Falling for Her Wounded Hero

by Marion Lennox

And then, after the second glass of wine, Tom asked Iris about the bruise on her face. She shook her head.

  ‘Tell us,’ Tom said gently, and reached over and brushed her cheek, lightly, a gesture of caring that made something inside Tasha twist.

  And it must have hit Iris exactly the same way. She gave a half-strangled sob, looked wildly round the table—and then tugged her blouse down to reveal bruises right to where they disappeared under her bra. ‘R-Ron,’ she said simply. ‘All the time.’

  ‘You’ve never admitted,’ Tom said gently. ‘Iris, I’ve asked...’

  ‘He’d hit me harder if he knew I told you. But...but he’ll hit me again tonight anyway. He was angry with me before...’

  ‘Do you want to leave him?’ Tom asked, and Iris took another gulp of wine and looked wildly about her. Four sympathetic faces looked back.

  ‘Y-yes. But he’d never let me. I don’t have any money and I have nowhere to go. He told me once if I ever left him he’d hide everything and he knows how. He says he’ll come up on paper as bankrupt. And he’d come after me. No one defies Ron.’

  ‘Iris, we can,’ Karen said, in a voice that brooked no opposition. ‘And we will. You have two dogs who’d get on fine with my two dogs, who just happen to be German Shepherds. Big ones. My boys are gentle as lambs but they don’t look gentle. We have a granny flat at the back of our house and Brian and I and the dogs can see anyone off who needs to be seen off. Promise.’

  ‘And if you don’t like the granny flat there’s a spare room at my place,’ Brenda told her. ‘If you let us...if you allow us to help you, you’ll find you’re surrounded. Iris, you have friends in this town. Ron’s never let them close but we’re here for you.’

  And suddenly Tasha realised just why Tom had come armed with Karen and Brenda. They’d turned from two nurses into two fierce advocates for a downtrodden sister. Had he known they would? She glanced at him and saw the satisfaction. Of course he’d known.

  He cared.

  ‘But then there’s money.’ Karen sounded not only helpful, she was also practical. ‘Ron’s loaded but Iris is right—he’s smart enough to hide everything. The whole town knows he’s a financial snake. I wouldn’t mind betting everything’s in offshore accounts.’

  ‘Iris, where does he keep his financial records?’ Tom’s question was gentle but firm. Iris had crossed a line and he didn’t want her retreating.

  She gazed at him as if he was crazy. As if they were all crazy. But suddenly a flare of hope lit her bruised face. The beginnings of revolt.

  ‘In his study. I’m not allowed in except to dust and hoover.’

  ‘Then let’s dust,’ Tom said cheerfully. ‘And maybe we should dust the insides of his filing cabinet, too. What do you think?’

  And, to Tasha’s amazement, they were suddenly all in Ron’s study. Five people sifting financial documents fast... Operating the copier. Being very, very quiet. At the end of half an hour Iris had a suitcase packed and the dogs and Iris were in Karen’s taxi, Brenda following behind to give the impression of solidarity, and Tasha was almost breathless with astonishment.

  ‘We’ll get these documents to the local solicitor before his morning coffee,’ Tom declared. ‘There’s no way Ron can hide what he owns now. Iris, you’re safe.’

  * * *

  There was still the small matter of one entrapped penis. Ron was still lying rigid in his bed. Tom had warned him not to move and he hadn’t.

  He looked almost emasculated, Tasha thought, and she could have felt sorry for him if she hadn’t seen those bruises. Their staging spoke of constant beatings, over and over.

  Tom had taken photographs with his cellphone. ‘If it’s okay with you, Iris, I’ll talk to the police,’ he’d said.

  And Brenda and Karen had both said, ‘Do it.’

  Iris had taken another gulp of wine and said yes.

  Ron had quite a day in front of him tomorrow.

  But for tonight his pain was almost over. Tasha was happy to stay in the background. Ron lay rigid while Tom examined him. The oil had softened the trapped foreskin. The zipper was oiled to the maximum.

  Tom touched the head of the zipper with wire cutters, the teeth came apart and the skin flopped free.

  There was a tiny bit of bleeding. Tom cleaned it with care, then he and Tasha removed his oiled clothing and the plastic sheeting, and helped Ron into clean pyjamas. Their care couldn’t be faulted.

  ‘We’re leaving you another sedative and a couple of painkillers,’ Tom told him. ‘It’s eleven now. You can take them any time after two. We’ll leave you a glass of water.’

  ‘Iris’ll get it,’ Ron growled. ‘Where is she? I want a whisky.’

  ‘No alcohol tonight,’ Tom decreed. ‘Not with the drugs you have on board.’

  ‘Tell Iris to come up.’ And they knew he had no intention of following orders.

  ‘Iris can’t come,’ Tom said smoothly. ‘We noticed bruising on her face and examination proves it’s extensive. We’ve organised for her to stay somewhere where she can be fully examined. Many of those bruises are old. We need to find their cause.’

  There was a moment’s pause. It stretched.

  ‘She falls,’ Ron growled at last. ‘Stupid cow. She’s clumsy. Don’t listen to a word she says. Tell her to come here now.’

  ‘She’s already gone,’ Tom said gently. ‘You get some sleep, Ron. You may need all your strength tomorrow.’

  * * *

  They left him not sleeping. They left him almost rigid with rage and frustration—and fear.

  They left and Tom was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for years,’ he said in satisfaction. ‘I suspected but there was nothing I could do. I can’t believe one zipper and it’s sorted.’

  ‘She might rescind,’ Tasha reminded him. It was sadly normal for battered women to respond to threats and return.

  ‘You think Karen and Brenda will let that happen? They’re two of the toughest women I know. Iris has her dogs, a safe place to stay and a couple of German Shepherd watchdogs. She has Karen and Brenda at her back and a file on Ron’s dealings that I bet will make our local solicitor’s eyes water. Nailed by a zipper.’

  ‘You really do care,’ Tasha said slowly. They were back in the car, heading home.

  ‘Do you doubt that? These are my people.’

  ‘Paul never cared.’ She hadn’t meant to say it. It just...happened.

  ‘I’m not Paul.’

  ‘You surf to the point where you smash yourself on the rocks. You love women.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘Guilty as charged. So shoot me.’

  She fell silent.

  So did he.

  Guilty as charged.

  He accepted it. He knew it.

  His care was extraordinary. What had just happened showed a depth of insight and tenderness that almost did her head in. He’d watched and worried about Iris for years, and tonight he’d found an opportunity to put things right.

  His care made something inside her twist so hard it hurt. He loved this town. He loved its people.

  So what? The voice inside her head was hammering the question. It doesn’t make any difference. He still loves women. He still loves risk.

  And then the thought of Iris was suddenly front and centre. Once upon a time Iris had loved Ron, she thought. Iris must have gone into marriage as a blissful bride, sure that her man loved her back.

  How could you trust your judgement?

  She couldn’t. Her judgement was skewed by a lousy childhood, but maybe she’d been born with a lack of survival instinct in the first place. Like Iris.

  Make decisions with your head, not your heart. She’d said that to herself after Paul’s funeral. She’d put the rule aside when she’d trie
d to have Emily, and hadn’t she paid the price?

  The night suddenly seemed darker, bleaker, and the exultation from what had just taken place receded. She drove on in silence. Tom stretched his bad leg and winced and she didn’t ask about it. She couldn’t.

  She didn’t want to care.

  Tom’s phone rang and she was almost grateful. He had his phone on speaker and she listened. Croup. A young mum with an eighteen-month-old baby plus two other children. Her husband was away. She couldn’t come to the surgery and Tasha could hear the fear in her voice.

  She also heard the unmistakable sounds of croup in the background.

  ‘We’re already in the car,’ Tom told the young mother. ‘We’ll be there in less than five minutes.’

  ‘You should be home in bed,’ Tasha told him. ‘I can do this. Tom, you must be dead on your feet.’

  ‘I have adrenalin bouncing off the walls,’ he told her. ‘If you think I can go home and sleep...’

  ‘You should do something about your adrenalin. It gets you into all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘Does it?’ he asked, and his voice suddenly softened. ‘Is that what you’re afraid of?’

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

  * * *

  Meg Ainsling was eighteen months old and near to exhaustion. Hannah Ainsling opened the door holding Meg, and she practically fell into their arms with relief.

  ‘I’m so frightened.’

  Then she broke off as Meg started wheezing again. It was a fragile, weak cough, a child at the end of her strength.

  ‘You should have rung earlier,’ Tom said, swinging his bag onto the table and then taking Meg into his arms.

  And here was yet another example of Tom’s caring, Tasha thought as he carried the little girl through to the warm kitchen, holding her as if he’d been holding babies all his life. The firmness and his soft growl of reassurance seemed to relax the little one rather than frighten her.

  ‘Let’s get some steam into the room,’ he ordered. ‘Hannah, get every pot you can fit onto the stove, filled with hot water, and see how much we can bring to the boil. Boil the kettle, too. Let’s get this room full of vapour.’

  That was the old-fashioned way of treating croup, Tasha knew. It worked to an extent but Meg was beyond using that as a sole remedy. Tasha could hear the stridor, which marked the upper airway obstruction secondary to infection or swelling.

  She unpacked the medical bag while Hannah started filling the kitchen with steam. Tom performed a swift examination, talking to the little girl as he did. Meg was limp in his arms, as if she sensed that finally here was someone who could help her.

  They worked fast, not needing to speak to each other as they worked. There was no need. Tom spooned the little girl back into her mother’s arms—after that swift examination there was no need to stress her more than necessary. Then they administered nebulised adrenalin. They used a nebuliser mask with oxygen, and it was a sign of how close Meg was to the edge that the little girl didn’t fight it.

  Her breathing was rapid. Her pulse was fast and there was a drawing in of the muscles between her ribs and in her neck. It hurt to listen, and Tasha glanced at Hannah’s face and glanced away.

  She knew this terror. Here it was again, the black wall. The impossibility of moving on.

  How could she ever put herself near this dread again? How could she think of having another baby?

  How could she let herself love again?

  She couldn’t.

  Hannah had herself under control. ‘The stridor will get worse if she cries,’ Tom had told her, so every ounce of Hannah’s concentration was in keeping her little girl calm.

  If it had been Tasha’s call she’d probably be sending her to hospital but Tom seemed content to wait.

  Another ten minutes. Another dose.

  Tasha accepted his cue. She made them all tea and they waited some more.

  Another ten minutes. Another dose.

  And finally the stridor faded. The little girl relaxed in her mother’s arms, and ten minutes after that she was asleep.

  Drama over.

  ‘Keep the steam up tonight,’ Tom told her. ‘But I think she’ll be fine.’ They stood by the cot they’d pulled into the kitchen and watched the steady rise and fall of Meg’s chest. ‘But why did you leave it so long to call?’

  ‘I didn’t like to worry you,’ Hannah told him. ‘I know you need your rest.’

  ‘I’m almost better.’

  ‘But you’re not fully better. The whole town knows it. And Tasha—’

  ‘You know Tasha’s here to help.’

  ‘But Tasha’s little girl would have been the same age as Meg,’ Hannah whispered. ‘We all know about your Emily, Tasha. We’re all so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.’

  And Tasha’s chest tightened.

  It did hurt. Of course it hurt and it hurt the most because time stood still when it should move on.

  Emily was still a part of her, a deep and abiding centre she could never lose. But Emily didn’t grow. That was the heartbreak. In her mind Emily was still a beloved, beautiful newborn, not an eighteen-month-old. She should be coping with childhood illnesses, bumps, bruises, all the things that made a normal childhood.

  ‘I don’t think about it,’ she whispered, and Hannah and Tom looked at her with identical expressions. Expressions that said they knew she was lying.

  ‘I’m not avoiding children for the rest of my life because I’ve lost Emily,’ she said, forcing herself to sound brisk, efficient, professional. ‘Are you sure you don’t want Meg to go to hospital?’

  ‘She’s better with me,’ Hannah said, her eyes suddenly welling.

  And Tasha thought, I need to get out of here.

  ‘Can you take my case out to the car?’ Tom asked. ‘Sorry, but my leg...’

  ‘Of course.’ She knew it was a ruse, an escape Tom sensed she needed, but she was too grateful to protest. ‘Goodnight, Hannah. Good luck with Meg.’

  ‘I don’t need luck when I have you two,’ Hannah whispered. ‘God bless both of you.’

  * * *

  Once more she drove. Tom gazed out into the darkness and said nothing. There were things unsaid all over the place.

  Hannah’s words hung between them.

  She wasn’t starting any conversation that could end up with her weeping, she decided. She’d spent eighteen months tamping down emotions and she wasn’t about to let them flare now.

  ‘How do you cope?’ Tom asked, and the tamping got a whole lot harder.

  She should say ‘I’m fine.’ She should say ‘It doesn’t bother me, seeing kids every day of my working life. Watching parents with kids in strollers, pushing swings in playgrounds, coping with howling kids in supermarkets.’

  ‘I don’t cope,’ she said quietly. ‘I just suck it up and keep it down there. Being a sodden mess for the rest of my life’s not an option. Emily’s with me as much as she can be. The rest...I think it’s like amputation. You learn to get on with your life but nothing’s going to put it back.’

  He swore.

  ‘And that doesn’t help either,’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine the new words I’ve attempted.’ She tried a smile, which didn’t come off. ‘I know this is dumb,’ she confessed. ‘But I used to be afraid of flying. I didn’t like thunder either. Now, though, I don’t seem to be afraid of anything. It’s like the worst has happened, so what can I possibly be afraid of?’ She tried for the smile again and finally succeeded. ‘So see me indomitable. See me fearless. Just like a Blake boy.’

  He didn’t smile back. ‘I don’t like the analogy,’ he said softly. ‘Because I can’t imagine how empty that must feel. If there’s anything I can do...’ He paused. ‘But of course there’s not.’

  ‘You did everyth
ing you could do.’

  ‘Taking away hurt...’

  ‘It’s not possible. It’s not worth trying.’

  ‘Tasha, pull in here.’ They were driving along the coast road, along the cliffs above the town. There was a track off to the east, innovatively named ‘View Road’.

  She shouldn’t obey, Tasha thought. She was feeling numb, tired by the emotion of the night, exposed by the worry she sensed in Tom’s voice. She should keep going, head to bed, hide her pain under her pillows as she fought for sleep.

  But the car seemed to turn of its own accord, and a moment later they were parked under a sign that was even more innovative—‘View Point’.

  It was indeed View Point. The moon hung low over the water, sending silver shards from the horizon straight to Tom’s little car. The night was still and calm. The ocean was a plane of moonlit shimmer.

  While they watched, a pod of dolphins broke the surface just beneath the cliffs. They leaped in and out of the water as they made their way south, growing smaller and smaller until all that was left was a trail of moonlit phosphorescence.

  ‘I ordered those guys,’ Tom said smugly. ‘Right on cue. They’re good. They’ll start demanding a pay rise soon if they do it any better.’

  She’d been lost, caught by the emotion still welling inside her. Tom’s words broke the moment and made her choke on a bubble of laughter.

  This was okay. She was moving on.

  ‘What you did tonight was brilliant,’ she told him. ‘I can’t believe that Iris is safe. And Meg... How can you care so much?’

  ‘When I’m really like Paul?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ he told her. ‘You think I can’t care about anyone because I won’t care about someone in particular. Because I know I’m a risk as husband material, I won’t go there, but that doesn’t mean I can’t care in other ways.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too. I wish you hadn’t had to help treat Meg tonight. I know how much it hurt.’

  ‘I need to get over hurt.’ She was trying her hardest to keep this conversation grounded. ‘Like you. You’re improving every day.’