by C F Dunn
“Matthew, please.”
Tears tickled my skin and I tried to rub them out with my shoulder, but I couldn’t move enough to reach them. He extended a finger and with infinite gentleness brushed the flow with the tip.
“Don’t cry. Hush, it’s all right now; I’ll take you somewhere you’ll feel safe.”
My answering sigh was shallow and painful but one of immense relief and, a few feet away, the young nurse looked enviously at me.
Chapter 16
Into Light
HE HADN’T SAID WHERE HE WOULD TAKE ME, or when, or – for that matter – how.
I slept fitfully for what little remained of the day, dragged back to consciousness every time the door opened or someone walked past, sleeping only when my heart returned to its regular beat. Matthew did not leave the room again and, through the drug-induced waking dream that made up reality, I was vaguely aware that several times people came to see me, but he turned them away at the door.
He removed the tube from my arm when I half-slept and, at one point, he carefully examined my ribcage, running swift, experienced hands along each rib with an expression of total concentration until he found what he looked for. He bound the upper half of my body in a flexible strapping that allowed me to breathe while holding my fractured bones in place, taking immense care to move me as little as possible; but I was too far gone either to protest at the pain or to thank him when at last the strapping gave me some respite from it.
I didn’t know how long I lay there – whether one day or three – because hours merged, counted only in the number of times pain expanded to fill every part of me until I thought I would explode with it, and then the relief as medication numbed it once more.
The emergency room quietened as darkness fell, and staff came on duty for the night shift. We were briefly alone and I was still barely awake when Matthew picked me up as easily as a kitten wrapped in a blanket, and carried me out of the med centre. We left the building via an internal door that led directly into the original part of the old house, exchanging the sterile cleanliness and strip lighting of the one, for the aged walls and wax-polish scent of the other.
The halls were deserted and a night hush had fallen on the old building.
“Where are we going?” I asked when I realized it wasn’t to my apartment.
“Here,” he said, stopping at a heavy oak door with an ornate brass handle. The light from the hall only dimly illuminated the room we entered. Matthew walked over to what appeared in the darkness to be a large day-bed with a raised scroll arm at one end. It had been made up into an improvised bed. Despite the care with which he lowered me, I ground my teeth as the infinitesimal jarring jolted me fully awake.
Concerned, he asked, “That hurt, didn’t it?”
“Not really,” I feinted. “Is this your office?”
“It is.”
A faint draught drifted from arched windows looking out into the black night, the lamplight from a desk lamp he switched on softly reflecting in the mirrored glass. The light cast deep shadows into the large room, whose ceiling criss-crossed above me with ornate gothic plasterwork, terminating in pinnacles like icing-sugar stalactites. He reached for a blanket from a small pile neatly folded by the day-bed, shaking it out and letting it settle over me in a cloud, then repeated the process with two others until the chill of the air had been defeated. He found pillows, placing one under each arm. I closed my eyes as the soreness settled back into its normal hum, and he touched my cheek briefly.
Mahogany shelving lined two walls, and I guessed the room must originally have been the library to the big house – the same library where once Ebenezer Howard sat to transcribe the journal, a lifetime and more before my birth. And yet here I lay, part of an improbable dream – resurrecting it from obscurity, raising it to life, its saviour, its thief. I shook despite the blankets. Matthew knelt down beside me.
“You’re cold.” He glanced at the pale limestone fireplace big enough to sit in, its grate already laid with logs. Although smoke-black with age, it looked unused for many years. On either side of the fireplace, new shelves were being built to match the originals – one side already nearly full of books whose spines stood regimented, gilded titles subtle in the limited light.
“Don’t you freeze in here?” I asked.
“I don’t feel the cold much, no.” He paused thoughtfully, then strode to the fireplace and leaned forwards, peering up the length of the chimney. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, disappearing out of the room. He returned with a box of matches. The struck match flared, momentarily casting his face in a glow that grew stronger as the brittle kindling lit. He suddenly looked lost and out of his depth, and I thought then that I asked too much of him, placing him in an invidious position with the college authorities.
“Will you get in trouble for bringing me here?”
He hesitated and shot me a look as if a thought suddenly occurred to him.
“Are you comfortable being here, Emma? Does it – do I – worry you at all?”
I knew what he implied and it couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“No, not at all; I feel totally safe here. Thank you,” I remembered to say.
The fire leapt eagerly to life, filling the room with an energy of flames before generating enough heat to warm me. The room looked warmer even if it still felt cold.
“Better?” he asked hopefully.
“Much,” I said. “I like fires. Is this your only room – I mean, do you have an apartment like the rest of us?”
“No, I don’t need one – I go home.”
He sat down on the floor next to me, resting his supple back against the day-bed, the fire playing gold and orange on his skin. I could study him legitimately from this position – his fine, angular features thrown into sharp relief by the firelight. Although he hadn’t slept properly for at least twenty-four hours, he looked as he always did, strong and vigorous, as if just returned from a brisk walk in the sun.
“Yes, of course you do – I forgot. Do you live far from the campus?”
“Not really, it doesn’t take me long to get back.” He must have guessed my thoughts because he added, “I often stay here overnight; I’m not leaving you by yourself, in case you wondered.”
He looked back at me and met my gaze. I held it for a few seconds before I flushed under its intensity and looked away, thankful for the lack of light in the room. Smiling, he settled down to watch the flames.
He read in an elegant chair behind the rosewood table that served as a desk. It was still dark outside, and the fire had developed a bed of incandescent embers on which fresh logs now burned. He closed his book and placed it on the table in front of him.
“Good morning; how are you feeling? Thirsty?”
“Yes – I think I am,” I said sleepily, but he held a glass from which to drink before I confirmed that what I felt was thirst. I raised my head as far as possible and managed a few sips, but more escaped from the glass than I drank, and it dribbled icily down my chin, collecting in the crease of my neck and shocking me awake.
“I hate being an invalid,” I exploded in guilty frustration, taking him by surprise. “I’m in the way here and you have better things to do than look after me, like a… like a Victorian consumptive.”
Matthew disguised a smile and put the glass back to my lips, his other hand easing behind my neck to steady me.
“Well, unless you want to go back to the med centre, you’ll just have to put up with being looked after by me here; it’s a very simple choice.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“Well, I’m not.”
And despite my injuries, I felt a fluttering in response. I drank more this time, and without embarrassing myself. He found a clean handkerchief from somewhere and dried my neck, taking care to avoid the bruising. It felt wet like Staahl’s tongue. I shrank back before I could stop myself and Matthew immediately withdrew his hand, his eyes taking on a guarded look.
&nbs
p; “It’s not you, I’m sorry. It’s… it reminded me of Staahl; he licked me – my neck; it was… disgusting.”
I shuddered, nausea seizing my gullet in an involuntary spasm that led nowhere.
Matthew’s eyes flashed wide before he turned away, but not before I saw the repugnance on his face. He busied himself straightening the fleecy blankets.
“Warm enough?” he asked after a while.
“Yes, thanks.”
He was quiet again for a moment.
“You know, it’s ironic – this situation – considering our conversations on previous occasions.” He sat carefully on the front edge of the day-bed. I thought back and referenced the discussions we’d had; our conversation about our different careers seemed so long ago – like another era.
“So, have you thought about what I asked you – about dealing with the job on a daily basis?”
He nodded.
“And…?”
It took him a few seconds before he answered. “I thought I coped – until now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was surprised by my reaction, my lack of control when you were hurt. It took me unawares. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”
“I’m not sure if I understand.”
He made a face. “That makes two of us.”
I adjusted my legs, pulling them up as far as I could to alleviate the nagging ache in my back and chest, staring at the fairytale ceiling, trying to find the words to explain the thoughts that had gathered momentum over the past days.
“I think that being on the receiving end of someone’s desire to hurt me has put my work in perspective; it’s brought home the reality of what I’ve studied all these years. It’s been too easy to be disassociated from the brutality of it by the passing of time; I’m not sure if I can go back to my particular area of research – not now, not after this.” I stared out of the dark windows, the first hint of dawn beckoning, thinking it through before looking back at him. “But you have the hardest deal, Matthew, because you cope with the reality of what I went through day in, day out. Now I have experienced it first hand, I’m not sure if I would have the guts to do what you do.”
He brought his face level with mine, the blue ink of the fading night reflected in his eyes as the sky lightened.
“You think you don’t have courage?”
“I don’t honestly know any more. I thought I did.”
I straightened my legs again, the discomfort intensifying.
He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me, what would you do if you saw Staahl now and it was within your power to retaliate?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’d rip his throat out,” I snarled, feeling my own strain with the effort, then stopped. “No – no I wouldn’t, I would like to, but I wouldn’t – not in reality.”
“Wouldn’t or couldn’t?” he said, neutrally.
I had to think about it. “Wouldn’t. Yes, wouldn’t – because I couldn’t square it with my conscience. I’m not sure if I can forgive him yet, and it’s not that I think that he doesn’t deserve it…” I bit my lip, “but vengeance goes against what I believe and at some point I must forgive him.”
“‘Even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye’?”
I looked at him appreciatively because he understood without me needing to explain.
“Something like that – and it’s easier said than done – but whether that makes me a coward or not, I don’t know.”
I heard absolute certainty in his voice. “I do, and it doesn’t.”
“That’s comforting, I suppose.” I winced as I forgot my broken arm and tried to lift it.
“I have to put a full cast on that arm now the swelling’s down.” He looked at his watch. “You’ll need some meds before we go any further to take the edge off it.”
I pulled a face. “I would like to try to go without; it makes me feel so…” I struggled to find the right words.
“Defenceless?” he suggested.
“I was going to say ‘out of my skull’, actually.”
He sprang to his feet.
“Now is as good a time as any – no queues and no witnesses.”
“To what?”
A slow smile spread as he heard the note of alarm in my voice.
“Well, you can either go in a wheelchair or I can carry you – your choice.”
The thought of being carried again definitely appealed.
“Aren’t I too heavy?”
He answered by picking me up as if I were no more than an afterthought.
He was right, of course; without morphine it was excruciating. I capitulated and he waited until the medication took full effect before attempting to put a cast on my arm. The deeply embedded bruising around the area of impact had changed from red to an angry, violent purple with a blue-black heart, and I felt relief when my arm disappeared beneath the lightweight cast.
Full daylight beckoned when I awoke. Fog filled the windows like smoke, cold air seeping through the thin glass, and the world no longer existed outside the quiet, solid warmth of the old library.
“Elena has been asking to see you; do you feel up to receiving visitors?” Matthew asked, when I succeeded in drinking without spilling it this time.
“Do you mind her coming to your room?” I asked in return.
“No, not at all; why, did you think I would?”
“I thought you might prefer to keep this as your, um… inner sanctum, so to speak.”
He laughed. “Thank you for that. No, it’s fine; Elena’s welcome. So would you like to see her?”
Actually, Elena was exactly the person I wanted to see. I remained acutely aware of wearing the same clothes I wore the night of the attack – albeit only some of them. Although still decent, I wanted to change into something more appropriate as soon as possible. Elena understood instantly I explained the situation.
“It’s a good thing you were wearing matching underwear,” she giggled when she thought Matthew beyond hearing.
“Cheers, Elena; I get mauled by that… that… creature, and all you can think about is what I wore at the time!”
She hooted with laughter. “You sound much better already. You know, we’ve both missed you.” Suddenly serious, she sat on the end of the day-bed. “It was horrible; I… I thought you were dead, you were just lying there – in all that blood, and…” She hesitated, her waif-like face in knots as she recalled the image.
“Go on,” I encouraged.
“… and Matthew was holding you and calling your name over and over, but there was so much blood – he couldn’t stop you bleeding. Someone said they were calling 911, but he just picked you up and ran – he ran so fast.” Ashen, she shook her head as if she didn’t quite trust her memory. I remembered the wind beating my face so I almost couldn’t breathe. “We followed you to the med centre, but Matthew wouldn’t let us see you; he wouldn’t let anyone in – even his own staff. We thought you were going to die,” she whispered.
“So did I,” I said soberly, then tried to relieve the tension; “but I didn’t, so to prevent my premature death through humiliation, please, please help me get into some fresh clothes and clean up a bit.”
“Don’t you want Matthew to help you?” she suggested sneakily.
“I think he’s seen enough of me already, thank you, and next time I would rather I were conscious of the fact and somewhat in control.”
“Ah, so you think there will be a next time!”
I smiled at the thought. “I can live in hope.”
“In that case, you must have some nice things to wear.” She rubbed her hands together in glee. “Leave it to me; I will see what I can do.”
An unspeakable image of Elena selecting pink frilly knickers, like an old lady’s lampshade, interjected before I could prevent it. Hardly an object of desire – not that I was attempting seduction – but equally, I didn’t want Matthew recoiling in horror should he chance to see them.
Much to my surprise –
and relief – Elena returned some time later with a small bag of clothes I would have chosen for myself, and all the necessary toiletries. It took a great deal of effort to do the very basics, but I ended up feeling more human and less like a cat-chewed corpse of a mouse. As Elena brushed my hair, and I offered up thanks for hair that didn’t need frequent washing, Matthew knocked, waiting momentarily before letting himself in.
“I hope Emma’s been behaving herself,” he addressed Elena, appraising me approvingly as he crossed the room.
“I have had to keep her ‘in order’, as you say. She is not obedient enough; she is an impatient patient,” Elena replied cheerfully, pleased with her command of the language. She tugged a little too forcefully at a knot of hair matted with dried blood and my bruised neck objected; I yelped and she peered at me in horror.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry, Emma; are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” I smiled ruefully.
“I have to remember that you are… you are…” she muttered something in Russian under her breath.
“Recuperating,” Matthew translated for her. We both stared at him.
“You speak Russian?” Elena said delightedly, and rattled off something at machine-gun speed. Matthew replied without hesitation as he took the hairbrush from her hands before she decapitated me in her excitement. There was another knock at the door.
“I’ll go,” Elena chirped and bounced towards it.
Matthew stood behind the arm of the day-bed, bending close to me, running the brush gently through my hair.
“Latin, Old Italian, Russian, Anglo-Saxon – anything else?” I murmured.
“English?”
“Don’t be facetious.”
He grinned down at me, and my pulse stumbled in response.
“Did you order food?” Elena called from over by the door.
“Your lunch, Matthew? Good – you never eat,” I reproached him, thinking I was redressing the balance of care just a little.