Concern and Contemplation
Marie recalls the evening's events, and pours her heart out to her walls.
Marie watched the others disappear up the staircase to bed, still sat on the floor in the entrance hall of their makeshift home. As she saw the last of them disappear from sight, she heaved a sigh, ran a hand down her face and undid her heels. Holding them in one hand with her handbag, she stood up, the dress pooling around her feet now she was a few inches shorter. It was crumpled and creased...but she couldn't have cared less. She gathered some of the material in her free hand, lifting it above her feet, and began to ascend the stairs.
She reached her door and fumbled with her bag to find her key. Her hair was hanging across her face and her face betrayed her tiredness and the stress of the evening she had just had. She eventually unlocked her door, and walked into what was - for all intents and purposes - her only private area for the forseeable future. She threw her bag on to the bed, let her shoes clatter to the floor next to the door, and looked around.
She reached her door and fumbled with her bag to find her key. Her hair was hanging across her face and her face betrayed her tiredness and the stress of the evening she had just had. She eventually unlocked her door, and walked into what was - for all intents and purposes - her only private area for the forseeable future. She threw her bag on to the bed, let her shoes clatter to the floor next to the door, and looked around.
On the bed lay her suitcase, filled with an array of items she had considered potentially useful when she left her home in Malta. There were a few evening dresses such as the one she had been in all evening, a few different hats and pairs of various types and style of glasses. She had packed "combat" trousers, for want of a better word, and an array of tops, varying from sandy and snowy colours to the deep greens and browns more commonly found in forests. As she picked up her bedclothes (an old t-shirt and pair of shorts) and went to the bathroom, unzipping her dress, she breathed a sigh - partly relief...and partly that indescribable mix of sadness and incomprehension. As she came back out, dressed for sleep, she found her mind unable to "switch off". Looking out of the window, into Berlin itself, she found herself replaying the events of the day.
She sat on the ottoman beneath the window and watched the night speed by. She had found herself with a group of misfits - each (apparently) with their own expert skillset. "Tom Quinn", the psychic - good at (no wonder) interrogation and converting people from one ideology to another, Professor Hal Kailas, a linguist of high regard, also knowledgeable in the theoretical Occult, Rex Goodman, with an expertise in exotic and unnatural beasts, with contacts in the illegal animal trade, Sam Hunt, a Police Officer skilled in close combat who had been in the unusual position of being able to arrest a vampire...and was able to sense the supernatural. And there was Harry. Someone she knew from her simpler days of life. When everything had been crystal cut and black and white were completely separate.
He had got her involved in a scheme she hadn't expected to be party to, tonight. He had brought her along (after much coercing) to a soirée at the British Ambassador's residence. The plan had been to get visas and/or passports from Russia. If they got visas, they could cross the border legally and then investigate...if they got passports...they could forge more and...get into Russia legally, illegally. Only as they went to the car did he tell her she would have to pose as his wife.
As Harry had kept everyone enchanted with his anecdotes, Marie had worked her magic on the Russian Ambassador. By lying through her teeth and laughing at his jokes, she eventually got the suggestion of a possibility from him. He had breached the possibility of getting at least one visa, for her, and it was then that she - to fit her ever-growing web of lies - explained she needed to talk to her "husband" and explain why she was leaving.
Once she had found herself in the Ambassador's private room, she had become increasingly more tense. She knew that she was alone, without any backup or anyone to call on should things go wrong. He had brought her a drink, and left the room. Marie had seized her opportunity to flick through his papers and finding one with her "husband's" photo on it, and big red Russian letters over it, she had quickly placed it in her bag, just before the Ambassador returned. As his questioning went into her "relationship" with Harry, she knew he had figured she wasn't married to him, but she couldn't let him know she knew that. "The issue was", she thought, staring out into the Berlin night, "that I didn't know whether he knew who I was." There had been a moment where she was left almost without answer - when he mentioned that Harry was multi-racial...and Jewish. She hadn't known whether or not this was truth and she ought to have known it as his "wife", or if it was a fraudulent claim, specifically mentioned to get her to admit (unknowingly) that she was lying all along.
"At those times," she mused, "the chances of saying the right thing are about as good as flipping a franc". And - apparently - she had flipped it in her favour. The questioning had trailed off, and Marie - after refusing his generous offer of sharing his bed for the night, had been allowed to exit, her heart in her mouth and her mind racing.
She had told him that she and her "husband" were residing at a local hotel, and that was where she instructed the taxi driver to drop her off. The fact she waited outside for a time before racing across to the building she now found herself inside was neither here nor there. She had run back, and let herself in - sinking to the ground, devoid of energy.
Marie turned back around to face the room. She stood up, closed the curtains and moved her suitcase and bag from her bed, and then looked back. All that was left on her bed was her old, navy blue, duffel trench-style coat. It had been with her for many years, since just after the war began, in fact. She picked it up, very, very gently and sat on the bed, the coat on her lap. It had been in this coat that she had first met Harry...and another man who had been so very important in her life; the one who had called her back into the fold only a few days beforehand. She had met Frank Cooper in that coat.
She looked down at it, and all the questions, the comments, the queries and the fears rose to the front of her mind. She turned the light off, and lay in bed, one hand still rubbing the collar of the coat. As her head hit the pillow, she looked at the ceiling.
"Why, Frank?" She asked the room, in just above a whisper. "Why bring me back now? You know I have our children to look after. You know I have a life now outside all of...this." She sighed, and brought the coat back onto the bed, holding it to her chest, with both hands holding on to it. "You had your chance to hold on to me, and keep me with you. You had your chance to carry this on. So why do it without me and then change your mind?"
She closed her eyes forcefully, and then opened them again. "I don't want to despise you, Frank. I know full well that you've probably had people keeping an eye on Jeanne and Hélène, and I don't mind that - I really, really don't. In fact, I wish we could see eye-to-eye and let them have a family bringing them up, rather than my mother. She's more like their mother than I am." She sighed, softly, and then looked down at the coat. "I loved you back then, you know." She whispered. "...I don't..." She paused, closing her eyes and taking a tighter hold on the duffel. "...I don't think I ever stopped." She barely said, her voice so thin and quiet. She laughed, hollowly. "I guess that's why I came back. I..." She rolled her eyes, feeling stupid for what she was about to say. "...I wanted to see you. I wanted to be with you again." She shook her head. "But you couldn't even allow me that, could you, you awful fool." She found herself looking back at her coat. "You couldn't let me have that chance."
She ran her hand across her face, rubbing her eyes, and she then let out a small "huff" of air, almost as a laugh. "Listen to me." she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "42 years old and I sound like a lovesick schoolchild, weeping over a failed romance." She rolled her eyes. "It's been time enough. You've moved on, and so should I." She said, looking at the coat. "No more holding onto the past. It's gone and it failed. I can't rescue it now, so many years on...and I can't go back and change it." She sat upright, a steely determination in her eyes, but it looked hollow. She looked at the coat, and then screwed it up, feeling her heartstrings flinch. She threw it across to the ottoman, where it lay, discarded, crumpled and creased. She looked at it, trying to resist the urge to run over and pick it up, decrying her previous words as fakery and deceit. She swallowed, and laid back down, turning the light off, leaving it where it had landed...
...Only to switch the light back on, barely minutes later, and walk, softly, over to it. Kneeling on the floor, she pulled it towards her, burying her face into the material; feeling it against her skin. She sat like this for a minute or so before looking down at the coat and saying softly, almost broken "I can't. I...just can't do it." She looked up at the room in general and whispered "I'm sorry, Frank."
She sat on the ottoman beneath the window and watched the night speed by. She had found herself with a group of misfits - each (apparently) with their own expert skillset. "Tom Quinn", the psychic - good at (no wonder) interrogation and converting people from one ideology to another, Professor Hal Kailas, a linguist of high regard, also knowledgeable in the theoretical Occult, Rex Goodman, with an expertise in exotic and unnatural beasts, with contacts in the illegal animal trade, Sam Hunt, a Police Officer skilled in close combat who had been in the unusual position of being able to arrest a vampire...and was able to sense the supernatural. And there was Harry. Someone she knew from her simpler days of life. When everything had been crystal cut and black and white were completely separate.
He had got her involved in a scheme she hadn't expected to be party to, tonight. He had brought her along (after much coercing) to a soirée at the British Ambassador's residence. The plan had been to get visas and/or passports from Russia. If they got visas, they could cross the border legally and then investigate...if they got passports...they could forge more and...get into Russia legally, illegally. Only as they went to the car did he tell her she would have to pose as his wife.
As Harry had kept everyone enchanted with his anecdotes, Marie had worked her magic on the Russian Ambassador. By lying through her teeth and laughing at his jokes, she eventually got the suggestion of a possibility from him. He had breached the possibility of getting at least one visa, for her, and it was then that she - to fit her ever-growing web of lies - explained she needed to talk to her "husband" and explain why she was leaving.
Once she had found herself in the Ambassador's private room, she had become increasingly more tense. She knew that she was alone, without any backup or anyone to call on should things go wrong. He had brought her a drink, and left the room. Marie had seized her opportunity to flick through his papers and finding one with her "husband's" photo on it, and big red Russian letters over it, she had quickly placed it in her bag, just before the Ambassador returned. As his questioning went into her "relationship" with Harry, she knew he had figured she wasn't married to him, but she couldn't let him know she knew that. "The issue was", she thought, staring out into the Berlin night, "that I didn't know whether he knew who I was." There had been a moment where she was left almost without answer - when he mentioned that Harry was multi-racial...and Jewish. She hadn't known whether or not this was truth and she ought to have known it as his "wife", or if it was a fraudulent claim, specifically mentioned to get her to admit (unknowingly) that she was lying all along.
"At those times," she mused, "the chances of saying the right thing are about as good as flipping a franc". And - apparently - she had flipped it in her favour. The questioning had trailed off, and Marie - after refusing his generous offer of sharing his bed for the night, had been allowed to exit, her heart in her mouth and her mind racing.
She had told him that she and her "husband" were residing at a local hotel, and that was where she instructed the taxi driver to drop her off. The fact she waited outside for a time before racing across to the building she now found herself inside was neither here nor there. She had run back, and let herself in - sinking to the ground, devoid of energy.
Marie turned back around to face the room. She stood up, closed the curtains and moved her suitcase and bag from her bed, and then looked back. All that was left on her bed was her old, navy blue, duffel trench-style coat. It had been with her for many years, since just after the war began, in fact. She picked it up, very, very gently and sat on the bed, the coat on her lap. It had been in this coat that she had first met Harry...and another man who had been so very important in her life; the one who had called her back into the fold only a few days beforehand. She had met Frank Cooper in that coat.
She looked down at it, and all the questions, the comments, the queries and the fears rose to the front of her mind. She turned the light off, and lay in bed, one hand still rubbing the collar of the coat. As her head hit the pillow, she looked at the ceiling.
"Why, Frank?" She asked the room, in just above a whisper. "Why bring me back now? You know I have our children to look after. You know I have a life now outside all of...this." She sighed, and brought the coat back onto the bed, holding it to her chest, with both hands holding on to it. "You had your chance to hold on to me, and keep me with you. You had your chance to carry this on. So why do it without me and then change your mind?"
She closed her eyes forcefully, and then opened them again. "I don't want to despise you, Frank. I know full well that you've probably had people keeping an eye on Jeanne and Hélène, and I don't mind that - I really, really don't. In fact, I wish we could see eye-to-eye and let them have a family bringing them up, rather than my mother. She's more like their mother than I am." She sighed, softly, and then looked down at the coat. "I loved you back then, you know." She whispered. "...I don't..." She paused, closing her eyes and taking a tighter hold on the duffel. "...I don't think I ever stopped." She barely said, her voice so thin and quiet. She laughed, hollowly. "I guess that's why I came back. I..." She rolled her eyes, feeling stupid for what she was about to say. "...I wanted to see you. I wanted to be with you again." She shook her head. "But you couldn't even allow me that, could you, you awful fool." She found herself looking back at her coat. "You couldn't let me have that chance."
She ran her hand across her face, rubbing her eyes, and she then let out a small "huff" of air, almost as a laugh. "Listen to me." she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "42 years old and I sound like a lovesick schoolchild, weeping over a failed romance." She rolled her eyes. "It's been time enough. You've moved on, and so should I." She said, looking at the coat. "No more holding onto the past. It's gone and it failed. I can't rescue it now, so many years on...and I can't go back and change it." She sat upright, a steely determination in her eyes, but it looked hollow. She looked at the coat, and then screwed it up, feeling her heartstrings flinch. She threw it across to the ottoman, where it lay, discarded, crumpled and creased. She looked at it, trying to resist the urge to run over and pick it up, decrying her previous words as fakery and deceit. She swallowed, and laid back down, turning the light off, leaving it where it had landed...
...Only to switch the light back on, barely minutes later, and walk, softly, over to it. Kneeling on the floor, she pulled it towards her, burying her face into the material; feeling it against her skin. She sat like this for a minute or so before looking down at the coat and saying softly, almost broken "I can't. I...just can't do it." She looked up at the room in general and whispered "I'm sorry, Frank."
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