Lost and Found

It had been a soul destroying day at the end of another long spirit numbing week. With a deep sigh, Ken Hutchinson unlocked the front door to his apartment and hoped his wife was out. The last thing he needed was another lecture or another fight. When he saw the note on the coffee table informing him that she had dinner plans and would be back late, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He entered the kitchen, made himself a sandwich and took it back to the living room: counting eating while standing up looking out the window at the city lights a small victory in his war against Vanessa's regime. Eating in the living room was something Vanessa didn't allow. When did I become someone who can't eat a sandwich in my own living room? As he looked out at the darkness, he felt the question echo hollowly around his empty soul.

Bitterness made him feel like gagging and he went and threw the rest of his sandwich away, grabbing a beer from the fridge instead. He wandered aimlessly around the apartment, sipping from the bottle of beer, unable to settle to anything. There was no cosy sofa to collapse on in front of mindless television programmes; no interesting books to delve into – just piles of fashion and home improvement magazines; no garden to potter around in; no space to sit and strum his guitar. "What am I doing here?" he wondered, "and why has it taken me so long to realise that I am a stranger in my own home…no, her home, not my home and definitely not our home. God, I hate my life."

Returning to the kitchen, he collected another beer from the fridge and snapped the cap off, throwing it in the sink. He saw his spider plant on the windowsill – the only green thing Vanessa had allowed in the apartment and then only grudgingly. He put the bottle down on the counter and checked the soil around his plant. Lovingly, he held the pot under the tap and gave it a good drink. "There you are Sylvia, drink up, that'll help you grow strong and healthy," he said out loud.

He laughed bitterly at himself. "When was the last time I had a conversation with a real person who cared what I think or feel?"

The fact that he couldn't remember the answer to his own question hit him with a sudden piercing clarity and he felt a wave of despair roll over him. "I feel like I've lost myself. What's the point of me?..What is the point?...Maybe I'd be better off…"

He finished the thought by moving through the living room towards the bedroom and then the bathroom. With slow, uncertain movements he opened the medicine cabinet and looked at the different packets and bottles arranged on the shelves. His eyes were drawn to the sleeping pills that he had been given by his doctor after a period of insomnia last year: insomnia caused by Vanessa's escalating temper. He hadn't liked the way they made him feel – groggy and unable to think - so he'd not taken anymore and put up with the constant lack of sleep. There were plenty left to help him now. He took the pills out of the packet and shoved them in his pocket. Then he went back to the kitchen, collected four beers, picked up his car keys and left the apartment to go to the beach.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

His Friday night shift had just finished and Starsky thought about going home to bed but the dawn of what promised to be a fine day was fast approaching and he suddenly had the urge to try and capture the early morning light shining on the beach huts. He drove towards the coast, parking in his usual spot, as the sun slowly rose in the pink and yellow tinged sky. He grabbed his chair, easel and paints from the trunk of his car and headed down the beach to where the huts were situated, revelling in the sight of the glimmers of light reaching the lower half of the wooden buildings.

Finished with setting up his easel, Starsky turned and looked out to sea and spotted a lonely figure walking unsteadily along the shoreline. As the figure drew level with Starsky, he thought he recognised it as a blond fisherman he'd seen around a few times over the past few months but he was too far away to really be sure.

Starsky didn't know why he'd particularly noticed the guy on the pier, gazing out to sea as he waited for something to bite the fly he'd carefully chosen. When the weather was wild, the man wore a dark blue beanie pulled down low over his hair and ears and an old green jacket, collar up as high as it could go and zipped up tight. When the weather was fine, his golden hair shone on his head and he would wear a light white jacket to keep out the breeze or, if the weather was really warm, just a long sleeve plaid shirt. Sometimes, he'd arrive after Starsky had set up his easel and would walk past, nodding acknowledgement of his presence, before setting up his rod and reel in his favourite spot.

Starsky's spot moved around depending on whether he was trying to sketch the sea, the pier, the wooden beach huts or items of driftwood or shells that he had found along the shoreline. Starsky loved the beach and tried to make it there at least once in the week after work and always on one or both days of the weekend. The creative outlet of drawing and painting helped to keep him sane: it wasn't that he didn't like his job as a taxi driver – he usually enjoyed chatting to the many different people he gave rides to and hearing their stories – it was just he felt that there ought to be something more and he was tired of having brief glimpses into people's lives but never making any meaningful connections of his own.

If painting provided sanity for him, he guessed fishing must provide a similar feeling for the tall blond, who was often there on the same days and times as Starsky. He'd also seen him leave his pole and go for a walk along the stretch of sand several times over the weeks, stopping to pick up stones and throw them into the sea. By the sixth or seven week, they'd graduated from nods to 'Hi's. For some reason, Starsky found it comforting to have a familiar face in the same location on days when he was feeling a bit down.

Now as dawn spread out an ever widening arc of light, Starsky sat down and began to sketch out shapes on the canvas in front of him. Occasionally, he looked up and saw the figure walking in the distance. After a while the figure turned and started heading back down the beach with a weaving, uneven motion. Starsky started to wonder if the man was slightly inebriated. Every few seconds, he would dart a look to keep an eye on the figure and what he was doing.

When he next looked up, the figure had stopped a few hundred yards away and was staring out to sea. Starsky was sure it was the blond fisherman, now he could see him better. The man's shoulders looked dejected in the early morning sunshine and Starsky wondered about going to talk to him to see if he was okay. Without warning, the figure began to stagger in a slow weave towards the waves lapping the shore. Before Starsky had even registered what he was doing, the man was up to his knees in the water and still walking unsteadily forward. Starsky dropped his pencil and started running down the beach after him, shouting: "Hey, man. What ya doing?"

As he reached the water's edge, he saw the man had reached chest depth and was still trying to move forward. Starsky didn't hesitate. He dragged off his tennis shoes and ran into the water, converting to swimming as soon as the sea was deep enough. He saw the blond head disappear beneath a wave and tried to speed up, keeping his eyes on the spot, where the man had dropped from view, as best he could. When he reached where he thought it was, he dove down, searching around with his hands in the murky waters to see if he could feel the man's body. With his lungs burning, he headed up to the surface and gasped for air before diving again. This time, his hands found soft flesh and as he felt his way down he realised it was the man's leg. He scrabbled at the body, trying to get hold of him under his armpits and dragged him back upwards.

Breaking free of the water, he gasped for air and then began swimming for the shore, towing the dead weight beside him. The swim back was much longer than the swim in, laden down as Starsky was with the young man's limp body. When he reached the sandy shore, he dragged the figure out of the water and checked for breathing. No movement of the chest, no breath coming from between the slightly parted lips which were beginning to turn blue. Thanking God for the First Aid course he'd gone on only a few months ago, Starsky began mouth to mouth resuscitation. After what seemed an eternity, the limp figure suddenly coughed and water started spewing from his mouth. Starsky turned him on his side to let the flow of water run away.

When he was breathing again, Starsky struggled to his feet, dragging the sodden blond further up the beach. The man muttered once but seemed oddly out of it. Starsky wondered whether his earlier thought had been right and the man was drunk or whether he'd taken something else to help himself drown. He sat the figure down near the beach huts, leaving him propped in the sunshine while he went to grab a blanket from the back of his car.

Starsky had made the decision to leave the man at the beach huts, partly because he needed a break from carrying the man so far and he also figured it would be easier to get some of the guy's wet clothes off him and wrap him up before he tried to get him into his car. As soon as he returned, he dragged the stranger's jacket and top off and then wrapped the blanket around him. The man resisted a little, which Starsky took as a good sign that he was coming back to the land of the living. He pulled him upright and shoved his arm under his shoulder and around his body so that he could half guide, half drag the man back to his red and white Torino.

Starsky managed to manhandle him into the back seat then he jogged back down the beach to collect his shoes and his easel, paints and chair. He picked up the wet jacket and top and heard a clanking sound as a set of keys fell out of the jacket pocket. He scooped them up and put them in his pocket. He quickly checked the rest of the jacket for any form of ID but there wasn't anything there. Either the blond had left his wallet somewhere safe or it was now in the ocean. The sodden brunet hurried up the beach and threw everything into the trunk of the car before settling into the driver's seat. He turned to look at the figure in the back seat. His head was hanging down but he appeared to be awake.

"You okay, buddy. Want me to take ya home to dry off?"

The head lifted and pale blue eyes stared back at him. The man gave a small shake of the head.

"Well, we need to get you and me both dried off and warmed up. How about we go back to my place?"

Starsky didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. Sighing, he started the car and headed towards his home. He half wondered if he should take the guy to the nearest hospital in case he had taken an overdose of something but his eyes looked clear as far as Starsky could tell so he went with his gut feeling. Fifteen minutes later, he helped the man out of the back seat and guided him up the stairs to his house. Pale blue eyes took in the unusual tree growing into the side of the house and he raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

Starsky just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. He helped the man in and pushed him towards the bathroom. "Get out of those wet pants and have a warm shower. Here are a couple of towels. I'll find you some clothes of mine that might fit ya."

The man did as he was told and disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Starsky took the opportunity to go collect the man's wet clothes from his car and dumped them on the kitchen floor. He could hear the shower still running while he looked out some sweatpants, an old baggy blue t-shirt and a thick knitted blue sweater his Mom had made for him last Christmas, which he left on the bed. Starsky returned to the kitchen and made two mugs of hot chocolate. His teeth were chattering as he took a few cautious sips of the hot liquid.

When Starsky heard the man come out of the bathroom, he went through to the bedroom. The blond was standing there, looking lost. He had one blue towel wrapped around his waist and another white one hugged closely round his chest. Starsky thought he looked much too thin, as if he'd not been eating for quite some while, and then noted there were some recent bruises and some small scars on the arm he could see. He tried not to react. Instead he pointed to the clothes and said, "Get dressed and then go through to the kitchen. I made some hot chocolate. Help yourself."

By now, the chattering teeth had worsened and he was shivering all over with the cold as he spoke. Quickly, he headed in to the bathroom to take a warm shower but didn't make the mistake of having the water too hot. Standing under the comfortingly warm flow of water, he wondered what had happened to the man to lead him to this point. The scars weren't near the wrists so Starsky didn't think they were self-inflicted and the bruises…If the bruises were from an abusive relationship maybe that was what had led to this morning's desperate act. He wondered what he could say or do to help. He hurried out of the shower and began drying off, anxious in case his guest had slipped away while he had the opportunity.

When the brunet came out, wrapped in a large green towel, he peeked through to the kitchen and was relieved to see that the man was sitting at the table sipping his mug of hot chocolate. Starsky hurriedly put on a fresh pair of jeans, a red t-shirt and his favourite thick knitted cream sweater covered with Aztec patterns. It had a nice high collar and he instantly felt a lot warmer.

He gathered up all the wet clothing from the bedroom, both his and the stranger's, and carried it through to the kitchen to add it to the pile on the floor. Then he placed the sopping wet items in the washing machine, added washing powder and set it going. Chore done, he sat down at the table and drank some more of his own hot chocolate. It was still just about warm.

"My name's Dave Starsky," he offered. "What's yours?"

The man looked at him silently then reluctantly answered: "K-Ken…Hutchinson."

Starsky held out his hand and Hutchinson took it. The handshake started off nervous but underneath, Starsky could feel hidden strength and a connection that he couldn't begin to define.

"Nice to meet you."

The blond peered at him as if he was trying to put pieces of a mismatched jigsaw together. "Have we met before? You look familiar?"

"Not officially, no. I've seen you down at the beach, fishing. I'm the guy who's usually trying to paint something."

"Oh."

Starsky decided there was no point ignoring the elephant in the room. "What happened this morning? Wanna talk about it?"

Hutchinson looked away and Starsky decided not to press him for now.

"That's okay. We can talk about it later. You hungry?...I am…I've got some pizza left from yesterday I could reheat."

The blond nodded. "I could eat."

"Good. Why don't you go make yourself at home and I'll get the pizza going. Won't take long."

As Hutchinson walked away from him, Starsky called after him, saying, "Turn the TV on if you want to."

He busied himself in the kitchen and then when the pizza was ready he put it on one large plate and carried it through. Hutchinson looked quite relaxed as he sat on Starsky's sofa. He hadn't turned on the TV but Starsky could see his eyes wandering around the living room: taking in the photographs of family and seascapes; the painting of the sea at sunset (the only one that Starsky had done that he felt was good enough to have framed professionally); and the various art and black and white film posters.

"Nice painting."

"Thanks."

"One of yours?"

Starsky nodded.

"It's good."

Starsky offered him a slice of pizza then he went and collected a packet of chips and two root beers, which he also offered to the blond. "Don't know how hungry you are."

Hutchinson helped himself to a second slice of pizza and they sat in silence for a while, concentrating on eating.

After some time, Starsky asked, "So what do ya do for a living?"

"I'm an accountant."

"That's a good job, I guess. Good pay?"

The blond shrugged. "It's okay, I guess."

"Me, I'm a cabbie so it's lots of different shifts. At least you keep regular hours."

"Yeah, they're regular…monotonous," Hutchinson muttered.

"Why do you stick with it if you don't like it?" Starsky enquired.

"Mortgage to p-pay. W-wife with expensive t-tastes," Ken stammered out.

Starsky considered this information. He glanced up at the living room wall clock, noting the time. It was almost eight. "You want me to ring her?…your wife? Let her know, you're okay."

"No!" The vehemence with which this was said had Starsky's nerves jangling. Seemed he'd hit a raw nerve.

"It's all right, buddy," Starsky said soothingly, "I can't ring her without your permission. I don't know your number, do I?"

The blond ran a hand over his face and Starsky noticed it was shaking. He went to place a hand on the blond's shoulder but thought better of it.

"She the reason…you know."

Hutchinson's face crumpled. "Why'd you stop me? Now, I have to go back there."

"Couldn't let ya do it, buddy," Starsky said softly. "And you don't have to go anywhere you don't want to."

Pale blue eyes looked at Starsky. The hopelessness in them took Starsky's breath away.

"I got nowhere else to go. Nobody who gives a damn. What else can I do?"

Starsky found himself saying, "Stay here…as long as you need." Starsky should have been surprised at himself because of the rash offer he'd made but he wasn't. For some reason, it just seemed the logical and right thing to do. He couldn't bear the thought of Hutchinson trying again to end his life. Maybe it was because he'd saved him and he now felt a sense of responsiblity for him or maybe it was just this weird connection he felt with the guy.

A range of emotions played out on Hutchinson's face: he frowned initially, and then looked unconvinced that the offer was genuine; finally a sliver of hope crossed his face. He bit his lip and twisted it between his teeth.

"You don't know anything about me? Why do you want to help me?"

Starsky thought about this before answering: "I know your name's Ken Hutchinson, I know you're trapped doing a job ya don't like for a woman ya don't love, I know ya like the beach as much as I do and I know ya like fishing." With a touch of humour, he added: "…and you like my painting so that means ya got great taste! That'll do for now."

Hutchinson looked like he could easily start crying so Starsky patted his leg reassuringly then he yawned and rubbed his face.

"I'm beat, buddy. I'd just come off night shift when I got to the beach. Mind if I go get a couple of hours sleep?"

"No, that's okay."

"Ya tired?"

"A bit," the blond haired man admitted.

"I'll get you a blanket and pillow so you can crash out on the sofa if you want." Starsky collected the items and brought them back to Hutchinson. "Oh damn, I forgot I need to hang the washing out," he said, noticing that the washing machine had stopped spinning.

Hutchinson followed him into the kitchen. "I can hang it out if you like," he offered. "Where and how?"

"Thanks. Line out back. Pegs in that pot there," Starsky said as he yawned again. "Sorry, buddy, I'm about to crash…Wake me at one if I haven't already got up. Watch TV if you want: it won't bother me."

"Okay. Thanks."

Starsky nodded and staggered off to the bedroom. He pulled the curtains together to cut out the light and pushed the door nearly shut. Then he opened it again. "If ya need the john, Hut-Ken, just come on through. I sleep like the dead when I come off shift, ya won't wake me."

Starsky had found himself tripping over blond's name. He wasn't sure why: it was just that Ken sounded wrong somehow. Hutchinson nodded in answer to Starsky's statement and busied himself with getting the clothes out of the washing machine. Starsky pushed the door closed and got ready for bed. He was asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

TBC