Saffron bit her lip. “He arrested Dr. Maxwell for less, didn’t he?” She looked up at him, eyes pleading. “We can’t not tell the inspector, Alexander.”
Sighing, Alexander agreed. They’d see the inspector tomorrow. Hopefully, by then Saffron would have found something useful in her references.
Quietly, they made their way down the hallway, not wanting to wake up Elizabeth nor the landlady in the flat below.
On the street, the wind had died down and the sky was clear. A slender silver moon had risen over the neat rows of flats. They spent the time walking to a busier street for a taxi comparing cuts and bruises. Saffron won the count contest. Her venture through the length of the garden had punctured not only her arms, but had left a long scratch down the side of her throat. Alexander won for the worst, a long scrape from the rhododendron crisscrossing his arm, right over his scar.
“Alexander,” Saffron said, giving him a sidelong glance, “how did you get that scar?”
He was tired, covered in dirt, and had already crawled through a dark garden with Saffron. Why not tell her?
“It’s from the War.” He stopped there, looking at her. Saffron pressed her lips together like she wanted him to expound on his statement, but didn’t. Alexander smiled at her torn expression. “I told you that I was in Fromelles. My unit was stuck in our trench. We fought, many of my friends died. Someone threw a grenade and it hit near me.” He paused, pushing back against images of mud and blood flashing through his mind. “I was knocked out. When I woke up, I had a concussion, and my arm and back were in bad shape. Second and third degree burns, limited range of movement, concerns about lasting nerve damage. My arm healed, my back healed. I had to learn to write with my left hand, but compared to most, I got off easy. I have no reason to complain.”
He glanced at Saffron but her face was shadowed.
Alexander contemplated telling her more. The horror of waking with half his body burning, the gut-wrenching sensation of being a stranger to himself when he looked at his scarred body for the first time. How the sight and the smell of smoke or a book dropping to the floor used to cause him to slide into terror so complete he would forget where he was.
He’d spoken to his older brother, a former pilot, concerned he was going mad. His brother and several of his friends all experienced similar things on their return from the war—night terrors, shaking hands, aversion to loud noises, even unprovoked violence. Some of them had fled to the country, the survivors of horrors worse than his. Some turned to alcohol or something harder, as he had before finding a better strategy. It had been months since he’d had a slide, as he called them, and more than a year since they’d been a regular problem.
Feeling emboldened by his progress, or perhaps the lateness of the hour, Alexander continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard of soldiers returning with shell-shock who can’t handle loud noises or sudden changes. That was me, too.”
He could recall his temper splintering one day after his shaking hands had dropped yet another plate in the lab.
The plate fell to the ground, and a hot wave of shame and anger had caused him to shove a tray of samples to the floor. Between his heavy breaths, he’d heard the sudden silence from the hallway outside. He’d not seen anyone witness his misery, but he was sure someone had noticed and he’d be out of the university without a second chance. That was the day he’d finally gone to Dr. Avery for help. He’d learned a form of Tibetan meditation from the professor and had never looked back.
That was nearly three years ago. He was a different man now.
He cleared his throat. “I use that breathing technique, you know, the one I mentioned.”
“You tidy things, I’ve noticed,” Saffron said gently. “Your office is always so neat, too. After the xolotl,” she stopped him, hand on his arm, “you put right the whole office. Even after I’d made it such a mess.”
Alexander looked intently at her, unsure if he wanted her to continue.
“But now,” she said, gesturing to their dirt-streaked clothes, “you don’t seem bothered.”
“I don’t always …” He sighed, shaking his head more to himself than her. “It doesn’t always work in the way I expect it to.”
They walked past another flat in silence.
It was true that his need to have things tidy was not a constant obsession, considering it came and went with varying degrees. It was frustrating, the unpredictable way his brain now worked. But at least it allowed him to work in the field. Nature’s chaos rarely bothered him like humanity’s did. He had never bothered trying to do something about it. In fact, no one, not even his brother, had ever commented on his aversion to disorder.