“Oh,” he paused and looked at her questioningly, “you were homeless, you mean,” another look of concern creased his forehead. “You went from homeless to someone that doesn’t worry about losing a couple hundred quid? You are quite the enigma.”
She turned to face him with a confused look. He elaborated, “Enigma, you know puzzling, mysterious…..”
“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “I’m not an enigma, I am quite uninteresting, I’m afraid,” the words came slower, her brain becoming as relaxed as her body. “I think you want me to be more interesting than I am so you can reason out events that happened a fortnight ago. Life is mysterious not me, sometimes thing just happen, Oliver.”
A snort, almost a chuckle escaped him, he liked the sound of his name when she said it, even with a note of sarcasm. “I know about life and death, I deal with both every day and usually there’s a reason for everything. You are very interesting if for no other reason than after the man on the train died and you ran out into the night, you crash into my arms wounded after walking down an alley that you said you lived in once, chased by another man.” And because you seem sad and beautiful and you peak my interest, he wanted to say but refrained. “You know,” he hunched over her, elbows on knees, clasping his hands, “I almost approached you that night, to ask you to dinner.”
Sophie started to push herself up, now that he was done, it was time to leave. No soft touching on the shoulder would keep her down; she just gently moved his hand away. It wasn’t a question, he wasn’t asking but telling her what he wanted, “I don’t date,” her face a few inches from his, it was the first time she looked him square in the eye.
“I believe that,” he acknowledged softly. “Ok, then we can share a table and talk like friends. Is that acceptable?”
“I…that’s different, but…”
“Good, but in the meantime, Sophie,” emphasizing her name, he walked out of the room again and came back with an black tee shirt with a faded Union Jack on the front, “you can put this on and you’ll be sleeping here tonight. You can have the bed,” he said without asking her opinion on the subject, already raising the bottom of her blouse.
She gasped, horrified at his brazenness and she immediately put her elbows down tight to her side. “I can’t stay here.”
“Sorry,” he threw up his hands not realizing she would be so modest as well, she was one great mystery. “If you had gone to the hospital you wouldn’t have lost so much blood and would have been sent home but as it were, I had to bring you here, you lost more blood, you’re still a little weak and need to be looked after.” He sat on the side of the sofa speaking softly to her, uncovering her legs and taking off her shoes, his long fingers encircled almost her whole ankle. Instinctively she would have kicked him but he was so gentle in his movements.
He nodded towards the bedroom, “You are perfectly safe; safer here than most places you roam into alone apparently. This tee shirt is yours, it doesn’t fit me anymore, I’ve had it since I was a teenager,” he smiled recollecting. “My mum gave it to me,” he seemed sad all of a sudden, the smile dropping from his face, his fingertips felt the creased paint on the front. “I couldn’t bear to throw it out so you can have it and you won’t have to sleep in a bloody shirt. Bathroom is that way, you can clean up, and I can help if you need it, just say so.”
Opening her mouth to protest, he put the back of his fingers on her forehead and frowned, “You are free to go, of course” he said, changing tactic, “but you shouldn’t be alone, I think, not after what you’ve been through. I’m here if you need help, that’s all.”
Contemplating, she hesitated. “That,” indicating the events of the evening, “that was nothing.” He nodded in acknowledgment.
He had a way of making the decisions for her in gesture, regardless of what he was saying. He handed her the shirt and stood, reaching out his hand to assist her but she ignored it, taking the time to push herself up to stand. His hand instinctively went to her elbow but that was all until she steadied.
Sophie felt like she was moving in slow motion. Once in the bathroom she saw in the mirror that he had dressed the wound neatly and all the blood was gone except for the residue from the shirt. She struggled to take the shirt off, closing her eyes so she couldn’t see the blood and put the tee on, wishing she was comfortable enough to let him help her but she wasn’t, so she continued to struggle, chucking the bloodied shirt in the rubbish bin.
He escorted her to the bedroom with its large bed and luxurious wood furnishings. Once she was tucked into bed, he sat beside her in the chair, pressing his palm to her feverish brow and smoothing the loose curls away from her face. She jerked her head away but the movement was so slow it was completely futile.
Sophie couldn’t fight him, too tired to care whether she lived or died at the moment because the softness of a bed seemed the best comfort she could hope for. She drifted off to sleep in the luxury of high thread counts, down, and softness that her body wasn’t used to and couldn’t resist.
Once Oliver realized she was asleep, he sat back in the chair and drifted off to sleep as well. Soft snoring woke Sophie momentarily in the partial darkness; only the light filtering in from the other room rendered just enough for her to see Oliver’s outline slumped in a chair.
He sacrificed his comfort for her, helped her, a genuine good deed but he wanted something, answers to his accusations and…what was it again? Half asleep, her memory was hazy. Oh yes, a date, eating at the same table, and conversation. She started to rollover until the sharpness reminded her, she cried out and Oliver stirred, awakened by the slightest sounds.
In the dimness he couldn’t tell if she was awake or not but felt her cheek with the back of his fingers, not caressing but just enough to make sure she wasn’t feverish and left the room, closing the door behind him. She was cool now so he slept on the sofa not wanting her to be surprised to see him at her bedside in the morning.
***
The sun in her eyes indicated late morning but she stayed in bed listening to the muffled sounds of breakfast being made behind the door. The sizzling of bacon, the toaster popping up, the kettle clicking, the clanking of mugs and once the smell drifted under the door into the room she found that she was famished. Confused, she had forgotten where she was and then remembered but before panicking, she realized, if he was going to hurt her, he would have done so.
The events of yesterday lingered over her like a dark cloud. Sitting up, she paused, the numbing agent had worn off and her side stung and throbbed. Quiet as she could, after she had gotten used to the pain, she turned the door knob and daylight filtered in, now she could hear music underneath the sounds of Oliver’s cooking noises.
On tip toes, she went to the bath to freshen up. The mirror revealed a version of her that she had never seen before, she was horrified. Darkness circled her eyes, she was paler than usual, even her lips lost colour and her hair looked like the snakes on Medusa’s head. She ran her hands through it to try to tame it back down. Not trying to impress but mortified that he or anyone would see her in this way was a little too embarrassing. But sneaking out the front door was probably not an option and the smell of the food was too tempting. He sees sick people all the time, he was used to it, she reasoned. One thing’s for sure, he wouldn’t bring up dates again and with that thought, she tousled her hair a little again, that should turn him off, but decided against it and attempted to smooth it back down again.
The floor was cold under her bare feet. He noticed her, fry pan in hand and smiled, “Good morning, I hope you’re hungry.” He too was barefoot and wearing jeans and a tee shirt, she noticed he was thin and agile and then she looked away quickly.
“What’s the music,” she asked, to keep from talking about anything he might be thinking. She sat at the small table on the edge of the kitchen and watched him move. He was stealthy in everything apparently. He didn’t see her cringe when she sat down.
“Opera.”
She s
ighed loudly, “Yes, I know that much, but what is it?”
“It’s from Mozart’s The Magic Flute; it’s the aria,” he was waiving around the spatula, thinking, “Queen of the Night or something like that. Do you like it,” he scraped scramble eggs on top of toast, the table already set with utensils and mugs of tea.
“I do. I’ve never heard anyone’s voice do that before, it’s,” not sure the word to use, “wonderful,” he set the plate before her and she breathed deeply, cringing again.
“Would you like to go to an opera or the theatre sometime?”
Obviously looking like hell was ineffective at deflecting any mention of dating. She nervously pulled on the curls that dangled past her shoulders. “I’m not sure,” was the best answer she could give. Yes, was the truth, no, was the lie he could see, her answer was somewhere in between. “I’ve never been.”
Oliver almost choked on his tea, “Never? London has some of the finest.”
“No, never. There are lots of things I haven’t done.” Sophie mumbled under her breath, averting his stare.
Sensing her nervousness he answered, “Perhaps we can get through breakfast first. I’ll give you some supplies, you need to keep your wound clean and dry as possible,” noticing the pain in her face. “Tuck in,” he sat opposite her. She started to pick up a piece of toast with her fingers and noticed he used knife and fork so she did the same as he started eating. “And then I’ll take you home before going to hospital.”
Panic swept through her, she sat upright in the chair, “That’s not necessary, I can get home on the tube, really its fine,” she sipped the tea, crinkling her nose.
“I have to make sure you make it home alright or I’ll worry about you until I hear from you again.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she reached for three sugar cubes, dropped them carefully into the tea and stirred. Oliver took note of her sweet tooth.
“Never the less, I’m escorting you to your door,” he said it with conviction and she knew by his tone he was done discussing it and she was not fit enough to argue, concentrating on the contents of her plate.
“No I mean hearing from me again,” she did not look up instead struggling with cutting her toast without it sliding all over the plate.
“Oh,” his smile faded and he put his fork down, disappointed, watching her struggle with her breakfast but not making an attempt to assist. Sophie was confused, could he really be that interested in her. If she admitted the truth, she found his presence comforting or was it the real food that she was eating, picking up the bacon and chewing on it.
“I hope you change your mind again, obviously. You have my number in your mobile.”
“Do I,” she put her mug down and looking around, forgetting yet again about her side and biting her lip to keep from crying out. The mobile still sat on the table by the sofa.
“Yes and I have yours,” he said slowly, “I took the liberty of doing so, to check up on you,” he said when she looked at him accusingly. Looking at his watch, he said “We better be going, I have to be at work soon, although I would rather stay here talking to you.” Oliver started to touch her hand but she withdrew it quickly, noticing the scratches on his hand.
“Did I do that?”
“Oh yeah, you were like a scared cat,” he smiled, she looked away.
“Sorry. I guess I was.”
“It seems to me that you weren’t so much scared as startled.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Startled is more like something throwing you off for a bit and then you recover quickly but fear,” he hesitated, thinking, “fear of something is more deep rooted I think. If you were afraid of that man, you would have crumbled in that alley. I think you’re more afraid I might know something about you, something you don’t want me to know.”
Sophie glared at him. Oliver knew he shouldn’t have said it out loud, trying to make light of it, he shrugged, “Never mind, stings a bit but they’ll be gone by tomorrow, yours is much worse.” He busied cleaning up instead of seeing the look of disapproval on her face. Sometimes he had the habit of saying too much. Part of being a doctor by telling the way things are without beating around the bush.
With a sideways look, Sophie stared at him again, he didn’t seem like a stranger but he was. The statement he made hung in the air and she thought she should feel threatened but she didn’t. The comfort of putting trust in people of certain professions, she supposed but there was something very palliative about him. He must be very good at putting his patients at ease. She roamed over to the window, looking out at the cloudy sky, threatening rain. After the music stopped, she felt a coat across her shoulders. It was too big for her so she easily slipped her arms into the sleeves, struggling only slightly on the left side. Distracted, she started to protest when she thought he would go out without his coat but he had put on a short leather jacket.
Sitting in silence, the cabbie having his own conversation quite loudly, Sophie stared out at the people on the streets; Oliver stole occasional glances at her.
Outside her building, she turned to speak to him, to try to get him to go away but he just nodded his head and pivoted her back around. “The cab is waiting,” she said.
“He doesn’t mind Sophie.” The front door to the building had a busted lock; indicative of this particular area of Waterloo. It didn’t make any sense that she lived this way and not worry about losing a few hundred last night.
She walked slowly until she saw the envelope leaning against the door, her pace picking up to grab it quickly like she thought he would grab it from her. Oliver thought it was odd, it had no postage and no address, just her name. She thought she was hiding something but he could put two and two together. Quickly, she scooped it up hoping he had not seen it and cradled it against her chest, opening the door.
Thinking to get rid of him as quickly as possible she jerked his coat off and turned to hand it to him but his attention was on something he was holding. “This was on the floor, you must have dropped it.”
“What is it,” she asked, shaking the coat, arm outstretched, indicating he should to take it from her.
“It’s a photo. It was right here on the floor by the door,” he flipped it over.
“I don’t have any photos. Here’s your coat. Thank you very much for escorting me home.”
“It has to be yours,” he held it out to her with one hand, taking the coat in the other.
“Why,” she shrugged.
“Because it is you,” he read the back, “Sophie and Sydney, age four, it says.”
“Sydney? Who’s Sydney?”
He chuckled, thinking she was joking but he saw her face, her focus still on him leaving, his smile fading. “Sophie…she’s your sister.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a sis…hold on, how would you know?”
“See for yourself,” he handed her the photo. Sophie was stunned; it was the same look she had when she realized he was on the train. Snatching it from him, she teetered, looking at two girls almost identical in every way except she didn’t recognize the other child. She sat on the edge of the coffee table, it being the closest thing to her.
“I’ve never seen this photo before in my life, or,” she paused astonished, “this girl,” she recognized herself somehow but her twin, “I-I didn’t know.”
“How could you not know,” he knew she was telling the truth, her eyes wide, breathing heavily, half smiling, half bewildered.
“It’s always been just me, mum, and,” she swallowed hard, her voice lowering, “umm…Declan.”
“Who is Declan,” Oliver asked.
“My stepfather but more importantly, who is Sydney and why don’t I know about her,” she still looked disbelieving even when the proof was in her hand.
“I suspect that’s a question for you mother,” he walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“My mother,” she exclaimed, looking
up at him, nostrils flaring, he removed his hand, “I don’t speak to my mum.”
“So where did the photo come from,” it was a rhetorical question because they both knew only two things, one girl in the photo and that it was found on the floor in her flat. There was no answer so she didn’t even attempt to reason one out.
“Sophie, I have to go,” he glanced at his watch. “Will you be all right, until we meet again,” he asked concerned by the fact that she was obviously taken aback by the discovery but a little tilt of her lips meant she was also, maybe, possibly glad about the revelation. He was unsure.
She didn’t look up, “Yes, okay, thanks for everything.” It was sincere but she was distracted.
Maybe, just maybe, he thought, “If you want help finding your sister I am at your disposal.”
“Hmm?” She looked up at him, the colour coming back to her face.
“We can still share a meal and talk about your sister. Maybe you’ll remember something.”
But she was too distracted and waved him away, “Yeah okay.”
Sophie was thinking, processing. It was something else to hate her mother for not telling her she had a sister. It should be easy enough to get records but past records wouldn’t tell her anything about Sydney now. Did she even want to know or go back to being ignorant of anymore family? Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted to find out but someone did want her to know but whom? It was more than a photo; it was a message with a multitude of possible meanings. Did Sydney get a copy as well?
Oliver could see her mind working; he kissed the top of her head, ecstatic at the prospect of spending time with her even if it meant using the estranged twin as an excuse. “I’ll ring you,” he said and the door closed behind him.
It was several minutes later that she looked up to find Oliver gone, a vague recollection of what went on after he handed her the photo. Did he kiss the top of her head? Did she say she would go out with him?
The Poison Morality Page 5
