The Actuary

by K T Bowes

  Chapter 36

  She woke abruptly, hearing men’s voices at two in the morning. Curiosity got the better of her and Emma went out into the lighted hallway, following the sound to Rohan’s bedroom. He lay face down on the bed, his head dangling off the edge as a small, skinny man leaned over him, examining the wound on his back. Emma bit her lip. She hadn’t even bothered to consider how he felt amidst her own thrashing around. “Can I do anything to help?” she asked groggily, standing in the doorway and watching the doctor’s small movements.

  When neither of them answered, she ventured into the room and held her breath at what she saw. The fatty tissue was exposed between Rohan’s shoulder blade and spine, so deep it oozed a steady flow of liquid. Her ineffectual attempt at first aid lay discarded on the floor. Both men ignored her. “Will there be permanent damage?” she asked softly, edging closer inch by inch. Part of her wanted to witness the tiny man at work and part of her, namely her stomach, definitely didn’t. Curiosity drove her on.

  Glancing up, the doctor blinked once over his deep brown eyes and glared at Emma. “Don’ touch!” he said with a strong Eastern European accent. “Don’ wan’ infection.” He leaned over Rohan so his nose was almost touching the open wound and squirted something from a clear bottle over the raw openness. Rohan swore. Russian, English and what Emma recognised as Spanish came pouring out of his full lips. He sounded more angry than in pain.

  “It’s ok.” Emma patted his good shoulder with gentle fingers, her eyes flickering with pleasure when Rohan reached up and clasped her hand. His vibrant blue eyes glittered in the lamplight with a strange, faraway essence as though his mind was somewhere else altogether.

  “Keep still!” The doctor rapped out the order and Rohan breathed through pursed lips which were white around the edges. The doctor took black fibre from a plastic wrapper and a curved, vicious looking needle, already threaded. Rohan closed his eyes as the doctor began to sew through his tender skin, each stitch separately knotted and independent of the others. The wound was over fifteen centimetres long, stretching with a beautiful arch around Rohan’s muscular shoulder blade. The man put a stitch every few centimetres, leaving long gaps through which the white fatty layers peeked. Emma rubbed Rohan’s sweating fingers and fought waves of nausea.

  “Go wash hand!” the doctor snapped at Emma. “Put glove on.”

  She gaped for a moment, wondering if he meant one hand or both. Jumping into action at his sharp look, she released Rohan’s hand and ran into his ensuite, cleaning her hands with soap and watching the bubbles in the water. Last night’s shower seemed a long time ago.

  With a nod, the doctor indicated a box of disposable gloves poking out of his copious black bag. Emma seized a pair and dragged them onto her hands. The powder inside helped them glide over her still damp fingers.

  “Der!” the doctor commanded, pointing to a place next to him. Emma moved into it. “Stitch hold ze vound. You erm...erm...” The man made pincer movements with his fingers and Emma pulled a face.

  “Squeeze it?”

  “Da, da!” he replied, eagerly nodding his head.

  Emma took a deep inhale and used both hands to press the flesh together into a line between the first of the rough looking stitches. Her jaw dropped open at the sight of the tube in the doctor’s hand. “No! You can’t use that!”

  “Emma, let him do his job. He knows what he’s doing.” Rohan spoke through gritted teeth, his pain evident in his slowness of speech and the veiled aggravation in his voice. She exhaled slowly and watched as the tiny, dark haired man squirted the liquid super glue along the seam she created between the folds.

  “This is just wrong.” she complained. “You should go to a hospital.”

  “Nastupnyy!”

  “What? Sorry, what’s he saying?” In panic, Emma appealed to Rohan.

  “Next,” Rohan groaned. “Next bit.”

  Emma appealed to the doctor. “But it’s not dry. It’ll bust apart.”

  “Nemaye. Just do!” His reprimand was clear.

  Gingerly, Emma released the joined folds of skin, marvelling when already they seemed sealed shut. She moved on with more confidence, closing each area while the doctor spread the glue and waiting a moment for it to seal. In a few minutes the wound looked closed.

  “Vzyaty dva.” The doctor turned with a pot of pills in his fingers, dropping the rattling gift into Emma’s outstretched palm. He held up two fingers.

  “What are they?” Emma asked, rolling the pot in her hand. There was nothing written on it.

  “Antibiotics.” Rohan groaned as he sat up. “I need to take two a day. They’re strong. I’ve had them before.”

  “But they could be anything,” Emma protested and Rohan’s voice grew low with warning.

  “Please, Emma! Just take him downstairs while I get his money. Give me a minute.”

  The doctor flipped his gloves off his hands with expert precision. Emma held her gloved hand out to offer to put them in the dustbin downstairs, but the man shook his head and stuffed them in his pocket inside out. A dusting of powder littered the side of his navy blue suit jacket. In the light from the yellow bulb, the man’s head shone like a beacon, strings of dark hair coming loose from their day job of covering his baldness.

  Emma followed him downstairs, her footsteps sounding dull on the wooden treads. He knelt down and fiddled in his bag, while Emma stood awkwardly holding onto the banister one handed. “Where are you from?” she ventured, hating the resounding silence.

  “Kiev.” He rapped out the answer with a flat, disinterested voice.

  “Oh, Ukraine?” Emma smiled, trying to impress the doctor with her stunning geographical knowledge. Then the colour drained suddenly from her already washed out face, leaving a grey appearance to her skin. “Ukraine.” She repeated the word as realisation hit and she moved back instinctively until her backside touched the cupboard under the stairs. “It was you!”

  Panic seized her body, rendering her immobile as the sickness bit at her guts and caused water to spring to her eyes. “You!”

  The doctor stood up and eyed Emma through narrowed, half closed eyes. His hooked nose seemed to protrude further as he stared her down. Emma’s breath came in sharp heaves as she stared at the face of a murderer.

  Rohan’s unsteady gait moved around upstairs, reaching the top of the steps and negotiating downwards, a slow, staccato beat of agonising pain. He broached the two bends in the staircase, landing on the parquet floor with a heavy, exhausted tread. His torso was still naked, the wound and its peculiar dressing eerie in the dull light. “Spasybi.” The similarity in their languages clanged in Emma’s head.

  The doctor acknowledged Rohan’s thanks and the outstretched hand stuffed with enough cash to have paid Emma’s rent for a month. Sickness roiled in her stomach as she pressed herself back against the stairs. At the click of the front door, she exhaled along with a sob.

  “Em, what’s up? You did good, doroha. Real good!”

  At Rohan’s offered embrace, Emma pushed herself further into the wood, sliding away until she was trapped in the corner between the cupboard and radiator. “You knew! How could you?”

  “I didn’t really have a choice, Em. I hoped you’d stay asleep.”

  “He was going to kill your son!” Emma screamed, covering her face with her hands and sliding down the wall until her bottom touched the cold floor. “Your mother went to get the money out to take me to him. She said they’d hold me down if they had to!” Hysteria licked at the surface of Emma’s sanity, eroding it with each inward breath. “How could you invite him here to stitch you up like it didn’t happen?” Emma sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it. I just can’t do this anymore. None of it!”

  Rohan reached down for her and Emma slapped his hand away, irrationally pleased at the wince of pain in his face. He stood up laid his hand down by his side. “I can’t go to a hospital, Emma. They automatically call the cops for st
ab wounds. I have to use back street doctors and I had no idea it was him until I saw your face! I’m sorry; I’ll never use him again.”

  “I don’t even know if it was him! There could be hundreds just like him but yes you will! Because it’s always all about you!” Emma’s body stilled with the dawning realisation her words brought. “It was always you first, with me, your mother, everyone. What does Rohan want? What’s best for Rohan? Never what’s best for me!” Emma stood up abruptly, feeling the room spin around her. She shook her head slowly. “You’re so selfish!” Her tears ceased as though a tap was turned off and she stared at Rohan with sudden clarity. She waved her hand at the front door, through which the back street abortionist just left and eyed her husband with something akin to pity. “How can you ever understand? You can’t because you don’t understand me. You never did. Anton did. We were the kindred spirits, him and me. You were no part of that, or of my life for the last seven years. Or your son’s.”

  Emma was calm as she stood and walked past her husband. Rohan seemed diminished somehow, his height bowed and bent and his eyes dull and filled with hurt. She refused to look at him again as she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. She slammed the door and pulled the bedside table in front of it, removing the surgical gloves stained with Rohan’s blood and tossing them into the dustbin in the ensuite.

  Emma showered again at three in the morning, washing herself clean from the stink of the kidnapping, the death of her assailants and the ruination of the beautiful Scottish mansion. The smoke still hung in her nostrils and felt sooty on the back of her tongue, more psychological than reality. She scrubbed her teeth until her head filled with the stinging scent and taste of mint and the bristles on her brush arced backwards like an old broom. The sickness rose again and she fought it, subduing it by a pure act of will. “Emma Harrington, you’re so done,” she whispered to herself in the mirror. The staring brown eyes looked back at her with resignation.