by Sarah Hegger
Laura sensed Oliver moments before he strode into the room with Seth skulking in his wake.
Almost a head taller than Seth and several inches wider Oliver’s sheer physicality intimidated the crap out of her. He moved like a fighter, alert, tense and balanced. If it weren’t for the very new millennium traffic crawling past the building, she might even believe he could swing that mammoth sword of his in some ancient battle.
With no priors coming up under the standard DNA test, and Singen’s release recommendation, Oliver could walk today. Except for her.
“Have a seat, Oliver?” She gestured at the tatty, sagging sofa at the far end of her office.
Munching on another donut, Seth lurked in her doorway.
“Thank you, Seth. I will call you if I need you.” With a firm nod she dismissed him.
“Only if you’re sure, Doctor Rose.” Seth scowled at Oliver. The biggest of Deer Fallow’s orderlies, Seth had been the one to subdue Oliver in those first weeks of his stay here. He wouldn’t have managed without a handy shot of sedative. Now they all wanted her to forget that side of Oliver and send him out into the world again.
The door clicked shut behind Seth.
Oliver sucked up all the space in the room, and Laura dragged in a calming breath.
Arms resting on his knees, Oliver sat forward on the sofa and his clear direct gaze met hers. “I would never hurt you.”
Up went her hackles at his razor sharp perception. Primly folding her skirt over her knees, she took the seat opposite Oliver. “How have you been?”
“Well.” His smile underscored his words. “I’ve been keeping to myself. Doing some of the exercises Doctor Montgomery set me.”
“Exercises?” The man hardly needed any more bulk.
“For breathing.” His eyes twinkled as if he’d read her thoughts. “To keep me calm and centered.”
“And how’s that working for you?”
“Good.” He rubbed his palms on his knees. Big hands, calloused, strong and capable of snapping her neck. “I use them when I find the lines blurring between reality and fantasy.”
Such a good answer. Almost too good. “Does that happen often?”
“Not as much as it used to, and not if I take my medication.”
They’d had a problem getting the big guy to swallow his meds in the first three weeks. “And you are taking the medication?”
“Every day.” He nodded. “You look pretty today.”
“Thank you, Oliver.” She firmly suppressed the flush of pleasure. One hour and fifty-three minutes and she could send him back to the ward and deliver her report. She could stay professional for that long. “Let’s talk about the fantasy. Tell me how you feel about that.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean sometimes it can be painful to let go of our fantasy world and stay in the present.” She maintained eye contact. Her head got a little fuzzy and she feigned making a note on her pad. “The present can feel like a dangerous place.”
Genuine amusement creased attractive lines around his eyes and mouth as he laughed.
“Is something funny?” She kept her best professional expression in place.
Still chuckling, he shook his head. “Not really. I was just thinking about what you said, about the present being a dangerous place. It’s not so very dangerous. Not comparatively anyway.”
Her Spidey sense tingled. “Compared to what?”
“I meant for a man like me.” He grinned and relaxed on the sofa, a touch of smugness about him as he spread his arms over the back. “A big guy like me doesn’t really have that much to fear.”
Oh, he was wicked smart with his perfect answers. Not a glimmer of anything she could latch onto, and she didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth. “Let’s talk about the sword.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He crossed his ankle over his knee. “What do you want to know about it?”
Oliver let Seth lead him back to his room after his session with Doctor Rose. Part of him could stay there all day and watch her beautiful face, the way sunlight tangled in her flaxen hair and warmed her pale skin to a delicate peach he wanted to stroke.
He had kept all signs of that off his face. Doctor Rose was a clever wench. Far sharper than that idiot, Doctor Montgomery. Her blue eyes stripped right past his carefully built keep wall and tried to see beyond.
He couldn’t allow that. Not when he had spent all these months putting it in place, brick by careful brick, learning as he went along what he needed to say to get out of this hell.
“Hey.” Juan slunk into his room. “How did it go with our hot doctor?”
“It went well.”
Hot. A term they used for a desirable woman. Another one, smoking. Sometimes Juan strung them together, smoking hot. Oliver itched to rearrange his pretty features for even thinking that way about Doctor Rose. Laura.
“You think they’re going to let you out of here?” Juan dug in his belly button and pulled out something he flicked onto Oliver’s floor.
“It’s not up to her.” Doctor Laura Rose. The first words he had read after the young thing from some fancy school had been here to teach him how to read and write. “Did you need something?”
“Nah.” Juan straightened. Never happy to outstay his welcome since Oliver had explained courtesy to him with his fists, he slipped back into the corridor. “See you around.”
When he discovered Oliver taking an interest in reading and writing Montgomery had almost spent in his breeches with delight. How could Oliver not? This world ran on those squiggles they put everywhere. Words to enter and exit, words to find your way, words to form stories and ballads. Many, many words, everywhere, and the first thing he recognized as needing conquering.
You got nowhere in this world without words. And television. Most of what he’d learned had come from the flickering box that people stuck themselves to for hour upon wasted hour. Aye, but the television would have been a grand thing to take them through many a long, hard winter back home.
Doctor Rose thought this world of hers dangerous. Dear God, the ignorance of the woman. Here they had medicine for whatever ailed a man. On the television he had seen them open a man right up and mess with his innards, then put him back together again.
They had their police to protect those too feeble to care for themselves or theirs. Police and laws that made little sense to him. A man stole, you cut his hand off. A man murdered, you spilled his blood. A man raped, you hacked his cock and balls from him. That was law, not this pussified arguing back and forth. Pussy, another new word he rather enjoyed. Along with fuck. They had nothing like it in his time. Starting gently with lips against teeth it rolled into a guttural click in the back of the tongue. Fuck!
He needed to get home, and he would do and say whatever they wanted to get himself there. Out of this hell they called Northumberland, and back to where you could breathe without choking on the foul stench of too many people. Where a man could get decent beef that didn’t taste like a cow had crapped its innards out. Back to William de Wolfe and the reckoning between them.
It all rested with his sword. Without it, he was stuck in this place forever. One moment he had been making a wish for his heart’s desire and the next he stood in the center of a strange square, people dressed in outlandish garb all staring and pointing those tiny boxes at him. Phones they called them and they could not take a piss without them.
Once he had calmed enough to reason, he had taken a long, slow look around him. As much as his mind rejected the truth, he had forced himself to absorb it bit by careful bit.
The people who called themselves doctors, and scribbled notes in their charts, adjudged him addled. Around the twist, mad as a march hare, nuts. All expressions the orderlies used when they thought nobody was listening.
They could not know he listened constantly. The key to escaping this place lay in information and he hoarded it like a rat its cheese. This time smelled better, at least. A strange combin
ation of something sharp that made his nose itch mixed with spent blooms. He would miss the toilets that flushed, and the water that ran with a twist of the wrist. He had grown accustomed to bathing every day as well. And toothpaste. They could not know what a true miracle they squeezed out of those white tubes onto a toothbrush.
Good behavior had bought him gym time, which kept him from going as barmy as they thought him. There amongst the machines and the weights he worked off some of his pent up energy and frustration. Stretching out on his bed, he tucked his hands behind his head. Gym time! What a ridiculous notion. Chop some wood, hew a stone, chase a hind through the forest, and you would need no daft machines. Men of this time had forgotten how to do the things God had designed them to do. His muscles had forgotten nothing. How they throbbed for action, and for Doctor Laura Rose. Ah, the things he would like to do to her.
3
Laura’s head ached. They’d been at this for hours and Singen came no closer to seeing the truth. In fact, he looked to be swaying Director Hansom to his way of thinking.
Hansom squatted behind his desk, neck folds compressing into a bulbous wattle and watched them with his beady eyes. He steepled his pork sausage fingers in front of his tiny, plump mouth and pursed his lips. “You are saying Fitzwilliam, Oliver is eligible for release?”
“Indubitably.” Singen tossed a glare her way. “I have been treating Fitzwilliam for the past six months.” He waved a hand at her. “And with all due respect to our American colleague”—he made it sound like a plague—“she cannot claim after a two-hour session to know the intricate workings of Fitzwilliam’s mind.”
“That’s my point exactly.” Laura kept her voice calm. “Oliver is not stupid. He’s bright, scary bright. One day he’s swearing blind he’s the bastard son of William de Wolfe, and the next he’s much better. Doesn’t the speed of that concern you at all?”
“I have been treating him with an aggressive drug regimen.” Singen sniffed.
“Yes, but they’re not miracle pills.” With shaky evidence based on her research and gut alone, Laura needed to rein in her temper.
“Hmm.” Hansom poked his forefingers at her report. “You believe him to be gaming the system?”
“He says exactly what we want to hear. His computer log shows him spending hours on WebMD. He could easily be studying his own condition.” Laura pointed at the report.
“He has a curious mind. Since when is that certifiable?” Singen slapped his open palm on his chair arm. “I have treated him since his arrival, at Doctor Rose’s request I might add. Fitzwilliam has exhibited a clear comprehension of his situation, unclouded reasoning but nowhere near the level of intelligence she is suggesting.”
Breathing in and breathing out. No choice but to keep it calm and reasonable. “When he came here, he couldn’t even write his own name. He made a little cross on the admission form. He learned to read and write in two months. Two months!”
“He reads and writes now?” Hansom perked up.
Hansom didn’t even push his lunch aside for long enough to read any of the hundreds of reports he made his doctor’s write. “He learned in two months?”
“At his request.” Singen smirked. “He initiated the entire thing.”
“Well.” Chair groaning and creaking, Hansom leaned back. “I can see clear signs of rehabilitation in him.”
“And that is what we do here.” Singen crossed his legs and pleated the seam of his trousers between his fingers. Long slim hands that could have belonged to a woman.
“We treat mental disease here.” At least that was the official line. “Rehabilitation is a slow, steady process. It doesn’t happen overnight.”
“And you know this from all your years of experience.” As if that made his judgment indisputable, Singen loved lording his thirty years of experience over her. Thing is, she might have agreed if she’d seen any sign of Singen actually treating his patients instead of slipping out of sessions early to work on his golf handicap.
“Look. I understand what Doctor Montgomery is saying. On the surface, Oliver has made huge strides in his time here.” Laura needed to get it together here. “I also get that space is tight, and for each resident we have another three waiting to get in here.”
“You are not suggesting I would release a patient to clear up a bed.” Hansom’s piggy eyes bulged.
God forbid! Putting aside the many times she had signed a release under duress. Ignoring the fact that another patient meant another opportunity to bill the county. Of course, this had nothing to do with Hansom’s success rate leading to an increase in his budget. “Of course not.” She managed past gritted teeth. “I think we are forgetting how violent Oliver Fitzwilliam was in his first two months here. He broke Seth’s nose, twice. All the research I’ve done toward my postgrad indicates a conservative approach to a patient like Oliver. We need more time to observe him and make sure he is on the right track. He may very well still be a danger to himself. And a danger to others.”
She let that sink in. Hansom would hate the sort of press that came along with a released mental patient going rogue.
“Oliver is a big man, and he owns a huge sword.” Okay, no way to say that without sounding dirty.
“By all means, let us discuss Oliver’s big sword.” Singen’s lips twitched.
Hansom tittered. “The sword that is not ours.”
Singen winked at him.
Hansom’s stomach growled and he glanced at the clock. Great, Hansom was late for his tea. With a protest from his chair, Hansom leaned his elbows on the table. “I see a clear solution here.” He splayed his fingers over the file. “I agree with Doctor Montgomery that Fitzwilliam, Oliver has shown clear signs of rehabilitation. I would remind you, Doctor Rose, that his intent and subsequent success at educating himself are not something we see every day here at Deer Fallows.”
Singen tossed his arm over the back of his seat. “Thank you, director. I would like to add that I have seen no recent signs of aggression in him, nor a return to his delusional behavior.”
“Good, good.” They all pretended not to hear the loud grumble of Hansom’s stomach. The damn thing was more reliable than an alarm clock. “That all seems to auger fortuitously.”
She wanted to puke, she really did. Thus falls the lofty dream of Laura Rose, fresh out of college with a burning desire to heal the wounds in the minds of her fellow man. She could only imagine the response if she used her nagging gut as a counter argument.
“However.” Up came Hansom’s pudgy forefinger. “Doctor Rose makes a good point about the...um...sword.” His cheeks went pink.
Singen snickered.
“I see no reason for the sword not to say lost,”—he made finger quotes—“until we have seen a clear demonstration of Fitzwilliam, Oliver’s continued mental wellbeing.”
“He has no support system for when he leaves here. You know this will dramatically increase his chances of a relapse.” It was her last shot.
“I have found him a place in an excellent halfway house.” Singen gloated. “We will be able to monitor his progress carefully.”
“But the sword stays here.” If this was her only victory, dammit she was sticking to it.
Hansom hauled himself to his feet with a look of relief. “The sword stays here.” His cheeks flushed. “Where Doctor Rose can watch it. She seems very fond of Fitzwilliam, Oliver’s sword.”
4
Oliver followed the thin, tired looking woman up the stairs. Her saggy trousers showed no inclination to make friends with her sparse curves. “Breakfast is six to half past. Don’t be late or you’ll miss it.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’re on your own for lunch. Dinner is strictly six to half past.”
“But in the evening.” He sent her his most charming smile.
She scowled back. “Keep your rubbish out of the common areas, and you’re expected to keep your room tidy. I’m not the bloody maid.”
No indeed, he would never call her a maid.
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“Washer and dryer next to the kitchen. You do your own washing.” She turned right down a dingy hallway off the landing. It smelled of piss, vomit and cat. Stopping at a door, she tugged a key out of a bunch. “This is you. No drugs, no drink and no women.”
“Lovely.” Oliver forced a smile. Fuck! The bed and mattress, battered desk and small wardrobe all looked like they’d been attacked by a band of marauding Scots.
“Bed linens are in there.” She pointed at the wardrobe. “You can make your own bed.”
He dropped his bag of belongings on the bed. Two shirts, and a second pair of jeans had been provided by the woman who released him from Deer Fallows. Along with a stick of deodorant, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste were all he owned. It mattered not. He didn’t intend to be here long enough to need much more.
Once he got his bloody sword back.
The woman tugged her blue cardigan around her bony shoulders. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You share it with everyone else on this floor. Don’t use all the hot water.”
“I won’t.” He took a step closer to her. “May I ask your name?”
“Dora.” She jumped back. “Dora Bell, but you will call me Mrs. Bell.”
Did she honestly think he was hard up enough for a wench to pounce on her? Clearly, because Dora Bell backed out the door like she expected him to spring at any moment.
Not even six years without wenching would tempt him to go there. Dora could freeze the fire out of a drunk Scot.
Dora slammed the door behind her.
