by D J Harrison
All this obsession with Alex is making me ignore the important questions. How safe am I? Will those men be back to finish what they started? When I think of what happened and what might have been, I grow cold and feel completely vulnerable. Even here, in this hospital bed, there’s no security. They could walk in here any time of the day or night and finish me off.
There’s another thing. The origins of O’Brian’s cash have always been a bit mysterious. Building work, he says, for people with cash to spend. I’ve always presumed this is money being hidden from the taxman but earned from legitimate, lawful work. As I lie here thinking about Williams and what he’s done to me, I realise what a fool I’ve been. Whatever O’Brian might say or think, all his money comes from criminals, and criminals of the worst kind. My clever little schemes are helping drug dealers, child molesters, brothel keepers, pimps, thieves, murderers and ear-slicing thugs. Without people like me, they wouldn’t be able to spend their ill-gotten funds. Without people like me, there would be little point to their crimes. The money would be next to useless, they’d only be able to spend small amounts and between themselves.
Emma arrives, bunch of carnations clutched proudly, big reassuring smile, bright energy dispelling my gloomy clouds.
‘Oh there you are, you poor thing.’ She thrusts the flowers at me.
I hate carnations, they remind me of death. They were festooned all over my mother’s coffin, pink and white and red. I shudder at the recollection and push the bouquet onto the bedside cabinet.
‘What happened to your ear?’ The full horror is mercifully concealed by a thick bandage that winds around my whole head, giving me the look of a half-dressed mummy.
‘Some thugs at the house, they cut it.’
‘Did you get the bit?’ I fail to understand her question.
‘Get what bit?’
‘The bit they cut off.’ She looks at me as if I should be more aware of the procedure for aural amputation. ‘If you kept the bit, they could sew it back on; you’ll hardly notice the difference.’
‘I don’t know where it is.’ I can feel the tears of self-pity welling up again. I thought I had cried enough of these and more besides. Apparently there are plenty more left.
‘They shut me in a room, left me to bleed to death. I thought they were going to come back and kill me.’
Uncontrollable sobs are heaving out of me. Emma hugs me gently, avoiding any contact with my voluminous bandages. The spasms subside, I wipe away the tears running over the dressing stuck to my cheek.
‘Well thank God you’re safe now,’ Emma smiles again. ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to sort out your ear. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. You could always grow your hair. No one will notice.’
A young policeman in uniform hovers at the end of the bed.
‘Hello,’ Emma greets him. ‘Are you the one who saved our Jenny from those awful men?’
‘I’m only here to take a statement,’ he answers, softening his defensive posture in the warmth of Emma’s greeting.
‘Have you seen it yet?’ She turns back to me.
‘Seen what?’
‘Your poorly ear, do you know what it looks like?’
‘Oh,’ my stomach churns, ‘no not really, I think it’s bad though judging by all the blood and the pain.’
‘It’ll be okay, don’t worry. They’ll probably take a bit of you that you don’t need, something nobody ever looks at and stick it on to mend your ear. It’s amazing what they can do. You’ll probably never notice, you’ll have to point it out at parties when you’re telling the story.’
Emma’s comforting words are ludicrous and unbelievable yet they carry with them the energy of hope and life. I’m not dead, not even badly injured. Okay, I have some cosmetic injury that might be termed disfiguring, but I’m alive when I expected to be dead.
‘Anyway, what’s happening at the office? Did the Stretford invoice get out on time?’
Emma wrinkles her nose as if sniffing something she expects to smell badly. ‘Oh invoices, they are the most boring thing ever, the big fat smelly one got done, don’t worry. You had a visitor though, a man came looking for you.’
‘Who?’
‘A really nice man, we chatted for ages, he only popped in on the off chance, said he was passing and wanted to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘Apparently, at least according to him, you and him have been going out for drinks and you never even told me. What were you thinking? How long have you been seeing him? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m not going out with anyone.’
‘Oh yes you are, you big fibber, and he looks really yummy. Good on you. But why keep it a secret?’
So Alex was looking for me. Now my mutilated ear really matters but I can’t help the feeling of exultation that’s breaking through my pain and anguish. It’s partly Emma, but mostly Alex.
26
I can’t sleep. My ear isn’t hurting much at all, a dull throbbing at worst. Most of the time I can cope with the pain but I can’t get my mind to stop thinking about what happened to me. The savagery, the inhuman brutality of those men sends shivers down my body. As soon as I relax and start to drift away they come back, hold me down and slice away at me.
It’s all very well having someone here in the flat but they can only try to make me a bit safer physically – a security guard sitting in my lounge, watching my TV on low volume might deter them if they decide to attack me here, but I have my doubts. There’s nothing anyone else can do about my mental security. Since it happened I can feel myself going crazy with fear and lack of sleep.
The only upside of my security guard is that he’s an employee and therefore I have to maintain my composure while he’s around. It wouldn’t do to have the staff realising they were being managed by a mad woman. Even here in my bed I have to keep the sobbing and groaning to a bare minimum. I need to sleep. I have to get some rest, my energy is depleting rapidly. The more tired I get, the less able I am to cope.
Even the smallest task seems impossible to manage. Every decision I’m faced with needs effort I can no longer give. I’m scared to be here in my own home, even with a bodyguard. I’m scared to go out, even during the day, in case they’re waiting for me. It’s no use pretending, they’ll find me and kill me whenever they decide they want to. I have the horrible feeling they’ve already decided.
As I turn onto my side, trying to get comfortable in this oven of a bed, I lean on my bad ear and any vestige of slumber is expelled by the sharp pain. Tomorrow I have an appointment for the stitches to be removed, then they’ll take away the bandages and let me look at it for the first time.
The new me, the new lop-sided me, the new disfigured, disgusting me. My mind’s eye looks at me with my missing ear. It cruelly puts sunglasses on which tilt comically to one side. It sees the grisly vestiges of flesh that were once a reasonably normal ear. It winces with embarrassment on my behalf. Maybe I should keep the bandage on permanently. Emma says I look like Mr Bump, better him than Quasimodo or Frankenstein’s monster.
As for Alex, I can hardly visualise myself as the siren who distracts him from his wife and children. Even so, he shows definite interest according to Emma who can be relied on to notice; an interest, sadly, in a woman he assumes has two ears. The thought of what I could have spent my time doing with Alex instead of stupidly, pig-headedly chasing O’Brian’s thuggish customers makes me want to scream out my pain.
My good ear is picking up the tinny distortions of whatever false exuberance the TV has to offer in the early hours. I think of joining my bodyguard, losing myself in the televised drivel. It’s out of the question, I can’t trust myself enough to show my face in this state at this time of night.
Very quietly I reach out for the bedside light and read my book while trying not to rustle the pages. White Tiger is an apt choice, I’m one third of the way through and being constantly reminded on every page how there are billions of people much worse off than me. Even in my
present, deplorable state, the writing is still convincing.
27
‘Oh,’ Emma wrinkles her nose, her eyes fixed on my ear. ‘Oh dear,’ she says.
‘I didn’t think it was that bad,’ I reply. It’s true. When they took off my bandage I was amazed at how little of my ear was missing. It felt like he sliced most of it away, leaving me with little but a vestigial hole. In reality, all that is missing is a bit at the top.
‘Oh dear, poor you,’ Emma continues. ‘When are they going to fix it?’
‘What do you mean, fix it?’
‘You know, put a bit back, make your ear normal again. You won’t want to be going around like that for very long. It looks, well, weird. Not very nice at all.’
‘They can’t fix it, where are they going to get another bit of ear that fits?’
‘Oh surely they can. They can do all sorts of things. I saw a woman on the television having her vagina neatened up.’
‘Are you suggesting they use a bit of my vagina to fix my ear?’
Emma laughs and I join in.
‘There,’ she says when she finishes adjusting my hair. ‘Can’t even tell you have a manky ear. Just try not to make any sudden movements or go out when it’s windy.’
Suddenly the office and the world seem welcoming and comforting. I don’t feel entirely safe, perhaps I never will, but the hurt is beginning to recede, by head is back up and I’m beginning to look forward again.
‘He’s rung again asking when you’ll be back.’
‘Who?’ As if I don’t know.
‘Alex.’
As Emma speaks his name a flush of excitement surprises me with its intensity.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him you were having your stitches out this morning and would be back this afternoon.’
‘Oh, fine, what did he say?’
‘He said he’d pop round and see how you were.’ A man’s voice, Alex’s. I turn so quickly we almost collide, he reaches out to steady me.
‘I’ll make a brew.’ Emma leaves us in her office.
‘I was attacked.’ My hand touches my ear as if I need to show him I’m speaking the truth.
‘So Emma said. What happened?’
‘I was on a sales visit in Radcliffe and two thugs attacked me. They burnt me with a cigarette then cut off a piece of my ear.’
‘My God, that’s awful. Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?’
‘I’m okay, it’s not so bad.’ I slump back in Emma’s chair, my feelings are in direct contradiction to my words.
‘How did you get away from them?’ Alex asks.
‘They locked me in a room, the police let me out. They just left me there. I was so certain they were going to kill me.’ I can feel the tears, this isn’t how I want to appear in front of Alex. I bury my face in a clump of tissues until the sobbing subsides. When I emerge, Alex is quietly standing next to me, his strong presence bringing me comfort and strength. ‘When I didn’t ring in to the office, Emma called the police and told them the address, bless her.’
‘Did the police get the men?’
‘No, they must have been long gone by the time the police arrived. I can identify them though, if they ever catch them.’
‘I’m amazed you came back to work so quickly. Shouldn’t you be taking some time off to recover, to heal?’
I can’t tell him this is the one place I feel at all comfortable. Everywhere else, especially my flat, is threatening.
‘Oh, I have to keep them all beavering away, you know how it is.’ The lameness of my reply is left hanging in the air.
‘Well, when you feel up to it, maybe I could take you out for a meal. When you’re better of course, no rush.’
Take me now, I want to say. And not only for a meal. Take me home with you, take me away from danger, take me in your arms. Take me.
‘I’d like that,’ I reply, trying not to let the thought of his wife and children intrude too far into my thoughts. At least they’re down south, somewhere far away. At least Alex is interested. At least I have a chance with him.
Emma comes back with three cups of tea, sits with us like some auntie chaperone making sure we connect properly and firm arrangements are made.
‘Tomorrow night,’ she decides, as if she is included. ‘At the Lowry. It’s nice there, I’ll book it for you if you like, best to make sure you get a table. There might be something good on and it could be busy.’
28
The Lowry restaurant is small, open, exposed, crowded – none of the things I want for my first meal with Alex. Somewhere dark, intimate, quiet and discreet is what I need; the Lowry is none of these. At first I thought we had booked a table in a plastic-tabled café but Alex’s enquiries discovered a more exclusive area for diners and I breathed a sigh of relief. It’s much better here, even if it’s not ideal. The menu is simple, no precious time lost leafing through pages and pages of stuff. Beef for Alex, salmon for me, done. Now for the part I’ve been nervously dreading and longing for all at the same time.
What if he doesn’t like me, finds me boring? All I do is work after all, work, eat, sleep, oh and get myself attacked and hacked to pieces.
‘How was work today?’ His face opens as he speaks, his eyes invite me to reply, offering their total attention when I do.
Work? It was shit, as usual. Worse than usual in fact, Jim asked me to do without my babysitter tonight. He’s desperately needed to cover Trafford Trailers. I really do need to get lucky with Alex tonight otherwise I’ll be on my own in an empty flat. The thought makes me very afraid. Now I’ve worked myself into a state of incoherent desperation. All Alex did was ask a simple question.
‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘Same old problems – not enough men, too much work.’
‘Better that than the other way round.’
‘I suppose you’re right but I’d like to try it just to see. How about you, how was your day?’
‘Very good, very exciting, lots of fun and laughter.’ He smiles. ‘Every day is like that if you’re involved in local government.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Why do we do it then? Money? Fame and fortune? Habit? Or because everyone else does and we don’t want to be left out?’
‘Don’t mention money,’ I grimace, ‘the bank is still being awkward, I don’t know if I’ll ever see my savings again.’
‘Give them grief at least once a day. Get Emma to pester them on your behalf, that should do the trick.’
I become aware that the couple to our right are not only sitting uncomfortably close to us but also that their attention has shifted this way. He is mid-twenties, head shaved, apart from a wide strip of stubble on his crown. Ear-rings, nose piercing, black t-shirt with a grinning green skull. His companion is dainty, petite, short black hair, cotton flower-print dress, fingers and wrists festooned with jewellery, eyes fixed on Alex.
‘Should we have booked the play?’ Alex asks.
I stare distractedly at him. ‘Book what?’ I ask. I half expect the girl to my right to provide an explanation, so enwrapped is she in Alex.
‘The play here, Ibsen, A Doll’s House. Is it something you’d like to see?’
‘Sorry, the play, I’ve never seen an Ibsen play. I don’t go to the theatre much. Though when I do I generally enjoy it.’
‘What was the last play you saw?’ Alex asks.
I wonder if he’s testing me, then realise we’re both trying to find some topic to connect about, something that transcends banal small talk.
‘The Crucible.’ I have seen it, I also read it at school so I’m pretty safe with this one. The last one I actually saw was Shakespeare, Hamlet. I don’t want to show my ignorance and admit I understood very little of it.
‘Where was that?’
‘The Octagon at Bolton, do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh of course you don’t,’ I laugh, ‘you’ve only been up north for a week or two. How could you possibly have been to Bolton?�
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‘Is it a good theatre, we could go there if you prefer?’
My heart floods with warmth, my body with energy, he’s committing himself, seeking to commit me to much more than a casual dinner.
‘Very good, small, intimate, in the round, a bit like the Royal Exchange in Manchester.’ I try to appear like a proper theatregoer. It’s something that might keep Alex’s interest.
‘Next time there’s a good play on, we’ll go,’ he says. ‘We’ll both keep a look out, shall we?’
‘Love to.’ I really mean it.
‘I’ve not seen The Crucible. I thought it was where they played the snooker,’ Alex smiles.
‘You men,’ I laugh back. ‘You care nowt for anything but sport.’
‘I think you’ll find we do.’ Alex’s eyes twinkle. ‘At least this one does.’
‘You’ll be telling me you can read next.’
‘Love it, do it all the time.’
‘Who’s your favourite author then?’ I ask, hoping it’s someone I’ve read or at least heard of.
‘Vonnegut.’
‘Who?’ My heart sinks but only a little, after all he can’t expect me to have heard of every writer going.
‘Kurt Vonnegut, he’s American or he was. He’s dead now.’
‘Ah, that explains it,’ I say.
‘Explains what?’
‘Why he’s not phoned me for advice lately.’
Alex laughs. I don’t even have to add the only-kidding bit that my ex-husband always needed to avoid lapsing into total confusion.
We chatter excitedly about books, the couple on the right lose interest in anything apart from their rapid intake of alcohol. Neither Alex nor I are drinking. I want to leave my options open. If I do end up having to go home alone I might just go out to see Doreen O’Donnell after all.
He promises to lend me Cat’s Cradle. I offer White Tiger as soon as I’m finished with it. Now we are a supper club, a theatregoer’s club and a book circle. More connections all the time.
