Page 82 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Where the hell have you been?”

The question came out rough, accusatory. Not the greeting I'd expected. Not any greeting at all.

“I could ask you the same thing.” I closed the door behind me, suddenly aware of how I must look. Rumpled. Exhausted. Smelling of smoke and whisky and the particular staleness of overnight trains. “You've been gone for three days, Tom. No word. No message. I thought something had happened.”

“I went to see my family.”

“Your family.” The word came out flat. “In London.”

“East End.” He stood, and I noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands kept opening and closing at hissides. “Mum, Dad, Rose, Alfie. Wanted to check on them. Make sure they were alright.”

“And you didn't think to tell me?”

“It was last minute. I didn't think?—”

“No. You didn't.” The fear I'd carried for three days, the worry that had gnawed at me every time I passed his empty room, transmuted suddenly into anger. “I've been going out of my mind, Tom. Thought you'd been sent back to the front. Thought something had happened. Thought?—”

“I'm sorry.” He stepped closer, and I caught the look in his eyes. Searching. Concerned. “I should have found a way to let you know. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Clearly.” I laughed, hollow. “Neither was I, apparently.”

“What does that mean?” His gaze sharpened, taking in the details. The state of my clothes. The shadows under my eyes. “Art. Where were you tonight?”

I should have lied. Should have said I'd been working late, or walking, or any of the dozen innocuous explanations that would have satisfied him.

Instead, the truth came out. “London. A pub in Soho. A place for men like me.”

Tom went very still.

“You went to London,” he said slowly. “Alone. At night. To a queer pub.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous?—”

“Of course I know how dangerous it was.” My voice rose despite myself. “I know better than anyone. But I needed... I needed to be somewhere I could breathe, Tom. Somewhere I didn't have to pretend. And you weren't here.”

The words hung between us, carrying more weight than I'd intended.

“I wasn't here,” he repeated. “So you went looking for... what? Someone else?”

“No. Not like that.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. “I just needed to talk to people who understood. Who knew what it was like to be?—”

“To be what you are. I know.” His jaw was tight. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

“I found...” I thought about Malcolm and David. Charlie with his tapping fingers and his dead brother. George with his arrests and his survival. “I found people who've been doing this for decades. Who've built lives despite everything. Who told me not to waste whatever time I might have.”

“Not to waste it.” Something shifted in his expression. “What else did you do? Besides talking?”

The question cut too close. The cottage. The constable's torch. The way I'd stood there, frozen and terrified and desperately lonely.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing happened.”

“Art.”

“I went somewhere I shouldn't have. A public convenience. I thought...” I couldn't finish. Couldn't say it out loud.

Tom closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something had hardened in his face.