me. They'll think it's me," Richard decided.
Another minute they were silent. The glass of the window felt cold against Richard's cheek and the buzz of traffic rung out in the background.
"You think she—?"
"Jesus fucking Christ, Richard! I don't know! I don't know! I don't want to know!" He let go of the wheel as he shouted and Richard noticed the tears only when James was whipping them away, "I don't care!" He put his hands back on the wheel.
"Of course you care. You've always cared. That's what you're like."
James just shook his head. Too angry to make his retort.
Two clock towers abreast the main triumphal arch of Paris-Nord loomed under the gaze of seven august statues that crowned the building along the cornice line. Ironwork pillars lined the entire façade, the cast iron still wet from the rain that had fallen earlier that night. It was a massive display that hid a lack of space and poor access.
Guilory parked but a hundred meters from the main entrance.
Richard had not noticed when he'd gotten out of the car. Only that he was. Guillory slammed his door closed and Richard shrank at the sound of impact. The heavy draught pulled at his hair and clothes. He turned his head and caught James staring at him, but the young man looked away the moment their gazes crossed. Richard took a breath and retrieved his luggage. James kept regarding the road and the few travellers exiting the gate of the station even as Richard asked timidly:
"Now what?"
"Now you leave," Guilory said.
"Where to?"
"I don't know. You decide."
Richard thought for a moment. The wind was freezing. "What about Na—"
"I'm not interested."
"Alright," he whispered.
Richard wanted to walk up to him. Never mind that his legs felt like lead; heavy; uncooperative. But then James came to stand beside him, facing him but regarding the station. He seemed to wait on Richard to say something. Or maybe not. Maybe he was waiting for Richard to simply bid him goodbye and be the first one to step away. This would be, in all likelihood, his last opportunity to say something. Anything at all. To make James understand. Understand what Richard wished to be true and something he wished James had told him. Something he needed to be true.
"It wasn't my fault," Richard said.
Richard's head flew backwards. His teeth slammed against one another as his jaw was forced shut. A weight dropped and send him on his back. The second haul hit the bridge of his nose. The assault didn't falter until he landed a punch against James's temple; it sent James off him and next to him, where he remained lying, breathing heavily and with pulled up knees.
"You're a son-of-bitch, you know that." James wheezed.
"Yeah. I know."
The far-off screeching of an arriving train resounded. The clouds overhead hid the coming morning. The raindrops on the single lamppost above him glimmered. Another second passed. Richard opened his mouth: "You know— if you'd given me time—"
"Get out of my life, Richard."
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein