There are, thought Giles, distinct social advantages to being English, or rather the kind of Englishman that he was. On meeting Carlyle for the first time since the day the man had so casually mutilated himself, the potential to feel awkward was huge, but easily avoided by taking refuge in social niceties.
The door to the small terraced house had been opened just enough to allow the person behind it to see who was stood on their doorstep, then thrown back as Carlyle joyfully cried out:
‘I don’t believe it! Rupert bloody Giles!’
They shook hands warmly.
‘It’s good to see you, Carlyle. You look well.’
Giles meant it too. Given what Carlyle’s life had consisted of ,and the trauma he must have experienced, it appeared to have left surprisingly little physical trace. Three years older than Giles, Carlyle could now easily pass for a decade younger. The moustache and vertical strip of beard were new to Giles, and whilst he personally thought that it looked ridiculous, he knew from the covers of Dawn’s magazines that Carlyle was sporting a highly fashionable look.
‘You too. Excellent. Come in, that’s right, through here. There must and shall be tea!’
They exchanged pleasantries, small observations about the traffic and the weather throughout the tea-making process, which was made all the longer due to the fact that for some reason Carlyle felt it necessary to refill the kettle and boil it separately for each cup.
When he’d found out that Carlyle had been deemed sufficiently recovered to rejoin society, Giles had been amazed. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d called him for advice on how to dispatch the She-mantis, and during that short conversation Carlyle had veered between being lucidly professional and entirely disturbed.
This time Giles had come to Carlyle seeking not help, but a sense of understanding at the loss of The Council they had both served. Carlyle was the only other person alive who knew what it meant to wear the ring, pursue a life entirely separate from a society that had no idea what monsters walked among them, and to be part of an ancient organization that had seemed limitless in its power and durability.
‘You’re quite sure there’s nothing left?’ Carlyle asked curiously when Giles had reached the end of his account of The Council‘s destruction.
‘A few key texts - The Council can currently be a-accommodated in a small bag.’
‘And now a hero has returned triumphant from a distant land, embracing destiny, seizing the mettle, bringing about a glorious new dawn upon which a new council will rise from the ashes, mighty and just, to humbly serve the Chosen One.’
Giles flashed Carlyle a smile. There had always been something slightly theatrical about his manner: it was good to see that that aspect of his personality hadn’t diminished.
‘Put like that, how can I fail?’
Carlyle dragged Giles from his chair and ushered him into another room where there were no shelves, just piles of books stacked neatly against the walls forming inner walls of volumes that stretched from floor to ceiling.
‘Could these serve you in some small way?’
Giles scanned the titles nearest to him. They were mostly rubbish, fanciful Victorian nonsense that was lavishly bound, with the author’s name -and particularly the letters either before or after it- highlighted in gold leaf, creating a false air of academic authority. Yet even this cursory inspection yielded a few gems amongst the dross. He could only speculate as to what could be discovered given the time to examine this collection thoroughly. It was a start. The more powerful and effective books could be put to immediate use - for the others had started patrolling in Cleveland, Giles doubted that it would be long before they would need help identifying the Demon of the Day.
‘Why are these…how how did you…this is…’
‘Steady on, Nunc. A man has to have a hobby and this is mine. You’d be amazed what turns up, not just in the trade,’ Carlyle strode over to the far wall and carefully extracted an account of vampiric expansion patterns in Eastern Europe whose value in the right circles was incalculable and whose secrets in the wrong hands would be deadly. ‘I found this in an Oxfam shop, it was only one ninety-five.’
‘One ninety-five,’ echoed Giles incredulous at the absurdity.
He stared at Carlyle. They’d been friends once, drawn closer by a shared destiny and a passion for knowledge and had trusted each other implicitly. Their lives couldn’t have been more different in the twenty years that had passed, one of them confined, the other forced to leave everything he held dear and take on the Watchers’ ultimate responsibility. Carlyle had raged against the torments brought forth from his brilliant, but fractured mind, and Giles had more than once hit the ground with no real expectation of getting up again, however both had endured and survived. Giles felt a sudden rush of affection for his old friend which led him to impulsively say:
‘These books are most definitely needed, and you might consider…if you’re feeling fit enough…i-if you still…’
‘Are you asking me to be a Watcher?’ said Carlyle quietly. ‘What do They think about that?’
‘I have yet to see Them. It is just me,’ Giles laughed though he was far from amused - it sounded so ridiculous that The Council could be reduced to this, reduced to him. ‘It’s just me.’
‘Will I live at the new council?’
Like Giles, Carlyle had left his parents at seven to go to prep school, followed by public school, followed by Oxford. Unlike Giles who could never bring himself to spend any more time than was strictly necessary in The Council buildings, Carlyle took rooms there before being removed to the secure mental hospital that had been his home for so long. The eighteen months since leaving St Boniface’s had been the longest he’d spent outside of an institution in forty-four years. Giles detected the hunger to once again belong to something, while the childlike manner in which Carlyle had asked the question indicated a need to be told what to do. Were the books worth it? Based on their conversation whilst he could see a great change in Carlyle, Giles had no idea how well he was. Would he actually be any use or would he be a burden? Giles couldn’t build a new council alone, if Carlyle had retained even half the knowledge he once possessed then his help would be invaluable.
‘Yes, you can live at the new council.’
‘Now?’
********************
‘Anya, this is Dr Carlyle Ferris. He will be joining us for a while.’
Giles turned to Carlyle.
‘Carlyle, may I introduce you to Anya. She is -,’ Giles ran through the options in his mind: an ex-demon, relentless, infuriatingly untidy, unfailingly kind. ‘…my friend.’
‘Pleased. To. Meet. You,’ said Anya slowly, placing heavy emphasis on each word.
‘Dear lady, I find myself simply delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Carlyle with a flourish.
‘Do. You. Want. A. Drink?’ As she spoke Anya raised her hand, miming drinking.
‘Anya,’ said Giles. ‘Do talk normally.’
‘You said he was a lunatic,’ she casually responded. ‘He might not understand.’
Once again Anya had brought a conversation to a shuddering halt by saying that which should remain unsaid.
‘Carlyle, I’m sorry, I…’
‘Not a problem, Nunc’ said Carlyle with a smile. ‘I suggest you relax.’
‘This. Isn’t. A. Monk,’ continued Anya, shooting an ‘I told you so’ look at Giles as she pointed at him just to make things really clear. ‘This. Is. Giles.’ She looked at him critically. ‘You’re not a monk, are you?’
‘I can’t believe I’m asking this,’ muttered Giles. ‘Why would I be a monk?’
Carlyle cut in.
‘I said Nunc, not monk. Rupert and I have known each other for a very long time. Nunc was his nickname at Brasenose.’
Carlyle grinned wickedly, as Giles rolled his eyes in an exaggeratedly long-suffering manner.
‘And well deserved it was, too. I should think I’m still the only chap to have been applauded for praying in the dining hall.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Anya a little frustrated. ‘Why were you praying? Giles doesn’t pray.’
‘My dear, it is a college tradition,’ said Carlyle in grand tones as if this tradition were the most important event in all the world, before continuing in his normal voice. ‘This arrogant little pagan was ordered to recite the ‘Nunc Dimittis’ at the start of formal hall, only nerves, booze and the fact he couldn’t string a sentence together at the best of times conspired against him, didn’t they?’
Giles nodded in response.
‘Prayers that night, were elongated and oh, so memorable. A legend was born.’
The two men chuckled at the memory, but Anya was not amused.
‘I think it’s a stupid nickname,’ she said flatly.
‘Perhaps stupid is a-a bit….’
‘It wasn’t your fault. Being made to say prayers in front of the whole college like that.’
Giles was touched that Anya actually appeared to be sincerely aggrieved on his eighteen year-old self’s behalf.
‘No arguing with tradition. Prayers every night, said by a different student every night.’
‘They should have let you off. If you couldn‘t talk properly.’
‘Someone is embellishing this tale more than a little,’ said Giles looking pointedly at Carlyle.
‘It is possible.’
‘I like your voice, it is British and sexy even when you are saying very boring things,’ said Anya earnestly. ‘I’m glad you don’t stammer much anymore because it must have made you sad, but I like it that you do a little, it makes you sound like a human, not a reference book.’
She reached up and patted his shoulder, in an awkward, familiar gesture.
‘What a stout champion you have, Nunc. How fortunate you are.’
Giles looked down at Anya, who had clearly failed to notice the humour of he and Carlyle’s exchange. Obviously believing he needed comfort, she threw her arms around him. Instinctively Giles tensed up, then relaxed and held her close.
‘Yes, I really am.’
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