reddwarfslash | One Night

A short little two-parter - where Lister and Rimmer both look back at one night before the accident.

Rimmer jogged down the grey corridor, pearls of sweat blooming on his forehead and trickling down his neck. He’d made almost a complete circuit of the ship this morning. He didn’t normally push himself this much, but today he needed the pain, the focus, to clear his mind of all else. He’d had the dream again.

Of all the memories to haunt him so, to stick in his mind and reappear again and again in his sleep, why in God’s name had his brain chosen this one? Why couldn’t he relive one of his rare triumphs – a win at Risk, that night with Yvonne - something that would make him wake feeling happy and content instead of uneasy and confused?

He supposed he should be grateful. There were some horrific memories locked away in his head that would be worse to confront – his own death for starters - at least this wasn’t a nightmare as such. In fact it was positively mundane, but there was something about the regularity of it that disturbed him. As if his mind were trying to tell him something. Something very important that he’d missed. But what?

The dream was basically a replay of a night just before the accident. Rimmer had been in the Copocabana, sat alone at a table in the corner and keeping an eye on Lister. This wasn’t unusual, Rimmer frequently tagged along on Lister’s nights out, usually at a discreet distance. The first time Lister had spotted him doing this he had asked in a hurt voice why Rimmer hadn’t just agreed to come out for a drink with him when he’d asked, instead of sitting on his own. Rimmer had informed him haughtily that he didn’t want to be out at all. He was only here to monitor Lister’s behaviour and ensure that the little worm wouldn’t do anything that would, as Rimmer’s bunkmate, bring them both into disrepute.

For the most part, Lister never even realised he was there on these nights out. On the few occasions he had noticed him he had initially renewed the offer to join him and his friends, but had soon given up asking. Rimmer never said yes.

On this particular night, Rimmer noted, Lister seemed depressed. Still sulking over Kochanski, he thought disapprovingly. As if getting chucked by that hoity-toity skinny cow was the worst thing that had ever happened to anyone, anywhere, ever. The one good thing that had come out of that thankfully short affair, as far as Rimmer could see, was that she’d managed to improve Lister’s dress sense by at least one iota. Desperate to impress his rather more refined lover, Lister had chucked out some of his more disgusting clothing and invested in a new wardrobe. It wasn’t exactly what Rimmer would class as respectable attire, but there was no denying that the black shirts and tight leather were an improvement on the curry-stained football shirts that had gone before.

Lister was watching Petersen, Selby and Chen play an unruly drinking game with an expression of obvious despair. They didn’t seem to have noticed that he was no longer joining in. There was a half empty pint glass by his elbow but he seemed to have lost interest in it. He looked, frankly, miserable.

A face across the room suddenly caught Rimmer’s eye. A man, perched on a stool by the bar. Rimmer didn’t know his name, but on a ship like Red Dwarf everyone started to look familiar after a few months cooped up together. The reason he caught Rimmer’s attention was because he too seemed to be watching Lister’s table. Or rather, watching Lister.

Rimmer narrowed his eyes. What business did this man have, hanging around blatantly watching other people? Didn’t he have a life of his own? Now that Rimmer thought about it, he was sure he’d seen him in here before. He’d sparked up a brief conversation with Lister while queuing for drinks just a couple of weeks ago. Did they know each other, and if so how? He wasn’t on Z-shift and Lister had never mentioned another friend. Who was this guy?

As Rimmer watched, he stood up and approached the table, tapping Lister on the shoulder. Lister looked up and smiled politely. Rimmer carefully noted the body language. Not a close friend then, they clearly didn’t know each other very well. They spoke a few words and the man pulled up a chair beside Lister and sat down. Lister turned his chair away from his friends, who were rapidly losing the faculty of speech anyway and they started chatting. Rimmer couldn’t tell what they were talking about, but gradually he noticed a change in Lister’s face. There was an expression there which was indefinable to Rimmer, something he’d never seen before. He was smiling, but it wasn’t his usual broad silly grin. There was something bashful, almost coy about it. After a few minutes the man said something, raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the door. Lister hesitated, looked over his shoulder at his friends, who were now sprawled across the table and – in Peterson’s case – the floor, then turned back and nodded. They stood up.

Rimmer stood too, tiptoeing after them at a distance. As they reached the swinging doors out into the corridor, the man pushed the door open and stood back to let Lister through. As he went past, he laid a hand on the small of his back, then followed him out. Rimmer stopped in his tracks and stared. What did this man think he was doing touching Lister like that? They’d only known each other five minutes and suddenly he was all touchy-feely like they were BFF’s all of a sudden? Rimmer was incensed by the impropriety of it. He marched after them and stormed through the doors, only to find they were lost in the Saturday night crowd.

Cross and uneasy, he made his way back to the sleeping quarters. When he awoke the next morning, Lister was emerging from the shower having clearly just come home. “Where were you all night?” Rimmer demanded.

“Just with the guys,” Lister replied airily.

“All night?” Rimmer probed suspiciously.

“Yeah. Why?” Lister asked innocently, towelling his damp hair.

“You don’t seem hungover,” Rimmer replied accusingly. Lister grinned,

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s an unusual thing,” Rimmer pointed out. Lister shrugged,

“Maybe I’m building up a resistance.”

Rimmer fumed quietly. Liar! Tell me where you were last night! Who’s that man you went off with so I couldn’t find you! Tell me! Out loud he said, “Well as you’re so chipper this morning, you can do the toilet shift. How’s that?”

He’d never seen the man again and a few weeks later he’d been reduced to radioactive dust, along with everyone else. But every now and then the dream would reoccur and that stab of discomfort would return. Why had Lister lied to him? What had he done that night? And why did the memory of that strange man resting his hand so lightly on Lister’s back, in a way that Rimmer never had – and now never could - still make him feel…something he couldn’t explain.

Rimmer ran and ran, sweat flowers blooming on his white t-shirt, as he tried to shake the image from his mind and forget the past. And the present.