The Wall

by Amanda Carpenter

  She shook her head dumbly, sniffing a little. His dark eyes travelled over her stained nightgown and bare legs, took in the bruised and bleeding feet, the slender fingers nearly blue with cold, the trembling lips. He then saw for the first time the crumpled dressing gown on the floor and the small pair of shoes tumbled beside it. She saw his face become expressionless, then realised that his eyes had turned nearly black with a molten rage. He was nearly choking her and didn’t seem to realise it and she croaked, “Please, your hand!”

  She was loosened immediately, and Greg stood up in one lithe upsurging motion. If she had thought he had looked dangerous before tonight, she hadn’t seen anything to compare with the murderous look in his eyes and the taut, jerking line of his jaw muscle. His big hands were clenched with the bones showing white and his body was held like a weapon. When he turned on his heel and simply left the room, she was left feeling nonplussed. Whatever she had expected from him, it hadn’t been that.

  After a minute, she stood and followed him, wincing at the throb from her bruised feet. Being alone in the den made her nervous. She followed the hall to a stairway and uncertainly climbed the stairs. At the top, she found a light streaming from an open door and, approaching hesitantly, she saw Greg pulling jeans over brief undershorts. His bare body looked very powerful, the chest muscles and flat stomach gleaming in the yellow golden light thrown by the bedside lamp. His face was like granite. After the jeans came a thick pullover sweater, and he drew that on, shoulder muscles flexing. Sara watched with a growing perplexity and fear. It didn’t even occur to her to be embarrassed by his naked body; she was too overwhelmed with the problems of the moment to notice.

  “What are you doing?” The question came out in a whisper, but he heard and turned, his dark head moving in a neat swift movement.

  “Getting dressed; what does it look like?” He was terse, angry. He was angry with her. She crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive gesture, her face flooding with unhappiness. The whole thing was just such a nightmare. Greg crossed over to her and passed his hand over her hair swiftly, his face gentling as he saw her distress. “I’m going to your house.”

  “No!” she burst out, clutching his arms before he withdrew. “You can’t! What if—what if he’s still there?”

  His dark eyes mocked her gently. He seemed almost calm. That was why his words were so shocking to her. “Then I think I might kill him.”

  The shock stayed with her until he had sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on socks and shoes, and then she erupted in a wild babble of incoherency. “Greg, it’s insane, you can’t…you could get hurt, killed—oh, please, promise me you won’t go until tomorrow, no, you mustn’t leave me…” Then, as he bent to pick up his jacket, she cried out, “Greg, don’t leave me here alone!”

  That sank in. His head jerked and he stared at her with his eyes widened, taking in her tangible fear, the shadows behind her, the quiet house. He hesitated, then came over to her. “You’d be all right here with Beowulf. Nothing could happen to you.”

  “What about you?” Her eyes searched his face. “Please, if you go, then I want to go, too. I—Greg, I can’t stay here alone!”

  “I know,” he soothed, then hesitated. “I know. Come on, let’s go get your dressing gown and shoes. You’re not going back barefoot.”

  Sara didn’t know whether to feel weak from relief that she wasn’t staying in a strange house alone or whether to feel sick from the fear of going out into that dark night again. After she had slipped on her shoes and dressing gown, he turned off the lights and put an arm around her shoulders as he opened the door for them to go out on to the porch. Beowulf slipped out of the door and then Greg was locking it. All too soon they were back on the path that would take them to Sara’s house and, as if he knew just what she was feeling, Greg put his arm around her, holding her firmly to his side. He didn’t let her go until they reached the end of the path, then he whispered in her ear, “Stay here a minute.” She barely had time for a nod before he was slipping away, melting into the night like a shadow.

  What would he find? What if he was attacked? She knelt and found a thick stick by the path and was after him before she let her fear conquer her. She came up behind him just as he reached the porch and gently touched his arm. He whirled, incredibly fast, with arm up and fist clenched, checking only when he saw it was her. He took in her wary stance, and the stick in her hand before she felt a hand plucking it wryly away. The moonlight was shining enough for her to see his dark shape, bulky, strong, reassuring, in front of her. He was hefting the stick thoughtfully. He kept it in one hand and held her behind him with the other. In this way they crept to the dark rectangle that was her front door. It looked so alien in the dark. She couldn’t have recognised it if she had been on her own.

  A silent push of the foot had the door swinging gently open. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle any noise she might make. Greg pushed her against the outside wall and warned her with the hard pressure of his hand to stay there. Then he crashed inside, flipping the light switch by the side of the door and moving swiftly. There was silence, and she couldn’t stand it, so she came in too, her eyes darting around the empty room.

  Greg had disappeared and she followed him quickly down the hall to the light shining from her bedroom. He was standing in the middle of the floor, swinging the stick thoughtfully against his thigh as he looked around at the wreckage of the room. He turned at the sound of her footsteps. “The light was left on, Sara, I’m sorry about the—”

  Whatever else he said rushed away in the roaring that filled her ears as she took in the ruined furniture, the clothes strewn about. A reeking odour told her that her favourite bottle of perfume had been smashed, and the sense of violation at this invasion of her privacy was so intense that she swayed dizzily against the doorpost.

  Greg was very quick. He was at her side in a split second, putting his arms around her and supporting her, hiding the room from her gaze. It was nice to be held and rocked so gently and easily. After a minute she opened her eyes and stared into his dark intent gaze. He rubbed her cheek. “Okay now?”

  “I think so. Sorry about being so stupid.” She was shaky when she stood back from him, but he kept his arm around her waist until she sat carefully on the bed.

  His face crinkled into a smile. “If you don’t stop saying you’re sorry, I may get violent!”

  Sara laughed shakily, appreciating his effort. “Sorry.” He growled.

  As she looked around, the mess all over the floor brought the same fear back again, and her mouth shook when she saw her favourite blouse thrown into the corner, ripped in two. When she looked back at Greg, her eyes reflected her hurt and fear and vulnerability. “Why?” she whispered. “Why me? Why would someone want to do this? I don’t understand it.” She bent and picked up a broken piece of ceramic near her ankle. It had been a hand-painted vase, picked up in Mexico along with the coffee mugs. She said a little forlornly, “It was my favourite piece, too.”

  Greg knelt at her side and looked for the other pieces, finding four altogether. He concentrated briefly and looked up with an encouraging smile. “Maybe we can glue them together again. See, it didn’t shatter, and the jagged edges fit together perfectly.”

  Seeing him at her feet, eager to comfort and reassure after being so intense and huge and violent, made her smile involuntarily. “We’ll try.” His hand came up and gripped her a moment, then fell away as he stood up briskly. A trip to her half open closet had him pulling out a suitcase and dumping it on the bed. She watched, eyes huge in her exhausted face. He started to pull out clothes that were still hanging up, dumping them in the open suitcase. “What are you doing?”

  He grinned. “Favourite question for the evening, is it? I’m packing for you, sweet Sara-Sue. You’re going to come home with me.”

  She didn’t feel guilt or embarrassment at this, perhaps because she was so tired. Instead, she felt suffused with an intense relief. “Oh,” she sighed, “can
I?” It earned her a quick kiss on the forehead.

  “Just try and stop it.” Greg looked around the room assessingly, and a slightly puzzled expression puckered his eyes. “How did you manage to get out of the house, if you were all the way down at this end of the hall, and the front and back doors at the other end of the house?”

  She stood and went to the window, pulling back the curtains to show him the unlatched side. “I was lucky. There wasn’t a screen on the window, and I just slipped outside.” With a finger, she showed how easily and silently it swung open, then she closed and latched it again with a shudder.

  Greg had watched her with a frown. “Well,” he muttered, “that’s something we can thank your landlord for, although normally I’d chew him out for not properly covering the windows. Funny, isn’t it?” He ran an eye quickly down her, and she looked down at herself at that. The dressing gown looked dirty, and the bedraggled nightdress peeped out from underneath. “You might like to put on jeans or something until we get back. It looks like your nightgown has just about had it for the night.”

  She chuckled wryly. “I see what you mean. It’s so cold out, I’d appreciate something warmer, anyway.”

  He was walking towards the door and paused. “How long do you think it will take you to finish packing?”

  Sara glanced at the mess he had made of things. “Maybe fifteen minutes?”

  “I’m going to check out the rest of the house while you dress and pack. Don’t shut the door all the way, all right? Yell if you need anything. I’ll be just a call away.”

  A call away. It sounded nice. She gave him a sweet smile before he left, causing him to stop and stare at her with an unreadable expression. She turned and, shivering slightly, twitched the curtains closed, blocking out that black night. Alone, she quickly dragged on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Rummaging around on the floor, she managed to locate her brush, and a few flicks through her hair took care of the tangles whipped in it from the wind. Then she set about finding underwear and night-clothes that weren’t saturated with perfume, stuffing them into one side of the suitcase. She then straightened the clothes that Greg had thrown in, adding the rest of the undamaged things. After that, she walked down the hall in search of her purse. It was where she had left it, in the hall cupboard at the bottom, with the linen. Out of curiosity she rummaged through her wallet with a puzzled frown. A step sounded behind her and she jumped before realising that it was only Greg returning from the garage. He surveyed her kneeling posture. “Anything missing?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. All the cash I had is still here, and my identification. See, even my lip gloss…no, everything is untouched.” She held the things in both hands and looked up with eyes that didn’t see him. “What do you suppose he wanted?”

  “Your car is still in the garage. I think we’d better drive it over to my place just in case.” Beowulf came panting up and bumped Greg’s knee, and he reached down to rub the dog’s head absently. “There’s room in my garage.” His gaze sharpened on her. “Stop it, Sara! He didn’t really have time to steal anything. We got here too quickly for that; in fact, we probably scared him away. Sara?” Her eyes focused on him. “You’re safe, I promise. Okay?” At her nod, he said bracingly, “Good girl. Are you packed?”

  “I need my things from the bathroom,” she replied tiredly. “I’ll go and put them in my handbag.” Greg was trying to make her feel better, but all the same, she would have felt a little better if the unknown intruder had at least taken her handbag. He had taken the time to rip her room apart, surely he could have taken the time to look into cupboards if he had been a thief. Her handbag had not been hidden, merely put away. But she knew deep down that the intruder had not been a thief. He had known that she was home, and it would not be hard to find out that she lived alone. No thief would want to take the chance of getting caught by the house’s occupants; they would wait until the occupants were gone before attempting to rob a place. That was what scared her, and Greg knew it.

  She had given him her car keys before going into the bathroom and getting her toothbrush, cleansing cream and cosmetics, stuffing them haphazardly into the recesses of her handbag. Then she went back into the living room and sat quietly on the couch until Greg came back into the house. He passed by her, however, and soon emerged from her bedroom with a leather jacket in his hands.

  “You’ll need this. It’s getting cold.” She stood and he helped her into it and then, turning out all of the lights and whistling for Beowulf, he led her out of the house. Sara saw a quick sharp glance from him, in the light of the car’s headlights. “Do you mind if I drive?”

  At that she grimaced at him. “I’d prefer it, the way I feel now. I feel just like a zombie!”

  A guiding hand helped her into the passenger seat as he said quietly, “You’ve just about had it, I think. It’s been an unsettling day for such a little girl.”

  She chuckled at the gentle mocking tone. At the moment she felt like a small child being helped by an older brother, and the feeling was safe and pleasant. She leaned back in the bucket seat and drowsily perused the profile of the man beside her. He was so hard and yet so gentle. With a flash of perception she realised that he was probably acting like an older brother on purpose. He had sensed that she was close to the end of her tether.

  Beowulf panted heavily in the small back seat, sprawled all over her suitcase and handbag. She glanced back, grinning at his wicked white smile and long tongue. A faint whine and wag of the tail was his response.

  They were very soon pulling into the long winding drive that cut into Greg’s property, and when he smoothly pulled the car to a stop and got out, Sara slid across the seat to sit in the driver’s position. Greg went on into the house to open the garage door. Beowulf waited patiently in the back of the car. A few moments passed and then the long rectangular garage door slid silently up to reveal an empty parking place beside an expensive model sports car.

  She changed gears and quickly pulled her car into the parking position and switched off the engine. Greg was there before the purr of the car’s motor had ceased, opening the door and helping her out. He reached in the back and hauled out her suitcase after Beowulf had bounded out.

  Sara was reeling on her feet from exhaustion. She guessed fuzzily that it must be around five in the morning or so, and a wave of weary anger shook through her when she thought of the unknown intruder who had disrupted her placid life and had caused her so much personal anguish. “Damn him!” she muttered half-tearfully. “Damn him to hell!”

  A guiding hand propelled her forward, into the adjoining house, and she was vaguely aware of the dark brown hues of the den passing by, the stairs negotiated with considerable help from Greg, and then at some indeterminate distance down the second storey hallway a bedroom with a soft warm bed. That was all she noticed. As soon as Greg had turned on the light, she headed for that bed. Without a murmur she sank on to the bedspread and was out as soon as her head hit the downy pillow. She never felt the gentle hands that undressed her as if she were a baby, pulling a loose nightgown over her unconscious head and tucking her underneath the covers as lovingly as any mother. She never realised the care with which her head was arranged on the pillow, and she never felt the hand that stroked her dark cloudy mane of hair before Greg removed himself and turned out the light. He left the door open and Beowulf snoozed at the foot of the bed.

  Sara moaned and rolled over in bed. Her eyes flew open as she felt how extraordinarily sore she was in certain areas, and her misty gaze travelled wonderingly over strange walls and furniture. A puzzled smile touched her lips as she vaguely wondered if she was still dreaming, and then the events of last night came tumbling back into her consciousness and she bolted up in bed like a rabbit breaking from cover. Beowulf raised his black head and thumped his stump at her. Funny, she thought, frowning, I don’t remember undressing. She put up a hand and scratched at her ribcage at a slight discomfort and found that she was still wearing her bra. She neve
r wore a bra to bed and rarely wore one when she took a nap, it was so uncomfortable. But then, she acknowledged wryly, she never ran down a beach in a nightgown and got a man out of bed at three in the morning before, either. She dismissed the whole train of thought as being unimportant, since she didn’t remember entering this strange bedroom last night anyway. Actually, it was early this morning, but who was counting?

  She gingerly edged her feet off the bed and stood, wincing at the pain from her feet. A quick inspection showed them to be lacerated and bruised. A black mark was on her left ankle. A quick exploration of the room revealed a small bath off to the left, and she went into it with an anticipatory gleam in her eye. She was prevented from shutting the door behind her, however, by a quick powerful shove from a waist-high canine head. Beowulf watched her with velvet eyes.

  “Oh, all right!” she told him laughingly, and let him in to plop on the tiled floor. “I’ll have you know, young man, that you’re the first male that I’ve ever let into my bathroom!” He looked duly appreciative of that fact, then rolled over on to his side with a snort. He was still there when she emerged from the shower stall some time later. She had found several more bruises all over her body and whenever she moved unwarily she felt painful twinges that warned her to be careful. It had hurt, standing in the shower and having the warm soapy water lap at her feet, but she knew that at least it had cleaned out the cuts.

  She dressed for comfort in the pair of jeans that she had donned around four in the morning, and a red long-sleeved blouse. It helped hide her bruises. Then she brushed her long black hair with the hand dryer that she’d packed until her hair was moderately dry. Makeup? It was out of the question; she felt strangely exhausted at the effort that she had expended already. All she managed to do to her feet was pull a thick pair of cushiony socks on. She had tried shoes and found they hurt too much.