Father Confessor (J McNee series) by Russel D McLean

Susan beat me to it.
    I still didn’t know why.
    That was the catalyst, bringing us together again in a way that seemed inevitable; a natural act neither of us could deny. There was no point I could say where we entered a relationship. It just happened. Neither of us realising.
    A shared trauma?
    Or something else?
    But sometimes the physical aspect of our relationship felt more like a barrier than anything else. As though somehow it pushed us further apart than we had ever been. And neither of us knew how to get past that. Or else we were scared to.
    ###
    Back at the flat, we ate in silence, the TV providing background noise.
    Soaps. Local news. Didn’t matter. I don’t think either of us were really paying attention, welcoming the excuse to become lost in our own thoughts.
    At some point, after we’d cleared away the leftovers, Susan kissed me. When I pulled away, she pushed in.
    Putting her fingers through my belt loops and pulling me against her. I gave in. We both welcomed the moment.
    Lost ourselves in it.
    Together.
    And yet apart.
    ###
    Susan slept on her side, facing the window. She had most of the sheets. Bunched them up around her, gripping tight as though afraid someone would steal them away. I didn’t mind, I tended to get too warm at night. I liked the coolness of sleeping above sheets.
    Not that I slept easily.
    It had to come at some point, but most nights were spent staring at the ceiling, trying to force myself to relax.
    I turned my head and looked at the bedside clock.
    LED numbers burned. 2:30am
    Another light exploded in the dark. A buzzing noise. The thump of a vibrating phone. I reached out, grabbed the offending device.
    Not mine.
    Susan’s.
    Display said: Lindsay (Home)
    I nudged her. “For you.”
    She reached up, slow and sluggish. Answered the phone with a mumbled hello, not quite able to form the words.
    But then she was sitting up, feet over the edge of the bed, sheet falling away from her, revealing the curve of her back facing me. Her hair fell loose down the nape of her neck.
    “Aye? … What? Slow down… Jesus, Annie, what do…? Okay, okay… I’ll be there.”
    She hung up. Put the phone down next to her. Put her head in both hands, let out a long, slow, sigh.
    I stayed where I was. Wanting to reach out. But doing nothing.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “DI Lindsay… George…” She stood up, moved to where her clothes had been thrown onto a chair by the window. She started to dress, slowly. “He’s been attacked. I don’t know the details… he’s in the hospital. That was his wife. She says… a coma, Steed. She says he’s in a bloody coma.”

THIRTEEN
    DI George Lindsay.
    Rumour was they used to call him “Curious” George due to his simian features. Fair enough. It was kinder than what the coppers who came up through my generation called him.
    Some days you can’t remember why you started a spat with someone. It’s just a fact of life. Me and Lindsay had been at each other’s throats for years. More or less since I started on the job. Call it a clash of personalities. Some people even implied we were similar.
    Both of us called bollocks on that.
    I remember when they told me that he was the lead officer in the investigation into what happened to Elaine. That he was the one charged with finding the bastard who’d knocked us off the road. I felt as if I’d been betrayed in some way. And Lindsay did nothing to try and dissuade me of that belief.
    I thought that he hated me. A true loathing. And why wouldn’t I? A lot of shite had gone down between us. Our professional relationship was best described as blunt. Personally, we were antagonistic, if you wanted to downplay it.
    I didn’t think Lindsay was the right man for the job. I honestly believed he’d see the assignment as one more chance to fuck me over. It was a melodramatic reaction, perhaps. I can’t claim that I was thinking or acting rationally back then.
    People talk about how grief can be like a temporary