126. Walls come tumbling down

Friday does not bring any interesting cases. It brings, rather too early in the day for Beckett’s liking, mundane murder with the ubiquitously clichéd blunt instrument; the body dumped without the slightest effort at concealment. The dumpee proves to be a known lowlife, which does not induce the team to sympathy. The dumper had masked his features but sadly failed to wear gloves to mask his fingerprints. Perhaps he’d thought that fingerprints could not be retrieved from fabric. He might well have been right, if only he’d realised that shoes are not made of fabric. There is a beautifully clear set of prints where the corpse had been shoved into an industrial Dumpster.

All that they need to wrap this up neatly in double-quick time is the lab to reply. Unfortunately the lab is, yet again, overloaded, and can only say that they’ll have them by Monday. Or Tuesday. Soon. Beckett mutters and growls and threatens, none of which gets her anywhere.

Five thirty rolls around far too quickly for her liking. Castle taps his watch. Beckett glares, and starts to clear up very, very slowly. It’s quite obvious that she is procrastinating. It’s equally obvious that she is very unenthusiastic about this evening’s session. Castle deduces this from the way in which she’s gone to the restroom at least ten times since lunchtime, and her eyeliner’s been reapplied every time. (The alignment vis-à-vis her sweeping lashes is very slightly different. He is well aware that this is long past creepy staring territory and far into obsessive. He doesn’t care.)

There is no more room for procrastination. Beckett has cleared her desk, switched off her computer (why couldn’t it have gone wrong? Then she’d have had to fix it.) and assumed her coat. She does manage her normal walk to the elevator, but only because Ryan, Espo and Montgomery are watching. Castle tip-tapping his fingers over her hand, dangling purposelessly at her side, isn’t much of a consolation.

“Why did I think I could do this?” she asks, hopelessly.

“Because you thought you could. You could call it off. No-one would mind.”

“I’d mind,” she snaps. “This is hard enough without delaying it further.”

Despite her snapping, Castle still curls an arm around her as they walk to her car. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he points out. “Always up to you. On the other hand, I put some very nice wine in the fridge – if you feel up to it – there is a slow-cooked pork roast simmering in the oven, and a chocolate dessert with cream. If you feel up to it. If not, drop me at mine, and it will all go in a doggy bag and come to yours without the slightest harm to my top-class cuisine. Dinner will just be a little later than planned.” His arm tightens reassuringly. “Let’s just see how it goes, okay?”

She hunches defensively within his clasp, and doesn’t reply. She can feel her shoulders knotting already, and she hasn’t even got to the car, let alone Dr Burke’s office, still less seen her father. Suddenly all this seems like a major mistake. Her steps slow.

“Got collywobbles, Beckett?”

“What?”

“Collywobbles.”

“You made that up.”

“Didn’t,” Castle says childishly, and not at all childishly takes advantage of her surprise to keep her moving along to the car.

“That’s not a word. It’s just silly. You made it up.”

“Didn’t. It’s an English word.”

“No it’s not. I speak English.” She automatically unlocks the car and slides in, distracted by the familiar effort of arguing with Castle.

“Not English language, English as in the country. It is a word from England,” he says pedantically, clicking his seatbelt shut.

“I still think you’re making it up.” They pull out.

“Nope. I heard it on a book tour and I’ve never had the chance to use it. Now I have.” He smiles seraphically. “And you didn’t know it, so point to me.”

“Point to you?” Beckett squawks. “That’s insanely competitive.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Castle says very annoyingly. He knows exactly what he’s doing – distracting her. It’s working, too. They’re almost at Dr Burke’s office.

“I am not arguing with you about a word that dumb.”

“It’s not dumb. Just ‘cause I knew a word you didn’t, you’re cross.”

“Bet you don’t know what it means,” Beckett humphs, pulling automatically into a parking space with minimal fuss.

“Do so. I never use a word if I don’t know its meaning.”

“And? What does it mean, then?” They’re entering the office, in the elevator to Dr Burke’s floor.

“Butterflies in your tummy,” Castle says primly.

“Oh. Well, I don’t have butterflies or these stupid collywhatsits. So there,” she adds, very childishly indeed, and on the last word opens the door into Dr Burke’s office.

“Dr Burke is ready for you, Detective Beckett,” the receptionist says immediately. There is no sign of Jim. Castle is much relieved by that, though he is fairly sure he can hear Jim and Ed in a room behind him. He doesn’t mention that to this Beckett.

“Good evening, Detective Beckett, Mr Castle.”

“Hello.”

“Hey.”

“Detective Beckett, as with the previous session with your father, you may request a time out at any point, for any reason.”

Dr Burke looks at Detective Beckett, and is reassured by her calm expression and that she is not in contact with Mr Castle. That suggests to him that she is not, as yet, overly stressed or already upset.

“How do you wish to proceed?”

“Say what I need to. All of it.” Detective Beckett’s composure falters slightly. “As much as I can manage.” She reaches for Mr Castle’s hand, without looking. Naturally, thinks Dr Burke, the hand is there, waiting for her clutch. She releases it a second later. “Try to listen to whatever he says.”

“That is all you can do, Detective. Remember that you control only yourself. You are not responsible for others’ reactions.”

Dr Burke turns to the door, but does not miss Mr Castle’s brief embrace and murmur of Up to you. It is followed by a word which makes no sense at all. It had sounded like collywobbles, but that is clearly a nonsense. Dr Burke must have misheard. He knocks on the door of the room in which he has placed Mr Beckett and his sponsor, ensures that the sponsor has everything which he needs to be comfortable, and escorts Mr Beckett out.

“Jim, is there anything that you want to do or say before we begin?”

“No. Let’s get started.”

Dr Burke ushers Mr Beckett into the room where Detective Beckett and Mr Castle are ensconced, and watches Detective Beckett very carefully as he does so. She flinches fractionally, and recovers.

“Dad,” she says. Dr Burke is heartened by that address, despite its largely neutral delivery. It is not the same cool, impassive tone of two weeks ago, carrying overtones of interrogation. It is, Dr Burke thinks, hinting at the possibility of rapprochement.

“Katie – Kate.” Mr Beckett corrects himself. Detective Beckett winces very slightly, unnoticed by her father, certainly noticed by Mr Castle, who, however, does not take any action. Dr Burke mentally applauds him. Detective Beckett does not state which name she would prefer.

“I need to tell you what it was like for me,” she says, without explaining anything further. Dr Burke declines to add any commentary. Mr Castle remains perfectly silent, and is not even fidgeting. Mr Beckett says nothing, and retreats into the back cushion of the armchair.

Detective Beckett begins to tell the story which Dr Burke, and equally clearly Mr Castle, has already heard. Her voice starts steadily. It takes only the brief time for her to reach a description of her emotions at having to deal with the majority of the funeral arrangements for it to begin to shake.

“I felt I had to keep up appearances. To give Mom what she deserved. You couldn’t or wouldn’t decide about anything, and it all fell on me. I had to be the adult and you didn’t.” All three men watch as she pulls her voice back under control.   Not one of them moves. All of them are aware that this has to be said: that it should have been said five years past. “I wanted space and time to grieve, and you took it away. You had all the time you wanted.”

A small noise comes from Mr Beckett, but he does not seek a time out. Mr Castle is not touching Detective Beckett. Her voice is not accusatory, but unhappy.

“I wanted to talk about Mom. Remember her. But every time I did you started to cry. And then you started to drink. Or drink more. So as well as Mom being gone you might as well have been gone. You had me to lean on. I had no-one.”

Dr Burke notices that Detective Beckett is only referring to her actions and needs at that crucial time. She has not yet mentioned her emotions. If she does not shortly start so to do, he will need to prompt it. He does not wish to have to prompt her: it will indicate that this will be more difficult than it has to be. Mr Beckett is already whitening, the creases in his face deepening, his eyes dull, pooling at the corners as every unweighted, unhappy word falls on him as a blow. This is going to be very hard. Dr Burke resolves to watch even more carefully than he had thought. Mr Beckett, under the pain, has an aura of gritted determination to hear out his daughter, but, in a remarkable and unhelpful resemblance to her behaviour, may well take that to extremes. Dr Burke thinks that it may well fall to him to enforce a necessary recess. Mr Castle appears to be watching Detective Beckett very closely, too, but has pulled all his over-exuberant personality back so that he might as well be invisible. Again, Dr Burke applauds Mr Castle’s good sense.

“So I just got on with it. No-one else would.” She stops. Everyone hears the harsh breath she draws. Mr Beckett leans towards her, checks, clearly unsure of her reaction should he do so, sits back with evident effort, flicks a glance to Mr Castle, who answers with one short, sharp headshake, and does not touch Detective Beckett or even move towards her. This gesture and lack of movement does not appear to ease Mr Beckett’s now-biting tension. His knuckles are as white as those of his daughter, who is gripping the edge of the couch.

The silence draws out. Detective Beckett’s face is bloodless, her hands now locked together. She is displaying, to Dr Burke’s expert eye, all the signs of being at a decision point. Dr Burke is wholly certain that it is whether to speak of her emotions or not. The suffocating, claustrophobic atmosphere closes around them. Detective Beckett must speak soon, or Dr Burke will be forced to intervene. He does not wish to have to do so. Detective Beckett’s fingers twine and twist, painfully taut.

“I hated it,” she says: a sobbed out breath. “I hated that I had to deal with everyone and everything. When did I get to cry? You never gave me any chance because you never dealt with anything and I get that you loved her but so did I.”

Detective Beckett bursts into tears and turns desperately into Mr Castle to sob into his protective shoulder.

“I think a recess is indicated,” Dr Burke says, looking not at Detective Beckett but at Mr Beckett, who nods, incapable of speech. Dr Burke ushers him out, into the room where his sponsor is waiting, and remains with him. Mr Castle can be trusted to console Detective Beckett. Mr Beckett may require some rather more direct intervention.

“She never said,” Mr Beckett whispers. “I never knew and she never said. Why didn’t she say?”

Dr Burke does not answer him.

“Jim,” his sponsor says, “think it through.”

There is a space of quiet, while Mr Beckett considers. It is evident that he does not enjoy his considerations.

“She didn’t say then,” he forces out through white, thinned lips, “because I wouldn’t have heard her, or cared.” He stops. “But why didn’t she say later? When I got dry? I asked her if there was anything more. She could have said then.” His voice dies away. “Why didn’t she?” He reaches for a handkerchief, and scrubs at his eyes, then blows his nose.

“Protect and serve,” he abruptly bites out. “That’s it, isn’t it? She was protecting me.” Bitterness and reproach infuses his tone. “She wasn’t sure of me. She didn’t believe in me.” Tears trickle sullenly from his eyes. “When she came… it was like the sun came out. It meant everything. I thought she believed in me…” He buries his face in his handkerchief. “It’s all been lies,” he says brokenly. “Everything I thought… it’s all been lies. She never believed me. Never really believed that I would stay dry. She’s felt she had to protect me all this time and she never wanted to, and then she thought I told her that we weren’t a family and she thinks I meant it. She thinks I lied to her. No wonder she hates me.”

“Jim,” Dr Burke says firmly, “do you really think you would be here if your daughter hated you? She asked for this session, to tell you the truth that should have been told five years ago.”

“She’s lied to me for five years. What’s one more lie, to finish it off?”

“Explain how she has lied,” Dr Burke says.

“She’s been protecting me from everything she really felt because she doesn’t think I could have coped with it. Thought I’d start drinking again.”

“Hmm. Why is protecting you a lie?”

“Because I asked her if there was anything else and she said no then. Now she says there was. How’s that not lying.”

Dr Burke considers his options. The easiest way to correct Mr Beckett’s misapprehension would be to tell him of Detective Beckett’s words and some part of her hopelessly mismanaged original therapy, which, it is now perfectly obvious, has damaged both Becketts.

“Please wait for a moment,” Dr Burke says. “I must speak to Detective Beckett before answering.” He departs, leaving Mr Beckett small and devastated behind him.

“Detective Beckett,” Dr Burke says, “you previously gave me permission to talk freely to your father.” She nods, from her position wrapped into Mr Castle’s arms. “Does that consent still apply?”

Dr Burke will remember, later, that before Detective Beckett replied she looked at Mr Castle. He does not appear to give her any indication of how she should reply, as is proper.

“Yes,” she says, and then, “Is Dad okay?”

“He is a little shocked,” Dr Burke says, and justifies the lie to himself by recalling Detective Beckett’s struggle to bring herself this far, and the inordinate weight of guilt that she has arrogated to herself when unwarranted. The potential for further guilt, much more warranted, but at this stage thoroughly unhelpful, must be minimised. Therefore, he will lie for the sake of expediency. Detective Beckett’s query indicates concern. Concern implies care. Such a reaction gives hope for a positive outcome, when (Dr Burke does not admit that there is any doubt) Dr Burke brings Mr Beckett back in.

“Thank you,” he says, and leaves the room to the sound of Detective Beckett asking sharp, unhappy questions and the reply of an indistinct but soothing rumble from Mr Castle.

“Jim,” Dr Burke says, “I believe that there are matters of which you are not aware. I wish to make you aware of them, and I have your daughter’s continuing consent to speak freely to you. You need not, therefore, be concerned as to the propriety of either listening, or asking for clarification.”

Mr Beckett nods. He is still incapable of speech.

“Your daughter has told me about the point at which, after you had called her from your rehabilitation, she came to see you. You have told me that for you, it was as if the sun came out.”

“But not for her,” Mr Beckett says, bleakly.

“Let me tell you how your daughter described that same meeting.” Mr Beckett braces, as if for more blows. “She said: He was so pleased to see me. It was great. He was my Dad again. He was back. Every time he looked at me he lit up.” Dr Burke stops there. Mr Beckett sags into his chair. His sponsor regards him worriedly. “Then she told me: I wanted him to be my Dad again. I just wanted it to be like it used to be. If he was happy, he wouldn’t be crying, and then he wouldn’t be drinking, and I thought he loved me. And I needed him to want to see me. So I did everything to keep him happy. I wanted our family back. I thought we had our family back.”

Dr Burke has sat down, and now steeples his fingers, observing Mr Beckett closely. Understanding is beginning to light his face. Dr Burke pauses for a moment, in case Mr Beckett should say something now. He does not.

“The last statement which your daughter made of which I wish you to be aware is this: she said I needed him to look at me as if he loved me. Your daughter was, and is, entirely unsure that you cared about her, largely as a result of your words whilst drunk. You had, after all, told her to leave, and that you did not want to see her, because she was not her mother. She had taken those words to heart.”

Mr Beckett is now entirely white. Realisation has come into his eyes. Dr Burke, however, is not yet finished.

“In addition to that, Jim, your daughter’s previous therapy is also relevant. The therapist informed Detective Beckett, in essence, that her feelings were of less consequence than those of others, which your daughter believed and acted upon, and that your daughter should – I quote Detective Beckett – grow up and get over herself.”

Mr Beckett emits a noise of absolute fury. “I will see them struck off,” he bites.

“That will not be necessary,” Dr Burke says calmly. “Their censure is already assured.”

Mr Beckett growls most alarmingly, but subsides. Dr Burke allows a pause, for Mr Beckett to consider what he has heard. He has always regarded Mr Beckett as quite as ferociously (he considers the adjective to be entirely apposite) intelligent as his daughter: the difference between them largely consisting of Detective Beckett’s capacity for intimidation. Dr Burke catches the eye of Mr Beckett’s sponsor, receives a small agreeing nod.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Dr Burke says.

Dr Burke wishes to assure himself that Mr Castle and Detective Beckett are content to wait for Mr Beckett to recover some composure and process all that he has just learned. He will need to know whether Mr Beckett is prepared to continue, but he has left Detective Beckett for longer than he would like, and it would be unfortunate if she were to become unsettled. On balance, however, he considers that matters continue to progress in the correct direction.