Biggles Married III Chapter 2.

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

Warning: Non canon type fan fiction works may contain severe time mix-ups and character deviations. 

It was almost eight o’clock in the evening, but Algy still showed no sign of leaving. Ginger exchanged a look with Bertie. “Let’s go,” he muttered, reaching for his jacket. There was no point in asking Algy whether or not he wanted to leave with them; he had ignored their departures and arrivals for the last two days. The hotel room they were staying in only had two beds anyway, although Ginger would have gladly slept on the floor if that could have accomplished anything.

“Algy?” he said, tentatively. “We’ll be off, then.”

To his surprise, Algy looked up from his work and answered. “All right,” he said briefly.

Ginger had never thought of Algy—or Biggles, for that matter—as old, but now, looking at Algy, his eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion, the deepening lines on his face, the weary droop of his shoulders, and the despair that seemed to be etched into every fiber of his being, Ginger felt a pang in his chest. Even if he had not known about Biggles, it was obvious to even the most casual passerby that Algy was a man in pain, and severe pain at that.

“Do you…want to come with us?” he asked.

“No.”

Bertie, perhaps wisely, put on his jacket and moved towards the door of the office, staying out of the discussion altogether.

Ginger plucked up the courage to say, “Come on, Algy. You’ve been glued to that desk for the past three days. Come and have something to eat, and get some sleep. You look as though you could do with it.”

“I’m fine,” said Algy, tonelessly.

“You’re not accomplishing anything with this,” persisted Ginger, growing bolder. “You’re not doing any real work, anyway; you’re just pushing files from one side of your desk to the other. Don’t be stupid, Algy. Do you suppose Biggles is sitting at home pining after you?”

He knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment the words tumbled out of his mouth. Something flashed in Algy’s eyes, and for the first time since he had known him, Ginger genuinely thought that Algy was going to strike him.

A long silence fell.

The moment passed.

Algy turned away. “Get out,” he whispered, and the raw hurt contained in those two words was so strong that Ginger wished with all his heart that Algy had hit him instead.

&&&

It was almost ten when Biggles woke up the next morning. For a moment, he wondered why the flat was so unusually quiet, and then he remembered. Turning over onto his side, he looked across at his still-sleeping wife. She looked so peaceful and serene that he decided not to wake her. Instead, he got dressed as soundlessly as he could and went out.

“Will you be wanting tea, sir?” called Mrs. Symes, as he hurried down the stairs.

“No, thanks,” said Biggles. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. But my wife will probably want something when she wakes up.”

“All right, sir.”

Biggles got into his car and decided to go for a quiet drive. The long, serious conversation he and Jane had had concerning their future together had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and he felt like he needed some time and space alone to think things through.

He was driving down the streets, not particularly caring where he went, when he saw a familiar figure a few hundred yards in front of him. Parking the car, he rolled down the window and called, “Ginger!”

Ginger walked over to the car, opened the door and got into the passenger seat. “Hullo, chief!” he greeted. “What are you doing here?”

“Just out for a drive. What are you doing here?”

Ginger displayed the newspaper in his hand, covered with circles and scribbles in red pencil. “I’m flat hunting,” he explained, with a faint note of pride in his voice.

“Oh,” said Biggles, rather awkwardly. “And, er, how is that going?”

Ginger shrugged and glanced out of the car window, away from Biggles. “It’s all right,” he replied, after a pause. Then, somewhat forlornly, he confessed, “I’ve never been flat hunting before, so I don’t know what to look for, to tell the truth. I’ve been living with you ever since I needed a flat.”

Biggles opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again when he realized that he had nothing to say.

“Well, Bertie’s looking too, so maybe he’ll find something,” said Ginger, with false heartiness.

There was a long silence in the car, and then Biggles said, trying to sound casual, “How’s Algy?”

“Algy?” said Ginger, his voice also too casual to be natural. “He’s all right. By the way, when are you coming back to work?”

“Why? Is there a case you’re working on?”

“No, I’m just asking.”

Biggles was silent for a whole minute before he replied. “Ginger,” he said. “I don’t think…I mean…I…well, I might not be coming back.”

Ginger stared. “What d’you mean?” he stammered.

“Well, I’ve been thinking. I’m not getting any younger, but the crooks seem to be getting faster and younger, and I really am finding it hard to keep up with them. We never meant to be doing police work for this long, anyway. It was always supposed to be temporary until we found something else we wanted to do.”

“Was it?” queried Ginger. “But what is it you’re going to do? Where’re you going to go?”

Biggles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, Jane and I had a talk, and we thought we might do a spot of flying, perhaps go somewhere out of the way for a few years. Jane doesn’t really want to stay in London anyway—her family are all in America, you see.”

“America?” echoed Ginger, looking stunned. “You’re going to live in America? You’re going to leave England?”

“Nothing’s definite yet,” said Biggles quickly. “We’re still talking about it.”

“But…are you still coming back to work, then?” Ginger asked, in a very small voice.

“Well…I don’t know yet.”

Ginger glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m meeting a landlady here in five minutes, and I don’t want to be late.”

“All right,” said Biggles, wishing he could say more but not knowing what he could say. “Look after yourself.” Just as Ginger was getting out of the car, he called him back. “Ginger!”

Ginger paused in the act of closing the door.

“Look,” said Biggles. “If you ever need anything—even if it’s just money, or anything else….you will call me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Ginger, but the finality expressed in those two simple words seemed to indicate otherwise.

&&&

Algy looked around the office and sighed. He glanced at the overflowing ashtray on his desk—the ashtray he had just emptied two or three hours ago. He knew that he was smoking too much, but somehow he couldn’t seem to stop.

Ginger and Bertie had gone out, ostensibly to go flat hunting, but he could tell that it was partly an excuse to get away from him and his foul mood.

He tried to rearrange the teetering stack of files by his desk, and then, with an irritated snarl, he lashed out and scattered the files far and wide. What did files matter when his world was falling apart? As if putting files in alphabetical order could change anything.

Algy stared at the mess he’d made and suddenly felt the desire to weep hysterically and melt into a little puddle on the floor. With an effort, he pulled himself together and did what he could to get the mess in order.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” he announced aloud, to the empty office.

Go to Chapter 3.

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