My first offering to 'Dief' - and I'm not sure if this needs any warnings. This piece can be read by anyone I think. It contains no swearing or bad language, no physical violence, no sex of any kind. These characters don't belong to me.

by Gloria Lancaster

"I should be with her." The words are a chorus, Greek in scope and tragedy. "I should be with her." As the hospital quietens from the day, as Ray departs with a forced but determined cheerfulness, as even Diefenbaker pads away to seek comfort from the night nursing staff, Fraser watches the darkness gather in the corners as it stalks and takes the room, its natural prey. "I should be with her."

He moves, the sound of the bed linen is loud in a sudden silence, those empty spaces that happen sometimes, as if everything stops for a moment, a void in the noisy city, then life and sounds return, doors shut, soft and confidential voices murmur, there is the steady even pace of a security guard. Without turning his head, Fraser knows.

"Dad," he says, not hiding his weariness. There is no reply for a while and Fraser turns to the ghost - his father is a remote and immaculate figure as always, dressed in red serge, looking out to the courtyard garden. "Dad?" it is a genuine question this time.

"It's time son, come along."

"Time?" Fraser makes no effort to hide his confusion and his irritation.

"This is what you want, get up, come along," his father turns to face his son at last, his face is neutral and pleasant as always, still handsome.

"Dad, it may have escaped your attention but at the moment, I can't get... what?" Fraser stops, confused; he is standing - upright and without assistance. And what is more he is dressed as if for duty: boots polished, buttons bright. "Am I dreaming?" Fraser is suspicious.

"Probably," his father replies and with worrying affection puts one hand on Fraser's shoulder. "Ready son?" but without waiting for any answer, the darkness and his father are one, and the darkness is brief, thick and cold and then it is over and they stand together looking at a small clean room.

The room is brightly lit, dominated by a large neat bed. There are a few chairs, some other items of furniture, off to one side an open doorway reveals a white clinical bathroom. A room like any other. Nothing special about the room at all.

Fraser sees himself - there is no shock save only a mild surprise - is this what I look like? Is this how other people see me?

Fraser sees himself on the side of the bed, head bowed, hands clasped together loosely, shoulder slumped. Fraser sees himself look up, sees his own face white with strain and wet with tears.

There is another person in the room.

"It is not too late," Ben says, and Fraser hears his own voice thick with emotion, husky, as if he had a bad cold. "It's still not too late, my darling, we can turn back even now, let me..." but the words fade into silence.

Victoria doesn't look at anything but the wall: "Ben, why won't you do this for me? I thought, when you came with me, I thought it was settled. The money is there, waiting for us to enjoy - together. We can do this - together. Together, Ben, just like it should be." Her voice, her lovely lovely voice, so sweet, so warm and loving still, saying his name. "If you loved me, if you really really loved me, you'd do this for me." Bright, still warm but so betrayed, so hurt.

Fraser sees Ben - himself - flinch, sees his head drop again then look up and his face is set, paler than the white cotton sheets. "I do love you," he hears Ben say, "I do, and I won't do this, I won't - I can't. Victoria, please..." and at last she turns to look at her lover. "We can work this out, I know we can. I'll get a job, we have enough money, we can go home to Canada."

"Home?" her voice doesn't change at all but the temperature in the room drops significantly. "Do you really think we can go home? I am a wanted criminal - and so are you," is that a smile on her lovely face? "You're not a Mountie any more, that's for sure."

Fraser sees the pain on his own face, sees both the pain and triumph reflected there in Victoria's beautiful lake-dark deep eyes. "If you loved me," Victoria approaches the bed, stroking through and through Ben's hair with gentle devastating strokes, "if you really loved me, you'd do this."

"No," and it is so soft, so cold and final. Sad. "I can't, my darling, please, it's not too late, why won't you believe me? Its not too late."

"It is Ben," she says and her voice had never been lovelier, "I'm sorry, but it is," and she points the small wicked revolver at him, at his forehead, the place between the eyes. Closer and closer, until the gun barrel touches his skin. "It is too late."

***

The hospital room is cool, welcoming, restful after the glare of the other place. Fraser pauses; he is breathing deeply, calming himself from the violence of that final, heartbreaking moment. He is grateful for his father's silence. Words are unnecessary. There is no need to labour the point.

"Well, that is what you wanted," his father speaks, unable to resist the temptation.

"Don't," Fraser is dull. He seems tired and drained. This was a vision, or a dream, or whatever it was, and it fills him with both dread and relief. "She would have killed me, I know that. Don't show me bad dreams. I'm dead anyway, with her or without her. There can be nothing worse than that."

There is silence. Fraser feels sleep hover near, empty dreamless sleep. He craves it. "I'm so tired," and he sounds fretful and bad tempered. He rests his forearm across his eyes and he tries not to think of that bright sharp little room and the tragedy it contains. "I'm just so tired."

The quiet of the room and the darkness soothes him; perhaps it was just a bad dream. "It was just a bad dream," Fraser says the words, almost to himself.

"Yes, son," his father lies to him, gently, "that's all it is, just a bad dream."

No one speaks, the words make no sense. There can be nothing worse? "Child, not your dream only."

***

Other people dream, and perhaps in another Chicago, in another time and place, perhaps, there is another room, dark and womblike. Warm, welcoming. Elegant furniture gleams; a comfortable drawing room, almost luxurious. And perhaps we know these people.

Ray sits at his ease, one leg crossed ankle over knee. He is sipping - we can smell the potent mixture - coffee laced with amaretto. Strange, Ray usually avoids alcohol. Ray looks different, his clothes are different, severe and expensive and wonderfully cut, his shoes are English and handmade. He consults an elegant watch: "You should get the word any time between now and midnight. Then its up to you and the boys."

Charlie speaks from the far side of the room - he is petting a somnolent wolf: "It's been a while Ray, how do we know we can trust you?"

"Because Ray's on the side of the angels now, Charlie," Frankie says, his face wide with a beaming smile. "He doesn't believe in heroes in white hats any more, that right Ray? He doesn't believe in anything any more, yeah?"

"You could say I believe in some things very much," Ray says it unpleasantly and pats his left breast pocket. "And this smart green paper is one of those things."

Charlie laughs, a mirthless grunt of humour and Frank's smile widens even further. The wolf gives a snort and rests his head on Charlie's knee. "You and me kid, Florida," Charlie tells him.

"But Charlie's right to be cautious, Ray," Frank has the sudden paranoia of the basically weak man.

"History is history Frank," Ray is cool, "what you got to worry about? You know just why I'm doing this."

"Your ma, yeah, I heard she wasn't so good, after all that business with the mortgage and losing the house and all that stuff. Aw, c'mon Ray, if it was that - well, I wouldn't let your mother suffer, you know that. I'd not see her out on the streets."

"I pay my debts, Frank, I prefer it that way these days. I don't take anything from anybody anymore. And I don't give away what I can sell."

"You weren't always that way."

"Yeah, well, life's one big crap shoot, Frank, and ain't it the truth, though? Look after number one, just like my dad always said. People let you down. Even the best of 'em." Ray stands and he shrugs his shoulders inside his jacket, just as a thousand times before. "I gotta go, Ma's expecting me - visiting at the hospital, ya know? Later, be there at the warehouse. Midnight. The drugs are there."

"See ya Ray," Frank has a wide oily smile. The two men shake hands. "My best to your mother," and Ray nods and for one split second looks away into the distance and perhaps he can see other places and other rooms: his face is still and bare.

Then that moment is gone and he turns away from us and walks out of the darkly comfortable room.

-- Gloria Lancaster - 4 July 1996
gloria@gloria1.demon.co.uk
"If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars."