Talking Trouble

by Barbara Elsborg

  When he was taken to a small private room on an upper floor, Ryker was waiting for him.

  “Whoot rat feldunk?” Ryker asked.

  He tried to say the word Ryker. “Inker.”

  Oh fuck. No miracle then. The word in his head was Ryker but he knew that wasn’t what had come out of his mouth. He tried again, pouring all his concentration into forming the sound in his head before he risked saying it.

  “Inker.” Shit. “Inker, Inker, R…ink.” He pressed his lips together.

  Dr. Goldilocks came in and she and Ryker talked to each other. The serious expressions on their faces triggered another flood of raw fear. He’d been tied to a train track and was listening to the rumble of the approaching train, waiting for disaster. He chewed his lip until he tasted blood. This can be sorted, right? They could give him drugs and make him better. Maybe an operation. If something had gotten twisted in his brain, because he knew it had to be something to do with his brain, they could untwist it because he couldn’t stay like this. I’m a fucking actor. My voice is my life.

  After Dr. Goldilocks left, a nurse came and hooked him up to an IV. Flint swallowed the tablet she gave him, winced at the injection. He was exhausted. Ryker went to the end of the bed, held his hands together as if he was praying and Flint groaned. He didn’t think Ryker was religious. Ryker opened his hands as if he were opening a book, then shook his head. Followed that with the mime for a film and shook his head again. Then did the mime for a song and shook his head. Charades. Okay, I get it. Flint nodded.

  Ryker opened his arms wide and looked around the room. I know I’m in a fucking hospital. Flint watched intently. Ryker pointed at him. Me. Then rolled up his shirtsleeve and ran his finger along a vein in his arm. I’m vain? Flint shook his head. Maybe he was but how was that relevant? Something to do with his veins? Ryker sighed. He took a penknife from his pocket, scratched his finger and a bead of blood welled up. He held his finger out. Blood. Flint nodded. Ryker put his hands on his head and flung them out. Blood in my head? An explosion in my head? He hadn’t felt an explosion, more a continuous ache. Shit. Brain tumor?

  When Ryker stroked his hand, Flint shrugged him off, but Ryker kept stroking him as if he was a dog or—Flint gasped. A stroke. I had a fucking stroke? He struggled for breath as fear welled into his throat and blocked his airway. How could he have had a stroke? He was thirty-three years old. He was fit, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink to excess, didn’t take drugs—well, not on a regular basis. Old men had strokes, not young ones. Fuck.

  Tears filled his eyes and he furiously blinked them away. When he rolled onto his side and faced the window, Ryker put his hand on his shoulder and shook him. Flint closed his eyes but when Ryker kept shaking, he opened them. The guy crouched, his face only feet from his.

  “Evethin beef in.”

  Flint hoped that was ‘You’re going to be fine’ and not ‘You’re going to die.’

  After Ryker left, Flint underwent more tests, including a needle being inserted in his lower back while he lay curled up on his side. He had another burst of terror at the thought of not being able to tell them if it hurt, but he felt more discomfort than pain. He wished he had his laptop so he could Google what was happening until he remembered he couldn’t read, couldn’t listen to the TV, couldn’t fucking do anything.

  Horror subsided into sullen resignation. But maybe the doctors weren’t sure what was wrong, otherwise why would they be doing all these tests? He didn’t feel…well, but he didn’t feel desperately ill. If it hadn’t been that he couldn’t speak or understand anyone, he wouldn’t have felt that he needed to be in a hospital bed. Except when they took him out of the room again, this time he ended up under the bright lights of an operating theater. He visualized his blood pressure rocketing. Were they going to shave his head? He liked his hair. What if it grew back curly? I have worse to worry about than that. But as he lay on his back on the table, it was his groin they wiped down. Flint tried to sit up and hands pushed him down.

  “Neet meef kot!” Which was Klingon for—not my fucking cock.

  Did they have the wrong patient? Please not let them have muddled him up with someone in for a sex change operation. Then a needle went into his hand and unconsciousness beckoned with an irresistible finger.

  * * * *

  Flint came round to hear people chattering. The voices were ones he knew. The words weren’t. He opened his eyes and Corin gasped and flung herself next to him on the bed.

  “Egen sow orray,” she gasped. “Howt oo?”

  “Jet door.” He was fairly certain ‘go away’ had not been what came out of his mouth.

  She was smothering him with kisses and he shoved her off. Ryker caught her and muttered something that changed the scowl on her face to an expression of sympathy. Flint didn’t want that either. He wanted nothing from her except her disappearance. He pushed himself to a sitting position, winced at the pain in his head and his groin, belatedly remembered his worry before he went under, and below the sheet, slid his hand to his cock and balls. Thank fuck for that.

  He reached for the glass of water on his bedside table with a shaking hand and downed the lot. Corin spoke to him again, slowly and loudly as if that would make a difference. Idiot. Except he was the one who looked like an idiot. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch. The last thing he needed was to be cosseted in her fake sympathy. He attempted a mime of his own. Pointed to her, pointed to the door and made the universal ‘fuck off’ gesture.

  Of course the dumb twerp didn’t get it. Flint cast Ryker a despairing look. The guy knew how he felt about Corin. She tried again to put her arms around him and Flint turned away and closed his eyes. He didn’t want pity. He listened to the pair of them talk for a moment then Ryker spoke, “Pengu hit.”

  Flint opened his eyes to see that she’d gone. So that’s what Pengu hit meant. Thank God. Flint pointed at the door and shook his head. Shit, that hurts. Did Ryker get that meant don’t let her come back? Ryker nodded so maybe that last burst of pain had been worth it.

  Chapter Five

  Mollie pulled away from Lewin and lay huddled on the floor, braced for another blow, but it didn’t come.

  “I’m sorry, angel,” Lewin said. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I just lost it.”

  She shuffled to a sitting position and leaned against the wall.

  “I can’t believe I hurt you.”

  She raised her head to look at him. His face was white with shock.

  “Tell me you forgive me.”

  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” Which didn’t mean she forgave him.

  “Of course I didn’t. I don’t know how I could have done that.”

  Nor did she.

  “You just pushed me too far.” He dragged his fingers through his hair.

  So it was my fault? You complete bastard.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Lewin said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Walk the other way, out of the flat. But she wasn’t sure she was capable of walking anywhere. When she tried to get to her feet and failed, Lewin pulled her up and supported her as she stumbled down the hallway into the bedroom, away from her purse and phone. She was too afraid to resist.

  “You use the bathroom first,” he said.

  Once she was inside and the door was closed, she began to shake. Part of her still struggled to take in what had happened. She knew she needed to get out of the flat, but if she tried, he might hurt her to the point that she couldn’t get out. She should have pretended to need hospital treatment, faked a broken arm, but it was too late. Better to wait until he’d gone to work. He was sorry now. She didn’t think he’d touch her again tonight.

  Tomorrow was her last day of teaching before the school holidays. She’d take a suitcase with her in the morning and never come back. Pain seared her heart then because she thought of the man Lewin had once been. Though how long had she been fooling herself?

  She cleaned her teeth and spat red-tinged water into the sink. She didn’t
look in the mirror because she was afraid to confront what she’d see there. Lewin walked in and she flinched. He was carrying the T-shirt and shorts she slept in.

  “Change while I clean my teeth.”

  When she moved toward the door, he shoved it closed and stared at her. “Change in here.”

  She turned away, took off her ruined dress and slipped on her T-shirt and shorts. Bruises were blooming on her arms and legs, joining the carpet burns and grazes already adorning her skin. Her wrist was red and swollen, but she didn’t think it was broken. When he saw her cradling it, he wet a facecloth and wrapped it gently around her hand.

  “I’m so sorry, Mollie. I feel terrible. I promise I’ll never do that again. Never. Ever. Forgive me? Please? I need to hear you say it.”

  She nodded and muttered, “Yes,” because she was afraid not to. Tomorrow morning, she promised herself. When she gingerly climbed into bed next to him, her heart thumped so hard and fast she was sure he’d be able to hear it and guess what she planned to do. He snuggled up behind her and pressed his mouth against the nape of her neck. She tried not to shudder, but she’d fight if he tried to have sex with her. He’d never touch her like that again.

  “Sorry, Mollie,” he said and she jerked as she felt the handcuff click around her uninjured wrist. He fastened the other end to one of the bedhead struts. “I love you. I can’t let you leave me.”

  Fear galloped through her but when she opened her mouth to tell him to free her, she closed it without speaking. There was no point protesting. It wouldn’t get her anywhere. Lewin wasn’t a fool. Words weren’t going to help her, only action.

  He fell asleep quickly, his breathing falling into a regular pattern, while she lay awake, her heart aching, her body hurting and her mind racing. She was horrified to have become a victim of domestic violence. She knew better than to believe Lewin when he said he’d never do that again. While she didn’t doubt that he meant it, her trust for him had gone. He’d shown tonight what he was capable of. She deserved a better man.

  But one thought constantly crept back into her head—awareness that this had been partly her fault. She’d watched her love for him trickling away and not done anything except convince herself that it was down to her, not him, thinking she hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t put everything she had into their relationship. Though she wasn’t sure she could ever give anyone all of her heart. She tried so hard to be happy, to make others happy, but maybe she was too damaged for a happy ever after.

  When she’d heard abused women say it was their fault their partner had abused them, Mollie had always thought—yeah right, because it was never a woman’s fault if a man hit her, but now it had happened to her, she understood where they were coming from. She’d allowed Lewin to get this bad, allowed him to control her more and more, given in on what dress to wear, on driving when they went out, on lots of little things that seemed inconsequential, but together had turned into a leviathan of mistakes, so that when she did talk back, fight back, assert herself, he couldn’t accept it.

  She didn’t blame herself for him striking her, but she did bear some responsibility for his state of mind. He needed help, but she couldn’t give it to him. Couldn’t and didn’t want to. He’d gone too far. He’d made her into something she wasn’t. She refused to be a victim.

  How had everything gone so wrong? The perfect, thoughtful, charming boyfriend had gradually taken control of her life. He was at his happiest giving her orders. It was all about him. His day. What he wanted to do. Never about the sort of day that she’d had. He’d wanted to break her, force her to obey, make it only him she relied on. He needed too much of her. Her friends had drifted away when she’d stopped meeting them in town. His friends had taken their place. Lewin constantly said—all I need is you. You are everything to me. They were words she’d longed to hear from her father and never would. Maybe that was why she’d kept hoping Lewin would be the man she could love. She saw now she should have viewed his words as a warning, not affection. It wasn’t love. Love was a father wanting to look after his daughter. Love was your partner offering you the whole world, not just their world.

  She lay awake most of the night thinking. He wasn’t going to let her go. If she ran, he’d follow. She had to go somewhere he’d never think to look. She needed to stop charges from her bank for bills for the flat, change her phone number and her email address, stop using Facebook, finish with everything that might lead him to her. She thought about canceling her credit card but decided not to. If she wanted to stay in a hotel, she’d have to produce one even if she didn’t use it to pay. It wasn’t enough to block him from her phone or social media. He was a cop. If there was a way of tracing her, he’d find it. So no telling friends where she ended up, not for a while, not until she was sure she was safe and he didn’t want her anymore.

  Mollie gulped when she thought of someone taking her place, of Lewin doing to another woman what he’d just done to her, but how could she report him to the police? He’d persuade them that she was lying, trying to get even because he wanted to break up with her. Maybe running was the coward’s way out, but she decided it was the safest one.

  * * * *

  She woke when Lewin unfastened the handcuff, surprised that she’d slept at all. He was already dressed for work and a rush of relief swept over her that he wouldn’t force her into having sex. She pulled her arm down to her side and swallowed her groan at the stiffness in her muscles.

  “You don’t look well, sweetheart,” Lewin said. “Take the day off.”

  “I can’t. It’s the last day of school. My kids are doing the final assembly.”

  She pushed herself into a sitting position. Oh God that hurt. Don’t let him see. Smile.

  “I really think you should stay home. Falling down the stairs on the bus—what are you like?”

  She couldn’t look at him. “I’m fine. I don’t want to let them down. I’ve presents to give out. They’ll have gifts to give me.”

  “We’ll talk tonight, okay?” he said.

  “Yes. We should.” No, we won’t. I never want to talk to you again.

  “I know you’re not keen on the boat thing. I’ll tell Will we don’t want to do it. If they want to rent a yacht, fine, but we’ll stay on land. We’ll go look at ruins. I know you like that sort of thing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I was thinking we could go to Paris on the Eurostar for your birthday. Yeah?”

  She forced herself to smile again. He put his hand on her cheek and by sheer force of will she managed not to pull away.

  Lewin stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. “Love you.”

  He waited but she wouldn’t say it back.

  “Molls?”

  She stared at him. He could hit her again but she wasn’t going to say it.

  Just say it, Mollie girl. Do you want him to hit you?

  I won’t say it.

  She pressed her lips together.

  “You do know I’m sorry?” he whispered. “You believe me?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  When he walked out of the bedroom, she exhaled. After she heard the front door slam, she gingerly levered herself off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. A shower helped revive her, but she ached from head to toe. Ugly purpling bruises decorated her body along with reddened patches of skin from where she’d been dragged along the carpet and the wall. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror. She looked different, and it wasn’t just the damage to her body or the dark shadows under her eyes or the fact that her shoulders were down. Something had changed inside her and that distressed her more than the rest.

  She’d always thought of herself as a happy person, a ‘yes’ sort of girl, on the basis that if you walk around smiling, then people smile back. She believed the best of everyone, not the worst. She knew there were bad people in the world, including her father, but they made up a tiny proportion of the whole. If it came to a choice of trusting o
r not, she trusted, because how could you make the world a better place if you didn’t?

  She loved her job, loved the kids she taught, and she used to love her life. She’d worked hard to be the person she was after all that had happened to her, but Lewin had gradually stolen her joy and now he’d snapped something inside her. No matter how much he promised he’d never strike her again, she knew in her heart he could. So although she’d thought she could love him, maybe she never would have, because she was going to walk out of his life without even saying goodbye.

  Mollie dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and her blue pants, fastened a bulky pink necklace around her neck and slipped several multicolored loom bands the kids had given her over her sore wrists. When she looked at her clothes and shoes in the wardrobe, everything neatly arranged by color and type, hangers all facing the same way because that was what Lewin insisted on, she closed the door again. This wasn’t the first time she’d walked away from everything, but she hadn’t thought she’d need to do it twice in her life. She’d been going to pack a case, but she no longer wanted to. Maybe when he’d accepted that she wasn’t coming back, she’d return for her things—her clothes, books, CDs and DVDs. There was nothing she couldn’t buy again.

  She gathered all her personal documents, including her passport and a few very precious sheets of paper, and tucked everything in her school bag below her file of stickers and teaching notes. She put her hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste in her purse, dropped the keys on the hall floor and walked out to see Lewin coming toward her along the corridor. Shit, he’ll see the keys when he goes in.