[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."