by Ricki Thomas
The paramedics didn’t take long, the minutes passing in a blur of pain and confusion, but in her distress, Sophie was adamant she wouldn’t leave without her baby, forming the words carefully and pronouncing them as closely as she could muster. “My baby. Not safe. Baby.”
Kerry had lived in and around Spain for the best part of her life, the daughter of an affluent ex-pat, and her language skills were fantastic. “Ella tiene un al lado del bebé. She’s preocupante porque el padre es violento. Ella won’ licencia de t sin el bebé.”
After a quick, hushed word to her colleague, the paramedic called for the police on her radio, explaining the situation and the urgency required to get the badly injured patient to a hospital for treatment. Once she’d finished the request, the paramedic asked Kerry if the padre violento was the man who had beaten her patient so badly, and, her question confirmed, she reported the facts on her radio which would lead to Darren’s arrest.
The speed of the police response to the call was impressive. They checked Sophie briefly in the apartment, and realising the difficulty she was having forming words, turned to Kerry and the man who had carried Sophie into his home, who led them to the door of Sophie’s apartment. They knocked, receiving no response, but the sound of the wailing infant from inside was enough to justify kicking the door open. As they entered they saw Darren splayed haphazardly over the sofa, snoring, the glass still in his hand, contents spilled over his T-shirt. Not having been fed for hours, Jaimee was starving, and her incessant crying was pitiful.
Having heard the commotion, the male paramedic had run through, taking the baby in the Moses basket through to the patient so they could transport her immediately to the Hospital General de Muro.
Darren, barely waking through his abuse of alcohol over the past couple of days, was led to the police car. He faced deportment.
Bob, utterly trashed later by the news, faced a life in Mallorca alone.
Chapter 20
Hospital
I had been stunned to hear the news of Sophie’s injuries in the telephone call, and I replaced the receiver sullenly, wondering how I was going to break this latest heartbreak to Harry. As I’d expected, he was straight on the phone to the travel agent, arranging to get back to the island we’d only recently left. The flight wasn’t as pleasant as the return home the previous week, Harry being angry, agitated, and concerned, his mood swaying constantly in his urgency to find our daughter and her child safe. It was nearing midnight when we arrived, dishevelled, at the hospital, any worries about the money he was drowning in these critical journeys passed to the wayside for another day.
We stepped slowly to our daughter’s bedside, surveying the scene he’d already witnessed in the Derby City General. She wasn’t on a ventilator this time, but she’d been beaten horrendously, and her broken body melted his heart. This time it wasn’t her mother, Beryl, taking her other hand tenderly, it was her mother, me, his fiancée, in the rightful place beside Sophie. Years of hardship had hardened me, no tears were shed, just strength and belief in karma. Harry and I stayed by her side the entire night.
Sophie wasn’t unconscious, and her brain wasn’t damaged, and it was only this positive affirmation from the attending doctor the next morning, who thankfully spoke English, that prompted Harry to consider returning to the UK. “We want to take her home with us, how soon will she be able to fly?”
Juan Murillo was a pleasant man, in his thirties, extraordinarily handsome, or so I thought, and clever to boot. “She take, um, two, three day maybe. Come out, fly, her and baby good. Yes?”
It was timely, Sophie opening her eyes, bulging through the bruising, and she regarded the room, the people, the situation with confusion. “Where am… is Jaimee here?”
I leant across, patting her hand comfortingly. “Jaimee’s right here, Sophie. She’s fine. Darren’s been arrested for this,” I raised my hands, still in disbelief at Sophie’s condition, “this…” I had no further words to give.
Juan, pleased his patient was responding to treatment, stepped in. “Sophie. You have nasty attack. Your, er, husband, la policia, they deal with. You,” his fingers imitated the action of walking, “you go England with momia and papá.” He laughed joyously, displaying his caring zest for life and love. “And your presiosamente bambino!”
She couldn’t smile, her face was too swollen, too sore, but she wanted to, and she wished more than anything that she wasn’t in hospital, wasn’t in a surgical gown, and had her make-up perfected and hair styled, because the stunning man before her had just made her heart do a double flip. I, watching Sophie, knew.
Although her injuries weren’t as severe as those she’d incurred in England, she was in hospital for longer, and Sophie wasn’t complaining: the daily consultations from Doctor Juan Murillo spiced up her day, he was such a pleasant, cheerful man, always brandishing a wide smile and a joyous ambiance. Sometimes she suspected he spent longer with her than with his other patients on the ward, but she’d rebuke these thoughts, berating herself for being silly.
Over the three days she’d been incarcerated her injuries had been healing well, the swellings reducing to near normal, the bruising turning an array of colours before settling to the green-yellow they now presented. She’d had no broken bones, a miracle in Harold’s eyes, but the repeated kicking to the head she’d endured had been a cause for concern, and Juan wasn’t willing to release her until he was absolutely convinced no brain damage had been sustained: and before he’d procured some contact details so he could keep in touch.
Carmela Ramos, a nurse at the hospital for three years, and long-time admirer of Doctor Murillo, although she’d accepted from the moment she met him that he didn’t reciprocate her interest, had struck up an unlikely friendship with Sophie. She found her to be interesting and articulate, attractive, with a sorrowful air of vulnerability, and bursting with droll witticisms. She’d taken to spending more and more time with her, just chatting, passing the time of day pleasantly, and was pleased she’d mastered the English language at school. Today was no different, and, having just finished her rounds, she perched on the edge of Sophie’s bed.
“Hello Sophie. How are you today?”
Sophie had been using her relaxing time in hospital efficiently, grasping Spanish, much to the amusement of the staff. “Hola, I’m good, gracias. Um, cómo usted es?”
Carmela laughed, correcting her. “Cómo está usted. You are crazy lady. You have seen the doctor this morning?”
She checked her watch. “No, not yet. Doctor Murillo must be busy, he’s usually been round by now.”
Carmela waved her arms. “No, no Doctor Murillo today, he’s not work today. Er, día la fiesta, how you say, er, holiday.”
Sophie’s face fell, exposing, against her will, her crush on the man, and Carmela realised she had yet another rival in the fight for his affections. With a sigh, conscious that he’d never shown her anything more than politeness and courtesy, she accepted that the competition for his heart, one that many of the other nurses were also contesting, would never be one that she would win. Charitably, she knew she had to do the right thing. “He like you, Sophie. He like you a lot.”
Sophie giggled, dismissive, fidgeting. Embarrassed yet hopeful. “Don’t be silly!”
“Yes he does, he look over you with amor, with love.” The door to the ward opened and a consultant, with his junior, who was in the latter stages of his training, strolled through. Carmela jumped from the bed, hastening back to her duties. “Rotura encima! Hora para el trabajo otra vez.”
The doctor reached Sophie’s bed and scanned her medical notes, uttering nothing, his brow gradually wrinkling with confusion. He dropped them on the bed, and regarded her for a while, her discomfort growing in the silence. Eventually he spoke. “You hit lots, sí?”
She nodded, wondering what was in her file that was causing him consternation.
He strutted towards her, roughly grasping both eyelids to inspect her eyes, moving her head and feeling
the bruising. “I see panza, your, er…?” He gestured his abdomen and she tugged her gown up, exposing the multi-coloured bruises to her belly and ribcage, and he examined them, before waving his hand, dismissive, and catching Carmela’s attention. “Usted! Enfermera.” Carmela trotted over, anxious. “¿Por qué todavía está este paciente aqui? Ella no necesita estar aguí!”
Carmela blushed as she always did when addressed by a consultant. “Doctor Murillo dicho ella no estaba lista para salir todavía.”
Again he waved his hands, annoyed. “El Doctor sangriento Murillo, guardándola solamente adentro porque ella es bastante. Ella puede ir!” He stomped away from Sophie’s bed, leaving her perturbed and confused. She stared at Carmela who was now grinning, her redness subsiding.
“What’s going on, why was he angry?”
“He is angry at Doctor Murillo. He say you better, you can go. He say Doctor Murillo only keep you here because you pretty.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Mon Dieu… Oh, no, that’s French, what is it in Spanish?”
“Mi Dios! Is your parents come today, they can take you home, yes?”
Sophie had swung her legs over the side of the bed, preparing to pack her bag, to get dressed. “Yes, they’ll be here soon.”
Checking the consultant wasn’t facing in her direction, Carmela stepped up to Sophie and whispered. “I take your address? You give to me, I give to Doctor Murillo. And we write,” she imitated writing on paper with her hands, “me and you, when you go to Inglaterra.”
Sophie chuckled, loving Carmela for her cheeky streak. “I’d love to.”
Harry and I, having spent the past three nights in the Holiday Garden Hotel, had arranged as much as possible for Sophie’s return to the UK. We’d consulted with Carlos, still shocked at the recent events, about the impending divorce, the apartment and the seemingly fraudulent behaviour of Darren buying it solely in his own name, custody arrangements and how the Hague Convention would affect her removing Jaimee from Spain. Carlos was confidant that he would be able to resolve all the matters fairly, and that Sophie wouldn’t lose due to the circumstances involved, with Darren Delaney currently incarcerated by the police, with a likely result of deportation. The best news was that Jaimee’s passport had arrived.
Harry had spoken to his travel agent who’d instructed him to call her when Sophie was discharged, and she would be able to arrange the next convenient flight back to England.
When we arrived at the hospital they were ecstatic that Sophie had been discharged, eagerly informing her of all the arrangements. Ready to leave the ward, bags packed and Jaimee settled in her car seat, goodbyes to the nursing staff said, we headed outside to flag a taxi down.
As soon as we got back to the hotel, Harry phoned the travel agent and booked flights for the following day, and we decided to go out for a celebratory meal. Sophie, embarrassed of the bruising on her face, layered the make-up thickly, and managed to cover them beautifully. With all the recent stresses and unpleasant events now lifted, and the welcome prospect of returning to her childhood home, Sophie was feeling carefree and contented, the joy having returned after months of sadness.
Just as she was about to leave the hotel room, the phone began to trill, and Sophie stared at it, sure it must be a wrong number. She picked the receiver up. “Sophie?”
Her heart sped, and a light trembling began as she recognised the voice. “Doctor Murillo! What are you doing calling me?”
“I call hospital, see you okay. Carmela tell me you gone. She give me hotel.”
Sophie chuckled. “That Carmela is a minx!”
He didn’t return her laughter, his tone was grave. “I want to see you. She tell me you go Inglaterra.”
“Yes, we go tomorrow.”
And now he was urgent. “Mañana, no. Sophie, I meet you today, por favor, please!”
She was stunned, Carmela had been right. She couldn’t understand why she’d made such an impression on the wonderful, handsome man, what with her face and body littered with bruises, but she wasn’t complaining: he was gorgeous. Never having glanced in another man’s direction since the day she met Darren, this suddenly felt exciting, new.
“Can you get to the hotel, I’m going for a meal with my Dad and Mary, you can tag along if you like.” Why did she say that, what a stupid thing to say!
“No entiendo, tag along.”
“Come, para a food. Eat. With us.”
“Oh gracias, usted son hermoso. Le veo en quince minutos. One five minutes, yes?”
She laughed, replacing the receiver. A huge sensation of disbelief swept over her, and a smile settled on her pink-stained lips, the butterflies in her tummy fluttering wildly. As she wheeled Jaimee’s pram from the room to meet her father and me, she had a spring in her step that hadn’t been apparent for years.
We came out of the escalator, waved to the receptionist, and strolled out of the hotel into the searing heat, summer now fully established in Mallorca. Harry and I began to stroll away from the hotel, but Sophie coyly called them back. “What? Why aren’t you walking with us?”
“Dad, I’m, um, I’m meeting someone, he’s coming for a meal with us.”
I grinned widely, but Harry was puzzled. “He, oh, you’ve not invited Darren have you, I thought that was all over, Sophie…”
I playfully tapped his arm. “Don’t be daft, Harry. I reckon it’s that doctor, am I right Sophie?”
She was blushing but it didn’t show underneath the heavy make-up. “Yes.” His timing was perfect, Juan’s car pulled up on the roadside, he waved as he parked, a beaming grin on his face. Overenthusiastic, an excitable puppy, he bounded from the car and wrapped his arms around a stunned Sophie, hugging her tightly, not letting go. I watched the scene with glee, but Harry was still bewildered as to what was happening. “You not patient now, I can love you.”
I winked at Harry, tittering at the fuddled expression on his face, and took the handle of the pram in one hand, and his hand with the other. “Come on, Harry. Give them some space, they’ll follow when they’re ready.”
Bob, set in a downward spiral of depression without his wife, and distraught that his son was probably about to be deported, was staggered when he answered the ring on the gate. “Darren! How? You’re out!” He fumbled with the lock, opening the gate and threw his arms around him, retreating quickly to shake hands, embarrassed by the unmanly behaviour. He locked the gate and dragged his son up the steps into the villa, pushing him to the sofa and fixing drinks for them both.
“How did you get out? Our solicitor told me they intended to deport you.”
Darren sneered. “She wouldn’t press charges, said she was going back to England so there was no point. So they let me off with a caution and told me to stay away from her.”
Bob handed the drink to Darren and sat beside him. “Well, that’s fan-bloody-tastic, son! You must be really relieved.”
“You bet!”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“That’s easy. I’m going to get pissed with you, then reclaim my apartment, and live a life of luxury in the sun without any women nagging me, or little brats howling all the time. Sophie made a big mistake when she didn’t have a boy, I’d still be with her if she’d given me a son.”
Bob could understand, he’d been so thankful himself when his Maureen had produced two healthy bouncing boys all those years ago. “You don’t want to see the child at all?”
Darren downed his drink, three days without alcohol warranted some catching up. “No, she’s welcome to it. I’ll play the field until I find someone willing to give me a boy. Let her fuck off back to the UK, I don’t care if I never see her or her brat ever again.” Laughing, his father joining him, Darren and Bob finished their drinks, and Bob retrieved the bottle, placing it on the coffee table. Tonight, they were going to get paralytic.
The evening had been delightful, they would never have found the restaurant Juan had guided them to, with a walk of half a mile or so to ge
t there, they would have stopped at a more touristy place well before reaching the quaint, cosy bodega. Inside was fairly basic, no frills, but tables full of Spaniards, eating, drinking, and being merry, the place rattling with joyous laughter. One side wall, opposite the cash desk, was stacked high with barrels of vino, different grapes, different strengths, and Juan had wasted no time filling a couple of empty containers, left for this purpose, with a variety of wines to buy cheaply and take home with him.
He had also placed the order for their tapas, selecting dishes that they would never have dared to try without his insistence that they were delicious, and he’d been right. The meal was sumptuous, the conversation, albeit stilted with the language barrier, was interesting and intelligent, and the selection of wines they’d sampled were perfectly palatable.
Initially Harry had been wary of the doctor his daughter was clearly besotted with, the pair of them rarely breaking eye contact, totally wrapped up in each other, but as the evening progressed, it was obvious that Juan was a genuine, kind, and generous man. I had come close to happy tears on a couple of occasions, the romance so sweet.
“So, well, you two are clearly smitten with each other, what’s going to happen after you fly back to England tomorrow?” Harry didn’t mean to break the magical spell, but he’d succeeded all the same.
Sophie’s eyes dropped, herself realising she was behaving like a silly, lovesick teenager, that it would be impossible for this infatuation to last: he had a good job at the hospital; she had no intention of leaving England again. It was a hopeless scenario, a pipe dream.
