BY SAGE HARPER

The last thing he ever said to Alison Topping was, ‘I love you’.

It wasn’t much of a comfort; but in light of the chain of events that followed, he took any comforts he could get.

There had been a pause on the end of the line, and for a moment he panicked. Thinking that somehow she knew what he was about to do, and hated him for it.

“I love you too, Rick.”

Of course, she was just a little surprised. Because as a rule he didn’t call her at work, ‘just to say hi’, let alone declare his feelings in such a blatant, public way.

He’d hung up at that point; there were no other words he could have said. ‘See you later’ would have been too cruel and ironic, and a literal ‘good bye’ stuck in his throat.

They were waiting. He couldn’t see them but he could sense their presence looming - this team of agents who were poised for his signal.

So he stood on the steps of the World Government Police headquarters in Chicago, at 18:00 hours precisely, fumbled with his car keys, that was the cue. And as the shot rang out, he had imagined that the pain searing through his skin and muscle was not from the bullet, but his own heart breaking.

When he regained consciousness he had been spirited away to a new life; a new job, new appearance, new name. Richard Fraser didn’t die that day; but perhaps a part of him did. It made him frantic, and claustrophobic, to be in this alternative reality. A part of him wanted it to be a dream.

Then he saw them in the Officers’ lounge, the eclectic band of men who had been chosen to lead the charge of this freshly minted Spectrum organisation; the ones who would become as close as brothers - and the one who would betray them.

They glanced around; surprised, openly curious, fumbling to craft a response.

So he screwed on a smile and decided to seal the deal.

“Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

If they wanted him to have a new life, as Captain Ochre of Spectrum, then he was going to fully embrace it. Take every chance to play the Shakespearian fool. The careful mask of a man so filled with anguished burden he felt sure it would spill out of him like a ripped bag of flour. People only see what they want to see, so he’d let them be fooled.

Perhaps one day it wouldn’t be an act any more.

He didn’t known at that point that Alie was carrying their child, that spark of a whole new life within her. In the years which followed her funeral he wondered what would have happened if he had known. If it would have changed the course of fate.

That six years later he wouldn’t be sitting within arm’s-reach of his son, feeling a chasm far greater than the physical miles which had separated them.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

And he couldn’t see that it would ever be right again.

Westchester, New York

Seamus Donaghue woke to the sound of the doorknocker clattering. Groggily, he rose from the plush comfortable armchair, which he had commandeered on his arrival for the duration of his stay, and ambled out to the front door.

“Patrick,” he exclaimed with delighted surprise.

“We were in the neighbourhood.” Magenta smiled. “So we figured we’d stop by for some of Mam’s cooking.”

Ochre waited for a moment, watching the reunion from inside the saloon, which they had used to drive from the airport. He felt it would be wrong to intrude, and also needed the time to compose himself.

He understood exactly why Magenta had brought him there; to show him he wasn’t alone, that they could make it. That there was a chance that one day he and Ricky could have this bond; a simple honest closeness, which could weather the years of struggles and miles between them. It was a bittersweet moment though. As Magenta embraced his father, their height perfectly matched, Ochre couldn’t help realising that one day Ricky would be a grown man, after decades had passed seemingly in the blink of an eye. All the potential of Ricky’s life, and their life together, wrapped up in those years, hit him. Along with the realisation of how much he had missed already, and of what he would miss if he left now.

He glanced over his shoulder with a smile. Ricky dozed on the backseat, wrapped up in Ochre’s Spectrum-issue winter jacket. His sweet, perfect, little boy.

“Don’t ever grow up,” he thought. “Let’s just stay in this moment, forever.”

For Ochre seeing Seamus Donaghue was uncannily like looking at his friend’s future. From within a web of laughter lines, Seamus’s warm brown eyes sparkled with life, and although his hair, which had once been as black as his son’s, may have faded to grey, yet it retained its sleek thickness. The old man was still supple and trim, although he stooped a little, and had probably been taller than his son when he was in his prime. Still, you might well be looking into a crystal ball at Patrick in thirty years’ time. Ochre had complained at the unfairness of it all once, explaining that his father had ended up with a beer gut and receding hairline at forty.

“Good to see you again, son,” Seamus said, as Ochre stepped from the car. Ochre offered his hand but instead found himself enfolded in a paternal embrace.

Much like his own parents, Seamus and Marie had lacked material wealth as they raised their children. But the family had an open warmth and rapport, which he had never known anywhere else. They had welcomed him without any question or reservation; as if he, like Patrick, was a wayward son returning to the fold of the family.

“We’re just borrowing him for the holidays,” Ochre explained, nodding toward Ricky. He sounded casual, but deep down was terrified that an innocent question would bring their relative calm and acceptance crashing down. “He normally lives with his aunt, in Chicago, but she’s in hospital.”

“Who’s there?” Marie Donaghue called from the doorstep, her face flushed and content. Then she recognised the captains, and had she not been barefoot there was no doubt she would have run over to them. As it was Magenta went to her, holding her tight to his heart and lifting her clean off the ground. The way she had for him as a child.

“You’ll catch your deaths out there.” Marie beckoned them inside. Ochre opened the side door to reach for Ricky, but hesitated. So instead Seamus took him.

The years almost seemed to fall away, and again he was a young father cradling his precious child.

~oo0oo~

“This is a really nice house,” Ochre said, once they were inside the wide hallway. Not that he had any knowledge or interest in interior design, but the house was light, airy and decorated in a timeless, elegant style. It seemed far too large and impractical for Magenta’s sister as a single woman living alone, but Caitlin had loved the house since the moment she had first viewed it. And the place was frequently filled by visiting friends and family, so it was ultimately quite practical.

“Bit too fancy though, like it’s out of a magazine,” Seamus grumbled gently. “You can’t go living in a magazine.”

Ochre followed him up the oak stairs, managing not to trip over the spoilt tortoiseshell cat lounging on the penultimate step, along the oatmeal-coloured sisal carpet, past identical white painted doors, with handles that looked like antique bronze. The only break in the uniformity was the second door on the right, which had inch-high wooden letters, ‘F A E’, painted three shades of purple and mounted at eye level.

Obviously that was the bedroom of Magenta’s niece when she stayed there; a remainder of her childhood. She was in college now, Ochre couldn’t remember if it was Yale or Harvard.

“Fae’s at her friend’s for lunch,” Seamus noted, with a nod toward the door. “Seems like only last week she was a little girl, getting all hyped up that Santa was coming to town. She’ll be back later tonight, if you’ve got the time to stick around.”

Ochre considered it. How much of their 72 hours of leave was left, the journey between Chicago and New York in the high speed Spectrum Passenger jet.

He nodded. “We do, I know she’ll want to see Pat.”

Ochre opened the door which Seamus had stopped in front of to reveal the smallest of the bedrooms. It contained only a single bed, dresser and chair, with a couple of pine shelves on the wall; there was no space for anything else. The colour scheme was of sunny yellows and gentle blues; nothing matched, but everything fitted together effortlessly. What really made an impression on Ochre was the scent, of fresh linen and a lingering aroma of unidentifiable pot pourri; it felt like coming home.

“He’s your lad, isn’t he?”

Ochre nodded, pulling back the covers; no sense in denying it.

Between them they took off Ricky’s outer clothing, laid him down and tucked him in.

“You’re not going to ask?” Ochre began. “I mean if I was in your position I’d have a whole heap of questions … why I never said anything before, who his mom is, how this happened.”

“I know how it happened.” Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Unless they totally changed the method in the last thirty odd years.”

Ochre didn’t especially want that mental image, so considered it best to derail that train of thought.

“Aren’t you curious about where Ricky’s mom is?”

Seamus pondered that point for a moment, then said simply;

“Well, if you were in my position, then you’d know that I’d tell you everything that needed telling when the time was right. I’m quite happy to wait until whenever you want to talk.”

With that Seamus went back downstairs.

Ochre had always had ambitions which, achieved or otherwise, had given shape to his life. Since joining Spectrum he had been slightly adrift, so caught up in his new career that he hadn’t really thought any further than his next furlough, at best. But here he was with a kid, and he couldn’t think of anything more permanent and long term than that.

After a few moments of contemplation, Ochre knew what he was going to do. Once again he had something to aim for, and an unexpected peace fell over him.

~oo0oo~

Ricky had the same dream he often did: of seeing his mother again, in a crowd. He would call out to her but she would never hear him, and keep walking away. So he would run to catch up with her, but the gap between them would get even wider, with obstacles in his way.

By the time he woke he was frantic, drenched in sweat, his throat tight from yelling in his sleep.

“It was just a dream,” Ochre said gently. “Your mom would never leave you, not if she had a choice.”

“But you did,” Ricky retorted. “You left me and mommy. So you could have your job.”

Those words cut like a dagger. They both looked at each other, equally unsettled.

“I know, and, if I could go back, I would do things differently,” Ochre said. Then he thought of Pat, his life on Cloudbase, the good that Spectrum had done for the world. Deep down he didn’t regret his choice, just that it had caused so much pain and hardship. He was sure that made him a terribly selfish person. “But we can’t change what happened in the past. We just have to try and make the best of now, and the future.”

“I don’t want you to be my daddy,” Ricky said, ripping Ochre’s heart in two.

“Well, it’s a shame you feel that way,” Ochre replied, attempting to be calm and reasonable, though he had no idea how that was possible. “I hope one day you’ll change your mind.”

“I liked it better before, when you weren’t around, when it was just me and Aunt Ellie, and stuff made sense.”

Ochre had to admit he had a point, a final knife twist to the gut. A nagging inner voice of doubt made him feel he should have stayed away, that it was all a mistake. Until now Ochre had been able to ignore it, but now it came roaring back.

Self-doubt aside, they had a more immediate problem.

“Is Mrs Donaghue going to be mad at me?” Ricky bit his lip against the threat of tears.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Ochre reassured him, because in all the time he had known her, he couldn’t recall Marie losing her temper.

He stripped the bed, bundling up the sodden bed linen in a pile on the floor. He glanced at Ricky; the little boy’s helplessness made his chest ache. “I can’t remember where Pat put the clean clothes we picked up for you, you’ll have to ask him.”

“I don’t want to,” Ricky said firmly. “Then he’ll know what I did … only babies wet the bed.”

“You’re not a baby, it happens to lots of people. Even me, when I was a kid,” Ochre said gently. “It’s just a reaction to stress and stuff. Anyway, don’t worry about Pat, he won’t tell. He’s seen me do way more embarrassing things.”

“Like what?”

Ochre smiled, realising most of those stories involved booze or women, or some combination thereof. Really not the best example to be setting.

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he said, hearing Marie come up the stairs.

Marie looked over the room, deduced the situation and picked up the bed linen without a word.

“I’ll go and run you a bath,” she said, with a smile. “Then you’ll be all freshened up before lunch.”

Relieved, Ricky smiled back at her, then followed her to the bathroom on the other side of the hallway.

“It’s fine, I’ll sort out the bath,” Ochre insisted. Feeling he should do something proactive in the situation. After all he was the parent, and supposed to be taking care of his own kid. He could at least get that part of it right.

Marie nodded, then headed on downstairs.

~oo0oo~

The bath taps were shaped like swans, so it was a bit morbid that you had to wring their necks for the water to come out. Ochre tried not to think about it too much, as he rooted through the cabinet and storage, trying to find a suitable bubble bath. Not an easy task, as Caitlin’s bathroom was chockfull of all manner of ‘girly gunk and junk’. It was a world apart from his own, which housed one of everything from the limited list of toiletries a man would require, and had barely enough storage space in the cramped spartan facilities to store even that. He had no idea how the Angels managed.

Eventually he found a large bottle of ‘cleansing foam’ which claimed to be unscented and designed for sensitive skins. He poured some in and swirled it around. When the bath was ready, Ricky stripped off and clambered into the water without saying a word.

“That not too hot for you?” Ochre asked.

“No, it’s OK.”

With that they lapsed back into silence, Ochre feeling every inch of the chasm between them and wondering how they would ever be able to mend it.

A few minutes later Seamus came in with a bundle of folded clothes, towels and bath toys. He placed those on the floor, handed a rubber duck and small plastic frigate to Ricky, and then gestured for Ochre to step outside with him.

For a moment Rick hesitated; all the potential dangers which could befall small children, even in such an innocuous setting looming large in his mind. But then Seamus must have done that before, and obviously Pat and Cait had survived to adulthood.

“I over-estimated my patience.” Seamus admitted, pulling the door ajar behind him. “So you’ll have to give me a sit-rep now ... that is the right word? That you boys use at work.”

“Yeah.” Rick faltered a little, deliberating whether he wanted to tell. To deal with the fallout of another confession when discussion of his circumstances was the last thing he wanted to do. But then he looked at Seamus - this kindly father who was the image of his best friend - and couldn’t imagine anyone better to talk to.

“Well, OK, where to begin ... For a couple of years before I joined Spectrum I was in a relationship, a proper serious grown up relationship, with this amazing woman. But at the same time I was growing more and more dissatisfied with my job. I didn’t want to be a career cop, getting shunted into some cushy admin job, I wanted something that made me feel like I was making a real difference. So when I got head-hunted by Spectrum, you can guess what happened next ... I had to end it. To sever all ties with my past to avoid reprisals.”

“Bad break up?” Seamus sympathised.

“Doesn’t even begin to cover it … I swear I didn’t know she was pregnant at the time. Not until three years later; she was shot dead, outside the school she worked at. So I went to the funeral, to make my peace, I guess. Then I saw her sister there with this kid, with Ricky. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

“And now here you are.”

“Yeah; that’s your kid’s fault. He watches too many of those sappy ‘Christmas miracle gift’ shows - y’know? - with the family reunions and sick kids going to Lapland and stuff. So, he got it into his head that it would be a good idea to go down to Chicago and met the kid. I was all for keeping the status quo, not messing with the kid’s head until he was old enough to make a choice. But then hearing about him from Pat made it hard to stay that way, and then, when his aunt got injured and he needed someone to care for him. I just couldn’t turn away. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but we’re in this situation now, so we have to see it through.”

“And he knows about you being his father?”

“Yeah, I told him. Just before we got here. He’s not taking it too well.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s holding up better than I did when I found out what my son was.”

Ochre frowned; “You’ve always known the kind of man Pat is. We both just lost sight of that for a while.”

“And I’m sure Ricky will understand and come around to accepting you, once he’s got to know you.”

“I keep wanting to talk to my dad,” Rick admitted. “Apologise for all the crap I gave him and mom over the years. Ask him how the hell I do this, and when it stops being so scary.”

“Would it make you feel better if I admitted that even after thirty odd years’ practice, I haven’t a clue what those answers would be?”

“Nah, think I’d rather keep muddling along and deluding myself that it’ll get better.”

“It does … every now and then, in some small way, they do something wonderful. And you know that you wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Seamus pondered that. “I think it’s an evolutionary thing, to put you off eating them or something,” he added, pleased to see the amusement flare up in Ochre’s dark eyes.

~oo0oo~

Lunch was perfect, the great variety of food prepared to perfection. Initially, Rick had been concerned that having three extra mouths to feed would stretch the portions too thinly, but as Pat had rightly predicted, there were still leftovers. After they had eaten, Caitlin went off to take a call from someone named Riley; the mere mention of the name illuminated her like the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree. Seamus and Marie returned to their respective chairs with the comfortable routine born of a long, happy marriage, and settled down to watch a movie with Ricky. Ochre felt such gratitude that the child, who had lost so much in his short life, was being welcomed so easily into the family.

For his part, Ochre insisted on clearing up after lunch, but by the time he got to the kitchen Caitlin had already set to it. Her cell phone seemingly welded to her ear to transmit her half of a sales pitch.

“Ugh, tell me about it!” She rolled her eyes theatrically. “We both know memoirs are hot, and gangsters are going to be even hotter … yeah, I know, goddamn gold mine! But he won’t bite …”

So Rick used his initiative, found a towel and began to dry up. Then he remembered Caitlin worked in publishing. They do say everyone has a novel in them, and it seemed she was making great efforts to prise that from her brother.

Magenta came to stand in the doorway, clearly intent on saying something. Then he entered the kitchen and took over Caitlin’s task. So she left and went upstairs, still talking away.

“What’s up?” Rick asked, initiating the conversation.

“Grainne’s broken up with me.” Pat continued to wash a serving dish, aware of his friend’s intense stare. “… Why are you looking at me like you’re expecting me to have a nervous breakdown any minute now?”

Rick shook his head gently.

“And you’re OK?” he asked. “Properly OK with that? It being over?”

“Yeah.” Pat shrugged. “It’s kinda disappointing, after all these weeks, but no I’m not heart-broken or anything.”

“Good, I’d hate for you to be sad.”

Pat briefly rested a hand on his shoulder, then returned to washing the dishes.

“I would have given you the satisfaction of figuring it out for yourself,” Pat said, propping up a saucepan on the draining board. “But Green already knows; he overheard her telling Flaxen about it, so, when I called in he gave his commiserations and did the supportive friend thing … all things considered I thought it would be better for you to hear it from me first, rather than him.”

Rick looked away, all the comments and subtle hints of the problems in his best friend’s relationship coming into focus like a slideshow. He should have been there, done something, but he’d been so engrossed in his own crisis.

“I should have seen it coming really,” Pat said. “You meet a nice girl, you like her, she likes you, you get together, things are peachy, then it goes sour, you have some fights and it’s over. That’s the way it always goes.”

“Why did you fight anyway, what was she so mad about?”

“Whole lot of complicated things. Like, apparently, I’m too obsessed with work.”

“But you’ve always been ‘obsessed’ with work.” Rick frowned. “It’s not like she never knew what she was letting herself in for on that score.”

“I know.” Pat shrugged. “But sometimes women don’t love who you really are. They love who they think you could be, if you had the love of a good woman.”

Rick couldn’t help thinking he’d had that once, in Alie. She hadn’t just been wonderful in herself, but that goodness seemed contagious. When they were together he was sure he’d been kinder, happier, more interested and interesting, and he’d felt that he could achieve so much because someone believed in him.

He often wondered what kind of a person he’d have become if he’d stayed.

Pat levelled a familiar look of amusement, mingled with faint curiosity, at his friend.

“Isn’t this the point where you start beating yourself up for not seeing it coming? About how it would never have happened if you’d done X, Y, Z? Because you, Richard Fraser, have to carry the burden of the universe on your shoulders.”

“No I don’t. I wasn’t thinking that,” Rick insisted, although he felt himself colouring under Pat’s knowing gaze.

“Yes, you do, and yes you were,” Pat said with equal conviction. “Anyway, in this case, you’d be partly right. Because instead of getting leave and bringing her to meet my parents, like we’d planned. I ended up here anyway backing up my field partner.” He shrugged. “So, congratulations, you killed my love life.”

“You can’t lay that on me!” Rick retorted. “There was no way I knew how it was going to turn out. It’s not like I made you do all that stuff to help me.”

“I know, but … I wanted to.”

“You said you couldn’t get leave,” Rick began, after a few moments’ silence. “But you did … then cancelled it.”

“It didn’t seem right to go off and play happy families when you were having a crisis with yours.”

“You didn’t need to do that. I can take care of myself.”

“You’re welcome, Rick.” Pat rolled his eyes. “Any time.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to carry the burden of the universe on your shoulders either, Patrick Murphy Donaghue.”

It made Rick smile, to let that name trip off the tongue. And, for someone who claimed to loathe his middle name, Pat didn’t seem bothered by it.

“Whatever, it’s done,” Pat stated. “So now we have to just get on with our lives.”

Rick stepped forward, intent on hugging him, then stopped short, embarrassed.

“I don’t deserve a friend like you,” he said.

“Damn right,” Magenta concurred.

“So why’d you do it?”

Pat stepped back, and looked Rick in the eye with an incredulous expression.

“What the hell did you think I was going to do?” he began. “We’re partners, stuck with each other, potentially for the rest of our working lives, unless I get fired, or put out a hit on you or something. But, y’know, spending the rest of my days in De Witts doesn’t exactly sound a thrilling prospect … anyway, that’s not the point. Even considering your ...”

“Tendency to be an asshole?”

“I was going to say ‘foibles’, but, yeah, it’s the same difference. Anyway, you’re a good and loyal friend, and those aren’t exactly a dime-a-dozen. We’ve been through a lot in the last few years. It’d be stupid to throw that away. I mean you’ve never put a woman before me, so why would I do that to you?”

“But you love her, and I’m not going to let you ruin a perfectly good relationship on my account.”

“If it was that great we wouldn’t be in this situation. She’d have understood and let me go.”

“Yeah, but this is just because of what’s going on with Ricky. It’s a temporary thing. It doesn’t change how you feel about her. It’s a different kind of relationship; friends and girlfriends.”

“I know that, it’s just that she can’t get her head around it. To be honest, I think sometimes she’s a bit jealous of you, that we spend so much time together, I mean, and have all these insider jokes and whatever.”

“No girl I’ve dated has complained.”

“You never let them get close enough, always keep it light and casual, then no one gets hurt, right? They know they’ll never be the most important thing in your life, so didn’t expect it, and don’t get so bent out of shape realising you have other priorities.”

“You have to call her.” Rick strode across the kitchen to the phone. “To sort this out.”

“It’s never going to get sorted,” Pat said, almost as if talking to Ricky. “Not unless she totally changes her attitude to my job, or I cut down on that and put her above everything all the time. Neither of which are likely scenarios. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, that I actually have some character flaw and am incapable of relationships.”

“That’s total crap; I can’t believe you’re just giving up.”

“I’m tired of fighting with her, and she deserves someone who can give her everything she needs. If you love someone, let them go.” Pat took the telephone receiver from him, and put it back in the cradle. “Maybe we should just forget about women and hook up with each other?” he suggested, more than a little flippant. “I mean we are practically married anyway.”

Rick’s eyes widened in surprise and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he said, innocently, “I thought that sort of thing was against your religion?”

“So’s stealing.” Pat shrugged.

Rick considered it for a moment.

“You’d make a terrible wife.” He smirked. “What with you being so obsessed with work.”

At that Pat gave a hearty laugh. “Only you would tell such an inappropriate joke, at such an inappropriate time.”

“But that’s why you love me, right?”

~oo0oo~

He’d never admit it, because that would be insensitive even by his standards, but Ochre was quite relieved that Magenta had a drama of his own to deflect attention from him and Ricky.

“We heard about you and Grainne,” Marie said gently, with concern for her son.

“Really? You must have been eavesdropping outside the door then.”

“Don’t talk to your mom like that,” Rick told him firmly, out of new-found parental solidarity. “She’s only trying to be kind.”

“If you must know,” Marie began, unfazed. “I called her. To say ‘Happy Christmas’ and invite her to visit another time. Then she told me what had happened … such a shame.”

“Right.” Pat nodded. “Sorry.”

“I always thought she wasn’t right for you,” Seamus said, from behind the freshly-minted hardback crime novel he was reading, which was, no doubt, a Christmas gift from Caitlin.

“Really?” Pat said. “Well you sure picked your moment to say so. It would have been good to have been told before now.”

“Too high maintenance,” Seamus continued. “Bit clingy too, over-eager to settle down. Honestly, what’s the rush?”

“Interesting,” Pat said. “I got the impression you wanted me to settle down. Seeing as we’re not getting any younger.”

“Maybe so, but you don’t have to settle with the first girl who makes the moves on you. If I’d have done that you wouldn’t even exist; so there.”

Marie seemed to flinch at that reference to his past, but made no comment.

“What’s meant to be will find a way,” she did say, with conviction.

“What if I’m meant to be alone?” Pat said, so quietly that only Rick, who sat beside him on the couch, heard.

“You’ll never be alone,” Rick insisted. “You’ve got your family, friends, and me; and you’re stuck with me.” He smiled. “We can be alone together ... OK, that sounded less weird in my head.” He gave an embarrassed grin at the Donaghues.

“Compared to what else is in there, it probably was.” Pat’s mood lifted.

Thankfully, Ricky seemed to be oblivious to the crisis.

“Rick, look!” He beamed. “There’s this really cool plane on TV.”

It took a moment for Rick to realise he was being addressed; no matter how irrational a reaction he knew it to be, a part of him stung a little that Ricky knew the truth, but wouldn’t acknowledge it by calling him ‘Dad’.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “I’ve got a model of it.”

“I know, I sawed it.”

“I’m going to get a drink. Do you want anything?” Rick asked.

“Can I have some cola, please?”

“Uh, does Aunt Ellie let you have pop?” he said, in response to Ricky’s request.

“That doesn’t matter,” Ricky said earnestly. “She’s not here. You’re looking after me. So you can make up the rules and let me have pop, if you want to.”

Marie shook her head, but Rick had already made up his mind. If this was what it took to make Ricky happy and put him in his son’s good books then so be it.

“Just a bit then,” Rick conceded. “As it’s a special occasion.”

Rick kept glancing over at Pat, a subconscious gesture, to check how his partner was bearing up, but Pat seemed to be in good spirits, involved in a heated debate with his father about some obscure fact in the distant history of Irish sport. So, Rick focused his attention on Ricky, who was never one to pass up having a captive audience.

“Oh, don’t you look sweet together.” Marie smiled, with a hint of wistful nostalgia. “We should have a picture.”

Rick hated getting his photograph taken. Growing up he had had crooked teeth, and his parents had never been able to afford an orthodontist. So, in every pre-Spectrum photo he emanated a sense of being ill at ease, which went beyond his self-conscious half-smile. Then, when he was recruited to Spectrum, there was a whole team who had endeavoured to alter his appearance, and they had given him a smile fit for a movie star, yet the awkwardness remained.

He was about to protest; but by then Marie had found the digital camera, and was fiddling around with it, insisting the fault was with the machine and it had been fine earlier. And Ricky, who it seemed hadn’t inherited any inhibitions, settled himself to sit comfortably on Rick’s lap.

“Yeah, guess that would be good,” Rick said, resigning himself to it. “We haven’t had our picture taken together yet.”

“Did it take?” Marie demanded. “I mean the flash went, but, oh, I don’t know … I thought you said this would be easier to use? I couldn’t see what was wrong the old one myself. It’s like you just get sorted with using one thing, then they bring out one with new doo-dahs to confuse you all over again …”

Well, that explained why Pat had such unwavering patience when it came to teaching to his colleagues how to use new technology.

Rick noticed a photo album lying open at the foot of Marie’s chair. He glanced down at it, and one particular image caught his eye. It was of a man in his late twenties, stood posed in the small front yard of a terrace house, a bedraggled hydrangea at his left knee, and a sash window glinting in the sun to his right. He cradled a bundle of lemon, woollen blanket, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and seemed in mid-speech, responding with amusement to what someone outside the frame had said.

The caption helpfully said; Welcome Home. With no further hint as to the where or when, or who the man was. At first glance he was sure it was Pat; but more careful study revealed the man’s facial features to be slightly different, and the clothing was of an outdated style.

“Oh, here we go.” Marie handed Rick the camera. “I got the viewer thingy to work.”

He had to admit it was a pretty good picture.

Then he realised the photo in the album was indeed of Pat; though all you could really see of him was a tuft of black hair, poking out of the blanket, and tiny fist gripping the man’s fourth finger.

So the man was Seamus; had to be.

Our first father-son portrait.

Rick looked between the two images, and noticed they had the same expressions.

~oo0oo~

Something had got into him, a proverbial bee in the bonnet; it didn’t take years of working together to notice the signs. Magenta knew it was best to just let Ochre be, for the whole thing to run its course; but he stuck around, out of morbid curiosity as to what would come of this. Knowing it would take a while, he stretched out on the couch in the den, mindlessly flicking through the TV channels, until he came to a scantily-clad woman karate-kicking at a zombie.

Rick paced the floor, deep in one-sided conversation.

“I have to go back to Chicago,” Rick stated, hanging up his cell phone.

“And what would this epic pilgrimage be in aid of?”

“To prove I’m not dead.” Rick glared at the phone, as if it was at fault for relaying the bad news. “When I moved to Chicago, I took my parents’ stuff, the things I’d inherited, with me.” Rick slumped down on the couch, where Pat had had the foresight to make space for him. “I just put it all in a storage place and pretty much forgot about it. But, of course, now I go to get it I can’t, because the storage company have got on their records that Richard Fraser is deceased. So they won’t give my stuff back to me.”

“You do realise I know people, who know people, who could get in there and retrieve whatever you asked for, without leaving a fingerprint?”

Rick glared.

“Just, you know.” Pat shrugged. “Putting that out there.”

“Apparently they have to talk to my next of kin or something. I mean, do you even have a next of kin?”

Pat frowned; “presumably, but I have no idea who that’d be. Considering your parents have died, and nobody’s been insane enough to marry you.”

“People in glass houses, Paddy …” Rick extended his arm to make a grab for the remote; then another woman, wearing an even shorter dress, appeared on TV, so he decided not to bother changing the channel.

“I always just figured Spectrum would take care of that stuff when I finally do snuff it,” Rick added. “I mean I’ll be dead, it’s all the freaking same to me … It won’t be the kid though, right? Even if they did know about him, he’s too little to deal with it all.”

Pat nodded, and gave the ominous signs of having an idea.

He turned off the TV, picked up his own cell phone, tapped a few buttons, then dialled the same number Rick had.

“Good afternoon,” he said with smooth, effortless, self-assurance. “My name is Patrick St.Thomas. I’m calling on behalf of Richard Fraser Junior, in an effort to retrieve his father’s personal effects ...”

“Saint Thomas is the patron of lawyers,” Pat said, by way of explanation, once he had hung up. “Mam was right, all those years of Sunday school have done me the world of good … what?”

“You have no idea how many laws and codes of conduct you’ve just broken,” Rick said.

“Oh, do tell.” Pat grinned. “It’ll make me all warm inside.”

“I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction.”

“See, you know what I love about almost everyone thinking you’re dead?” Pat teased. “At times like this, when you are powerless to stop me from doing things for your own good … You should really quit complaining though, as I’ve got your stuff back.”

“Not quite, I want to see it with my own eyes first.” Rick frowned. “What exactly did you agree to anyway, something about expenses?”

“There’s some back-payments on the storage space. It’s very reasonable; I’m impressed you got such a good deal.”

“It’s the Scottish in me, tight as two coats of paint.”

“Well, anyway, I’ll wire them the money once we’ve got everything out, and then you’ll never have to deal with them again.”

“From your account?”

“Well, it can’t be yours; they don’t think you exist. Way more trouble than it’s worth to explain that one. Anyway I got an account registered as ‘St.Thomas, attorney in law’, or something like that.”

“Leftover from your syndicate days, no doubt. I am not paying my debts with mob money!”

“It’s not mob money, it’d be mine. From the freelance computer stuff I’ve been doing, those government commissions and whatever. It’s all legit; I’m just going to put it through the lawyer account so it’ll tie up with our story and look kosher. We don’t want anyone getting suspicious.”

“Yeah, well if you come unstuck don’t come crying to me.” Rick remained disgruntled. “They had a spate of that kinda thing in New Jersey. Mobs stealing stuff from storage facilities; same method you’re using.” He gave a slight smile. “Without paying for the privilege.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” And it was true; Pat was euphoric, yet focused, in the way he usually was when embarking on a new project. “Keeps me in the game, in a roundabout way. Have to keep my skills all limbered up, because you just never know what tomorrow will bring.”

“But you wouldn’t go back?” Rick asked. “To the Syndicate stuff, not for real?”

He needed to know. Not for some world security related reason, but his own peace of mind. There had been times when Pat had been suspected of illegal activities, and Rick had instantly defended him. But how could he be so sure? They basically only had a glorified ‘scouts’ honour’ that he wouldn’t revert. The appeal must still be there; the money, the desirable rebelliousness, that it was a freer and more luxurious lifestyle than Spectrum offered.

And what if he did? What would Rick do? Could he really put aside their years of friendship; go back to cop and mobster? Things seemed so much simpler then, no complications and dilemmas of long-standing principles against hard-won partnership.

“No,” Pat said with simple, solid conviction. “I mean, maybe sometimes I do miss the perks of the Syndicate. But that was a lifetime ago. Now I have my family’s respect, can make a positive difference in the world, and just feel settled, I guess.” He looked Rick in the eye, rested a hand on his. “So, no, I’m not going to bail on you.”

“Anyway, it’s funny you should mention New Jersey,” Pat began after a moment, unconsciously slipping into his particular ‘story time with Uncle Pat’ voice, which meant Rick never knew for sure if it was genuine anecdote or just plain blarney. “I knew the guy who kicked off that whole craze. It was about the only good idea he ever had. You wouldn’t believe what people keep in those places, antiques and stuff …”

A part of Rick felt it was so bizarre and unsettling to hear organised crime discussed like it was a bake sale or something. But he couldn’t imagine any better way to phrase it.

“Then what happened?” he prompted, because a story teller is only as good as their audience.

“Anyway, he got too greedy, mistimed the biggest operation, and got two in the back from the cops for his trouble. So there’s your almost instant karma.”

“I don’t remember that being in the news.”

“Well it was a covert operation,” Pat explained. “And the cops never admitted to killing anyone, if they could help it; PR nightmare. As you know all too well.”

“I never killed anyone on the job,” Rick said. “Shot them, but not dead. Not until I joined Spectrum, obviously.”

“Y’know, neither did I. Trade one commandment in for another.” Pat sighed. “I miss being Ricky’s age. When it was so clear who the heroes and villains were, and that the good guys would always win.”

~oo0oo~