The Debt

by Karina Halle

  I’m still not sure if she’s warmed up to me yet, but it’s a nice flat and the first step to getting my life back on track.

  The second step to getting my life on track? Well, I had hoped that finding Jessica would be the answer.

  But if anything now I’m left with more questions.

  The first one being, when will I see her again?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jessica

  “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be in the right lane.”

  “I can’t get in the right lane, there’s a bloody lorry there.”

  “We’re going to be late if you don’t do some clever maneuvering.”

  “I’ll take the next right. It will hook us onto the A7. We won’t be late.”

  “Won’t be late? We’re always bloody late.”

  “Woman, can you shut your trap for two seconds?”

  “I’m so sorry about this, Jess.”

  Out of my peripheral I can see my sister twist around in the passenger seat to look at me, but I don’t tear my eyes from the window. The world is grey today, the stone facades of Edinburgh blurring into each other, interspersed by signs for curry shops and newsstands and nail salons.

  Christina and her husband Lee are driving me to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary for yet another doctor’s appointment. Everyone’s hopeful that it will be the last one before the cast comes off, but I’m scared more than anything.

  I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed and turned for the most of it, and when I finally did go under, my dreams were terrifying.

  It’s always the same and I’m having them more and more frequently. I’m wandering through Edinburgh alone in the middle of the night. Mist settles in, and like a noir film, everything is in black and white. The cobblestones of the old town shine like they’re covered in blood. There’s a smell too, something I’ve never picked up in dreams before. Metallic and raw, like a fresh wound.

  I’m walking fast on two perfectly fine legs and I’m convinced someone is following me. I turn the corner and duck down into an alley that only gets narrower and narrower the further I walk, mist billowing in from somewhere.

  Eventually the mist is solid in front of me, a floating white wall I can’t pass through, and I have to turn around.

  Only the man is at the other end, shotgun in hand.

  His eyes glow blue in the darkness.

  He calls to me, but I don’t understand his words. It doesn’t matter.

  I have to die. He’s telling me I have to die.

  He starts walking, then running, and I push against the mist with all my might, desperate to flee.

  Finally I break through, the mist cold and grabbing me like dead hands.

  I start to run, arms outstretched, with no idea where I’m going.

  Then my right leg fails.

  I fall to the ground, cobblestones smashing against my face, and look behind me. My leg is gone, nothing but space in its place, and his shadow is approaching.

  Somehow I manage to get up on one leg. I start hopping, a quick enough motion that I have hope I’ll get away.

  Then that leg is gone too.

  Vanished.

  I fall to the ground and twist over onto my back, just a head, torso, and arms.

  And watch as the shadow approaches.

  He gets closer and closer, the mist parting for him until he’s right in front of me.

  I stare up into the confused eyes of Lewis Smith as he places the barrel of the gun against my forehead. It feels colder than cold.

  He’s about to pull the trigger.

  Then his face morphs into my father’s, the way he used to look when I was young. The way he’d stop outside my bedroom and tell me to keep my mouth shut.

  I finally scream.

  The gun goes off.

  I woke up covered in sweat and gasping for air. The guest bedroom that Christina has me tucked away in is small, bright, and comforting, but after those dreams it’s nothing more than a coffin.

  I went downstairs and made myself tea, flipping through trashy magazines until the sun came up. Only then, like many times before, do I finally sleep.

  “We’re here,” Lee says smugly as the car lurches to a stop, his voice bringing me out of my memories. “Told you we’d make it.”

  I’m really sick of the hospital, and being overtired doesn’t help my surly mood. I hide it as much as I can though, lest either of them start trying to make me feel better. Christina helps me out of the car while Lee finds proper parking, and she’s staring at me like I’m about to burst into flames or something. I try to give her a convincing smile as we head into the hospital, hoping she’ll leave me be.

  “Ah, Jessica,” Doctor Sinclair says awhile later as he steps into the examination room. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Wish I could say the same about you, Doc,” I tell him.

  He lets out a hearty laugh. Doctor Sinclair means well. He’s young, maybe five years older than I am, but acts like he’s your grandpa sometimes, full of cheesy dad jokes and wisdom he hasn’t earned yet. He’s also power hungry, which is why he gives me special care and patience. Being responsible for at least part of my recovery is a big notch on his belt.

  “Well, hopefully we’ll stop seeing each other so much,” he says, leaning back against the counter lined with cotton balls and tongue depressors. “Though I do have to say, I’ll miss your smile.”

  I give him a perfectly fake one in response.

  The examination is the same as always. He asks about my weekly sessions with my physiotherapist, watches me walk, then sends me off to have my leg X-rayed. When the results come back, he places them up against the backlight and stares at the X-ray panels with awe.

  Even to me, my leg looks a lot different than it did seven weeks ago. Seven weeks ago, you barely knew you were looking at a leg. The first X-rays showed the bone completely blasted apart, shrapnel threaded in my tendons. Now it’s relatively straight, if not made mostly of metal rods.

  It could have been worse, of course. The wound that Lewis Smith left in me nicked the femoral artery. If the paramedics hadn’t shown up as fast as they did, if the cops that shot and killed him hadn’t applied pressure to the wound right away, I wouldn’t be here. I would have bled out on the streets.

  But the damage was still the same. The doctors in London had to rebuild my leg from the inside out with metal rods and screws, while setting what bones they could back into place. I know I’m extremely lucky that I even have a leg at all. Considering he used a shotgun, odds were that it would have to be amputated.

  They were able to save it though, another reason why my recovery was seen as miraculous to everyone from the press to the doctors themselves. But I don’t feel like the product of a miracle.

  “Good news,” Doctor Sinclair says, turning around and giving me a cheesy soap opera grin. “The cast will come off next week. We’ll fit you for a medical boot you’ll have to wear for a few weeks after that, and you’ll start going to physio three times a week. You’ll have to learn how to walk all over again. But you’re on the road to recovery, Jessica. I can’t tell you how proud I am.”

  Christina puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze before collapsing into happy tears. While she babbles on to the doctor, who really didn’t do much but take over the work that the doctors in London did, I exchange a glance with Lee.

  I know what he’s thinking. He’s been waiting for me to get better so I can go back to work and get out of their damn house. I think Lee has always seen me as somewhat of an obstacle between him and Christina. I know I’m overprotective of her, and for good reason, but that’s my job. It’s always been my job—I’m just better at it now. And while I don’t really have a problem with Lee—he is a good guy and all—he knows I have a strong influence on her life, for better or worse. Some men are threatened by that.

  I make a mental note to stay out later tonight and give them some time alone. I have my meeting at the church this evening, and I’ll
just head to the pub again afterward and take a cab home, no matter how much Christina protests.

  And I’ll pretend that I’m not going to the pub in hopes of seeing Keir again.

  Nope. The man has barely crossed my mind.

  Yet by the time they drop me off at the church, my sister making her usual worrisome plea to pick me up later, I’m about twenty minutes early.

  I could go inside, hunker down in a pew, and say a few prayers. I could go ito the basement and talk to Reggie, who is always there early, eating from a tin of discounted shortbread cookies.

  Or I could go to the pub.

  While Lee drives off and I wave goodbye, watching their car disappear around the corner, my gaze drifts over to the St. Vincent. The sun is just starting to poke through the clouds, albeit low in the sky, and the chatter from the people on the pub’s patio is lively and welcoming.

  I should pop in, I tell myself. Just for a second. A pint before the session.

  Before I can change my mind, I swiftly move across the street.

  There’s a handful of people outside, two girls and a guy in their mid-twenties, standing around the table, smoking, laughing, drinks in hand. They pause as I make my way down the short flight of stairs and thankfully I do it with ease, giving them a confident smile that I don’t exactly feel.

  The pub smells like cologne, spilled beer, and a deep fryer, and I head straight for the bar, people stepping out of my way as I swing past. I try and look over everyone’s heads, casually glancing to see if there’s an open seat in the back when the man in front of me ordering a pint snags my attention.

  He’s tall, with shoulders like a mountain range. The back of his neck is tanned, his hair dark and flecked with grey in places, curling in slightly at the ends. By the time I hear him speak to the bartender, telling her thank you, I already know who it is.

  Something fizzles in my heart, like rain on hot pavement.

  I clamp my mouth shut and wait as he turns around.

  The second he sees me, his eyes widen. First in shock, then in something like awe.

  I’ve never been looked at like this before. It does something to me, something it shouldn’t. It loosens my place in the world.

  A dumb smile stretches across my face, and my cheeks grow hot.

  “Hi,” I say, sounding louder than I’d planned to. My strange Canadian accent with hints of Scots stands out in a place like this, and I can feel heads swivel my way.

  “Hi,” he says, quickly clearing his throat. “Jessica.” It’s almost a question more than anything else.

  “Not little red?” I ask, and now I realize from the awkwardly coy tone to my voice that I’m trying to flirt. I’m rusty as hell.

  “Not at the moment,” he says, his smile wavering a bit. “Honestly, I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “Well, now that I know there’s an amazing pub across from…” I trail off, realizing he never knew where I was headed, “anyway, how could I pass it up?”

  My heart is going a mile a minute, but he just raises his glass and says, “Indeed. Care to have another drink with me, then? Or am I pushing my luck?”

  There’s no point in even pretending that’s not what I came here for, that I was secretly hoping to run into him. “Sure,” I say.

  “Just a second,” he says, turning around and ordering me an ale, which they have this time.

  “You remembered,” I tell him, impressed.

  “Aye. Only real women drink ale.”

  I smirk. “That’s the kind of comment that could get you into trouble.”

  He shrugs. “I’m used to trouble.”

  The beer shows up, the bartender handing him perfect looking frothy pints in icy glasses, and I move out of the way as Keir starts off toward the back of the bar. As luck would have it, it’s the same spot as last time.

  The minute I sit down though, I realize I’ll have to either slam back the drink or abandon it in ten minutes, otherwise I’ll miss my meeting.

  “Something wrong?” he asks, his dark brows furrowed in concern.

  “Not a thing,” I tell him, trying to mentally come up with an excuse that could get me out of here. I don’t want him to think it’s got anything to do with him.

  “So, Jessica,” he says. My name sounds so gorgeous coming from his mouth. There’s a roughness to his voice, a deep edge that I can feel in my bones, as broken as they are.

  “So, Keir.” I feel strangely lighthearted, the kind that makes you want to sit up straighter and smile even when there’s nothing to smile about. I want to remind myself that he’s just some handsome stranger and it’s nothing to get giddy about, but I’m so fucking tired of dealing with everything that Keir is a beautiful distraction.

  We don’t say anything to each other after that but the silence is easy. He takes a long drink of his beer, his eyes observing me and never breaking away.

  “You know where I live. Only fair if I know where you live,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I live with my sister and her husband. In East Craig.” I pause, licking my lips. The coaster on the table suddenly seems interesting. “It’s not exactly where I thought I’d be at age thirty, to be honest.”

  He watches me for a moment, a flicker of darkness in his eyes, before he nods. “I think we all find ourselves in such places sometimes. The places we thought we’d never end up. I still can’t quite get over how you broke your leg.” My face immediately reddens, not from embarrassment, but from shame. “It seems like your ex-boyfriend was partly to blame, and yet he still left you in the end. Hope you don’t pick such a winner next time.”

  There’s so much I want to address. Next time? It almost sounds like Keir’s volunteering for the job. But that’s just wishful thinking on my behalf.

  It’s not wishful thinking, I remind myself. As nice as he is, you are damaged goods and he’s not. Don’t forget that.

  “I won’t make that mistake again,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t plan to be in a relationship again for a very long time.”

  “I think you’re smart,” he says, to my surprise.

  “Smart?”

  “You shouldn’t plan on these things anyway. Just let them happen if they do. But just so you know, your ex sounds like a real knobdobber.”

  I burst out laughing, my hand immediately covering my mouth. “Knobdobber,” I repeat. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that one.”

  “But you agree, aye?”

  “Aye,” I say, imitating his accent. “Mark was a real knobdobber, that’s for sure. The going got rough and he got out.”

  “Something tells me you didn’t need him anyway.”

  “You’re fucking right about that.” I raise my glass and knock it against his with a satisfying clink.

  He settles back into his seat and gives me a fleeting smile. “What time do you have to leave me today?”

  “Leave?” I blink at him.

  Oh shit.

  I quickly fish my phone out of my purse and look at the time. The meeting starts in five minutes.

  I glance up at him. “How did you know I have to go somewhere?”

  “I’m observant, remember? You’ve only relaxed around me in the last few minutes. The rest of the time you’ve been acting like you’re watching the clock.”

  Man. He really is observant. I have to be more careful around him.

  “It doesn’t matter where I was going,” I tell him. “I’m not going now.”

  He raises his brows in surprise. “Is that so? And why is that?”

  I shrug, overtly casual. I know I shouldn’t miss the meeting, that I need Anne and Reggie and everyone in the support group. For all I know, the weekly meetings are the only thing that’s keeping me sane and together.

  But there’s something about this man that does the same thing. I can’t really explain it—I still don’t know the guy at all, but it’s enough to make me come into the pub in the first place, hoping to find him, and it’s enough to make me stay. />
  The last thing I want though, is for him to get the wrong idea.

  “I’ve decided to drink a lot of beer instead,” I tell him, busying myself with a few gulps.

  He eyes my throat as I swallow, and for a moment I imagine seeing heat in his expression, something more carnal than jovial. But before I can focus on it, it disappears just as quickly.

  He clears his throat. “I can definitely help you with that. I might even join you.”

  We both finish our pints and he goes up to get more. I watch him carefully as he walks to the bar, laughing with the bartender. She’s cute, with freckles on her nose, a round face, and she’s obviously taken by Keir. He’s just as friendly with her as he is with me.

  It’s not jealousy that I feel—not exactly. I just wonder why this man is bothering to have a drink with me of all people. I had told him, a bit prematurely I suppose, that I wasn’t in it for a relationship. I wasn’t in the bar looking for a hook-up. And yet he’s been more than happy to spend two evenings this week buying me drinks.

  Maybe he thinks you’re hot, I tell myself. In the past it’s what I would have assumed. But ever since the accident, I’ve had a hard time believing any man would want me. Mark was the first example of that, and no matter how many times I thought it might be over between us, the rejection still hurts. It scars me nearly as badly as the gunshot did.

  Rejection breeds obsession, I also tell myself, quoting Tony Robbins. Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching lately.

  I can see how easy it would be to get obsessed with Keir though. He’s by far the manliest man in this place, let alone all of Edinburgh. Pretty much the opposite of Mark. Where my ex was all ironed shirts and hair goo, Keir is Henleys and utility pants. He’s exactly what you envision when you think of a protector.

  Even though it’s kind of too late for that.

  He walks toward me now with the drinks, streams of foam running over the sides and onto his large hands. There’s something buried in his eyes as they meet mine, something hidden, and I vow to spend the rest of the night learning more about him and being as observant of him as he seems to be of me.