Lewis

Lewis rarely dreams. Not anymore.

In the beginning, after Val, he had the same nightmare over and over again. He was standing and looking on as her car crashed, helpless to do anything, watching as his Val was tumbled over and over and over in her car, body thrown about despite the seatbelt, blood and glass and screams, the car and Val were coming towards him, rolling over and over, coming to take him too…

He'd always wake up just before the car hit him. In the beginning he was angry, angry that car didn't keep going and take him too, because what was the point without Val. Then his anger would fade to be replaced by guilt at the idea of leaving his kids without a Dad as well as a Mam, at his selfishness at wanting to go too.

Overtime the dream faded, and his desire to be hit by the speeding hurtling car faded too. But not quickly. Moving halfway across the world had helped, or at least he thought it had helped.

The first night he came home from BVI, he lay in bed for hours, terrified to sleep in case the dream came back, in case he saw his Val like that again, broken and covered in blood and screaming. When he finally fell asleep he dreamed instead of the first time he had taken Mark fishing, and of having to fish the boy out of the side of the river where he tumbled in in his excitement at trying to land his first catch. It was shallow where he'd gone in, Lewis knew the boy would be okay, had chosen that spot deliberately and the boy was a good swimmer. But Val had been furious because all she could see was a wet, cold 10-year-old boy who could easily have drowned.

He'd had the same dream two nights previously and had woken up and wondered what brought it back into his mind, then remembered.

Zalinski.

Two day until the trial, and that meant two more days of pretending not to notice as his sergeant unwound before his eyes, two days of nail biting and blank stares and sharp responses followed by mumbled apologies. Two days of doing all he could to help by not doing or saying anything because he knew James Hathaway and he knew that if he pushed too hard, if he pushed at all, that James would lose his temper and say something he might well regret later, something really hurtful. And while Robbie Lewis could take it, could understand the lad was just lashing out, pushing up those defensive walls he seemed to cling onto so tightly all his life, he knew his sergeant would fade a little more under the weight of his remorse.

So instead he pushed them both harder to close their latest case, he deliberately misquoted Keats (Angry stare replacing blank stare, that was something) and made his Sergeant do all the driving and most of the legwork. Distraction, that's what the lad needed. Maybe it was what they both needed.

Cases involving children never got any easier really, and he had unfortunately seen his fair share of them. As a copper on the beat and with Morse, children who had been abused and neglected, caught up in things beyond their age, used as pawns by adults for their own gain. It took your breath away each time and each of them stayed with you somehow, occupied a corner of your heart that was kept just for them, somewhere to protect their memories at least, so keep them safe.

They found their man, or what was left of him the day before the trial. It hadn't been particularly satisfying, one of those cases where everything feels very unresolved despite the case having been closed. One of those cases where you questioned the point of being a copper.

He left their shared office just after 7pm. "I'm off Sergeant, I'll collect you at 8 o'clock in the morning"

It wasn't a question and didn't require a response. No angry stare this time either. Maybe relief at not being asked to go for a pint, at not being distracted, at not hearing words of advice (always sound, solid words of advice, Robbie Lewis didn't do platitudes). If he was honest with himself maybe Robbie was relieved too.

He slept badly that night, tossing and turning until we eventually gave up at 5am and got out of bed to make some tea. He drank it sitting at the kitchen table, idly flicking through and old newspaper lying on the table but not actually reading anything.

He tried not to dwell on the 'bad' cases too much and he didn't talk much about them either. Some coppers did, manys a time one of his colleagues had sought him out in the pub to tell him about a really awful case, and he had sat there and listened, even when he was tired and really would rather be at home because he knew they needed to talk, to get it off their system. he had talked to Val, when it was really bad, and he felt he could see blood everywhere he looked. But mainly he accepted the sadness, kept some of it and pushed a lot to one side, distracted himself.

Maybe it was learnt behaviour from Morse. Maybe he was passing it onto the lad. Probably not though. James Hathaway was introspective and silent (and sad) long before he met Robert Lewis.

But as much as he tried to coax James Hathaway out of his melancholy, he had to admit to himself that a part of that little girl had stayed with him ever since too. His sergeant had sometimes challenged Robbie Lewis about his lack of faith but with cases like this he became even more convinced than ever that there was no such thing as god, or fate or destiny. It was just an evil person doing grotesque evil things. Zalinski was evil. He had torn that family apart, he had taken the life of a bright, inquisitive bubbly ten-year-old girl, had snatched it away for his own perverted twisted pleasure.

Maybe it was the circumstances of the case that really got to him, no motive, no connection, no sad backstory, no abuse, no sadness, nothing. Or maybe it was the sight of his sergeant kneeling as in prayer over an open water tank in the attic of a house in 'one of the nicest' parts of Oxford. Maybe it was the way Hatchway's hands held the girl, cradling her head, keeping it out of the water, holding her so gently although no life remained.

When Lewis got to the house he had found a PC nervously standing at the bottom of the attic ladder, unsure of what to do next, half afraid of the silent, angry, blond haired detective who had barked orders at him to ring Laura Hobson and Inspector Lewis and then told him to stand at the bottom of the ladder and "Let NO-ONE else up, do you hear?"

Preserving her dignity, not letting anyone else touch or see her like this. Lewis understood. And now he stood at the top of the ladder, waiting for Laura Hobson and SOCO to arrive, watching over them both.

Keeping Guard.

THE END