Synchronicity
by Madelein Lee
Post Hiding to Nothing
Bodie lurked in the hallway, trying to make up his mind whether or not to intrude on the life of Frances Cottingham again. She'd been home from hospital for several weeks, and he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind.
The last sight of her had made him think of a wounded animal: all pain and defiance yet terribly vulnerable. She'd reminded him of another woman he'd never been totally able to forget a woman who'd killed herself over him. He hadn't been to blame, but she was just as dead as if he had been.
He had to take some responsibility for Frances Cottingham, however. He'd been involved in her pain from the first. He'd alternately spied on her, brought her tea, used her, felt her shame, and understood her desperation for love. Despite knowing he'd only done his job at the time, he was driven to do something to help her now, although he didn't know what it might be.
Ray would have had some suggestions, but he couldn't ask. His partner didn't know he had a ruddy "bleedin' heart" for a mate, and Bodie wanted to keep it that way. Inwardly, he cringed at Doyle's mirthful surprise should he learn how his tough partner sometimes bled for their victims, and even on occasion, went back to check on the damages. Like now. It was better that his partner despise him for a callous attitude, rather than like him more but respect him less for his softness.
Again, he winced at the memory of the "cream puff" remark he'd made to Cowley, but even he didn't know if his shame sprang from almost being one of that despicable breed or pretending he didn't give a damn about the people he helped destroy. Self-disgust for his traitorous core almost turned him away, but the recollection of her bravery stopped him. Frances didn't deserve anyone's scorn, and he owed her at least a moment's concern for his part in her fall from grace.
Sheila looked up and smiled as he came in. "Bodie, how very nice to see you again. I was hoping you'd come in for supplies soon. A tin of biscuits arrived yesterday, and you know how hard it is to keep them fresh in this climate. You can help me eat them."
Bodie lit up at her words. Sheila was about ten years his senior but had been very friendly to him from the first time they'd met. Young and lonely and far from home, the outwardly tough but inwardly vulnerable 18 year old had appreciated the nursing sister's kind words and her ability to remind him of home. He thought she was quite nice and very kind.
"Ta, Sheila. That'd be smashin'. Nothing but monkey stew for weeks. Bikkies would be a treat."
"Come on then, let's have early tea. I've a pot brewing in the back room."
After a pleasant 20 minute chat, he loaded up the necessary medical supplies and headed back to the compound.
The other men in his unit had taken to teasing him about Sheila seeing as how she was the only white woman in a 500 square mile radius in this particular bit of Africa. He scowled. He liked Sheila because she didn't want anything. The last thing he needed was sex. There was more than enough of that for the newest and youngest recruit. He was very shaky when it came to women just now. When the rest of his fellow mercs has gone on R & R a month ago, he'd stayed behind, not quite having the nerve after the last months as Jennings' boy. He was ashamed of his fears, but he was more afraid he couldn't perform with a woman.
The truck hit a pothole and he brought his erring attention back to business.
Drawing breath, he knocked. A dog barked and he could hear someone shushing it before her mother opened the door. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to meet with her, and briefly, he wondered if he could appease the old lady even if he'd had a forelock to pull. Instead, he tried civility and his best smile.
"Could I please speak to Miss Cottingham?"
"Frances has been ill; who wishes to see her?"
The old lady was just as querulous as he'd remembered; still he made an effort to maintain control over his tongue. "I'm with CI5, Mrs. Cottingham. Name's Bodie."
"CI5! They're no friends to my girl."
"Mother, who is it?"
With relief he heard her voice, cleared his throat nervously and peered over her mother's shoulder. "Miss Cottingham? I don't know if you remember me. I'm Bodie"
She came to the door while he was speaking. In appearance she was much the same, only tireder looking. "Yes, I remember. Please come in. Is it business?"
"No," he said, trying not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt.
"Please be seated," she said as she led him to the lounge. Then putting an arm round her mother, she walked with her to the kitchen door. "It's all right, dear, Mr. Bodie and I are going to talk for a bit. You go on and finish your tea."
When her mother exited, she turned back. "Mother is quite frail; I try to see her routine isn't disturbed." She grimaced. "Often I fail dismally."
Bodie felt oafish amongst the strictly feminine bric-a-brac cluttering the room's surfaces and the antimacassars tidily draping the furniture. Shifting uneasily in the small chair he'd chosen, he shooed the small dog away from his trousers.
Across from him, Frances lowered herself carefully into a neighboring chair, reminding him she was still convalescing. "I don't suppose you're used to being forgotten, are you?"
He found himself asea, the apparent non sequitur throwing him. "How's that?"
"Women," she replied succinctly. "I don't suppose that happens often, women not remembering you. You're very attractive in a menacing sort of way. Probably attract women like bees to honey."
Unaccountably, he was ill at ease. Women were either attracted to him or seemed to dislike him on the spot, but he'd never bothered to analyze it.
"I do all right," and then he blushed for his bluntness. Somehow she'd thrown him off stride without trying. "Look, I'm sorry for bothering you. I won't take up your time. I just wanted to know how you were getting on."
Her smile, although a little sad, was genuine. "I believe that, and I appreciate your concern. I'm doing well, thank you."
Studying her carefully, he saw the dispirited droop to her shoulders, the new silvering on her temples. She couldn't pass for under 40 now. "Are you really? Or is that what you tell yourself and others?"
She paled. "That's none of your business, Mr. Bodie. Accept that I'm recovering, please do."
For some reason he couldn't leave it. The simplest thing would be to get up and walk out; after all, he'd seen for himself she was physically recovered, heard it from her own lips she was fine. But he knew she wasn't, knew she wasn't likely to forget she'd been played the fool, or that she'd betrayed Colonel Masterson after 10 years faithful service. He leant forward and fixed her with a long look.
"Miss Cottingham, I know a dodge when I see it. In my business it can mean life or death."
She shivered and suddenly seemed smaller. "You're very discerning, but what good will it do you or me to admit there are days I wish I were dead, wish I'd died under the wheels of that motor. I didn't though, so I suppose I shall carry on. I suppose I shall even move house to take the job your Mr. Cowley found me at Warwick University."
Striving to cover his surprise at that bit of information, his response was automatic. "It takes a lot of strength to go on. You do know, don't you, that although it doesn't seem possible now, some of the pain will fade? Life will become important again."
She looked up, somehow seeing past his cool concern. "You sound like a man who knows what it is to live through a bad patch."
He couldn't help his wry smile. "Several bad patches if you must know. And it's always got better. Mind you, it's better now than it ever has been, so you can believe a veteran of bad times when he promises the future is dead cert to improve."
Leaning back then, she seemed to crumple. "I want to believe you; it's just being alone again. . . ." Her voice broke and he reacted automatically. Before she'd started to weep, he'd pulled her into an embrace. He suspected that this was the first time she'd really allowed herself to let go since she'd learned of Luis' treachery.
"Come on, love, let it out. You know you'll feel better," he soothed.
She clung to him, crying soundlessly although her body shook from the force of her sobs. He marveled at her control, even now protecting her lump of a mother from any distress. Finally she eased back, and he slipped her his handkerchief.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Nothing for you to apologize for." Chucking her under the chin, he looked into watery green eyes. The color rather disconcerted him for a moment until he realized they were quite different from Doyle's. "Listen, love, if you're feeling up to it, why not come out to dinner with me? You need a diversion, you do." The invitation was spur-of-the-moment, but he was glad he'd thought of it.
Amazed, her hand flew to her hair. "I couldn't." Seeing the stubborn set to his jaw, she added, "but my hair."
"Comb it."
"I shouldn't leave mother."
"We'll leave her a number."
"Where would we go?"
He knew then he'd won. "Good Italian restaurant not far from here; nosh is authentic."
"It would be nice to get out for just a little bit, wouldn't it?"
She smiled weakly and Bodie released her. "Good show. Get your coat then."
Escaping the gloom-enshrouded flat eased his depression, and he thought, hers too.
"Sheila?" His entire body burned with the fever of delirium, but through it all, he saw the halo of her pale blonde hair.
"It's all right, Bodie. You'll be all right. It's just a jungle parasite. I've radioed the doctor and he's coming."
Her hands were cool and reassuring. "Thirsty," he complained.
His head spun as capable hands lifted him and put water to his lips. He sucked at it greedily and then rested in her arms. In her white uniform, Sheila reminded him of an angel, and he reached out to her.
"Don't wanna die, Sheila. Not in the bloody bush." His voice was a rusted croak but she understood him.
"Shh. I'll take care of you."
For a long time, his only reality was her cool touch healing him.
Supper went well. She asked him to call her Frances, and she was more relaxed away from the flat. He began to work for her smile, knew himself to be devastatingly charming, and was pleased when she showed herself to be an appreciative audience. Silently, he congratulated himself on giving her pleasure at the same time he was assuaging his own guilts.
"Another glass of wine?" he suggested at the end of the meal.
"No thank you, I've already had more than I should." Her eyes met his. "You are very kind to do this. A young man like you surely knows many beautiful women."
Gallantly he raised his lager. "A little maturity makes a person ever so much more interesting, don't you think?" He tipped his glass toward her. "Here's to fascinating women."
She laughed and then set her wineglass down with seeming reluctance. "I must go home now. Mother won't be able to settle properly for the night until I'm back."
After parking the car, he insisted on seeing her to the door, and then she insisted he come in for a coffee. Realizing she didn't want the evening to end just yet, he accepted. Once the hot drink was made, they sat in the kitchen to drink it in a companionable silence.
At last she set her cup down. "And now I must let you go. You've been kind and I shouldn't impose further. Thank you so much for dinner, but mostly, thank you for caring."
Embarrassed by her gratitude, he stood to leave, and when she put out her hand, he took it.
"If I can ever help . . . ." He trailed off, knowing she wouldn't call and neither would he. Their lives would not touch again.
Frances suddenly drew close and kissed his cheek, and without thought, he closed his arms around her in what was meant to be a comforting hug. After a second when she didn't step away, he started to, but the arms encircling him tightened.
"Hold me for a minute," she pleaded.
She felt his hesitation, "Please. I'm sorry. I've never stopped feeling dirty, not since that last time with Luis. You make me feel clean."
Guilt thundered through his blood as he pulled her close. All he could remember was Doyle and himself sitting in the car, listening, wagering on whether or not she could go through the charade with Luis. Callous wasn't the word for them at times. It didn't help to know she'd justified his faith in her, or that he'd not accepted his winnings. He'd bet on the strength of her bitterness and disillusionment to carry her through it, and he'd won. Christ, what right bastards they were at times.
A jeep would arrive shortly for him since he was well enough now to rejoin his unit. Sheila fussed around, packing up his few belongings.
He wouldn't look at her, tried to avoid seeing her reddened eyes, eager to be away from hospital and her recent cloying attention. His inactivity combined with the strange way she had been behaving, apart from driving him quite daft, made him long to be gone.
Besides spending all her spare time with him, she'd taken to ordering him about. Since she had been so good to him, he'd refrained from saying anything, but now freedom was close and he was impatient. He left the small hospital room and went to wait on the porch. It was so quiet and hot under Africa's midday sum, he jumped when she touched him, unaware she'd come up behind him.
"I shall miss you, Bodie."
Turning to take the hold-all from her, he thought he should thank her for taking care of him. He knew he'd been a restive patient.
She stopped him before he could form the words. "Don't say anything. You're my friend; I was happy to help you."
Suddenly sorry, he tried to comfort her. "Don't cry, Sheila. I'll be back for supplies and we'll have tea, shan't we?"
"Will you kiss me good-bye?"
Surprised, he almost complied with her request when his ride pulled up, and he saw Jennings was driving. Dismayed, he shook his head. "No, I can't. Ta, for everything, Sheila. You've been a brick."
He got in the jeep and didn't look back.
That was the last time he saw her.
Then, because he knew this was what she wanted, he lowered his head and met her lips. For an instant she tensed before fervently returning the kiss. Warm, inviting, female flesh was always pleasing, and Frances was no exception.
The first time she was frantic.
The second time, she let him make love to her.
When he left, she was relaxed and sleeping deeply.
Briefly he thought about writing her a note, but decided it was better to leave the way he'd arrived.
Drained of emotion and very weary, he got in his car. He held no great hopes she'd ever have another all-consuming love like the one she'd had with Luis, or even a small one, but perhaps, this time a woman would survive and not die because of something he'd failed to do or not do.
Sometimes that was all you could hope for-that life would go on The more he thought about it, it seemed a fair trade-off in his line of work. Brightening, he wondered what Doyle was doing. Maybe it wasn't too late to stop by and see him.
-- THE END --
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