by Amy Cross
"I don't even know if Ophelia's her real first name," I reply. "She hasn't had any other visitors, has she?"
She shakes her head, before opening the door and leaning into the room. "Ophelia? There's someone here to see you."
Stepping into the room, I'm immediately shocked to find that Ophelia is sitting up in bed with her eyes open. For the past month, I've visited her every day but she's always been unconscious with various tubes and pipes running into her body. The coma was medically induced, and it was only yesterday that they began to bring her around. To be honest, I'm not sure what to expect, but for some reason I feel nervous.
Behind me, the nurse shuts the door, leaving us alone.
I wait for Ophelia to say something.
Silence.
"So how's it going?" I ask eventually.
She stares at me.
"They told me you're still going to be a bit doped up," I continue, hoping to spark some kind of conversation, "but I figured I should at least drop by and see how things are going. I mean, not that I haven't been dropping by over the past few weeks, but..."
My voice trails off as I realize that I'm rambling.
I wait.
She doesn't say anything.
"Are we back to this now?" I ask finally, forcing a smile in the hope that she might reciprocate. "It's like the first time we met, in the interview room at the station. You refused to say anything, remember? And then eventually we got over that and you -"
"Who are you?" she asks suddenly.
I open my mouth to reply, but I'm not quite sure what to say.
"Who are you?" she asks again.
"Don't you remember me?" I ask, feeling a hit of concern. "I didn't think -"
"Just kidding," she says with a sudden smile, followed by a wince. "It hurts when I smile. Hurts when I breathe too, and when I fart. Pretty much everything hurts, but then I guess that's not so weird. The doctor said I was stabbed a total of twenty-three times, which is pretty mental. That's, like, more than one time for every year I've been alive."
"How are you feeling?" I ask as I make my way over to the side of the bed.
"Like I've been asleep for a month," she replies, "which is pretty much what's been happening, right?" She tries to shift her position in the bed, but it's clear that the pain is too strong. Struggling a little, she lifts up the front of her shirt to reveal a set of thick red lines criss-crossing her belly. "Look at that, huh?" she says, sounding as if she's quite pleased with herself. "At least I've got a cool story to go with them, right?"
"Did the doctor say if you'll have scars?" I ask.
"I made him promise," she replies with glee. "He said they've got this new gel that can really help to minimize scar tissue, but I told him there's no way he's using that damn stuff on me. A few scars never hurt anyone, right? I've been through the hard part, so I should at least be allowed to keep them."
"I guess that's one way of looking at it," I reply.
"You wanna touch?" she asks.
"I'm fine," I reply.
"Come on," she continues, grabbing my hand and pulling it closer. As my fingertips brush against the still-healing scar tissue, she smiles. "Awesome, huh?" she says. "Don't push too hard, though. Wouldn't want your fingers to go all the way through."
Smiling politely, I pull my hand away.
"You got any scars?" she asks.
"Not really," I mutter.
She stares at me.
"No scars," I add, trying to seem relaxed.
"I could get used to this place," she continues. "I mean, they bring me food three times a day, and they come and fuss over me, and there's a TV. It's like I'm in some kind of luxury hotel. Okay, the food's probably not so great by most people's standards, but trust me, it's not bad when you're used to eating out of the trash. I told the chef this morning that his food's better than garbage, which I thought was a compliment, but I think he took it the wrong way. Still, this is definitely a decent way of life. I never realized that the best way to get looked after is just to get stabbed twenty-three times in the abdomen."
"Too bad you've been unconscious for so much of it," I reply.
"So how close was it?" she asks.
"How close was what?"
"How close did I come to dying?"
"Oh, about this close," I say with a smile, using my index finger and thumb to indicate the narrowest of gaps. "Too bad I didn't have time to stop and take any photos. Your heart actually stopped for about a minute."
"Seriously?" She pauses. "That's so cool. So I was technically dead?"
"I think so."
"Wow." She smiles, followed by a gasp of pain. "I always kinda wanted to be technically dead for a few seconds, just to see what it was like, but I don't remember anything about it. I thought maybe there'd be, like, a tunnel of light or some kind of religious experience, but none of that shit happened. I don't remember the coma, either. It kinda sucks, really. I've lost a month." She pauses again. "So what happened to him?"
"How much do you remember?" I ask.
"I remember the knife going in. The first time, anyway."
"George Longhouse is currently being held in a psychiatric facility," I tell her. "So far, he's not believed to be mentally competent to stand trial. The psychiatrists who examined him have agreed that the death of his father has led to some kind of mental collapse. He seems to have based his entire personality on a desire to please Nat. The old man twisted his son's personality and made him follow in his footsteps. I went to see him last week and it's hard to believe that he'll ever recover. He just sits in his room, staring at the wall and talking out loud to his father. It's as if he thinks Nat is still watching him and judging everything he does."
"Nutter," she replies. "So isn't he ever gonna pay for all the things he did?"
"He'll never be released," I reply. "They're going to try to help him, but I don't know if there's much that can be done. The damage is too deep." I pause. "My father wanted me to be a lawyer," I continue after a moment. "He put all this pressure on me, and for a while I agreed, but eventually I failed the entry exam on purpose. It was the only way I could stand up to him. I guess George wasn't so lucky. He let his father pull him through life, and force him to do all these things. I guess he didn't have the strength of character to stand up to him."
"So you're the big hero now, huh?" she replies. "You solved the case, so I guess you proved yourself again."
"I wouldn't say I'm a hero," I tell her. "Turns out I've got a decent right hook, though. I knocked George out with one punch."
"No way," she says with a faint smile. "Seriously?"
"I'm thinking of taking up boxing."
"So you saved my life?" she asks.
"After helping put you in danger," I point out. "Then again, you weren't supposed to slip the ankle monitor."
"Things worked out in the end," she replies.
"I've arranged for someone to come and talk to you," I continue. "There's no pressure and no obligation, but a woman named Jackie from a housing charity is going to visit and tell you about the ways they can help you. There are various programs that offer a place to live and other steps up for people in your position."
"I don't want help."
"Just talk to her," I reply. "If you still don't want to get off the streets after you've heard what she's got to say, that's your choice, but at least listen to her and give her a chance. I don't know what you're worried about, but there are a lot of different options and some of them can be tailored to your specific needs."
She stares at me with a hint of suspicion in her eyes. I don't know why she's so adamant about not being helped, but I'm pretty certain that I shouldn't push her too hard.
"I brought this for you," I say, taking her phone from my pocket and placing it on the bedside table. "Just so you can play that dumb game if you get bored."
"Thanks," she mutters.
"I'm not supposed to stay for too long," I continue, "but I'll come back tomorrow, okay?"
> "You don't have to."
"I know, but -"
"I mean really," she adds, and suddenly there's a colder tone in her voice. "There's no point. You saved my life and that's cool, and thanks and all, but you've got your life and your job to be getting on with. I'm sure you've moved on to other cases, so you should focus on those. I just need to concentrate on getting better and then getting out of here as soon as possible, and..." She pauses. "Unless you happen to end up with another case that involves a bunch of homeless people, I really don't see that there's much point in you coming back to see me again."
I want to argue with her, to tell her that I want to come back, but I figure I should just let her rest for now.
"Maybe I won't come tomorrow," I reply, "but I'll definitely visit the day after." With that, I turn and head toward the door, before glancing back at her. "By the way, I tried that game. My high score was just over five thousand. What's yours?"
"Twenty-five thousand, one hundred and seventeen," she replies, with a faint smile that she seems to be trying to hold back. "By the way, you're not boring."
I frown.
"You're not," she continues. "I just thought you'd like to know. By the way, I managed to limp to a computer this morning and I did some research on Nat Longhouse. It turns out his grandfather was executed for murder, and so were a couple of others in his family, going back a few hundred years.”
“A whole family of murderers,” I reply, “passing their skills down from generation to generation. We found a baby in the Longhouses' squat. It wasn't exactly healthy, but it's been passed on to a foster agency so hopefully it'll be okay. God knows who the mother was, but I guess she's long gone.”
“It's like I told you,” she says with a smile. “Families suck.”
“Not all of them.”
“They would've raised that one to be a killer too,” she points out. “They've probably been doing it for hundreds of years, passing the baton over and over again, but I guess we were the ones who finally stopped them. At least that baby'll probably be the first member of the family in a long time who doesn't grow up to be a killer. London's a swell city, huh? But we did good, didn't we?”
I smile.
“Didn't we?” she asks again.
I nod.
“And I meant what I said. You're really not boring. And say hi to your Mum for me. She's not so bad.”
"Thanks," I reply, before opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. After I've pulled the door shut, I pause for a moment. I don't know why Ophelia's still so resistant to being helped, but after everything that's happened I feel as if I have an obligation to see if there's any way her life can be turned around. I hate the idea that she might just walk out of the hospital one day and go back to her old life, although ultimately there's nothing I can do to stop her. If she wants to go, she has every right.
I can't help her if she doesn't want to be helped.
Chapter Seven
Ophelia
"We have a number of different options," Jackie says as she sits next to my bed, going through a brochure. "A lot depends on where there's a space available, but we can usually house most people pretty quickly. At the moment, we have spots going in Barnet and Hammersmith, so those would be your most likely locations." She holds the brochure out for me. "Do you want to take a look?"
"I'm fine, thanks," I tell her.
"A lot of people resist at first," she continues with a faint, sad smile. "They see it as a mark of weakness, or they think they'll just end up being judged, but that's really not what our charity is about. We're an organization that believes people deserve a second chance regardless of their background. If you have problems with substance abuse or with bad memories, we have people who can provide proper therapy, and you'll be in an all-female facility so if you're worried about anything like that, I can promise you that you'll be completely safe."
"Sounds nice," I mutter unenthusiastically.
"So will you at least consider it?"
She waits for me to say something.
"Smarties," she adds suddenly, looking over at the table next to my bed. "I love Smarties. Did someone come to visit?"
I glance at the pack of sweets and realize that I have no idea where they came from. I guess Laura must have brought them, except I'm sure she was empty-handed when she arrived.
"I'm sure there are people in the world who care about you," Jackie continues. "I care about you. I want to help."
"I think I'm good, thanks," I reply, turning to her. "I appreciate you coming here and stuff, but they reckon I'll be getting out in a few days and I don't really have time to come and take a look at one of your safe-houses. I've got stuff to do."
"What are you scared of?" she asks.
"I'm not scared," I tell her. "I'm just busy."
"Don't you want to get off the streets?"
"I've got my own plans," I say firmly.
"And what are they?"
"They're private," I tell her, trying not to sound too defensive. "I don't really wanna talk about them too much. I might jinx things."
"But if you don't talk to anyone," she continues, "how are you ever going to act on those plans?"
"I have people to talk to."
"Who?"
I pause for a moment, trying to decide whether it's worth coming up with a lie.
"Are you worried about someone finding you?" she asks.
I pause again. As far as I'm aware, none of these people know a damn thing about me, but there's a part of me that thinks there's just a vague chance that they might have lucked into a discovery. I've spent so long trying to tuck myself out of sight, the thought of being found again is almost too much to handle. No matter what else happens, no matter where I have to go or what I have to endure, there's no way I'm willing to risk having my past dragged back into view. I'd rather have died back in that park with Lofty's knife in my guts.
"No-one would be informed of your arrival at one of our homes," Jackie continues. "If you're worried that we'd contact your parents or some other family member, I can absolutely assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. Your privacy is respected and we focus on trying to help you move forward rather than looking back. We can help you find a job or maybe go back to school, or -"
"I'm not going back to school," I say firmly, "and I'm not worried about anyone finding me. You don't even know my name."
"Is Ophelia not your real name?" she asks.
"That's the dumbest fucking question I've ever heard in my life," I reply, although I immediately realize that I'm letting my temper show a little too much. "I'm not worried about you spilling any secrets about me," I continue, "because you don't know any secrets. You don't know who I am or where I'm from or any of that shit, and there's no way I'm ever gonna tell you, so maybe you should stop acting like you're in any kind of a position of power here. I'm sure you've been digging about, trying to get to the truth, but I swear to God you're never going to find anything on me."
"Have you been in trouble with the police?" she asks.
"Don't be stupid."
She pauses, and I can tell that she feels awkward. Although her questions are annoying, I have to admit that she seems like a decent enough person. A little simple, perhaps, and naive, but she means well. I'm sure she's helped lots of people in the past, and I'm sure she's very good at her job, but she's wasting her time with me.
"Maybe I'll let you think about it for a few days," she says after a moment, placing the brochure on my bedside table before getting to her feet. "Please think about it, at least. Look at the brochure and try to get a better idea of how we operate. Whatever you're scared of, or whatever you're worried about, it shouldn't keep you from getting the help you need."
"I'm not scared," I reply, "and I'm not worried, and I don't need your help."
"Then why are you crying?" she asks.
"I'm not crying!"
"There are tears in your eyes," she says. "They've been there for a few minutes."<
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"Bollocks," I reply, even though suddenly I realize that she's right. I don't know how I managed not to notice, but my eyes are starting to fill with tears and I'm not sure there's anything I can do to hold them back. "Can you leave now, please?" I ask, turning away from her. "I'm tired and the nurse said you can't stay long, 'cause I'm too weak to have visitors for more than a few minutes at a time. You're making me feel ill."
"I hope you'll think about what we discussed," she replies, "and perhaps we'll have another conversation in a day or two."
I stare at the wall, listening as she leaves the room and pulls the door shut. Taking a deep breath, I try to stay calm, but that goddamn bitch really pushed all my buttons. I don't know why people always think I need help. The truth is, I had a situation many years ago and I dealt with it, and I've moved on. If I let myself get pulled back into the normal world, sooner or later I'll have to face up to those places and people again; hell, maybe I'd even decide that I wanted to get back in touch with my past. Jackie seemed nice enough, but she seemed to think that I'm scared of other people finding me, when I'm actually scared that I might choose to go back to the way things were a few years ago.
I'm Ophelia now, and that's how I want to stay.
Chapter Eight
Laura
"Any post today?" I ask as I dump my bag on the chair in the hallway.
"I don't think so, dear," my mother calls through from the front room, where she's got the TV running. "I haven't seen the postman for a few days."
"Okey dokey," I mutter, heading through to the kitchen, opening the oven and reaching in to pull out a small pile of letters. My mother might be losing her mind, but at least she's consistent. As I take a look through the various items of mail, I wander into the front room and find that she's watching a quiz show. Just as I'm about to dump the mail, however, I find that one item looks to have been delivered by hand.
Turning the envelope over, I unseal the back and find that there's a print-out of what appears to be a news story, accompanied by a handwritten note signed by none other than Joe Lewis. I've been so busy lately, I hadn't even thought about his claim that he was going to write a profile piece about me, but when I take a look at the note I quickly find that his plans are progressing:
