Tears

SAM'S TEARS



The boss

I expect - or rather I am fairly certain - that nobody could remotely conceive of me shedding a tear. They see me as a cold, pompous bastard, and that's the image I foster, and knowingly.

They're wrong. I've cried more times than they could ever imagine, but inside and inside alone. Of course, I have more practice in throwing up the shutters than the people who work for me. That talent comes with the job and is an unfortunate necessity. Would they respect me in the way that I need them to do if I let my emotions show? Too much sentimentalism could mean even more of them ending up on in hospitals and cemeteries. There are enough of them there as it is.

I do know that so-called 'new men' can and do break down and cry. Contrary to what those surrounding me may believe, I am aware that this is the current trend and one admired in various circles. I have my doubts on it being a useful habit for someone who has a job demanding both psychological and physical strength, and a certain talent for apprehending criminals however.

For some things I consider them lucky, those of my own sex who can permit themselves to bare their emotions in that way, indulging in catharsis in one of its most elementary forms. But they have no call for those barriers that I and those within my organisation require most of the time in order to survive.

Sam, I would have said until now, is by no means a man given to crying. He reminds me of myself in that. And in a great deal of other things too, if I am honest with myself.

At this precise moment, however, I can feel a strange yet instinctive urge to push the badly painted door to the waiting room further open and reach out to him to offer comfort.

He thinks he's alone, of course. I approached via the other corridor, and he is unaware that I can see him from here.

How would he react if I did go in there now? He would almost certainly stiffen, wiping away the signs of his emotions in a swift, angry gesture.

For a second or two, I watch him, my feelings a combination of sympathy, understanding and an almost absurd desire to share in the raw emotion. Several times I very nearly give in and take those few short steps forward, but each time I hold back.

I can't. I am a man who sends others into the world to fight and to kill, for the sake of protecting the public.

But I'm also a human being.

I have seen those who work for me permanently maimed or dead. Lost colleagues and loved ones more often than I care to remember. Felt the shaking sobs welling up inside me and yet always, even if sometimes with extreme difficulty, forced them back. I hate doing it, but I have to.

But Sam hasn't managed to do so - not this time. To see such a reserved, controlled man crying is almost shocking but I know why, of course.

To all appearances, he seems to believe that his relationship with his partner, and the depth of it, has escaped the psychologists, his colleagues and above all myself.

Wrong, Although - for the same reason that I am hesitating outside the door now - I have as yet committed nothing to paper on the subject. Nor did I take any measures to stop it. To date, they have put their work first and that was what I expected of them. The private lives of my people are their own affair as long as the organisation does not suffer.

Seeing the hunched figure and realising how much the man's tears are affecting me, I nevertheless realise that I must be softening in my old age, and make a mental note to keep that in check in case it starts to show in other areas.

Perhaps, in a strange way, there is some wistful aspect to it all. I don't begrudge such strength of feeling but rather I envy the two of them. For myself, any sort of meaningful relationship was a luxury I could ill afford for many years and now seem incapable of developing.

Finally, Sam seems to gain some tenuous hold on himself and starts to straighten up.

I turn swiftly, deciding that it's best for both of us that he remains unaware of my presence.


*

The female colleague

A Catholic education has a lot to answer for.

I might have rebelled very early and thrown Marx back at the sisters at a very premature age, but the same thing always happens even now. When I'm scared, I still find myself praying.

I'm even doing it now as I walk in there. Let there be good news. Please. I think I'd even haul out my rosary and start on the Hail Maries, if it would help.

The job I do isn't the easiest burden to carry at times. I keep my composure in most situations, and I've learned to think straight even when emotions are screaming to be let loose. After a while, people stopped looking over at me in a crisis, expecting the tears to start. I don't know whether they were disappointed or whether they admired me for it.

It's not that I don't need to cry, though. Whether that's a girl-thing I really can't say, having never been a guy. In fact I don't even like guys who cry at the flip of a switch. I like the idea of new men who are unafraid to show their emotions, sure, but in practice most of them are utter jerks.

When I do give in - and when I can allow myself to do so, I lock myself in the ladies' room, emerging when the worst is over and proving I'm as rapid on the draw with a mascara wand as I am with a gun.

I've spent a long time in the ladies' room this last couple of days, though. Seeing Sam hanging grimly on to hope was hard. He's definitely not a new man - I've known that for a long time but he's certainly human, and that's probably one of the many reasons I feel as I do about him.

Sam is crying now, though. Or has been. He has that look about him of somebody who's sobbed until he's run out of tears and is just feeling numb and hollow.

Looks like praying hasn't got me far.

How do I deal with this? Pretend I haven't noticed and give him time? Is this fair with somebody as intelligent as Sam? I suppose I could just walk away, but something keeps me there. He's half-turned away from me, looking at the poster on the wall with red-rimmed eyes.

I saw the boss with the doctors a moment ago, and my heart had already sunk to the point where I couldn't speak to him or even go over there to hear what they were saying.

You'd almost think the old bastard had feelings, as he's looked worried sick ever since they brought Josh in, barely hanging on.

I've come here for news, to raise Sam's morale - and because I had to be with him. The tears are my answer, so there's only one thing to do and that's to be there for him. If, indeed, that's any consolation now.

I walk towards him, purposely making enough noise to give him chance to regain a little control, if that's what he wants.

My own tears are falling freely now. For Sam, for Josh and for myself.

I reach out to him, my eyes blurred, and he pulls me close.

*

Sam

Thank God nobody can see me.

I really thought I could hold it, or at least categorically refuse to indulge in anything as weak as "allowing free reign to one's lachrymal gland response mechanism", as I'm sure the boss would call it. I'm sure he wouldn't use words as basic as crying.

When I came into this miserable little grey room with its well-thumbed magazines and half-destroyed kids' toys strewn around, I had no intention of letting go. Josh once told me that keeping stuff inside all the time like I try and do is crazy, but that he guessed he wasn't exactly a fan of the soppy new man stuff either.

What would he have done in this situation, though?

I don't know. I've seen him in most moods over the years - furious, happy, angry or frustrated with a lot more in between. When it mattered, he was in control, though. You don't get to be in this job by throwing a wobbly at the wrong moment.

When I come to think of it, I've seen his eyelashes wet with tears when somebody we cared about was shot, or knifed, or otherwise had fallen victim to the job we do. I didn't think he was being weak for doing so, either.

So maybe letting the pent-up horror out for a moment or two now is not such an admission of weakness after all.

Not that I can do anything about it anyway, as all the time I've been doing my usual mental masturbation bit I've been semi-aware of the wetness on my cheeks and my jerky breathing.

I'm not the crying type. In fact I can only think of one occasion in my life when it happened since early childhood.

Like all kids, there where times when I ran to my mother and wept, but by the time I was out of shorts she'd started to call me 'my stoic little Sam." I had to be, or I wouldn't have survived after she died. Life was cruel to a motherless child in a rough neighbourhood, but I'd taken the art of coping without breaking to a fine art. My employers would probably agree with me there.

I'm not being so stoic now, I chide myself angrily and ruthlessly stash vague memories and visions of grazed knees, black eyes and wounded pride away among with other bits of a childhood that seems light years away.

What I can't ignore, however, is another image. The one of Josh as a friend, not just a partner. Somebody I could actually get close to. Somebody who didn't turn away in either discretion or disgust on the very rare occasions when I let go enough for him to see how the job gets to me sometimes.

The job. Always the job.

I remember him slinging an arm around my shoulders in the car, once, offering silent support, just being there. I didn't even feel I needed to apologise for letting my somewhat under-used emotion circuits break down in front of him. Because he understood.

It was all I could do not to break down again these last three days as I leaned over the still figure, knowing he'd fight but not sure if he'd win.

I've been watching people watching me, some sort of stubborn refusal to give in permitting me to keep it together… until now. The tears are flowing and I'm choking back the shuddering sobs now.

They hold me in their grip for… I don't know. Too long, but I can't help it. At one point I sense someone outside but by the time I find the strength to raise my head, the dingy corridor's empty.

When I do hear brisk footsteps, I think I might have regained control a little. When I see who it is, it occurs to me that she's going to be shocked at my reaction, but her own face is streaked with mascara and her voice is unsteady.

She leans into me, embracing me almost roughly. The slim body is shaking as she starts to try and say something but it's unintelligible so I find myself stroking her hair, rocking her.

Over her shoulder, I'm suddenly aware that more steps are approaching and somebody is clearing his throat.

Then the plummy voice says we're to give my partner his regards and then get some sleep now the worst is over.

A pair of tearful eyes, a few inches from my own, open wide as I realise she hadn't heard the news that brought all this on. She didn't know Josh was all right and my tears were those of relief.

Then she smiles, and the boss smiles back at us both.

If I didn't know better, I'd say he looked a bit misty-eyed himself.


2002