Chapter Text
OLD VIC THEATRE
LONDON
OCTOBER 1958
Hamlet crawled toward Horatio.
“The rest…”
Closer…
“…is…”
Hamlet reached for Horatio’s hand, inches away.
“…silence.”
His hand fell, never making the contact he so desperately wanted in his final moment. The stage lights slowly faded as applause erupted. Alfred lay still until he heard the curtains fully close.
He rose to his feet and waited for the other actors to join him on stage. They quickly came out, got into a row, and joined hands. The curtains parted and the crowd leapt to their feet. The actors bowed as one, then each stepped forward individually to more applause. Alfred, being the lead, stepped forward last. He looked out at the audience, smiling, waving, and making sporadic eye contact with a few.
Over three years of work had come down to this moment. After leaving MI6 Alfred had leveraged his contacts at Eton and been invited to audition for The Old Vic Company of Players. His first role had simply been a “Gentleman” in All’s Well that Ends Well. Despite only being on stage for a brief time for that play, it filled his soul more than he had ever felt.
For the next three years he studied and auditioned, landing larger and larger roles in the esteemed troupe. Finally, he had been offered what he considered to be the crown jewel of roles for an actor, and tonight had been his debut as the doomed prince of Denmark. Save for his wedding day and birth of his daughter, this was as happy as he had ever been, and far more than he believed he deserved.
His eyes locked on a short man in tuxedo tails clapping enthusiastically. Oswald Cobblepot stared back and gave Alfred a small satisfied smile. Alfred was surprised to see he had gained at least thirty pounds since he last saw him in 1953. Oswald excused himself as the crowd continued to clap, and began waddling toward the rear exit, relying heavily on an expensive cane.
Alfred gave several more bows, did a final bow with the cast, and went behind the curtain as the clapping continued. He walked backstage, expecting to be greeted warmly by the crew. When he stepped into the space he immediately knew something was terribly wrong.
The stagehands, costumers, and other assorted crew were all holding manila folders and reading, their faces showing a range of emotions from shock to disgust. At the far end he saw Anne crying while holding three year old Julia, the director doing his best to comfort her. The entire room froze when they saw him.
“What on earth?” Alfred said. Anne looked at him and fled the room. Alfred moved to follow but several crew members moved to block him. He was so confused he halted and looked around. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
No one would look him directly in the eyes. After a tense moment he snatched a folder from the director’s hands and looked. Alfred felt his skin grow cold, and a feeling of dread unlike anything he had ever experienced washed over him.
In his hands was his personnel jacket from MI6. Reports and photographs detailed every mission. Every kill. The final stack of photographs showed the charred bodies of 34 men, and the report detailing how Alfred had made the decision to kill them.
———
Alfred trudged slowly up the three flights to his two bedroom flat. After the shock of the files had worn off, he grabbed every document and photograph from the crew and director, and took a cab to MI6 headquarters. His old boss, Lee Christensen, was still at his position, and met him there after one of the secretaries made a phone call. Alfred had confessed to not killing Oswald, and Lee had been furious. Lee set it aside as Alfred explained what had happened at The Old Vic, and his old boss reluctantly commended him for having the presence of mind to confiscate all the files. Lee assured him that the leak would be found, but in no uncertain terms should Alfred involve himself in the investigation, and Alfred should consider himself persona non grata for the deception.
That had taken over three hours, and Alfred had hoped that had been enough time for Anne to process what she had learned, though he imagined it would drastically alter his marriage. Alfred had never told her exactly what he had done in the military or intelligence service. She knew he had seen combat, but he had downplayed his firefights while exaggerating his experience as a medic. He had indirectly led her to believe that his service after was mostly as an analyst.
Alfred stuck his key in the lock, but the door opened right as he did so. He stepped back, expecting Anne. Instead it was her brother, Theo, holding a box of Anne’s things.
“Good lord!” Theo exclaimed as he dropped the box.
“Theo! I… I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Alfred bent down and picked the box up.
“Quite alright,” Theo said quickly. “Entirely my fault.” Alfred held out the box, and Theo shrank before taking it.
“Theo, there’s no reason to be-
Alfred glanced past his brother-in-law, and saw that this wasn’t the only box that had been packed. Theo stepped to the side, and Alfred walked in. Anne and her brother had been busy for the past few hours. Over half a dozen boxes were stacked full of clothes, photo albums, Julia’s toys, and other assorted things. Alfred spun around,
“Where are my wife and daughter?”
“She… she asked me not to tell you. Please don’t hurt me.”
“My God, Theo. I would never…”
Alfred turned around again. He walked to their small dining table and sat down, unable to form any words. His eyes finally landed on an object in front of him. Lying on the table was Anne’s wedding ring.