by K. J. Frost
“It’s not that,” she whispers.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m trying to work out how to reply,” she says.
“Well, would you rather wait, or not?” I ask, trying to simplify things for her.
“Yes,” she says softly. “And no.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure we can do both.”
She smiles up at me. “I know. That’s why I was struggling.” She moves closer. “I know we should be sensible,” she says, “but sometimes, when we’re together, it’s…” she stops talking and bites her bottom lip again. I stare at her, the need to touch her and kiss her almost overpowering me, the ache in my body reaching a fever pitch. But I know I have to rein it in and do what’s right, no matter how hard that might be.
I lean into her. “Shall we change the subject?”
“But we haven’t resolved anything,” she says.
“Yes, we have.”
“We have?” She raises her eyebrows.
“Of course. All the while there’s any doubt in your mind, then the answer has to be that we’ll wait.”
“There is no doubt, Rufus, not about you.”
I smile. “I know. But you have doubts about this, don’t you? And I think maybe you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yes. I think we should wait.” I move, so my lips are right beside her ear. “I think we should make it special and magical and not rush into anything.”
She leans back. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Waiting would make it so much better. Wouldn’t it?”
I smile down at her, loving her innocence. “Yes. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy keeping my hands to myself, but I know you’ll be worth it,” I whisper.
“You can’t say that.” She looks up at me.
“Yes, I can.” She blushes.
“So…” she murmurs hesitantly, “We’re agreed?”
“Yes.” I lean in and kiss her gently on her cheek and this time I definitely hear her moan.
“We’re going to be sensible?” she confirms, as I pull back from her. I nod my head. “Even if being sensible is overrated?”
I smile. “Even then.”
She breathes in, a little more deeply than usual, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes fixed on mine, glistening in the dim lights. Despite everything we’ve just said, I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to resist her for the next five minutes, let alone until we’re married. “H—How’s the case going?” she asks, stuttering slightly and for a moment, I wonder if she feels the same. God, I hope so.
“We’ve hit a bit of a dead-end,” I reply, taking a deep breath and trying to regain control of my feelings. “We’re waiting for the results of some tests, but other than that…”
“What tests?” she asks, turning and looking at me, the flush on her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes still evident.
“Tests that match the bullet to the gun.”
“You can do that?” She’s surprised.
“Yes. Obviously it’s only really useful if we have the right gun.”
“And you don’t know whether you have?”
“No. I’m pretty sure we don’t,” I reply. “We’re testing the bullet against your uncle’s gun, and Mr Cole’s – the man who tampered with my car – and I don’t think either of them shot PC Harper.”
“So the problem is, that you need to find the right gun?” she asks.
“Precisely. Only, the man we thought might be guilty doesn’t seem to have one in his possession.”
“I suppose he might have thrown it away?” she suggests.
“We searched the area in the days immediately after Harper was killed,” I point out.
“But he could have thrown it away anywhere, couldn’t he?”
“Yes. And I can hardly send men out searching the whole of Surrey.”
She moves closer and nestles into me again. “You’re frustrated, aren’t you?”
I look down at her, grinning. “More than you’ll ever know,” I tease.
She shakes her head and smiles. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“But you’d rather not talk about work?”
“I don’t mind,” I reply. “I just wish I could fathom this one out.”
“You’ll get there,” she says.
I wish I had her confidence.
“How’s it been, having your mother to stay?” she asks, doing the perfect job of changing the subject. Again.
I smile down at her. “It’s been… different.”
She smiles back. “She seems to be enjoying looking after you.”
“She’d probably do more, if I’d let her.” I close my eyes, just for a second. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have your mother bathe you, when you’re thirty-two years old?”
She chuckles. “No. But do you think you could cope without her?”
“At the moment, probably not,” I admit. “That doesn’t make it any less humiliating though.”
“Poor Rufus,” she says, with mock sympathy and a very slight pout.
“If you keep doing that, I’ll have to kiss you,” I warn.
She exaggerates the pout even further and I laugh out loud.
“You should laugh like that more often,” she says, looking at me.
“I do try,” I reply. “It’s just my job can be quite serious sometimes.”
She nods her head. “Well, I’ll just have to make sure I give you plenty of things to smile about, won’t I?” she says, leaning into me and looking up into my eyes.
“You already do,” I tell her and kiss her forehead just quickly.
“Being as we’ve both got work tomorrow, do you think we should go home?” she asks.
“I suppose we probably should,” I reply, finishing my drink.
“Do you want me to fetch our coats?” Amelie suggests.
“No. I’ll manage.”
I go over to the coat stand and retrieve our things, bringing them back to the table and doing my best to help Amelie on with her coat. She then returns the favour, holding mine for me while I shrug it over my shoulders.
“Don’t you get cold, not being able to do up the buttons?” she asks, looking me up and down.
“Not when I’m with you, no,” I whisper and she blushes beautifully.
“Take me home, Inspector.” She offers me her gloved hand.
“Gladly, Miss Cooper.”
I take her hand in mine and lead her through the pub to the front door.
Outside, we take a few steps away from the door, into the shadows afforded by the building and overhanging trees, where I stop and pull her into my body. “Thank you for a lovely, evening,” I whisper. “It was just what I needed.”
“Hmm. Me too,” she murmurs, in reply.
“There’s just one thing,” I add, the tease back in my voice.
“What’s that?” she asks, looking up at me.
“I can only take being sensible so far.”
“And?” She looks up at me expectantly.
“And that means, I’m not waiting another moment to kiss you…” I lean down and put my words into actions, cradling her face with my hand and swallowing her soft moan. As I change the angle of my head slightly, somewhere in my periphery, I’m aware of footsteps coming quickly from my right. They’re light, like the person’s running, but I ignore them as Amelie places her arms inside my coat, around my waist. Right at that moment, I feel someone brush against me and a sharp, agonising pain, just before the person rushes off again. “Argghh!” I pull back from Amelie, clutching my side.
“Rufus?” She grabs me as I stumble backwards. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
I can’t answer, feeling winded, but as I move my hand away from my side and glance down at it, there’s enough moonlight for me to see the dark liquid staining my palm, just as Amelie screams.
“Amelie.” I try to stay calm, even as she starts to blur in front of me, a wave of dizzine
ss and nausea overwhelming me. My legs give way and I crumple to the ground, against the wall of the pub.
“Rufus!” She’s beside me in an instant, kneeling and pushing my coat and jacket to one side so she can see my shirt. “Oh God. There’s so much blood,” she says. “Tell me what to do.”
“Handkerchief,” I murmur.
Sobbing, she fumbles through my pockets, finding my handkerchief at the second attempt, and holds it against my side. I take it from her and reposition it, covering the wound and pressing down as hard as I can manage.
“Your arms?” I ask her. “You’re not hurt?”
“No, darling,” she says softly through her tears. “I’m not hurt.”
“Good. Go inside. Phone… ambulance…” My voice starts to falter.
She gets to her feet and in an instant, she’s gone. I wish she’d come back. Her presence is comforting. I need her, and I don’t like lying on the ground in a pool of my own blood, by myself. I’m aware that the handkerchief is already completely soaked and I know that’s not good, but I do my best to keep up the pressure, and try not to think too much, just as I hear voices.
“… I don’t know. They ran off.” That’s Amelie’s voice and she’s getting closer. “I didn’t even see them.”
“Good Lord,” a man says and I’m aware of someone kneeling beside me once more.
“Rufus?” It’s Amelie again. She’s close. “They’re telephoning for an ambulance now.”
“Do you think we should try and get him inside?” the man asks. “I can get some more men to help us.”
I shake my head as best I can.
“He doesn’t seem to think that’s a good idea,” Amelie replies. “Maybe moving him isn’t wise.”
“The ambulance won’t be long,” another woman shouts from the distance.
“Rufus?” Amelie says again. “The ambulance is coming… Rufus? Rufus?”
She sounds very far away all of a sudden and I struggle to open my eyes. It’s dark now and I can’t see her.
“I love you,” I whisper, hoping to God she’s heard me, just as everything fades to nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
I took a huge risk doing that. I don’t think anyone saw me though. He certainly didn’t. He was too busy kissing his precious girlfriend. And she was too busy kissing him. It’s like I was invisible.
I heard him cry out though. That felt good, although there was part of me that wished I could have used the gun after all. Yes, I wanted it to be personal, but the gun would have been final, more certain. Still, there wasn’t time to go back and get it, and the knife was quite sharp. I’m sure it did the job.
Waiting opposite the pub for them to come out was the most nerve wracking thing I’ve ever done, but it was worth it, just for the satisfaction of feeling the blade sink into his flesh.
I wanted him to suffer, just like she did.
And now his girlfriend will know how this feels; what it’s like to lose the person you love more than anyone else, and to have to try and live without them.
*****
I’m fleetingly aware of bright lights in between long periods of darkness.
I can hear voices, indistinguishable to start with, but then discernible as either male or female, albeit unfamiliar.
I hear myself call out for Amelie every so often, and the soothing tones of someone female hushing me. Who is this woman? Why doesn’t she understand? I don’t want to be hushed. I want Amelie.
The voices become louder, more urgent, and then I feel myself sinking again, the darkness claiming me once more…
I slowly open my eyes, to a dimly lit room, aware of white walls and a ticking clock, its metronomic tones reverberating around my head.
“You’re back with us then, Mr Stone.” I hear a soft voice and, within seconds, a white-capped female face appears in my line of sight. It’s a pretty face, with flushed cheeks and concerned, deep blue eyes.
“Y—Yes.”
“Don’t talk for the moment.” She holds my wrist while looking at the watch that’s attached to her apron, above her left breast.
I want to talk. I want to ask where I am; what happened; and most importantly of all, where Amelie is.
The nurse releases my arm and goes to turn away, but I grip her hand.
“Mr Stone, I have to go and fetch the doctor,” she says, trying to pull free. I keep hold though, hanging onto her.
“Amelie.” My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper and I cough, then wince as a sharp pain sears through my side. I’ll have to remember not to do that again.
She pauses, allowing me to recover, then smiles, relenting. “Is that your young lady?”
“Yes.”
“She was here until after your surgery finished,” she replies. “And then your mother insisted on taking her home.” Having delivered this information, she leaves the room and I’m left alone to contemplate the fact that I’ve had surgery, which is news to me, that Amelie stayed here for as long as she did, and that my mother was here as well. I wonder what kind of chaos that created.
Now that the nurse has moved, I can see the clock, which is on the wall opposite my bed, and I focus on the hands, taking a moment to register the time. It’s nine o’clock, but I’m not sure whether that’s morning, or evening. Very slowly, with extreme care, I twist my head around, taking in my surroundings. I’m by myself in a single room again, which feels rather familiar, but then I suppose one hospital is just like any other. To my right is a large window, its blinds pulled up to reveal a dull rainy day, which explains the overall gloom in the room, and the need for a lamp above my head. It’s morning then, which means I’ve been here for almost twelve hours. I’m still pondering that when the door opens and I slowly turn my head in the opposite direction, to be faced with a young doctor, probably in his late twenties, with a handsome face and a receding hairline, despite his youth. He’s followed into the room by the nurse who left a few minutes ago.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he says. “I’m Doctor Gascoigne. It’s good of you to join us. We were starting to wonder if you’d decided to hibernate for the winter.”
I wonder for a moment why doctors seem to find it necessary to be facetious at every turn, but then it dawns on me that they’re faced with death on a daily basis. I suppose they have to take their chances at humour wherever they get them.
I smile my response and he comes around to the other side of the bed.
“You were very lucky,” he continues, folding his arms across his chest. “The weapon used appears to have been a fairly short but sharp kitchen knife of some sort, with no serrated edges, so it made a nice clean wound.” Personally I’d rather it hadn’t, but he seems to be taking pleasure in telling me this, so who am I to argue? “Because it was quite a short blade, it missed anything of importance, which was a blessing, but you lost quite a lot of blood,” he continues, “and we had to give you a transfusion.”
A blessing? I’m not feeling particularly blessed at the moment, so I just stare at him.
“You’re going to need to stay here for a few days,” he adds once it’s clear I’m not going to reply.
“Where is ‘here’?” I ask, taking more of an interest.
“Kingston Hospital. The ambulance brought you here, rather than going to Molesey, due to the severity of your injury.”
“I see.” That explains the familiarity of the place. I’ve been here before – quite literally.
“Assuming everything goes well, we’ll let you go home to recuperate,” the doctor continues. “As long as you promise to rest, rather than going back to work.” I wonder whether he’s been speaking to my mother… or Harry Thompson, maybe? “All in all,” he concludes, unfolding his arms and making ready to leave again, “it could have been a lot worse. Just get plenty of rest and you’ll soon feel a lot better.”
He goes to the end of the bed, murmuring something to the nurse, while touching her arm. She nods her head a few times, before he leaves, and she comes over to
stand by the side of the bed.
“How do you feel?” she enquires and I wonder why no-one has asked that question before now.
“Like I’ve been stabbed?”
She smiles. “Are you comfortable?” she asks. Clearly she was looking for a more detailed answer.
“I’ve been worse,” I reply. Lying on the ground outside The Swan was significantly less comfortable than this.
She nods her head. “I’m going to telephone your mother,” she says. “She left strict instructions with the night sister that she should be contacted the moment you came round, regardless of what time it was.”
“That sounds like my mother.”
She rolls her eyes, just fractionally. “From what I understand, she’s certainly a character,” she replies diplomatically, leaving the room.
I take advantage of the silence to think, now that I’m no longer scared to do so. I close my eyes and try to recall what happened… I was definitely aware of footsteps running towards me, as Amelie and I were kissing. I recall they sounded light, like a woman’s, possibly? I try to think if there were any distinctive smells, or noises, other than the footsteps, but nothing comes to mind, except the pain of the blade entering me, and the fear that something might have happened to Amelie. Even though she was talking, and I can still remember a lot of what she said, which should have told me she was fine, I recall the terror that struck at my heart, that she might have been hurt too.
The door opens and the nurse walks back in, coming around to the right hand side of my bed and picking up my wrist again to take my pulse.
“Are you going to do that every time you come in?” I ask her.