The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  “That’s my good towels, don’t use those.”

  He looked down at the towels and then the money on the bed. “You have thousands of pounds on your bed, buy new ones. Or would you rather have blood all over the place,” he exaggerated, remembering her reaction to blood in his own flat but there wasn’t much blood at all. “Besides, it was mine last time remember?” He cracked a smile but just for a second but only on his lips not in his eyes.

  Pulling out supplies he had given her, he continued his explanation. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, that’s all. You never rung me back, I thought maybe you had gone septic and didn’t want to go to the hospital, and” he paused, debating whether or not to tell her what happened, “I had a bad day today and I thought seeing you well would make me feel better.”

  Lying on the couch she rested her head against the cushions and exhaled slowly and relaxed. “Bloody hell, if a doctor has a bad day. So did seeing me well make you feel better?”

  “Seeing you, yes absolutely but I would have rather hoped the circumstances would have been different but here we are, you bleeding and me patching you up.”

  He decided he was more interested in her and what happened at the gallery. “What are you running from, this time,” he pulled her shirt up and gently tucked it under her back. Taking her left wrist, he moved her hand under the cushion behind her head. Turning on the lamp and putting on the gloves, he went to work; a repeat of what happened at his flat except he just moved her about instead of telling her what to do.

  Sophie found the way he touched her unsettling and yet protective. It’s just the way of a doctor, to do what needed to be done and getting down to business, she thought, it must be but it was also the familiarity with which he touched her as if they had known each other for ages.

  “I’m not running from anything,” she replied weakly, the smell of blood reaching her nostrils, making her feel faint. She stared at the ceiling and concentrated on his touch to try to stay aware. When he applied pressure to the wound she jumped and reactively slid to the side and against the back of the sofa.

  “Oh? Suitcase, great sum of money, running away from me in the gallery, two men dying within minutes of being in your presence,” he slipped a hand between her right side and the back of the sofa sliding her back into a suitable position to continue. She gasped at the abruptness of the gesture and wondered how it was that he was so comfortable shifting her around like they were intimate enough for him to move parts of her body without asking but it wasn’t provocative at all. “What am I to think?”

  “Why did you continue to follow me to the gallery once you saw I was alright?” He took her hand and wiped it clean; his long fingers holding it lightly as he did so hoping it would make her more comfortable. The horizontal crinkle between his brows was constant. She wanted to ask if he was alright but what then? She couldn’t console him.

  “I was going to leave because I thought you were waiting for someone but when I saw that you weren’t, well, turns out you were waiting for someone after all,” he shrugged impassively. Her breath caught when she felt him clean around the wound with the flannel, now cold.

  “Back to that are you?”

  “Do you think I’m going to turn you in because twice I’ve helplessly done CPR on men while you were in the vicinity? I honestly don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

  They would continue this game he suspected for a while. Regardless of what he knew happened and her basic admission that the man couldn’t be saved, she still would confess nothing straight out. But there was something else curious to him, just like when she had summoned help in the train station. “Hearing the wife and the child affected you didn’t it,” she couldn’t tell if the look of concern was for the victims or her.

  “Why would it, it’s nothing to do with me. Did he die? Is that why you’re… sad,” diverting her eyes to his hands instead of his face but he stopped and she met his gaze. He wasn’t aware that it was that obvious.

  He gave her a condescending look, “You were the one who said he couldn’t be saved. But no, it was one of my patients.”

  Oliver changed the subject, “I’m going to get this wound cleaned up…..again. Your stitches didn’t break which is good news and then recommend you get some rest,” he spoke as he applied ointment to the cut and Sophie drew in breath between clenched teeth from the stinging sensation.

  Oliver stopped and looked at her. “You agreed to let me take you out sometime, why would I get rid of you if I want to spend time with you,” he returned to the task at hand.

  “Is that the deal? I go to the theatre with you and you won’t tell anyone what you think you know about me?”

  “Oh so you do fancy going to the theatre. One thing has nothing to do with the other. I’m no threat to you or your secret.” Secrets, he thought, hers was a dirty little secret and he did already know but wanted it confirmed. Did this make him no better than Jacki? She was playing a game he didn’t want to participate in however and he dropped the thought altogether. He did have a secret and if he told Sophie his, would she likely tell him hers. He started to say it but…

  “I have no secret. A secret is something that you keep from others. I don’t have anyone else to share anything with or to keep anything from.”

  “You do now.” He worked in silence for a moment contemplating how to answer her question. Putting the last bit of tape on the bandage he pulled her shirt back down, caressing her cheek, flush from her scurrying about. Not once did he truly smile the whole time he was there, nor did he concern himself with his damp state. He was not clean shaven and there were bags under his eyes. He looked as tired as she felt.

  “I’m sorry about your patient Oliver but you should be used to that, shouldn’t you,” she looked concerned for him. Smiling then, he started to move a lock of hair off her forehead but she slid away from his touch but her expression showed genuine concern for him.

  “Liam was twelve,” he sat upright, and then leaned his elbows on his knees, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “He was sick for a long time and I….,” Oliver cleared his throat, “I removed his life support today,” then clasping his hands, he rested his chin on them, looking far off, sighing. “If you don’t mind I’ll stay until you fall asleep because right now, this is where I want to be. Being close to you, makes me feel better and I’m sorry if that bothers you or upsets you but you’re one of my patients too and I have a responsibility to all of you. With you I don’t feel so….helpless.”

  “So helping me is the way to make you feel better,” she smiled at him; slight dimples appeared on her cheeks he didn’t notice before, probably because he had not seen her smile before. “And what if I didn’t need your help tonight?”

  Not answering, he brought her hand to his face. Her instinct was to pull away when she thought he was going to kiss it but he pressed the palm to his cheek, the stubble tickled. Sophie didn’t know what the gesture meant but stayed silent and he rested her hand back on her stomach. He asked, “Would you like to move to the bed? I’ll help you if you need it.” But her eyes were already opening and closing very slowly.

  “Will you be here when I wake up,” she mumbled.

  “I don’t know.” Eyes closed, she fell to sleep and he covered her with the tatty throw from the back of the sofa and went to the kitchenette.

  Switching on the kettle, he rummaged for what he needed for a cup of tea. He was lost in thought until the kettle snapped off. Dangling the tea bag in the cup, moving it up and down absently, he stared out the window across and the lights of the city mixing with the stars of the night sky. The rubbish bin was full of take away containers and cups, spaghetti ring tins, the smell of curry wafted up strong; he dropped the tea bag on top.

  He found a pint of milk along with a few other items in her fridge and poured a small amount in the mug and sipped it. Something about a good cup of tea made things seem better, along with her soft snoring; he was starting to feel content.


  The chair with its faded flowers looked comfortable enough for his fatigue and he could sleep almost anywhere. He sipped the tea and fingered the hole in the fabric, listening to Sophie’s quiet snoring and the distant sound of sirens. The flat was small, the furniture second hand, and the wallpaper faded and torn in some places.

  Aside from the dismal state he also saw piles of books everywhere. Some on bookshelves, carefully stacked and lined just so. Books of all kinds: novels, scientific, complete works of Dickens, Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays, and Austen. Random books with library tags cluttered the tables and the floor.

  But it was the paintings propped against the wall and fallen over easels cluttering the corner beside the window that interested him more and he walked to them. Flipping through canvas after canvas he saw they were indeed beautiful. He turned to her, her dark waves fell across the cushion, her mouth, red and defined, beautiful like she is. Lifting the easel upright again and straightening the little nook she used for her art, he realized that the art represented the lighter side and the deaths the darker.

  He felt her forehead again for fever, she stirred but that was all and satisfied, he started to kiss her there, stopping just short of contact, his lips centimetres away from her skin, then he moved down the slope of her nose, then her lips, wanting to kiss them too but he decided against kissing anywhere, not wanting to wake her, just hovering, feeling her breath on his face, warm, like a caress.

  He dropped down on the floral chair and fell asleep. Oliver awoke to the sound of the clatter of cutlery, the shuffling of utensils, and the slamming of the drawers, and then no sound at all. The silence seemed out of place after all the commotion. It took him a minute to remember where he was.

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Groggy, he quietly walked into the kitchen to find Sophie staring straight ahead. A knife gripped in her left hand, the tip of it pressed into her right wrist enough to indent the pale skin, the blue veins in danger of being nicked any second.

  The reflection in the window showed her eyes open in a vacant stare unblinking. Cautiously, he walked towards her until he saw both her reflection and his own in the window. She was sleep walking, he deducted because he was pretty sure she was not suicidal. And yet she was the one that teetered on the edge of the platform.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered, the tip of the knife pressed into her flesh.

  Her expressionless face changed to a look of challenge. She gave a sideways smile, almost a smirk and then she closed her eyes and when she opened them she looked at the knife perplexed and then rubbed her wrist on the side of her leg like she was wiping something off.

  Staring at her likeness in the window, she was just as puzzled as Oliver was by what he had stumbled upon. Oliver reached for the knife, not knowing if he would be stabbed but she gently placed the handle in his hand and shivered slightly.

  “Do you sleep walk often,” Oliver placed the knife in the sink.

  “I wasn’t aware that I did at all,” her mind was fuzzy and he took her elbow leading her to the bedroom. Already staggering from sleepiness, she mumbled, “I was dreaming about Sydney.”

  “Sydney? Oh yes, the twin.” He tossed the case on the floor and flung the wad of cash in it. She crawled under the worn out blanket. “Sleep now, we can talk about Sydney tomorrow, over dinner.” But she moved her hands doing something under the covers and then she was kicking, producing her trousers and throwing them on the floor. He picked them up and folded them carefully at the foot of the bed.

  “Not a date, I don’t date.”

  “But you eat,” he said, really smiling for the first time that day.

  “Yes,” she snored at the end of the word.

  He knew he couldn’t be here when she woke, not looking worn out and rough.

  A scrap piece of paper and pen sat on the little table under the window. He scribbled a note: Dinner, tomorrow night. Where ever you want to go. 7:00. O-- Setting the pen back down, he noticed the envelope. His fingertips traced the curvy letters of her name and he left for home before the temptation prompted him to open it.

  Chapter 9: Owen

  Somewhat disappointed, she realized from the silence that Oliver must have left sometime in the night, after the episode in the kitchen, obviously. So she sleep walks, it was a non-issue. If he wasn’t there she still wouldn’t have known.

  Sophie was more perplexed by the photo of the twins showing up than a sister she couldn’t recollect. Instead of going back to the beginning, not eager to stir up any memories, she started with the present. Asking the few neighbours she had all of which either saw nothing or replied “just you” was no help what so ever.

  She started dreaming about her, not sure if they were memories or what her subconscious made up. But last night, half awake and half asleep she recalled that evening she was chased in the alley and the attacker’s words came back to her, forgotten previously in the commotion.

  “She told me to, she saw you,” he yelled. But they were the words of a homeless man, possibly his drug addled brain would say anything to keep from being the guilty party. “She saw you.” Was that said to Oliver or Sophie and who was she, meaning Sophie?

  Her eyes flew open. How did she forget that? Rolling over she swore. The wound will never heal if she kept rolling over on it. Sophie, still sleep addled, went into the bathroom pulling the shirt up and venturing to take the dressing off, looking at it in the mirror, and then she noticed it.

  In her rush to leave she had left things in a mess. Sometime while she slept he put the shower curtain back, the miscellaneous things that had fallen out of the medicine cabinet now were replaced, the sink empty again and the cabinet closed, and the towels were folded on the rack neatly.

  Sitting on the sofa, she looked around; he had picked up the easels that had fallen over, his empty beaker sat rinsed in the drainer and a small white piece of paper was propped up against the manila envelope. She read it and tossed it into the fireplace; she would deal with that later.

  Picking up the mobile, she pressed the icons on the screen to call Oliver. She stopped, becoming fully aware of what her subconscious automatically almost made her do. What would she say? “Hi Oliver, do you remember when I ran into you bleeding and the man yelled something, do you remember what that was?” Surely, if she asked Oliver to go with her he would refuse. He was coming tonight to take her out. She started to dial again to tell him not to bother but what if she had something to tell him after going back to the alley. No, she would wait.

  Better to go while there was still daylight. Bundled in a new coat and scarf, she stood at the door, feeling the rough wool between her fingers. She had bled all over Oliver’s favourite scarf, she had forgotten that too. Two things from that night needed to be reconciled but the most important first, she thought, filling her pockets with coins and walking out the door.

  The alley was all too familiar but after the night she was attacked, she walked cautiously from the opposite end, the end she came out of and crashed into Oliver. That in itself was an interesting coincidence. To the right she could see the tube stop down the lane with its red circle with the blue line in the middle, to the left, the roof of the hospital a few blocks away. She knew it was the path Oliver took, he could be there now, he was there now, she thought. So it wouldn’t have mattered if she called him, he was busy anyway.

  The annoying repetitive sound of a siren broke the quiet; she turned towards the alley and its occupants curled against the walls or shuffling about, scanning any individuals for the attacker, convinced this is where he called home, although he might not be there now. Homeless people were very territorial when it came to finding a place to put their heads down.

  Slowly, she progressed, reserving her change for anyone that asked and to bribe him for answers if she found him. But no one approached, they huddled near the fire or stood at the entrances, hands outstretched and there he was at the opposite end, loitering at the corner, waiting, the hood pulled over his head, his hands i
n his pockets. She knew it was him; the little she saw of his face was clear in her mind, especially the bent nose.

  She expected to see him wearing her coat and scarf but he did not, standing anxiously, looking back and forth down the street, wearing his own short jacket over the hoody. Focused on him, she walked straight to him, not knowing exactly what to say. Her cut still burned, he could have killed her but anger dissipated the closer she got to him replaced by sympathy. She could have easily turned out like this young man; she figured they were about the same age.

  Walking from the sunlight into the cool shade of the alley and then back into the sun again at the other end, she approached, “Hello.” Already nervous, he was surprised by her closeness, he jumped when she spoke.

  “Fuckin’ hell, you scared the life out of me,” his hand went to his heart startled but quickly recovered and on the lookout again, scanning the street beyond.

  Sophie was taken aback at his ease and familiarity with her. She regained her composure but nervously jangled the coins in her pocket and he smiled at her, his yellow teeth flashing, before she continued, “Ohh,” he said, squeaking a bit when he said it, “I did what you asked,” he stuck his hand out and Sophie dropped a two pound coin in his palm.

  Sophie’s heart plummeted. It wasn’t her he was referring to so it could only be one person. He thought she was Sydney and they had some type of association.

  Frowning he looked up at her, “Is that it, come on, I need a fix, I haven’t had one since yesterday. But if there’s anything else you want me to do, you can bloody forget it though.”

  Sophie tried to stay cool, thankful her hands in her pockets kept him from seeing how jittery she was. Actually they were both jittery, just for different reasons. “Why would I give you more, you took my wallet, it was in the coat you pulled off of me,” his eyes became wide and he started bouncing slightly, ready to take off but she stood calmly looking at him, gritting her teeth.

  “You got a new one; it was all part of the act. You told me to chase you, and I did,” he shrugged and started to chuckle, “you acted really scared when I pulled out that knife.”