Family Affairs

by Pamela G Hobbs

Caro walked over to the bed where the still, pale figure of her very dear friend lay, sheets stretched across her chest, arms immobile by her side. Frankie’s face was almost waxen, with dark circles below her closed lids, the deep lashes causing some of the shadows, but the rest was pure exhaustion and pain.

  “She smiled a bit . . . I think she heard me,” Jo said.

  “The doc says to chat to her as normal, to let her hear our voices. That it’ll help.” Ali was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, legs crossed in front of her, her polka-dot shoes an incongruous look with her combat pants.

  Ali wiggled her toes, watching the gorgeous footwear tip back and forth. She’d put on Frankie’s gift of the Jimmy Choos before coming to the hospital a couple of days ago and though she’d come and gone and changed her clothes, the shoes stayed.

  Caro smiled down at her younger sister and fingered the buttons of her beautiful lemon blouse. It seemed they all had the same idea. Flynn observed Molly playing continually with her silver bangle. Caro’s eyes were tear-filled. They all wanted a piece of their Frankie with them, a talisman of the real her, the generous, kind-spirited, open-hearted sister they loved.

  “Where the hell is Dev?” Caro demanded of the room in general. “She needs him here.”

  Worried eyes met her gaze but no one could come up with an answer.

  “Enough. Everybody out.” Flynn strode into the sterile room and took charge. “I need to talk to her and I need to do it alone.”

  He herded his parents and sisters out of the room and sent them for a much-needed breath of air or coffee, depending on their tolerance for what amounted to burnt, hot black liquid. He closed the door firmly behind them and dragged a chair to the bedside. He took some time cataloguing her cuts and bruises, and his mouth took a grim turn as he studied the stitching, neat though it was, down the side of her face.

  Jesus! that would have hurt.

  He winced, knowing from personal experience how nasty a knife-cut felt. His hand automatically went to his side, where an old scar sometimes bothered him. He stared at her head, at her hair, or rather lack of it. She looked like a scarecrow, all tufts and jagged ends. It was as ugly as sin, no use pretending otherwise, but to his male mind, it was just hair. It would grow again. His sisters and mother had gasped in horror when they’d first seen her lying here, all of them bemoaning her hair. “For Christ’s sake,” he’d groaned, “it’ll grow.”

  But men seemingly didn’t get the whole hair thing, how precious it was.

  “If that was the case,” Flynn had asked sarcastically, “why spend so much time chopping and changing your colours and style?”

  Their collective response still stung his ears. He smiled now, looking down at this mess of chopped dark brown scrag-ends. She wouldn’t be happy when she woke, that’s for sure.

  Which brought him back to the here and now.

  “Hey, wake up. It’s Flynn. I want to talk to you.” He took her hand in his and squeezed slightly. “You’re safe. Safe. And we want you back. Now.” He watched her closely and saw a faint flutter of her eyelids. “I know you can hear me. Stop hiding in there and come back and show us what you’re made of. Show me the courage I know you have.” He spoke softly but with a stern tone. An authoritative tone that usually worked when he wanted things done. “I need answers and only you can help. Wake up, Francesca.”

  “Stop being so bossy,” a croaky voice whispered back.

  Flynn, a crooked smile on his lips, a shimmer in his eyes he would later deny, leaned closer.

  “Open your eyes, Miss Jones. I want to talk to you.” He rubbed her hand gently, belying the stern tone. He cleared his suddenly tight throat. “Come on now, honey. Open your gorgeous eyes.”

  “Flatterer,” she said. But did as she was told.

  Dev took another drink of whiskey and then shoved the glass away. Drinking alone in his apartment wasn’t going to help anyone. And it certainly wasn’t going to make Frankie wake up. He shook his head in disgust. What a bloody fool he was, but he couldn’t seem to do a damn thing about it. His mum phoned or texted with hourly updates on her progress, but he hadn’t been able to stay in the hospital since she’d come out of major surgery from the nasty gunshot wound to her side.

  He got up and paced his studio again, the walls threatening to close in on him. He knew his family was pissed at him, they thought him a coward, but they didn’t understand, they couldn’t.

  They hadn’t seen her helpless, tied up and then bloody and shocked on the floor when the chair hit the ground with the force of the gunshot. He’d let out a roar, raced to her side, grabbed what looked like a bloody great big dagger from the floor near her and sliced open her wrist and feet ties. He’d yanked off his shirt, bunched it into a makeshift pad and pressed it tightly against her wound to stop the bleeding as she’d stared at him with dazed, pain-filled eyes. He’d gathered her in his arms and thought his heart would just split in two. He knew he’d mumbled garbled words to her about medics arriving, about how she was to hang on, that he swore on his life she’d be okay.

  He also knew he’d been in shock himself, only vaguely aware of the action going on behind him. As Mary Frances fired her gun, Dev knew she was signing her own death warrant, because the second her finger pulled that trigger, a shot from the sniper was to take her out.

  He’d heard Frankie begging Mary Frances to be a sister to her and all he knew was that he had to save them both.

  The sisters.

  For Frankie.

  He’d dived at Mary Frances as she pressed the trigger, shoving her to the side, hoping to change the angle of her shot before it hit Frankie. He still didn’t know if Mary Frances had lived or died, and he didn’t really give a fuck. Nor did he know if the change of shot had saved Frankie or if he had in fact almost killed her.

  The ambulance had arrived within seconds – Flynn had planned for all eventualities. Then they’d carried two severely wounded women back to Clifden to be airlifted to Galway hospital. Dev had a memory flash of Flynn holding a bloodied Mary Frances in his arms as she tried to speak. All Dev knew was he’d been covered in Frankie’s blood and she’d whispered a few broken-hearted words to him before passing out. “My daddy is dead and I have a sister.”

  “Tell me what happened, Flynn. Tell me everything.” Frankie lay back exhausted against her pillows.

  Her “family” had come hurtling back in to hug and kiss and cry over her the second Flynn had texted Jo to say Frankie was awake. The nurse had kindly brought some tea and toast when Frankie’s growling stomach had alerted the gang that she was starving. She remained on a drip, as her blood pressure was low from her operation – seemingly, she’d been shot in her right side and even though she looked at the bandage covering her wound, she felt no pain thanks to massive doses of truly excellent drugs.

  But her head was clearing and her memory was coming back in dribs and drabs.

  The girls had cossetted her and brought in the masses of flower bouquets that had been kept outside her room until she regained consciousness. Caro had brought a cosmetics bag with some essentials and some fresh nightwear. Jo had brought fruit and muffins, and Patrick had brought a flask of decent coffee. He’d patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, his voice unsteady as he told her she might need it later. Ali and Molly had brought her Kindle, her laptop and some fashion magazines but had left the past few days’ newspapers outside – Frankie wasn’t supposed to see an account of what had happened in black and white – at least not until she remembered it herself first.

  “I feel like baby Jesus in the manger with you all bringing me gifts.” Frankie smiled lovingly at the group gathered about her bed.

  “You gave us such a scare, darling.” Jo wiped her eyes again. “We were praying like mad that you’d be okay so it’s okay to refer to yourself as our saviour – He has certainly been yours and answered our prayers.”

  Jo always became ultra religious in times of stress and had been storming heaven on Frankie’s behalf. Accordin
g to Patrick, she’d lit numerous candles in the hospital oratory – “Enough to light the city,” he’d said with a fond smile.

  “Toby! Dear God, how’s Toby?” Frankie snapped her gaze to meet Caro’s. “Caro, I’m so sorry – I should have asked straight away; I just can’t remember everything . . .”

  Caro leaned forwards to give her a gentle hug. “He’s fine and dandy – honest. A bump on the head and a bit of a nauseous stomach while the drugs wore off but he’s fine. Not even a proper concussion, he says. He feels hard done by about that!” She laughed and the sound of a happy mum wasn’t taken lightly in that crowded room. “He’ll be in later to see you. He’s with friends.” She twisted her hands a bit in an anxious gesture.

  Frankie rested her own hand on top of her friend’s. “It must be so hard to let him out of your sight. Well done, you,” she said.

  Caro took a deep breath and agreed – it was damn hard. But to keep Toby sane, regardless of her feelings in the matter, she had to let him return to his normal.

  “Hey, I meant to ask, where am I?” Frankie looked around her hospital room but had no clue where she actually was.

  Everyone burst out laughing, as it was such an obvious question but no one had thought to tell her.

  “St Vincent’s in Dublin.” Molly supplied. “You were airlifted from Galway, as the surgeon considered the best for plastic surgery was here, and Mum and Dad were able to pull a few strings . . .” She stopped as a slew of irritated glares were directed at her.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Plastic surgery?” Frankie asked, her voice unsteady, a vision of a dagger blade being brandished before her, a flash of pain . . . “Pass me a mirror, please.”

  “Ah now, pet, you don’t want to go stressing yourself over a few cuts and scratches. Sure, you’re gorgeous and perfect just as you are, so you are.”

  Another clear indication of Jo’s stress level was her dropping into some fake stagey kind of Irish accent that her grandma had used when Jo was a child. It came back with a wallop now and again. Frankie’s mouth quirked in spite of herself.

  “I know,” groaned Caro, winking at Frankie. “You should have heard her when Toby went missing – Christ! it was like fecking Cathleen Ní Houlihán personified.”

  Realising she’d get nowhere with this crowd of protectors, she faked tiredness to get them all to leave. They promised and threatened to return in the morning and finally left amid more hugs and happy tears.

  Caro leaned into Frankie to kiss her cheek, the one not lined with stitches, and whispered in her ear, “There’s a mirror in the cosmetics bag. Use it when you’re ready. And Mum’s right, you are gorgeous. Inside and out.”

  Frankie heard Flynn walk into her room a little while later – she’d recognise his steady, determined gait anywhere. She lay on her good side, her scarred cheek resting lightly on the pillow, her back to the door. She remained still but knew he wasn’t fooled. A small vanity mirror lay discarded on the blanket near her feet as if it had been thrown there.

  It had.

  Frankie had stared in horror at the vision that the small square piece of glass had reflected back. She’d gone cold as she’d gently fingered the stitches – what seemed like hundreds of them, marching down the entire left side of her face. They came in a sweeping arc, stopping about an inch from her mouth. They looked neat, she could say that with certainty, and she remembered her stupid bravado as Mary Frances had sliced her face. Stupid, stupid, not to understand just how shitty a thing that had been at the time.

  Mary Frances.

  Her sister.

  Half-sister, to be precise, but her blood all the same. She hadn’t even asked how she was – if she was in the same hospital, had she been arrested, nothing. She hadn’t asked a damned thing. She felt kind of numb and as she took in the revolting shorn clumps of her once famous hair, tears of loss and regret spilled over. Hot, sad tears for all the rotten, nasty things that had happened.

  She knew she needed a good cry but, strangely, as soon as she acknowledged that to herself the tears dried up. Not quite ready yet, it seemed. She’d tossed the mirror at the end of the bed and turned over to rest. To mourn a little. To be vain about her physical state. What had she always told herself? Her looks had been an accident of birth – and those words were never truer than they were right now.

  Flynn pulled up a chair and sat quietly as he waited for Frankie to talk. She turned over with the sound of the chair scraping on the polished floor.

  “Tell me what happened, Flynn. Tell me everything.”

  Chapter 21

  “She’s dead, Frankie. Your sister is dead.” The cold words had to be said and Flynn had rarely wanted to be the bearer of bad news less than at this moment.

  “Just tell me,” Frankie said quietly. “I need to know.” She showed no surprise, nor shock. No relief. Nothing.

  So Flynn settled back in the chair and recounted, in detail, everything that had happened from the moment she was shot. He explained about the sniper who’d had Mary Frances in his rifle sight all the time, under orders to fire as necessary. He told her that she passed out from her own gunshot wound shortly after Dev had cut away her ties and tried to staunch her blood, effectively saving her from bleeding out on the floor. The bullet had lodged in her side, but the doctors in Galway had retrieved it and sewn her up before passing her on to the Dublin hospital.

  They’d since matched the bullet, rather unnecessarily, to the gun that had killed Francis Donovan. But they were all about dotting an i and crossing the t. How she’d smuggled the gun into Ireland was under investigation and some heads would surely roll for that.

  He showed her, on his tablet, the images taken of the private room in the Donovan house, the walls covered with pictures and articles about her.

  He held nothing back, because experience told him her only way forwards in the healing process was to see the entire picture, not just sanitised pieces. He explained about how they’d discovered the familial connection via the newspaper photo, and they laughed a little ironically over their own scheme to bring the stalker to light and how it was another picture entirely that actually saved the day.

  They talked about the stalker and Frankie told him all the things Mary Frances had said about their father and his obsession. She said she was afraid her sister had killed Stephen, but Flynn had said that wasn’t one hundred per cent certain as they were still awaiting confirmation to see if Francis himself had done it, but they both figured the bullets would match with Mary Frances’ gun. She wondered aloud did it matter, and at once, ashamed at herself, realised of course it did, to his family, who would, she said, never, ever forgive her for being the cause. Stephen didn’t deserve to die regardless of which sick family member of hers had done it. She lay back against the pillows, exhausted.

  “Why won’t Dev come to see me?” she asked eventually.

  Flynn had been waiting for, and yet dreading, this very question.

  “My brother’s an idiot. But then you know that already. Truthfully, Frankie, I can’t speak for him, but I do know he feels pretty fucking tortured right now.”

  “But why? He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Au contraire, indeed – he’s the one who saved your life.”

  Frankie gazed at him, eyes wide and questioning.

  “He was watching Mary Frances the whole time, like a hawk. He kept his gaze on her trigger finger and whether it’s from his years of capturing and reacting to instantaneous changes as a photographer, he anticipated the shot, charged at her and deflected the bullet. She was an excellent markswoman and the bullet was aimed directly at your heart. You wouldn’t have stood a chance. Our shooter would have got a clean shot of her, but it would have been too late for you.”

  “So why won’t he come and see me?” she repeated.

  “Because he blames himself for not saving your sister. He thinks if he’d shoved harder and faster you wouldn’t have taken a bullet to the side and he could have
saved her, too, pushing her from the line of fire. Of course it’s bullshit, she was going down anyway – our shooter would have seen to that. Sorry,” he added as he saw Frankie wince, “but we were out of options. He’ll explain it better when he gets here.”

  And he told her how he, himself, had gathered up Mary Frances and carried her to the ambulance, and what her very last words were. “She’s badass, my sister. I might’ve liked her.”

  Frankie closed her eyes, her lips trembling. “Get me Dev, please, Flynn. I need him.”

  The order from his brother still ringing sharply in his ears, Dev skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs. His heart was thudding both from the exertion of the climb and the fear that raced through his blood.

  Get here. Now. It’s serious.

  Jesus. Nothing else, no explanation. Had things taken a turn for the worse? His mum had said she was awake and alert, eating toast, for Christ’s sake. What could have happened? Infection in the wound? She could have bloody septicaemia for all he knew. Bastard of a brother! Why wouldn’t he answer his phone after dropping that bombshell? He ran down the corridor, ignoring the bristling glares from staff members.

  Fuck them. He needed to see Jones.

  What had he been thinking, not to be there when she woke? He hadn’t been thinking, was the answer to that. He’d been in shock and denial, but that was a child’s excuse and he’d behaved like a child, licking his own wounds rather than tending hers.

  He stopped suddenly on seeing Flynn leaning exhaustedly against the wall opposite Frankie’s room, his expression grave. No . . . no, no, no, no . . . This couldn’t be happening.

  Flynn stepped away from the wall and jerked his head towards her door, indicating for Dev to enter.

  The pale figure on the bed lay still as death. Dev’s stomach clenched and his mouth went dry. He moved silently towards her, drinking in the details of her ashen skin, faded rose-petal lips and the sweet curves of her lush dark lashes resting against her face. Her breathing was slow but even. He let his gaze rest on the gentle rise and fall of her chest, where it was covered by a loosely woven baby-blue blanket. She was breathing. Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus.