Chapter Text
Charles called it The Case of the Haunted House Party. He’d rejected Edwin’s observation that the situation resembled Homer’s Isle of the Lotus-Eaters on the basis that Isle of the Lotus-Eaters did not lend itself to any catchy alliterations, rhymes, double entendres or puns. Edwin could not fault his logic; it would not do to break sixteen years of tradition. All cases not named after the clients who brought them in required the silliest name available. Edwin conceded easily on the matter of naming the case.
He did not concede so easily on the matter of how to proceed with the investigation.
Edwin sat at the office desk with his hands folded in front of him. When he was alone at home with Charles, he often shed his suit jacket and tie, but on this occasion he kept his suit fully assembled. This was his battle armor, and it was time to engage in battle. Charles seemed to agree. He had zipped his red athletic jacket up past his collarbones, leaving only a small fraction of his throat exposed. He stood in front of the desk with his feet planted shoulder-width apart and his arms folded in front of his chest.
The office was silent as each waited for the other to make the first move. Edwin knew he could hold out longer than Charles in any game of patience, but the duration of silence that Charles was willing to endure would establish how serious he was about his proposal, and how hard he would argue for it. The seconds ticked by, Charles unmoving and unrelenting, and Edwin braced himself for a ferocious bout.
Charles finally spoke. “The quickest way to find out what’s going on is to just go in.”
“The quickest way to the bottom of a canyon is to jump. That does not make it the best course of action,” Edwin parried.
“This isn’t a canyon, this is a party. I’m aces at parties. I can blend in,” said Charles.
Edwin would never make any attempt to discredit Charles’ social grace or charisma. On the other hand, those very attributes could be a liability in this scenario. “What if you blend in too well? We haven’t identified the source of the afflicted ghosts’ memory loss. It could be a social contagion. How will you avoid something you cannot know to guard against? Especially while seeming not to avoid it at all?”
“That’s why you’ll be there, too,” Charles answered. “I’ll mingle, you’ll play wallflower and watch my back. You’ll pull me out if something looks off.”
“Wallflower?” Edwin repeated dubiously.
“Every party had a couple people who just lean against the wall and don’t talk,” Charles explained. “You’ll be perfect. We’ll park you in a corner with a plastic cup full of tap water, and all you have to do is stare straight ahead and look bored.”
“Why would I have a cup of water?” Edwin asked, furrowing his brow. Ghosts did not drink.
“So that if someone asks what you’re drinking you can say it’s straight gin,” Charles replied easily.
Edwin raised his eyebrows, but dropped that line of questioning for the time being. Now was not the time to allow the conversation to veer too far out of the scope of his knowledge. He needed to maintain the upper hand. “You are assuming that I will be able to extract you from danger, should it arise. Have you considered what will become of me if you are compromised, and the other guests at the party react to me with hostility?”
Leveraging Charles’ all-consumingly protective nature was not the most sportsmanlike move, but it had been deemed fair game in arguments back in 1995.
Charles smirked, and Edwin realized he had stepped into a trap. “You think I won’t be able to protect you if I’m compromised?” Charles probed.
“I don’t know what might happen, that is why I insist on caution,” Edwin replied. Damn it all, he’d been maneuvered into unsteady terrain. He was losing ground.
“Need I remind you,” Charles said loudly, heading Edwin off before he could change subject. “Of the Face-Eating Fungus incident of 1992?”
Edwin shuddered at the reminder, but he kept his wits about him. It was too early for Charles to play his trump card. If he was bringing ‘92 up this early, he must have something even more persuasive up his sleeve. Edwin needed to change tactics.
“The record does indeed show that, despite being temporarily blind, deaf, and unable to remember your own name, you did successfully incapacitate one John Constantine and escape the situation at hand, dragging me along as you did.” Edwin recited the facts with a sincere undertone of flattery. “Neither your desire nor capacity to look out for me while affected by magic is at issue.”
Charles faltered. Perfect. Charles was always focused entirely on the offensive. It flustered him when the defense yielded without resistance. “Right,” he said uncertainly.
“It has also been noted,” Edwin pressed, taking up the attack, “that the incident of ‘92 could have been made far less serious had I thought to reach out to other members of the magical community in the research phase. Rather than charging into the party, I propose another round of witness interviews, with a wider scope to include input from local gossip.”
“What did Tabitha tell us?” Charles asked, narrowing his eyes.
“She hadn’t heard any rumors,” Edwin admitted.
“And who’s more likely than Tabitha to have heard anything good?”
“Two days have passed, news may have spread,” Edwin evaded. Nobody held more goodwill in London’s supernatural underground than Tabitha did, and they both knew it.
“And how many witnesses have we spoken to?”
“Thirteen is hardly an acceptable sample size when making hypotheses about what information may or may not be available,” Edwin dodged again. “It does not meet the standard of scientific rigor.”
Charles pounced. “Scientific rigor is your area of expertise, mate. But this case isn’t in your area of expertise. It’s in mine.” He grinned his Cheshire-cat smile, the one that showed off his canine teeth and promised trouble to all who beheld it. He was about to play his ace. Edwin knew then that he had lost. “So, you know what you’re gonna do?”
Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled. “What, Charles, do you think I am going to do?”
“You’re gonna trust me,” Charles concluded smugly.
Checkmate. Battleship sunk. Professor Plum, in the library, with the candlestick.
Edwin’s dignity demanded that he play the game out to its conclusion anyway. “I always trust you. It’s our luck that I tend to doubt. I would rather not invite misfortune by rushing into danger.”
“We’re not rushing into anything mate,” Charles reassured him. He knew that he had won, and was now trying to soothe Edwin’s nerves and ego. He relaxed out of his firm, uncompromising pose and came around the desk to perch on the edge, right next to Edwin’s chair. “We’ve followed every lead we can, and we’re out of trails to follow that don’t lead inside. This is the logical next step.”
Edwin sighed and unfolded his hands to push his hair back. “I suppose this was inevitable,” he allowed.
Charles beamed. “That’s the spirit. Look at it this way — you’ve never been to a house party before, and here’s one that’s right up your alley!”
“Ominous and full of peril?” Edwin asked sardonically.
“Exactly!” Charles agreed. “This way you get to go to a party you’ll actually like, because it’s actually a mystery. And once you solve the mystery, the party ends. I couldn’t have thrown you a better one myself.”
Edwin was, admittedly, being more cautious about this case than most, and Charles was not mistaken about the reason why. Edwin had never been to this kind of party, and he hated being so far out of his element. He might have tried to pass up the case altogether, were it not for the six ghosts that had been reported as having entered the large house in Chelsea, never to emerge.
Cursory investigation revealed that that house, empty of its living inhabitants for the summer, had become the site of a raucous gathering of ghosts that never left the house of their own volition. Three times, party-goers had been lured out of the house by concerned friends knocking on the windows or slipping notes under the door, but not one of them had any memory of the party going on inside, nor how long they had been at it. All three of them seemed to believe that they had barely arrived when they were pulled away, despite several days having passed in all three instances.
Since nobody remembered the party once they left it, no rumors had managed to circulate about what was going on inside. Peering in through the windows revealed roughly what Edwin had imagined the present generation’s parties to look like, in that the interior of the house was full of young people who seemed to be speaking loudly and laughing often. Loud music with a thrumming beat could be heard from outside.
Charles thought they looked like university students, which was odd in its own right. The house was very large, and very full. London had plenty of ghosts, but a gathering of this many spirits, all dressed as if they belonged in the present era and of roughly the same age, was unheard of. Edwin feared that several apparent attendees of the party were actually magically-created decoys, perhaps intended to be used as bait.
“I fear I will stand out,” Edwin admitted. “I don’t want to be a liability to our investigation, but it seems inevitable if I am to be present at any sort of party.”
“‘Course you’ll stand out,” Charles agreed. Edwin glared at him. “The whole point of these things is to loosen up and act stupid. You hate loosening up, and you’ve never been stupid a day in your afterlife. You’ll stick out from a mile away.”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Edwin asked, affronted.
Charles shuffled closer along the edge of the desk and kicked fondly at one of Edwin’s chair legs. “I went to loads of these kinds of parties,” he confided. “At St. Hil’s after hours, and at my old mates’ houses. I didn’t go home for the shorter holidays in spring, so I got towed along to a couple of the really crazy ones at the posh lads’ places.” He leaned in close to Edwin like he meant to tell him a secret. “Wanna know what they were like?”
Edwin bit the inside of his cheek. “For research purposes, it would be beneficial,” he granted.
“They bloody sucked,” Charles confided. “Sure, you think you’re having fun at first, because a bit of nice scotch can convince anyone that they’re having fun for a little bit. But then you start to realize that none of the people there really like each other. They all got dragged along by a friend who ditched them to snog in a guest room. And then you’re stuck in a house with a bunch of people you barely know, who’re all acting even stupider than usual.” Charles shook his head, like a grandfather expressing his disapproval of the villain in a storybook. “The only way to have fun is to leave early with someone who didn’t want to be there either, someone you actually like.”
Edwin raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re saying we’ll have a perilous and miserable evening?”
“I’m saying, the goal of these things isn’t to blend in,” Charles corrected. “The goal is to get the hell out as soon as you can, with someone you like if you can swing it. And you, Edwin Paine, are going to leave super early, with me.” Charles’ smile was dazzling. “What could be better than that? Everyone else is gonna be so jealous of you.”
Edwin felt his lips twitch upwards despite himself.
What, indeed, could be better?
They headed out at seven o’clock that evening.
Charles had fussed with Edwin’s clothes before they left, explaining that he could wear the suit jacket and overcoat if he absolutely needed to, but the bow tie and vest would need to be left behind. “It’s not because they don’t suit you, honest,” Charles had assured him. “It’s because bow ties are, like, statement pieces now. If you show up wearing one, people are gonna take that as an excuse to come talk to you. Do you want people to talk to you?”
Edwin did not. The bow tie and vest stayed at the office. His suit jacket and overcoat both stayed on. Both he and Charles left off their gloves, as well. Edwin felt practically naked.
Charles had, at least, put himself through the same ordeal. Rather than bringing his whole backpack, he simply filled his pockets with items he suspected might be useful. He left behind his beloved long coat with all of his pins and patches. “Trust me,” he’d told Edwin, “this isn’t a ska sort of party.” The rest of his clothes, he’d claimed, were timeless.
Edwin was not in a position to disagree; Charles was the one who had been keeping tabs on fashion trends through the years, apparently motivated by class-related spite. He’d stopped wearing his suspenders for a brief period in the late nineties because they became too popular with a particularly wealthy subculture.
A quick mirror hop into the neighboring house – house being a relative term, of course, it was the side of a small palace – brought them where they needed to be. Charles led the way to the eponymous House of the Haunted House Party, strolling along as if he didn’t have a care in the world while Edwin skulked behind him. The House had two proper floors and a spacious basement, with sixteen windows visible on the front visage. The living inhabitants of this place were investment bankers of some kind.
When Edwin and Charles arrived at the front step, Charles knocked at the door.
“Surely it’s too loud for anyone to hear?” Edwin observed.
“Yeah, it just feels polite, dunnit?” Charles answered with a shrug. “I s’pose we just go in now.” Then he waltzed through the door like he was sure of his invitation.
Edwin pressed his fists together and took a deep breath before he followed him in. He tried not to reflect on all the thousands of places he would rather be right now, such as a prison cell or a deserted island. Here, at least, Charles had promised that they could leave soon and leave together. He plucked up his courage and walked through the door.
He had hardly begun to process the tidal wave of sound that washed over him when Charles grabbed onto his arm and yanked him off to the side. Edwin went willingly, glad that he did not yet have to guide his own movements through the dense crowd of faces and shoulders and elbows present on this side of the door. Charles pulled him all the way to a corner created by a half-wall that separated the foyer from an open-plan sitting room.
“Figured something out already,” said Charles as he crowded Edwin into the corner. He had a distinctly hunted look on his face, and he glanced over his shoulder before hunching close to whisper to Edwin. Edwin ducked his head to hear him better. Also, ducking down like this meant he was that much more shielded from the crowd by Charles’ comforting presence. “Pretty sure most of these people aren’t ghosts.”
“What are they, then?” Edwin asked. This was good news for him. A breakthrough in the case this early very much increased their chances of leaving early, as well.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Charles in a rush. “But I just saw Mark Pearson from the boarding school, looking exactly like he did when he was seventeen.”
Edwin’s eyebrows shot up. “I assume this Mark character is still alive?”
“ Yes , he’s a solicitor or something now, he’s in his bloody thirties!” Charles ran an agitated hand through his hair. “I think this place pulls people out of your memory somehow, and it must start literally the second you’re inside, because who the hell else is here that would remember seventeen-year-old Mark? I’m the only one that died in my year at school, it’s not like any other ghosts in London also played cricket with Mark in 1989 and then died before he got any older!”
The nimble fingers of Edwin’s mind snatched up all this information at once and started sifting through the most relevant bits. One snippet stood out from the rest. “You played cricket with him in 1989?”
Charles seemed to realize what he had just revealed and began backpedaling at once. “Okay, yeah, I did say that, but— don’t freak out, okay? I played cricket with a lot of guys, don’t assume the worst.”
Edwin stopped listening. Charles’ sudden nervousness was confirmation enough. Edwin turned his attention to scan the shifting crowd for anyone that fit the description of a seventeen-year-old cricket player. This was an unparalleled opportunity to learn the face of one of the boys who had murdered his best friend.
Charles snapped his fingers to bring Edwin’s attention back. “Don’t worry about fake, magic doppelganger Mark, okay? Focus. Whatever is keeping ghosts in this house, it knows we’re here and it can see our memories.”
“I can multitask, Charles,” Edwin said sternly. “And, now that we have ascertained that this place can access our memories, you will not persuade me that it chose to conjure one of your murderers by chance. You knew a great many people in life that never even attempted to kill you.”
Charles deflated and dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck. You’re right. We ought to be on the lookout for your cohort of cunts, then, too.”
Edwin grimaced. He hadn’t paid much mind to Simon or Samuel or any of the other boys involved in his sacrifice for years. Were someone to ask him about his feelings on the matter, he would still honestly report that he loathed the very thought of those brutes. But what was there to be done? They were dead. They were probably in Hell. It would be a waste of energy to dwell on the simmering pool of resentment that had never left him.
Now confronted with the idea of seeing them again, though, Edwin squashed down a potent spike of anger mixed with fear.
“Do you wish to retreat?” he asked neutrally.
Charles frowned and bit his tongue, considering their options. Edwin watched the crowd over Charles’ shoulder while he thought. There was a young man of about his own age, wearing a jacket very similar to Charles’ red one, that looked like a promising candidate. He also seared the name Mark Pearson into his memory and resolved to look him up once they were out of here. Edwin had not conducted any proper hauntings in ages, he was overdue.
“I think we should stick to the original plan for now,” Charles said eventually, though he didn’t look entirely confident. “We came in here to figure out what’s causing the ghosts to get stuck. The memory business is weird as hell, but I don’t even think we’ve scratched the surface of what’s really going on yet. I say we keep looking for clues unless we come across something really dangerous. We’ll just make sure we stay close to one another, and be ready to fight our way out if we have to.”
Edwin nodded. Charles had asked for his trust on this case, and Edwin had no reservations about giving it to him. He looked around himself. “In that case,” he observed, “I suspect I ought to find a corner with a better view of the living room than this one. My wallflower impression is wasted if I cannot observe the bulk of the crowd.”
Charles smiled at him, proud and fond in a way that always made Edwin feel smug. It wasn’t the noblest of his impulses, but he couldn’t help himself. A whole world of unfathomably stupid people had thrown Charles away, and now Edwin had the best person he’d ever known all to himself. When Charles looked at him like that, like he was just as happy to be with Edwin as Edwin was to be with him, it felt like snatching something precious out of unworthy hands.
Charles had a phrase he liked to say, sometimes, when he brought home something valuable to add to his stockpile and Edwin asked how he’d procured it. Finders keepers, he often replied, coy and full of mischief.
Finders keepers indeed, Edwin thought to himself now, as he luxuriated in the warmth of Charles’ regard. He’s mine now, and none of the cretins who tossed him aside can have him back.
“Let’s get a move on,” said Charles, still sounding fond. “We’ll snag you a nice corner where you can glare at everyone all night.”
“If glaring is an important part of my cover, I am happy to oblige,” said Edwin lightly.
Charles barked out a laugh. “See? It’s perfect for you.” He guided Edwin’s hand to his shoulder and gestured to hold on and as he led him into the throng.
Edwin could not believe how many people there were. He found himself relieved that at least some of them were projected memories, not other ghosts or magical persons. It was less overwhelming if not all of these people were real.
Everyone in the crowd was young. Edwin and Charles were younger than the average apparent age, which Edwin would have guessed to be about eighteen to twenty years old, but some of the partygoers looked like teenagers as well. They were all dressed in the fashion of the day, with many of them clad in low-waisted blue jeans. A marked preference for loud patterns and textures was obvious throughout the party. Edwin could not claim to be overly enamored with the style trends of 2005, and seeing so many of them crammed in close, clashing proximity to one another was enough to convince him right here and now that this moment in fashion was simply unsalvageable. He could only hope that future generations would leave all of this behind.
Also, a woman’s voice was being broadcast throughout the house, enthusiastically spelling the word bananas to a marching beat. Edwin could not begin to make sense of it, and the music made it nearly impossible to hear what anyone was saying. He focused on what he could see, instead.
Most people were holding red, plastic cups. How very strange.
“Have you seen anyone take a drink?” he shouted to Charles. He had to shout to be heard over the hubbub.
Charles glanced back at him, frowning. “No. They’re all just holding the cups like props.”
Intriguing. Those attendees who were actually ghosts might have forgotten that they were dead, and sought to surround themselves with the trappings of life.
When they reached the far corner of the massive living room, Charles took Edwin’s hand off his shoulder and maneuvered him into place with his back to the wall.
“Here you are!” he said. “You look perfect, mate. Keep frowning just like that.”
Feeling contrary, Edwin frowned deeper. Charles laughed, bright and affectionate.
“I’ll lose track of you in the crowd almost immediately,” Edwin fretted.
“Maybe, but as long as you stay put, I’ll be able to find you,” said Charles. “I won’t go far, promise. I just want to see if I can chat some folks up.”
Edwin crossed his arms, knowing it made him look like a sullen child and not finding it in himself to care. Charles clapped him on the arm to show his approval and turned away, melting into the thicket of bodies like a sugar cube dissolving in tea.
Once he was out of sight, Edwin resigned himself to sulking and staring. That was his job, after all, and he could do it very well.
His eye was drawn to a blonde young woman wearing a turtleneck missing its sleeves. He wasn’t sure at first what made her stand out. Her clothes were relatively understated, and she was engaged in lively conversation with another young woman whose hair was pinned back by a veritable army of small, colorful plastic clips. He caught the tell after a few seconds of overt staring; when she wasn’t using her hands to animate her speech, she folded them demurely at waist level and settled into a severe, upright posture. Modern women didn’t hold their hands like that. The young lady was dressed like she belonged in the present, but her body language revealed her to be of a significantly earlier generation. That could mean she was an older ghost herself, or it could mean that she was a memory lifted from an older ghost. It was a start. Edwin scanned the crowd to see if anyone else caught his eye.
He saw a rabbit.
Edwin blinked a few times to make sure it was still there. The rabbit persisted. It was mostly white, decorated with a few large patches of black, and it had simply enormous ears.
That was not just a rabbit. That was Pierre, the pet rabbit that Edwin had adored from 1910 to 1912, up until the poor creature died of some unknown byproduct of being kept in London during the second industrial revolution. Edwin could scarcely believe his eyes. He’d never expected to see any version of Pierre again.
Pierre’s appearance also called for a revision of his earlier assumptions. Pierre was not one of Edwin’s killers; the rabbit had been a gentle thing that never bit or kicked or scratched. Edwin had firmly considered Pierre to be his best friend, when he was alive. Charles had been murdered by his cricket team, but the cruelty of his death truly stemmed from the fact that he had thought of his killers as his friends, right up until the bitter end. This place was not producing copies of ghosts’ enemies and murderers. It was conjuring up the memories of their friends.
If the memories were meant to be bait, copies of long-lost friends would be very enticing, indeed.
“Is the rabbit your friend?” a voice asked from his side.
Edwin startled, letting out a humiliating gasp of surprise. He swiveled in place to see that a boy of about his own age had sauntered up next to him while he’d been staring into the crowd. Edwin could hardly believe he hadn’t noticed him, but then, it was practically impossible to hear anything in this place. The boy held his hands up and winced, obviously apologetic. He was dressed plainly, in a white tee shirt over blue jeans that fit him well. He had light brown skin and a slight, South Asian sounding accent when he spoke.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said apologetically. “I had been wondering about the rabbit, and you seemed to recognize it.”
Edwin nodded cautiously. “Yes, I know the rabbit,” he hedged.
The boy seemed satisfied with that answer and pressed the issue no further. “That’s nice to know. I was worried about the little thing hopping around with no friends. I’m Bill, by the way.”
Edwin wondered if it would be too terrible a break from his role as wallflower if he introduced himself. He saw no reason to be overtly rude, though. Maybe if he entertained all the expected pleasantries with sufficient disinterest, Bill would get bored and leave him alone.
“Edwin,” he said simply, offering his hand to shake.
Bill cocked his head and smiled crookedly as he took Edwin’s hand to shake, seeming amused. “Excuse me for noticing, but this doesn’t really seem to be your scene.”
“My scene?” Edwin repeated, dubious.
“You just seem a little uncomfortable, is all,” Bill went on, not unkindly. “Also, you just shook my hand like you want to make a business deal. You seem like more of an old fashioned type.”
Edwin looked down, unaccountably embarrassed. When had handshakes gone out of fashion? It wasn’t as if he had many opportunities to meet people, how was he supposed to keep track of these things?
“It’s not a problem!” Bill hurried to add. “I don’t like it here either. I just got towed along with a group.”
“And where is you group now?” Edwin asked, perhaps too pointedly. Bill shrugged.
“Hell if I know,” he said. “Ditched me to snog in a guest room, I expect.”
Edwin stilled. That exact turn of phrase was too close to what Charles had said to him earlier for it to be a coincidence. He looked Bill over with renewed interest and ran through an internal list of every person he knew of from Charles’ life.
“Bill,” Edwin repeated carefully. “That’s not short for William, is it?”
Bill rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It’s Bilal. I just hate listening to people say it wrong, so. Now I’m Bill.”
Recognition settled over Edwin like a cold fog. “You’re Bilal Naseem,” he realized.
Bill looked surprised. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Have we met?”
This was the boy Charles had saved from being beaten half to death, on cold day in 1989. This was, in fact, the boy he had died to save.
The anger that curled through Edwin’s being wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. First of all, this was not a real person, this was a memory taken from Charles without his consent. Edwin speaking to him at all constituted an invasion of his friend’s privacy. Moreover, the real Bill had never harmed Charles nor anyone else, as far as Edwin knew.
But he hadn’t helped, either. Bill was one of very few people who could have known that Charles was in danger, and Edwin hadn’t seen him up in the attic where Charles died. Nobody other than himself, throughout that whole, awful night had come looking to see if Charles Rowland still had a pulse. They hadn’t even found his body for another two whole days. And Bill here was not one of the people who did the finding.
“We haven’t met,” said Edwin. “We have some acquaintances in common, I believe. You know Mark Pearson?”
Bill’s expression soured. “Ah. Yes. I know Mark.”
“He’s a barbarian,” Edwin stated confidently. Granted, he’d never spoken to the boy, but he didn’t feel that he had to. He knew plenty.
Bill laughed, startled. “Bloody hell, you scared me! I though he was a friend of yours. Yeah, that guy is an absolute prick. That whole lot of them are, except maybe Charlie Row.”
Charlie Row?
“Do you mean Charles Rowland?” Edwin asked incredulously.
“Oh, is that his full name? I never knew,” said Bill with a blithe shrug. “He’s alright. He’s here somewhere tonight, actually, not that you’ll see much of him.”
The gears in Edwin’s brain seemed to have jammed. He couldn’t get past the name Charlie Row. It was catchy. It had a sort of jaunty charm. It was easy to imagine a crowd chanting it at a sporting event.
“Sorry,” Edwin said, forcing himself to pay attention again. “What was that? We won’t be seeing much of— Charlie?”
Bill snorted. “Don’t usually see much of him at these things, do you? He’s probably off someplace with half the team’s girlfriends, by now.”
Edwin reeled internally. He’d known that Charles had had a very different experience of a social life at St. Hilarion’s than Edwin’s. Except for the details of his murder, though, Edwin knew shockingly little about Charles’ time at school. School had never been a favorite topic of conversation for either of them. For the most part they left it alone, content to let sleeping dogs lie.
He made up his mind to escape this conversation before Bill could tell him anything else. Edwin would ask Charles his questions, and he would do it when they were not behind enemy lines.
“Pardon me,” Edwin said abruptly. “I have to go chase the rabbit. We don’t want him to be stepped on.”
“Oh, yeah, best of luck with that,” said Bill. “Nice to meet you, Edwin.”
Edwin steeled himself against the passive touches of several people’s arms and shoulders as he pressed his way deeper into the living room. The way he shuddered against that external contact matched very well the disgust that grew and coiled inside of him.
He’d known the rough details of what had happened with Bill. He knew how the cricket team had singled him out for torment on a cold afternoon in early spring, calling him hideous things and disparaging his Pakistani origins. He knew how Charles had intervened to protect Bill and subsequently been killed for his trouble.
Edwin knew that Charles had checked in on Bill a few times, in that first year or two after he died. It had seemed important to him, then, to believe that his death hadn’t been completely in vain. That it had saved someone. Charles had been quite relieved when Bill graduated and left England, off to attend university in what was then West Berlin.
Obviously, the memory of this person still mattered to Charles. Edwin ought to be glad that he ever had the chance to meet some version of him. He ought to regard Bill with the same nostalgia and fondness that had lingered in Charles’ expression when he peered through a mirror to make sure the boy was well. At the very least, he ought to recognize Bill as a victim deserving compassion, no different from any client that Charles had protected.
Edwin, however, was not nearly so good a person as Charles. He knew this and had long since accepted it. Sometimes, though, the vileness of his own thoughts could still surprise him.
Walking away from his short, perfectly pleasant conversation with polite, perfectly friendly Bill, all Edwin could think was that this boy’s life could not possibly have been worth Charles’ death.