The needle, she thought, still in her pocket. Was there enough poison left on it to get free of him? It was doubtful and she abandoned the thought as quickly as it came. The pain was like a stabbing over and over with every move she made. Her body felt heavier like she was carrying her own dead weight. Her legs seemed shorter, tighter, seizing up while her knees were wobbling beneath her. Sophie struggled to stay upright.
Pulling forward with all the power she could muster while he pulled harder in opposition made tension in the fabric and she couldn’t move. Once it was so strong that the shoulder seam bit into her right arm, she jerked straight back, her arm sliding out smoothly and the man reeled backwards falling off his feet.
Sophie stumbled but managed to stay on her feet, trying to run but feeling sluggish now. Focusing on the people walking at the end of the alley, some stopping to give change to the beggars that stood beyond the edge of the brick cavern.
Quickened steps were behind her, one glance and she could see he was in pursuit again. He was yelling to her, she heard ‘sorry’. Sorry wouldn’t make the blood stop seeping out or sharp pains dissipate. The cold bit into her face but the heat in her side was localized.
Faltering forward, her feet began to slow, she thought she was running but she couldn’t be or she would have gotten out of there sooner but the pain and smells were making her nauseous, her lungs were burning.
She didn’t look back but gritted her teeth and from her very core took strength from somewhere, almost there, the salvation of the street. A few more steps and Sophie slammed square into the chest of a man when her legs couldn’t hold her up any longer. The force of the collision made him stagger but instinctively he grabbed her arms to steady them both catching her, preventing her collapse.
“She told me to,” the homeless man yelled behind her, “she told me to, she saw you” he repeated and then she didn’t hear him at all.
At first, she couldn’t focus. Embarrassed, she tried to right herself but even clutching his coat lapels, she could hardly pull herself up without his help. She was breathing hard from the run, lungs aching, wincing with every intake of breath. Her body broke out into a cold sweat.
“Are you alright?” There was something familiar about his voice, quiet tenor, gentle but with the streetlight behind him, she still couldn’t see his face but it was hard to keep her eyes open too. Gasping, she pulled on him to stand and he straightened her up on her trembling legs but didn’t let go yet. What she really wanted to do was to collapse into him, the warmth of him, the steady and calm feeling that just his voice offered. She still couldn’t catch her breath to give him an answer but nodded yes.
Whether it was on her face or not that she was actually in pain, she wasn’t sure but his attention turned to the blood stain on her shirt and trousers, her forearm instinctively pressed there. “You’re hurt,” he said matter of fact and put his arm around her shoulders and steered her down the street. Noticing she was without a coat, she was shaking uncontrollably.
Under the street light now shown on both of their faces and when they looked at each other they mutually had the look of surprise and recognition. Panic settled into her nerves but a smile curled his lips and he seemed glad to see her but his expression immediately turned to concern. His face was only a few inches from hers he said, “It’s you.”
Run. Run again, she thought. She should run away from this man but he was simply the only thing holding her up so even if she wanted to run, she could not.
She opened her mouth to acknowledge him but her clamped jaw would not release. “The hospital is this way,” he said and her heels dug into the ground.
“No,” was all she could manage through clenched teeth.
Oliver looked at her, ecstatic that she had come back into his life, even more dramatic than the first time however, she was hurt and bleeding. After the episode on the train, it didn’t surprise him that she didn’t want to go to the hospital or that she had been attacked for that matter.
He could drag her kicking and screaming to the end of the block of course but he pushed her against the wall, “Try to stand so I can take a look.” If it was something he couldn’t do on his own, that would possibly be his only option, to drag a hysterical woman, bleeding into casualty.
The cut was deep but not life threatening. Trying to push his hands away, she kept repeating, “I’m okay, I’m okay,” not sure if she was trying to convince him or her. Sophie’s head felt heavy but the adrenaline and pain kept her alert.
His scarf slid easily off his neck, managing to get it around her waist, it was nearly impossible for him to tie it when she was clawing at his hands but he worked quickly, her nails leaving welts but he managed to pull a knot tightly until she cried out through clenched teeth. It hurt more and she started pulling on the knot for relief. He took her hand gently but firmly, “Stop. It needs pressure.” The pain started to change to a dull throb but a chill began deep inside her and penetrated outwards so that she couldn’t even feel the frigid temperatures any longer.
Pulling on her arm, he directed her to the edge of the sidewalk, waving down a cab and taking his coat off and wrapping her in it, holding it closed around her like a cape. He all but shoved her in the taxi, spouting an address. His arm was around her shoulder, his hand held steady pressure on her wound. Positioning her in somewhat of an embrace, she sank deeper into the warmth of his body.
Occasionally, she realized her head dropped heavy on his chest, jerking her head up a few times. But once she realized he didn’t care and neither did she, she let it rest there, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest to keep her focus away from the source of the pain that now throbbed with every heartbeat.
They rode in silence, the swishing sound of traffic passing by, the hum of the engine, the blur of the lights, the steady way he held her, was both comforting and yet unnerving.
A short ride later, they arrived at their destination, she only recognized as somewhere in Kensington by the route they took. He led her into a building of a very nice, quiet neighbourhood. Very fancy by her standards, the kind of places that had brass door knockers and doorbell frames, clean white columns and tree lined streets. Keys jangled as he opened the front door of the building and they proceeded up a flight of stairs slowly and carefully, his arm supporting her.
“Where are we,” she asked wide eyed.
“At my flat,” he felt her stiffen and she planted her feet, “I assure you, you’re quite safe, I’m going to see to you,” he said opening the door. The warmth of the flat caressed her cold skin but she did not feel the benefit of it especially when one hand was still around her and the other took the coat off her shoulders.
Assisting her gently on a leather sofa, he was patient. The phone fell out of her pocket with a loud clatter on the floor. She struggled to reach for it but he picked it up hurriedly and tossed it out of reach on the coffee table.
He was busy turning on lights that hurt her eyes and pulling an ottoman over for him to sit on. His movements seemed without urgency but it was only from the efficiency and knowledge of what he was doing did it seem so.
Sophie looked around at the modern apartment, its sleek furnishings and full kitchen, the candles on the fireplace mantel, never melted, a painting of a girl with dark eyes, lying naked and a couple of other black and white photos that did not match the painting centred on the walls, heavy drapes hung simply over the windows. Everything was very neat and organized. A small bookcase housed an array of books of light reading and medical books. She wanted to get up and go look at them but she abandoned the idea as soon as it came.
Disappearing momentarily, she could hear him shuffling around, going in this drawer, going in that cabinet and the tap until he came back supplied and snapped on some gloves. Slowly, he took her wrist and moved her arm away, instructing her to put her hand behind her head. He made her nervous, she was on his territory and while she didn’t think he would do her any harm, he blocked her way to the door and she
didn’t like that.
Oliver loosened the scarf and slid it from under her carefully. It made a slapping sound when he dropped it on the tile floor. Tenderly he pulled her shirt up and inspected the gash. “It’s not as deep as I thought but you’re going to need stitches.”
“Oh,” it was more of a groan when she looked down at it but slumped back, the back of her other hand pressed against her lips. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she spoke through chattering teeth. Looking intently into her eyes, his filled with concern only briefly and covering her shivering legs with a throw blanket.
He continued with the job at hand, “Don’t like the sight or the smell of blood?” He got up and went for something he had forgotten before she answered and returned.
“Both, but it’s been a while since it affected me like that,” she focused on his face. If she closed her eyes, she thought she would faint and she didn’t want to do that in a stranger’s flat, but she had to put her attention somewhere.
She focused on his wavy hair that rippled while he fixed his concentration down on what he was doing. “I think I have all that I need to do the stitches but not sure about a numbing agent.” He dug around in his supplies and lay out on the table what he needed to do the stitches, organized.
“Aha,” he spouted, “I do,” he held up the needle with the bottle on the end.
Sophie moaned. “Don’t worry, stitches are easy, and I know you’re not afraid of needles,” he reassured her, pulling the plunger back, the liquid drawing into the syringe. When she didn’t take the bait, he asked instead, “What’s your name?”
“What’s….yours,” her teeth still chattered slightly, the warmth of the flat still not penetrating, the throw he laid on her legs helped a little but not much.
“Oliver Reece. But I asked you first,” he started to clean enough of the blood off so he could see what he was dealing with.
“Doctor, are you?” Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes red rimmed from the kind of tears only pain brings but she didn’t actually cry. Either she had a high tolerance for pain or she had enough of it in her life that she learned to push through it, he reasoned.
Oliver picked up the syringe again, looked at it and looked at her, “What gave it away,” he chuckled, amused, “lucky for you, since you didn’t want to go to hospital. Now,” he held up the needle so she could see, “I can either numb it all the way, part of the way or not at all.” He was lying of course, ready to do all that he could to help her, she didn’t try to call his bluff, the tip of the needle had already gone into her skin by the time he asked the question again. “What’s your name?”
Looking around panicked, she squinted at the book shelf, looking for a name. Curious what she was concentrating on, his eyes followed the direction she was squinting and patiently waited for her to pick a name, trying to look serious. Sophie blurted out the first female name she saw, “um…Lauren.” He stifled a laugh.
He injected the contents and proceeded to thread the curved needle waiting for it to take effect. Amused he replied, “I know three things for sure about you,” his blue eyes were tired, she could see that but he didn’t act at all agitated with her. Once the needle was threaded, he looked down at her, she nervously looked away, caught staring but he continued, “the sight and smell of blood make you ill, you’re not afraid of needles, and you’re a terrible liar. So tell me your real name,” he demanded.
“Why d-do you need to know my name?” Her brows furrowed in distress, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind her head the other resting across her stomach.
He stooped down to begin work, “Something to call you by,” he answered with a sarcastic note, without looking up.
“Sophie.” The pain was starting to ease up now even though she could feel him working. The pain was replaced by a tickle and then occasionally just pressure. Suddenly, she took a deep in draw of breath, feeling like it was the first full breath of air since her run.
“No,” his hand rested on her ribs, “try to breathe shallow and steady, pull the air into the top of your lungs,” he waited until she demonstrated what he told her to do then he continued with the conversation and the task at hand, “Sophie what?” He glanced at her, his blue eyes reflecting the light from the lamp, the lines of his face evidence that he smiled and laughed a lot. She envied that.
“Sophie Newton.”
Taking advantage of her weakened state, he proceeded to question her finding the rhythm of tying off the stitches; sliding the needle into the pale skin, pulling it through, gripping with the tool, looping the thread, and tying the knots with the rise and fall of her chest.
“Why did you push the emergency buttons at the station,” he paused, when she stopped breathing, her muscles tensed, losing his rhythm when she did so, he stopped.
“I,” she hesitated, “did what you told me and he was having a heart attack or, or something,” she stuttered.
“Do you not know you’re a bad liar,” hands still poised where he stopped, he looked fully at her then. She had either revealed that she knew the result of what she injected or really made an assumption. “How did you know it was a heart attack?”
“I said, ‘or something.”
“So you did,” he bent over her again, resuming the rhythm when she started breathing again like he told her. Every once in a while she would catch a glimpse of his bloody hand and felt faint. “You seemed very interested in his movements prior.”
“Are you accusing me of pressing the emergency button in the event of an emergency,” Sophie struggled up on her right elbow. Oliver held his hand up to stop her, unable to touch her for the blood but the blood was more affective when she dropped back down, covering her mouth again.
Smiling mischievously, he knew how to get her to stay, “Not at all. He had what looked like a puncture wound on his neck after we got on the train that was not there before. I’m thinking you might have had something to do with creating the emergency.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That could be anything, he could have nicked himself,” she remembered to breathe again and he continued, almost done.
“Yes, he could have,” he agreed slowly, she could see the wheels turning. He was so calm in his accusation. Finishing the last knot, he tied it off and put the needle on the table and turned his head sideways and over her face, “but if you had injected him with something that would cause a heart attack I don’t understand why you would call for help.”
Arm flung across her eyes, she looked at him, one eye uncovered, her lower lip trembled, “I wouldn’t,” she tried to sound angry to try to cover the fact that he could tell when she was being dishonest.
“Right,” obviously not taking her word for it but not arguing either and he went back to cleaning the remainder of the blood off with the damp flannel that now turned cold, causing goose pimples. “So then why would you run if you weren’t guilty of something?”
“I was frightened,” things were spewing from her mouth that didn’t seem to have any premeditative thought. He unnerved her and between him and coming down off the adrenaline rush, she couldn’t think straight.
“Frightened of what,” he enquired, putting antiseptic on his handiwork, “Getting caught? This brings me back to my question. Why would you summon for help in no less than three different ways. It just doesn’t add up and on top of it all, here you are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here but under different conditions would have been nice.”
“You needed help,” she blurted out, exasperated by his questioning. “I mean he needed help.”
The first part he believed, she didn’t do it for, what he was sure he knew to be her victim, but for Oliver, how intriguing and wonderful, under the circumstances.
He smiled to try to put her back at ease, “There, all done,” he said putting the dressing on and dropping instruments into the bowl, “You didn’t know I was there, did you?”
She croaked, closing her eyes, tired but the shaking at least had reduced down to a slight shiver.
It was the best course of action, she felt, just to avoid his questions all together. It was easy to do, her energy draining but she had become calmer as he worked.
He felt that her sensibilities were not offended enough at the accusation to be innocent but she knew he had no proof. Nothing else would come from her until she was willing to give it up.
“That was my favourite scarf,” he said changing the subject, throwing the gloves in the bowl with the towel, flannel, and scarf, all ruined.
“I’m sorry.” It was a sincere apology.
“It’s just a scarf. You, however, lost a coat and some blood, much more precious,” he smiled, revealing white teeth, his bottom lip protruding slightly.
“I can buy another coat but the ….,” she started to say the needle was still in her pocket but stopped. There was something about the way his lips seemed to always be turned up at the corners and the caring way that he tended to her that made her want to answer any question he asked. Searching for anything, she said, “my wallet.” Yes, wallet, most people were worried about losing their wallets.
“How much did you lose,” he asked, prepared to loan her money if needed.
“A couple hundred quid but…,” she didn’t finish the sentence seeing the stunned look on his face she didn’t need him to question that too.
“Why were you walking alone down that alley in the first place, especially carrying that kind of money,” he asked incredulously.
“I’m not worried about the money. I…. don’t remember much,” she stared at the ceiling, her free arm draped across her forehead, recalling, “I was going to go home but …... I just got lost in thought I suppose,” she turned her head away. “I lived in that alley before,” she grimaced, not from pain but by revealing one unpleasant thing about herself to avoid confessing another.
The Poison Morality Page 4
