Peter stood at the tall Georgian window looking down at the market square, watching the good folk of Hareton going about their daily business, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, a grim expression on his grey, increasingly lined face.
A rhythmic tapping noise was the only sound in the room where Michael, seated at his desk and leaning back in his leather-trimmed executive chair, twirled his expensive Mont Blanc fountain pen in one hand, tapping each end in turn on the pad in front of him.
Peter had explained his proposals to his friend who, it was fair to say, had had serious doubts about his sanity and had said as much. Peter had defended his views robustly and he believed Michael had some sympathy for them, telling him in his own calm and understated way that they were not totally without merit. Peter knew Michael had an obligation to play devil’s advocate, the same obligation he owed to all his clients and especially this one, his friend. But he had pushed Peter too far, and cross words were exchanged: a highly unusual event, and it disturbed them both.
They both decided a moment or two’s silence was required and each had been waiting for the other to resume their discussion, but it was Michael who spoke first, extending an olive branch whilst seeking to justify his actions.
“Peter, I’d be failing in my duty if I did not ask. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Peter. He was still bristling from the implied criticism, not least because Michael’s assessment was probably accurate and he was often right. But there would be no compromise, not this time. Michael tried one more time.
“And you’ve thought through all the implications?”
“I’ve thought of little else for the last few months,” he said to the window, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes. “Anyhow, I have to get a move on, according to Mr Edwards.” He knew Michael was already well aware of his consultant’s prognosis. Coronary heart problems, exacerbated by emphysema, a chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, a legacy of breathing in a toxic cocktail of fumes from a burning frigate, which, together with the fragment of Argentine shrapnel lodged in his spine, made his condition virtually inoperable. All of that, for Peter, brought matters into sharper focus, even though Michael might still think him misguided.
“Is that what’s driving this?” he probed. Peter was aware of his lawyer friend’s technique. Seeking to expose the fundamental flaw in the argument, or something that had unduly influenced his client’s thought processes and judgement. He knew Michael had no inherent desire to talk him out it of it; he knew he just wanted him to be sure in his own mind. For his own sake.
“Partly. But it’s time I put things right,” said Peter with that familiar tone in his voice, that air of finality and determination that he hoped Michael would recognise. Instead, Michael sighed.
“You can’t carry that cross forever, my friend,” he said with sadness. A kindly admonishment. Peter swung around to face him, the flash of irritation in his eyes conveying to Michael an unmistakeable message. It worked.
“Okay. I’ll prepare the papers and send them to you.” Michael had done his best and could not be sorry he had failed.
“No,” said Peter quickly in response. “Don’t send them to the house.” He walked over and resumed his seat opposite Michael. “I’ll come back, next week.”
“As you wish,” said Michael wearily. But although the battle had been won, the war was not yet over.
“Now. About this other matter—”
“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted Peter before Michael had a chance to express any views. He was not going to argue any more about this. He had made his mind up and all his lawyer had to do was carry out his wishes.
“You are going to say it’s a waste of time and money.” He could swear Michael had nodded his head in agreement and it irritated him further. “It’s not going to be easy. You are going to need professional help. But I don’t care how much it costs. I want to do it properly this time, before it’s too late,” he said with a weary resignation.
“But how do you know she’s still alive—”
“I know she’s out there, Michael,” jumped in Peter, pleading for understanding, knowing he had no evidence for his last statement but still believing it to be true.
“And if she is, she wants to come back?” Michael had, of course, got to the crux of the matter. He was right, thought Peter. The last throw of the dice for a tired old man. Immortality is temporary, young man. But this time, the words fortified him, emboldened him. This was his shout, his instruction, and he would not be frustrated or persuaded otherwise.
“Just find her, and bring her home.”