25. Nobody's on nobody's side

Mrs Berowitz is far happier to see her husband than Beckett remembers that she was when seeing her father at any stage after the first month or so. Perhaps that’s marital love.  Perhaps it’s just relief.

“Thank you, Kate. You brought him back.  He’ll be so upset tomorrow.”

“Julia… Julia, he needs help. You need help.”

“But… but he’ll be fine.” Beckett’s face twists before she can stop it. 

“Julia, he won’t be. You can’t save him.  You can only save yourself.  Trust me on this. You cannot save him unless he wants to save himself.”  She’s entirely forgotten that Castle is in the room.  He’s very carefully behind her, out of sight and out of mind, listening hard.

“I can,” Julia weeps. “I can.  It’ll be different.  He won’t do it again.”

“I have to go,” Beckett says. Her voice is empty again.

“Thank you.”

Beckett escapes without further laceration of her feelings on her razor edged memories, wanting only to go home and hide herself away now that the crisis is over: now that she’s poured herself out and left herself emptied; now that her memories have swooped upon her. It’s not till she’s at the door to the building that she remembers that Castle had been in the Berowitzes’ apartment with her and had heard every word she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He recognises that there is no point asking really? Or are you sure?  Or even saying Come here and let me hold you till it’s better.  So instead he decides to try to force some truth out of her, because after all she’s trying her best to convince him that he shouldn’t want to be here so he might as well use that to his advantage.

“You don’t normally do Missing Persons.”

“No.”

“Why’d you do this one?”

“He had been a witness. We might still need him to testify.”  It’s totally unbelievable, and she knows it.  An alcoholic is never going to be called if there’s any alternative.  Castle doesn’t comment, but his scepticism is palpable.  He sits in the passenger seat, window still down to allow the freezing February wind to clear the toxic air and atmosphere, and waits for her to move off.  Then he starts again.

“Are you going to carry on lying to me?”

“This is none of your business. I didn’t ask you to come with me.  I told you not to.”

“You needed the help. You need some company now.”

“No. I don’t.  I’m fine.”

“If you were fine, you’d tell me why you did it. But you’re not fine.  You need to talk about it, but you won’t.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” But if she doesn’t talk about it, he knows, she’ll fall apart.  She’s already halfway there.  The stress fractures in her voice are evident.

“So I’ll tell you. I think that Mr Berowitz had gone out and gone missing, and then his wife called you to help because she’s been talking to you about how to cope.  You gave her your card, didn’t you?  The very first time, you gave her your number because you knew exactly what she was going through, because you already had.  And then she called and you went to have lunch with her the day after the anniversary of your mom’s… death” – he doesn’t, can’t, say murder – “even though you were half-dead yourself from dealing with your father the day before.  And you did it again two – not even two – weeks ago.  And you’ve been doing it all evening since – when?  Five?  Half-past?  It’s nearly nine now.  You’d been out looking for him.  You’d called every precinct in Manhattan.  You called the morgue.  Like you used to do.”  He hears her breathing change, rasping across her throat.

“Shut up.  This is not your book.  This isn’t your story.  You have no right to dig into anyone’s life.  You’ll only use it in your books.”

“I will promise you that I will never use your dad’s story in my books. Never.  That’s what you’re doing.  You’re protecting him.  You could simply have asked me to leave it out and told me why.  I would have done. If you’d asked me.”

“You had no right to know. It’s his story.  Not mine.  You’re shadowing me for the story.  So why should I believe you when you say you won’t use my dad’s?”

“I’ve never lied to you. Can you say you’ve never lied to me?”

There’s a silence. Castle returns to the main point.  Beckett’s knuckles are white on the wheel, her eyes locked on the road and her mirrors.

“You did it all because you know what she’s going through. You can’t not support her, even though you don’t know her at all.  You went out of your way to help her.  You go out of your way to solve crimes to help strangers.  You do everything and beyond to help your dad.  Why don’t you want anyone to know that, Beckett?  Why are you trying to make me believe the worst of you?”  Tell me the truth, Beckett. Talk to me.  Let me in.

“Shut up!”  Her voice has cracked.

“I will not.  You deliberately tried to drive me off by pretending you’re a ball-breaking bitch who hates my daughter.  You’ve managed to get into a fight and push away your best friend and I bet it’s exactly the same thing.  Well, I don’t believe you.  I don’t believe any of it.  You’re martyring yourself supporting your father and any stray who comes along at the expense of making any other life for yourself.”

“You have no say in how I live my life.   You know nothing about it.”

“Yeah, because you don’t tell anyone. Now you don’t want friends?  You leaned on me.  Right up till Christmas, you leaned on me.  What’s changed?”

“This conversation is done.” But she isn’t denying or answering those last statements.  “This is your block.  Good night.”

“And if I don’t get out? If I just stay here?  What’ll you do then?  Storm off like you did last time?”

“If you don’t get out, I will take you back to the precinct, have you removed from my unit, and put you in a cell.” The flat, dead tone indicates that Beckett will do precisely that.  Castle removes himself from the car.  The tyres scream as Beckett takes off at pace.  Castle goes up to his loft, spends a precisely calibrated hour and a half in concentrated thought, and then takes himself out to find a cab.  He had never had the slightest intention of leaving that conversation there.  He is going to break through this wall whatever it takes.  She needs something, and he is going to provide it.  At this point, that might include a conversation with Roy Montgomery which would result in mandatory suspension till she gets some serious therapy.  It’s perfectly obvious that Beckett is right on the edge, and he doesn’t at all understand how the others haven’t seen it already.

Beckett takes off in a screech of tyres and probably leaves rubber on the road. She can only just see clearly.  Castle’s ripped her protective layers right open at the worst possible time, and she’s about to take a route that she’s only taken twice in ten years to put everything back together again: once when she finally realised she couldn’t fix her father and declined to take his call for the first time, and once when she killed her first man. Humpty Dumpty, she thinks bitterly.  Every time she falls she glues her shell back together again, but there’s no substance left within it.  She’s used it all up now.

She stops at a late-night store and makes a single purchase. As soon as she’s in her door she puts it in the freezer.  Then she showers, changes into warm nightwear, soft woolly socks, a heavy towelling robe.  She’s so cold.  Everything’s cold, and dark.  There’s only a tiny puddle of sulky light from her table lamp, a small bedside light left on in her bedroom.  She sets her alarm to loud.  She’ll need it: she’s on shift tomorrow.

And then she curls up on her couch and systematically begins.

Castle raps assertively on Beckett’s door some time after ten. He’s not expecting it to be answered the first time, and probably not the second or third either.  But he has to try.  He doesn’t know quite what he’ll do after that, but he’ll think of something.  At this stage he might well use blackmail.  He is therefore absolutely astonished when he hears the lock turn over and the door start to open without a second knock being required.

When he steps in she isn’t the first thing he sees. She’s behind the door.  He has a crystal clear view of a shot glass, dregs in the bottom, finger prints in the condensation still dripping down it; a cold bottle of vodka open on the table, ice on the outside; a noticeably large volume already gone.  Barely a light on, no food apparent.  Beckett still hasn’t appeared from behind the door and he is already terrified by what he’s seeing.  Beckett drinking? Beckett drinking alone?  Two vodkas is the most he’s ever seen her have and that was the first time he ever saw her off-duty in any way at all.  Come to think of it, she didn’t drink the second of those. Now it looks like she’s put down several in a lot less than two hours.

“Cassle? What you doin’ here?” she slurs. Oh, fuck.  This is the very last thing he’d expected.  She’s drunk.  Or if not drunk yet, sufficiently close already that the alcohol hitting her bloodstream will do it for her even if she doesn’t drink anything more.  “Have a drink.”  She moves to the kitchen with only a modicum of stagger, and reaches for another shot glass.  She proffers it to him.  “Drink with me.”

“Beckett? What are you doing?”

“Drinking. Works f’r everyone else.  Why shouldn’t it work f’r me?  Don’ I get t’ forget?”  Castle simply stares at her.  “ ‘S easy.  Ev’ryone else gets wasted, forgets, gets help.  Why not me?”

“Beckett…”  He has absolutely no idea what to say.

“Not Beckett. Don’ wanna be Beckett.  No-one ever helps Beckett.  Beckett helps ev’ryone.  ‘S what she does.  Coul’n’t do ‘t b’fore.”

“Couldn’t do what?” He doesn’t get an answer.  She splashes vodka messily into her own glass and then, clearly remembering her party manners, into his.  Some of it hits the floor.  She doesn’t seem to notice, slaps the bottle back on the table.

“Nazd’rovie,” she toasts, and downs it in one. Castle doesn’t follow.  He desperately decides on a risky play.

“Kat?”

“Not Kat. No-one wants Kat.  Kat migh’ as well’ve drowned with her dad in Jack Daniels.  So no Kat.  Kat who walks alone.”  She looks at him, her wide eyes blurred.  “Drink with me, Cassle.”  She turns petulant.  “ ‘F you won’t drink, go home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Then drink. Drink or go home.”

“No.”  He picks up the bottle, and puts the top on.  Then he takes it over to the kitchen and puts it in the highest place he can reach.

“What’re you doin’? That’s mine.  Give it back.”  She weaves towards him.

“You’ve had enough.” She’s a petulant drunk, but not – yet? – aggressive or belligerent.

“I wan’ it.”

“Can’t have it.” He catches her on the way to the cupboard.  “Stay here.”  She flops against him, then pulls away, weaving back to the couch.

“No point.” Uh?  “You won’t support me.  I’ll have to s’pport you, just like always.” What?

“No. I can.” 

She looks disbelievingly, blearily, at him. 

“You won’t. No-one does.  Doesn’ matter if I wan’ them to.”  Suddenly she’s singing, in a full and excellent, if slurred, mezzo.  “Nobody’s on nobody’s side. Better learn to go it alone, recognise you’re out on your own, nobody’s on nobody’s side. Never make a promise or plan, take a little love where you can…”  She trails off.  “ ‘F you won’t drink with me, take me to bed.”  Her expression is a lot more sloppy than seductive.

Oh no. That is an even worse plan than matching shots with her would be.  This is just wrong on so many levels that he doesn’t know where to start. Suddenly he has an idea.  He turns back to her kitchen and pours her a large glass of water, with a smaller one for himself.  Then he returns to the couch.

“Okay. We’ll both drink and we’ll play a game.”

“Don’t wanna play a game. Wish I’d never got the game.  It was just another stupid mistake.  Shoulda known. Nobody’s on nobody’s side,” she sings again.

He’ll think about that later. “Different game.  Every time you answer a question, you get a kiss.”

“No questions. No kisses.  Not answering questions.  Nobody gets in my head.  ‘S private.  Ev’rybody wants something.”

“What do you want?” He carefully avoids any name.

“Wanna disappear. No-one wanting anything.”  She shivers, and doesn’t realise through the fog of neat vodka that she’s answered.

“Drink.” She does so.  When she shivers again Castle gathers her into his lap.  He doesn’t kiss her.  “I don’t want anything.”

“Liar,” she slurs, as matter-of-factly as her inebriation permits. “You wan’ answers.  Stories.  Inside my head.  ‘S my head.  Keep out.”

It’s going to be a really sore head, Castle thinks.

“ ‘F you saw inside my head you’d run away.” She looks at him, unfocused.  “You were s’posed to run away.  Why’re you here?”

Ah.  So she did mean to drive him off.  “To see you.”

“Don’t believe you. You got angry.  Din’t wanna see me here.  Din’t want me at all.  ‘S fine.  You c’n go home.”

“I’m not going home. I’m drinking with you.”  Even if it’s only water.  She makes a sloppy attempt to stand up, and doesn’t make it.  Castle declines to help her one way or another, and when she lands back on him puts his arms back round her.  For all the reaction he gets to that he might as well have been a stranger.

“Why don’t you want to be Beckett?” In vino, veritas.  As long as he takes this carefully, he should be able to interrogate enough words out of her to work out what on earth is going on here.

“Beckett has t’ help. Beckett has t’ prop everyone up.  I’ve run out.  No more Beckett.”  She stops.  “Where’s my drink?”  He puts the glass of water in her hand, and she takes a mouthful.  “Dad needs Beckett.  Team needs Beckett.  Victims need Beckett.”  She looks at the glass.  “Thass not my drink.”

“It is now.” Strangely, the firm tone works.  She downs around half of it.

“No Beckett. She’s disappeared.”  She keeps using that word. Disappeared.  As though she wasn’t Beckett at all.  “Gone away.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“Just gone. Back again another day.  Who cares, ‘s long as she’s back tomorrow?”

“I care.”

“No you don’t.” It’s utterly matter of fact, and strikes him like a wrecking ball.  “You wan’ the stories.  Not people.”  There’s a stunned silence.  Castle has absolutely no idea what to say.  Again.  “Beckett – me – I’m not a story.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the mist on the moor,” she says, abruptly mocking, “I’m the footprints in the sand.” She tries to stand up again.  This time she makes it, for a moment, then flumps back down next to Castle.

“Why’s Beckett gone?” If he can’t have where, (into the vodka bottle, he reckons) or who, (though this is not Beckett, Kate or Kat) he’ll have why.

“Too many people needing her.  All of you wan’ a piece of Detective Kate Beckett.”  There’s a vitriolic twist on that.  “Big bad Beckett.  She huffed and she puffed and she blew her dad’s house down.  Din’t see him.  Din’t speak to him.”  Her face crumples into messy tears, tracking darkly down her face.  “Din’t take his calls.”

Castle tries to turn that into something that makes sense. The only immediate answer is that she’d not supported her father in his early hours of need.  His arms drop from her in instant recoil.  Her dad needed her and she wasn’t there?  How could she not be there for her father, her only family?  He stands up, uncaring of her distress as she had ignored, by her own admission, her father’s.

“Told you you wouldn’ stay.”

He is stopped short, three strides from the door with his coat half on.

“You were s’posed to leave. Now you are.  All sorted.”

He turns around, slowly. He’s made a whole bunch of assumptions in the last two minutes – and he’s been dead wrong every time he’s done that so far.  Every assumption he’s ever made about Beckett has been wrong.

He’s missing something.

“Go home t’ your family.”

He looks at her, huddled in the corner of her couch where she’d landed up when he stood up, recoiling from her rejection of her father: dead eyes, dead still, dead drunk. Fat tears are still crawling down her cheeks, smearing make-up behind them.  She’s not a pretty drunk.  She’s also not asking him to stay.

Something else is going on here.   He hasn’t uncovered nearly enough of the story.

“My family doesn’t need me tonight.” He so nearly says but you do.

“Mine needed me,” she whispers. “But I couldn’t.”  She twists her head around and spots her shot glass.  “Where’s my drink?  You took my drink.  Give it back.”

“It’s on the table.”

“No. My proper drink.  You took it away.  You had no righ’ t’ take it.  Gimme it back.”  She heaves herself out of her corner, and stumbles towards the kitchen, on average aiming for the cupboard into which he’d put the vodka.  He intercepts her halfway there, and steers her back to the couch.  As before, when he’s definitive, she doesn’t argue, though she’s muttering sloshily about her drink all the way.  He gently pushes her back down, and puts the water back in her hand.  She drinks most of what’s left.

While she’s drinking, Castle is thinking. She keeps talking as if Beckett is someone else, someone who isn’t here.  It’s almost as if Beckett doesn’t exist in reality, and yet he knows she does, every minute of every day. Beckett’s disappeared.  Beckett – Beckett said she couldn’t.  Couldn’t help.  Beckett said – Beckett said You cannot save him unless he wants to save himself.  To Julia, and Castle hadn’t understood.  Then.  He’d thought she meant that she’d kept trying.  She’d meant that she had to stop trying. You can only save yourself.

You can’t save him. You can only save yourself.