Chapter Text
The Quiet Escape
Another take, on S3E1
Detective Inspector Richard Poole stands on his veranda, agitatedly gazing seaward. He frets. He fumes. He just plain worries. He has completed his Saturday chores. Marketing, dry cleaners, hardware store, library, and post office. The home chores of laundry, kitchen and bath sanitizing, and general dusting and hoovering are complete. It is three PM, and he has an hour of rest and then an hour of preparation before his Cambridge class reunion barbeque.
Returning to the kitchen, Richard fills a pitcher with ice and then tops it off with cold bottled water. Filling a tall glass with ice, he pads out to the veranda. The sound of his bare feet on the shacks floor is alien to his ears. Today had been auspicious. He had entered the public fray dress in full feral fashion. Tan chinos with no crease, a long-sleeved blue chambray work shirt with the cuffs turned up, and a pair of deck shoes sans stockings. The odd thing was that no one seemed to notice. For the first time on Saint Marie, he felt invisible. He had joined the masses!
With his shoes cleaned and retired to the wardrobe, he sits on the patio with his ice water and continues his fret. Harry’s breakfast sits on the kitchen counter, untouched. What’s worse is that he had had no nuisance supervision while he dusted, hoovered, and straightened. Odd as it may seem, he and Harry had become a team. And the shack wasn’t proper without his teammate.
‘He’s just off on an Anole adventure, that’s all.’ Richard consoles himself. But of course, this is Richard Poole. Nothing is ever positive, because the darkest of thoughts always are lurking.
‘What if … some serpent has slithered out of the grass or down from a tree and swallowed Harry whole, or a raptor has swooped from the sky and carried his wriggling form off to its nest, there to be torn asunder. What if … he has expired from old age while off on a jungle romp. … And I … I … … … …never got to say goodbye!
Richard rocks back into his chair against the shack’s wall and slumps in despair. He calls to the sea, the heavens and to himself. “Why is it I can feel such emotion, such pain, such a sense of loss for a small Anole, and yet not for humans, even the ones I care about.” His breathing now comes in short, hard pants. I knot grows in his stomach and his chest feels as though weight is both pressing in as well as out. He gulps repeatedly; his breath reduces to shallow gasps. “Oh, Harry my friend. I’m so sorry. I shall miss you most dearly. I do wish that the fates had allowed me a proper farewell. Goodbye, my friend. I’ll miss you……” He then whispers. “Fare thee well my stalwart comrade. Fare thee well.”
Richard sits in a forlorn silence. A single tear starts a slow inexorable journey down each cheek. Instantly a long thin tongue darts out and snatches first one tear, then the other. Startled, Richard turns to see a small green body clinging to the shack’s wall. The Anole steps from the wall to Richard’s shoulder. Its tongue now flicks to the end of Richard’s nose.
“It is you, Harry. By Jove it really is you!” The Anole runs down one arm to the table, turns, stares at Richard for a moment and blinks.
“One blink. Your haptic ‘yes’. It truly is you. This calls for a celebration. Come, my friend, let us choose a libation and a snack for you. Unless you’ve been foraging, you must be starving.”
In the kitchen Richard grabs a fresh cold ale, Harry’s untouched breakfast and the jar of dead dried insects. “We’ll give that meal of yours an extra shot of protein. With all the necessary gear assembled the two friends pad back to the veranda. Richard pours a bit of water into Harry’s miniature bowl and the Anole eagerly laps it dry.
“I thought you looked a little dehydrated. So, now a refill on the water, and a few drops of ale in your mug.” Harry once again takes a couple of laps of water and then drains his mug of ale.
“Easy lad!” Harry blinks once. With water and ale refreshed, Richard suggests. “Now a bit of solid food would be in order.” Harry blinks once. Richard opens the bug jar and pours a few more on Harry’s mash. But before he can remix the dish. Harry ‘s tongue shoots out and snares a particularly succulent fly from the dry pile. Richard is surprised by the crunch of Harry’s tiny teeth on the desiccated insect. “Well, I’ll be! You like crisps with your ale as I do. Ha!” And so, the next half hour is spent in contented crunches and foam mustaches.
**********
Their mellow state is disturbed by the rumble o the Defender’s diesel. Then silence. Camille rounds the corner of the shack, stalking through the sand and mounts the center steps. Her face is contorted in what appears to be pain. Richard, ever the gentleman, rises and extends a hand and draws an anguished Camille to a chair. Harry looks alarmed.
“Camille, … are you alright?” She slumps to the chair, folds her arms on the table and drops her forehead on them.
“Non.” she whispers.
“Here now. Let me get you something cool to drink.” She nods without lifting her head and mumbles. “Beer.”. Harry moves on to her elbow as Richard goes to fetch the drink. Without lifting her head, Camille turns to face Harry. The Anole’s tongue darts out to the tip of her nose. She smiles sadly.
Richard returns and offers Camille the bottle, while also replenishing Harry’s mug. Noting Harry’s position, he says. “Good lad.”
“Camille, what’s wrong?”
Slowly lifting her tear-streaked face to him, she mumbles. “Reeshard. Don’t go.”
“Camille, I’m here. I’m right here.” And an instant-appearing handkerchief is offered. She accepts.
“Non, I mean don’t go to that reunion of yours. Non, please. Please don’t go.”
“But … I, … I don’t understand. Why? What is wrong? I, … I’ve never seen you like this. Or at least only when your friend Aimie was. Ah, … died. Please explain.”
“I don’t know Reeshard. I did not sleep last night. This dread it was all around me. It tormented me all night. It was almost touchable. I paced up and back. I even went outside and walked the streets for hours trying to escape this feeling that you are in danger. Great dangers, mortal danger. And it’s all about the reunion. I feel it even now. Even more now that I see you. Please don’t go. I know it’s silly, but it is too real for me to ignore. Please don’t go.”
Richard once again rocks back in his chair and sees that Harry is now on Camille’s shoulder, cuddling under her chin, but staring directly toward him. Harry lowers his head and blinks once. Camille dabs at her eyes. And Harry continues to stare at Richard.
Fumbling for words, Richard notes Harry’s continued stare and then another single blink. A chill runs down Richard’s spine. ‘Damn Anole. He agrees with her. And I’, I’m at a loss to understand either of them.’
“Camille, I am more than a bit flummoxed by your request. It’s just a reunion. I can’t believe that there is any real danger. Yes, I would like to determine whether my, hunch’ as you might say is valid or not. I suspect that Sasha is somehow not Sasha. But while the others may have some grievances, they are rather minor and have occurred twenty-five years in the past. Yes, I rejected Angela’s infatuation, and James exhibited some jealousy went I attempted to engage Sasha in further conversation. And yes, I did get Roger sent down for cheating at Cambridge. But none of those events would motivate anything more than verbal abuse. So, can you give me some kind of evidence to substantiate your concern.”
“Reeshard, you know I am no coward, but I am afraid for you.”
“Of course you are no coward!” In an unconscious and spontaneous move, he reaches across the table and takes her hand. “You have faced the dangers of undercover police work and been wounded twice in the line of duty. I could never think you a coward.” Squeezing her hand, he continues. “When did this feeling or as you said, dread, begin?”
“As soon as you mentioned the reunion. I felt a twinge in my stomach, and it has grown so that it envelopes me like a black cloud that I cannot see but just feel.” Harry blinks once.
“Ah. … would you feel better if I brought Fidel or Dwayne with me as ‘a bodyguard?”
“Non. I only know that you must not go.”
“I can’t call them and say that … well … someone is sure I’m to be injured if I attend. That sounds like voodoo”
“Please Reeshard, don’t mock me.”
“No no no! Never! I just mean that is how it would sound to them. I … I … trust your instincts. I just am not sure how to proceed.”
In a weak and desperate whisper. Camille sighs. “Please don’t go. For me, Reeshard. S’il te plait, mon ami. Mon cher ami.”
‘My friend. My dear friend.’ Courses through Richard’s brain. ‘What does she mean?’ And as so many times in his life he draws a blank. ‘what does she mean? What does it mean?’ Looking into the terrified eyes of Camille, unnerves Richard.
“Camille, I want to help you, but I have a responsibility to justice and that is my duty. It is who I am. But … but this is most distressing. And you too are my dearest friend, and I need to think. To thing. I think I need another drink.”
“Reeshard …, I, … need a cuddle. … Please. A small cuddle ....