Samrat (whathesaid) wrote in whatprice, @ 2009-04-20 22:51:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !backstory, phillip hughes, samrat amarnath |
[Backstory] Phillip and Sam
Who: Phillip Hughes and Samrat Amarnath
What: Phil is told about the deaths of Chandni and Hadiyyah
Where: Birmingham, England
When: Christmastime, 2007
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Notes: Just fixed the screwed-up html. :)
"You need to call your friend, ne?" Ghanem had said it for the past week but Sam had been unable to move. Every time, he looked at the crumpled messages that his brother offered, his fist clenched around them, crumpling them more. How could he tell Phillip what had happened, when he did not know? How could he tell him that Hadiyyah and Chandni had died, when he himself had no body to bury?
Ghanem walked over, his hands on Samrat's shoulder for just a moment
before he began to shake him. "Fucking break out of this, man, and
call him." Shoving his older brother back, Ghanem dropped his mobile
on the ground in front of him. "Or I will. You got twenty fucking
minutes, understand? You got to bloody put yourself together - you
aren't dead." And with that, he walked out of the room.
Sam picked up the phone and slowly, stumbling fingers began to dial
the number. He couldn't speak as it rang, only breathe in halting
gasps.
Phillip felt the phone buzzing in his pocket. Flipping it open, he
answered "Phillip Hughes" automatically while looking over the
schedule for Christmas services that he was supposed to make
adjustments for. And of course, work in the choir performances and
some shifts at the hospital. At least he had Christmas day off.
"Phil..." Sam could feel his chest constricting, cutting off anything
else he might have said. It was not tears but a choking - the sense
that he could no longer breathe and his fingers pressed tightly
against the mobile. It was a few heartbeats before he managed, "Sam.
It's Sam."
"Sam? Sam! What's wrong?"
There was something in Sam's voice that just struck him as wrong. His
schedule lay forgotten on the table.
"Sam, talk to me, please.."
"I cannot do this." His voice lay heavy against the receiver as the
mobile slid from his hands, crashing to the floor. Samrat cradled his
head in his hands, unable to speak despite the tinny noise from the
receiver, unable to think beyond the yawning ocean of feeling that
threatened to engulf him.
"Sam?! Sam! Where are you? Are you home?"
Phillip ran out into the street and hailed a taxi, giving the driver
directions to Sam'r residence, telling him it was an emergency. The
taxi driver sped through the streets and arrived their quicker than
expected, doing what he good for the priest in the backseat. Rushing
up to Sam's residence, he was let in by Sam's brother and nothing
could have prepared him for what he saw. Seeing Sam in a dazed state
like that, he could think only of that Spring in Ahmedabad when he'd
come upon him in the refugee camp. Dressed, perhaps unfortunately, in
his cassock, Phillip knelt next to Samrat, putting his hands on the
other man's arms.
"Samrat. It's Phillip. I'm here."
"They are dead," was all Samrat said, staring at the other man with
dead eyes. He did not even appear to recognize him. Ghanem made a
choked noise in the back of his throat, then added quietly, "He is
speaking of my niece. And of my sister."
Then the younger man stepped out of the room to allow his brother and
Phillip that space. The only sound that could be heard was the
closing of a door, gentle but jarring with its finality.
Phillip looked at Sam, hoping to see something that said this might be
a lie. Anything. He didn't hear Ghanem go, just pulled Sam into a
tight hug. There was no 'I'm sorry', no empty words of consolation
offered, just his own physical presence as he felt the lump in his
throat. Hadi was like his own flesh and blood, she couldn't be dead,
not his little Hadi.
No tears came from Samrat - what Phillip felt instead was the harsh
shuddering of his body as the breaths racked through it, tearing
through the other man's chest. He clung to Phillip as if he was the
only thing keeping him from drowning, fists gripping the back of his
shirt as they embraced. It was a long time before his breath began to
slow, before he could hear anything but his blood rushing against his
eardrums.
When Sam's breathing began to slow, Phillip began to rub his back.
"When?" he asked quietly.
"I do not know what day it is." His speech was crumbling but he made
it through that solitary sentence.
"Today is the 20th of December," Phillip softly suggested. There were
so many questions he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know, but
most important was taking care of Sam.
"Almost a week," he answered. His voice sounded strange, as if he'd
forgotten how to use it. "She - they - It was-" How could he explain
it? It made no sense and there was nothing that he could correlate to
it as any sort of explanation.
It must have been sudden. Sam would have called otherwise.
"Sshh... in time, Sam, in time."
"Tell me why your god lets these things happen," the man whispered.
"For I no longer believe in my own."
"I have no answers. I can't understand how any God would take Chandni
and Hadi away. I can spout nonsense about how God only gives us as
much as we can handle, but right now I think it's rubbish."
Phillip's own voice was in danger of cracking right now.
"I don't know. All I can think of right now is something one of our
mystics once said - 'If this is how God treats his friends, it's no
wonder he has so few of them.' But that too seems shallow."
"I think... that perhaps I loved her." His voice was dim in the
fading light, with not much more weight than the flickering of a final
sunbeam across the floorboards. "I never said it. I did not know it
until..." Another harsh gasp, followed by the rattle of his breath.
"She knew," Phillip reassured Sam. She had to. It was not simply duty
that compelled Sam to stay with Chandni that long. "And if she didn't
know before, she knows now. They both know. You were an excellent
father, Sam."
"Were." He repeated the word numbly. "Am I not a father now? Is
that gone because she has gone?"
"Bollocks, that's not what I meant. You will always be her father. She
will always be your daughter and Chandni will always be your wife.
They will both live in your heart forever."
Phillip's voice disappeared with that last statement. They couldn't
really be gone. This must be a nightmare. A bad christmas season
dream.
Samrat was silent. The expression on his face was one of doubt.
"I do not know how I will do this or what I will say to her father. I
brought them to England so that they would be safe."
"You will manage. I will help. Ghanem will help. You will survive.
Everywhere is dangerous," Phillip said softly before he couldn't
contain his curiousity. Of course, he was being a rubbish priest right
now anyways.
"What happened to them?"
"It was... terrorists." A nasty, bitter laugh followed the sentence.
Terrorists, no. It had been the British government but that was not
something that he could tell a man that he did not want to see dead as
well.
"Senseless violence," Phillip muttered under his breath. "I hope they
are brought to justice."
To be honest, he hoped God's justice was swift and powerful. How could
they have taken out an innocent child.
"Sweet Hadi," he whispered.
There was nothing that he could say in response to Phillip's
mutterings, not when he had lied. Instead, Samrat pulled away,
rejecting the warmth of what the other man offered. He simply nodded
his head. In India, it would have been a matter of revenge - they
both knew that.
Phillip studied Samrat as he pulled away, wondering what he'd done
wrong. He found himself stumbling over words.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... Your loss is greater than mine.. I..
What can I do, Sam?"
"Nothing." The word tasted like ashes in his mouth but he could not
place Phillip in such danger. "Leave me. I do not want anything you
can give." For once, he had to turn his head in order to lie - there
was no heart in him for it.
"I am not leaving you alone like this," Phillip snapped, the words
trying to convey both hurt and concern. Sam's word felt like insult to
injury. He had not always liked Chandni, but he had tried to be civil
to her. And Hadi had had been someone he considered family. He needed
closure. Sam was all that was left now and to be pushed out of Sam's
life was something he could not easily accept.
"Will there not be a funeral?"
"I am not burying them here," he returned the words in anger. "Why
should I? There is nothing here that they loved."
Phillip ran his hand over his face.
"I did not expect you to. But I would like to be there. You are my
family. They were my family too. Please, Samrat, do not shut me out
now."
"I do not have anything left of them to bury!" He burst out, his face
throbbing with anger. "How can I have a funeral when there is no
fucking body? When they will not even give me what is left because no
one knows who is what or where or -"
Phillip blanched. How could God allow this? Had not Sam already
suffered enough already? Without thinking, he unbuttoned the Cassock
he was wearing and shrugged it off, throwing the collar on the side as
he closed his eyes. Dressed in only black trousers and a white vest,
he covered his face. He wanted to scream, to throw things right now.
"I can't be a priest right now," he whispered to himself.
"That is wrong and horrible and atrocious," he said, doing his best to
keep his voice calm and only vaguely succeeding. "There could be a
memorial service, at least. Some closure for yourself, maybe. Tell me
what you need, Sam. Tell me what I can do to help."
"I said that I want you to go." His voice shook as he pointed towards
the door. "I do not want closure - I do not want to forgive." Anger
echoed in every part of his body, the hand as tight as a fist that
thrust towards the wall, nearly hitting it.
"And as your friend, I care about you too much to leave you alone
right now! I said nothing of forgiveness and I do not expect you to
forgive anyone!" Phillip said, putting a hand out on Sam's arm.
He shoved him. The rage that was coursing through his veins released
and he found himself slamming his hands into the other man's chest and
pushing. "I said, do not bloody touch me."
Phillip stumbled backwards and looked at Sam as through he'd grown
another head.
"Sam! Please! Don't do this!"
He wouldn't fight back. Not against Sam.
His fist reared back, too furious to stop. Instead, Sam let it smash
into the wall above Phillip's head, a grunt of pain sobering him as he
stood there, feeling the plaster against his knuckles break, tearing
at the coarse skin that covered them. He stared down, watching as the
white dust sprinkled down on the other man's hair, then tried to pull
his hand away. It failed.
Phillip managed not to flinch, but just barely. He almost wished that
Sam had punched him. Perhaps that would have been better, giving him
something physical to focus on. Turning, he used his own fist to chip
away at the plaster around Sam's fist and helping him ease it out.
"I've been wanting to punch that wall since you told me the news. Did it help?"
"No," Sam said, wincing as he held his hand. "Not really. But have a
go at it if that is what you would like." But his voice was calm and
he managed a half-smile at the mental image.
Phillip didn't need a second invitation. Pulling back his arm, he send
his fist into the plaster before pulling it out and repeating the
procedure. His technique was horrible. He hadn't punched anyone since
his days at Cambridge and he was rusty and out of practice. His fist
hurt like the dickens and he fell against the wall, forehead first.
"Did it help?" Sam asked.
"No. But I want to keep doing it."
"I do not think the wall is hard enough." He paused. "We need a
board. Something like that."
"A brick wall would work. Better a board or a wall than another
person," Phillip quipped.
"That depends on the person," Sam said darkly. Then he paused. "Are
you recommending that I damage myself, Dr. Hughes?"
"I am simply hypothesizing that under each other's medical care, we
might find some catharsis from this... therapy," Phillip said.
Sam stared down at his bruised knuckles, then slowly shook his head.
"I think... I need space. I need to think of this - I need.... Not
more pain. That, I do not need." He inhaled slowly, feeling the
sharp throb of the injury in his hand as he tried to flex it.
"Do you need me to take care of that? Or are you just going to pick
the dressing off when I'm gone and do it again?" Phillip asked
quietly, his tone lacking any accusation, only concern and a hint of
familiarity.
He looked guilty as he nodded, holding out his hand. Phil knew him
too well. "I should look at yours, at the very least." Sam wondered
whether his fears were grounded - if Phil should be protected from
what had happened to his wife and daughter.
"Only fair. Do you have anything here? Antiseptic or the like?"
Phillip asked, gently manipulating the fingers on Sam's hand. Of
course, doing so caused his own hand to twinge in a way that made him
worry he might have broken his fist.
"I think I need boxing lessons from you again. Didn't think it was
supposed to hurt that much."
"I'm sure there is something." He winced but stood. "Let me check
the bathroom cabinet." A few moments later, he returned with a few
half-used tubes of ointment. "Here. Use these." He held out his
hand. "Priests - are they allowed to box?"
Phillip gently applied the ointment to Sam's hand, letting his
battered right hand rest in his lap.
"I suppose. For sport, at least. Probably not for all out fighting."
Finishing with the ointment, he held out his hand for Sam without being asked.
"I think the wall won the fight."
"Yes, I believe that it did." He frowned, his fingers pressed down
gently on a knuckle. "Tell me - does that hurt?"
Phillip winced, trying not to pull his hand away.
"Yes. More than a bit. More than it should."
"Chood. That is because you broke it, you fool." His hand
gently began to move bone, feeling gingerly around his joints. "We
should take you to emergency."
"Bollocks. Happy Christmas to me," Phillip said wincing slightly.
"I can make it to A&E on my own. I doubt that's where you want to be right now."
"I would like to be but..." He paused. "It might become awkward."
The authorities, asking questions and his visa so close to expiration.
Sam knelt over the other man's hand, picking up bandages and fumbling
to make an awkward splint.
Phillip waved his left hand.
"It's alright. It was worth it for a moment," Phillip said with a
smile, wincing occasionally. "Do you still want to be left alone?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "I need... time to think. I... was not ready
to call you."
"I'm glad you did," Phillip said, picking up his Cassock and gingerly
pulling it on, leaving it undone. It would serve as a makeshift coat,
nothing wrong. After all, in his panic and rush, he hadn't grabbed a
coat - something the December night would remind him of shortly.
Phillip put his left hand on Sam's shoulder.
"Whatever you need, you can always call me, Samrat, no matter what."
For once, Sam didn't say that he would or that he expected a call from
the other man. Instead, their hands met and he gripped Phillip's as
hard as he could, then simply said, "Goodbye."
Phillip squeezed tightly. God keep you, he begged mentally.
"I'll be in touch."