The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  “Oh I can’t take this chemo, Dr. Oliver. It’s like every hangover I ever had merged into one.”

  Oliver thought she was crying but she was just weak and shaky, “It will get easier. If your cancer goes into remission, it will get easier,” he helped her lay back when Jacki came in holding the ice pop out to him wrapper still on.

  “It’s not for me, nurse,” she jerked the wrapper off and held it for Mary to take from her. She did, but only licked it a few times and sat holding it until it started to melt so Oliver took it and threw it away. Holding her hand, his thumb brushed back and forth across her fingers. They sat in silence for a while, her breathing shallow, she stared at the ceiling.

  Then out of nowhere, she voiced what she was quietly contemplating, “You know, as parents we aren’t… supposed to choose favourites in our children but sometimes it just happens. Especially when the child picks you as the favourite parent, then we tell ourselves it’s because they chose.” Her breathing became laboured but Oliver didn’t interrupt or comment hoping she would come around to the daughter and where she was or how to contact her. “But,” she sank into the pillows, closing her eyes, “you still feel guilty anyway and maybe if I chose the other one, I wouldn’t have lost so much.”

  “The other one? You have more than one?”

  Not answering him, she continued with her thought, “Ian might still be alive too if I had chosen differently or if she had not chosen me as her favourite.” On the edge of sleep she smiled, a memory no doubt surfacing.

  “Is Ian your son?”

  But she didn’t answer, just soft snoring, and an occasional grin.

  Chapter 12: Sophie and Oliver’s First Non-Date

  Oliver approached the building, fingering the broken lock and shaking his head and entered the dimly lit hall. Surprisingly the building’s occupants were quiet. He anticipated the crying of babies, yelling, and doors slamming but there was nothing out of the ordinary, just talking and the sound of a telly.

  Up the stairs, outside Sophie’s door was an envelope with the same swirled lettering he had seen before. If it was what he thought it was, he could look before he knocked on her door. She would never know. Yes, it was an invasion of her privacy but to know what she was, to confirm his suspicion would bring him into her world. He already had a taste of it and his curiosity justified what he was about to do.

  Slowly and purposefully he took each step, careful not to touch the handrail that rattled from its loose rigging. Grasping the envelope, he ran his fingertips over it. Turning it over, the metal prongs were folded over firmly and flush. He slid the nails of his thumb and forefinger under the prongs pressing them together, sliding the flap up, and still not daring to lift it. He shouldn’t be doing this, if it were anyone but Sophie he wouldn’t bother.

  There was a rush of excitement not because of what the contents in the envelope meant themselves but he felt it was a very important key to what she is, who she is. That part of her that was only known to a few or at least the person that was leaving the envelopes. He would look, cautiously and she would never know.

  With a finger, he hooked it into the envelope and tipped it up, looking down into it, he noticed the photograph. With his fingertips he slowly slid it out. Oliver stared down into a face. A smile curled his lips when a delicious thought came to his head. He might be able to manage it but it required becoming her shadow or did it?

  Even still it would have to be in the little free time that he had and she would have to make her move when he was available. It would make him a stalker. He pulled the stack of papers out of the envelope and briefly glanced over them. He didn’t have to follow her but being at the right place at the right time was going to be hard, nearly impossible, unless he made himself available.

  With his camera phone he snapped pictures of the man’s information. He was somewhat of a recluse, like Sophie. He went very few places, worked from his flat, and even less acquaintances. Quickly he closed the envelope, pushing the prongs back down, putting it the way it was. She would be angry, there’s no doubt about that but regardless he was willing to risk it believing that she would be quick to forgive. That was an assumption on his part however, not in all actuality knowing her as well as he felt.

  Even at 6:55, Sophie didn’t know what she was going to do. She paced, waiting for the knock on the door. It was only fair that she tell him what she discovered today but letting him take her out was a date, she didn’t care what else he called it, was inconceivable. The knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts.

  Opening the door he stepped in, handing her the envelope, “This was at,” she snatched it from him, tossing it on the table by the window, “your door.” Noticing her jeans, tee shirt and lack of footwear, he lingered on her chest and she thought he was looking at her breasts, she crossed her arms in front but the sad look and recognition made her realize she was wearing his tee shirt his mother had given him. “You’re not ready,” he cleared his throat, “Where do you want to go,” he asked closing the door behind him.

  “Oliver I have to tell you about what I found out today,” making no move to get ready, she stood ringing her hands.

  “Sounds intriguing but I’m starving so put some shoes on and lets go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Where ever you want.”

  “I don’t know of any places to go. Look, I don’t want to go out and I don’t want to tell you what I have to tell you in a public place,” she said urgently.

  His voice became low and thoughtful, “Why resist so fiercely? Does everything have to be a struggle with you,” he grinned knowingly, “You’re going to make me earn every little thing, aren’t you,” he sighed, thinking.

  She scowled at him and before she could protest he said, “Okay,” looking down at her, “do you cook?”

  “No,” she burst out, as though she was almost offended at the notion, looking at him like he was mad for suggesting it.

  “I do, I love to cook, especially when I have someone to cook for,” she gave him a suspicious look. “No? Okay, if you want to tell me what happened today, you will have to tell me over food because I’m starving and I’m going to eat. Where we go is your choice. So either we can go to a restaurant, my flat, or stay here and get takeaway.”

  Still she gave no answer, biting her nails, seemingly contemplating.

  “Are you deciding?”

  “Yes, give me a moment.” His hands in his coat pockets, he waited patiently. The idea of being around other people trying to discuss the matter at hand made her uncomfortable. She had already been to his flat; she knew she was safe with him and it was much more comfortable than her flat. That was only slightly less uncomfortable than a restaurant. “We’ll stay here but….,” she pointed a finger at him.

  Holding up his hands in surrender, “I am a perfect gentleman.” Anything he wanted to do to her he could have done already, not to mention the great sum of money that he threw in the suitcase off the bed when he could have taken it.

  “How about curry,” he asked, remembering the containers in the bin.

  Sophie crinkled her nose, “I don’t think so.” He started to question the containers in the bin but decided it wasn’t worth mentioning that he had looked at her rubbish.

  “I know a good Chinese not far from here.”

  “Will I like it?” She recalled going through Chinatown and her victim dropping his dinner that she gave to the homeless girl. It smelled so good to her. Her stomach growled from the memory alone.

  “You haven’t…,” he started but knew the answer when she nodded her head no, “Ok, we’ll see,” with that he bounced excitedly out the door.

  Sophie nervously straightened, books and paintings piled everywhere. She really had nowhere to sit; she usually sat on the sofa or cushions on the floor. Surely he was used to sitting at a table that didn’t require hunching over.

  Noticing her reflection in the window, she remembered his reaction to the shirt and changed it to a white
tee shirt and then she realized the black bra showed underneath. That wouldn’t do. Finally she settled on a short sleeve top, a simple black button up. That was basically the whole of her wardrobe.

  Oliver walked in without knocking, his hands full. He noticed she had changed shirts but said nothing about it. “I stopped at the off license for some wine. I wasn’t sure what went best with Chinese so I got a couple of options.” Putting the goods on the coffee table he looked around while she got plates. “Do you have music?”

  “Um no,” she said, almost backing into him when he came up behind her going in her cabinet for two drinking glasses, wine glasses being non-existent in her flat. He was quite familiar with her kitchen.

  Setting the plates on the table and dropping a cushion on the floor, sitting cross legged on it, she left him to decide how he wanted to sit and he grabbed a cushion and did the same on the opposite side. She was relieved he didn’t choose to sit beside her.

  With the chopsticks, he efficiently loaded both plates, explaining what each thing was and poured the wine. “I didn’t ask what you wanted so I got a variety.”

  “I wouldn’t have known what to tell you anyway.” Master of the chopsticks he scooped rice up, balancing the clump on the end, and put it in his mouth. Sophie mimicked his position of the sticks but wasn’t quite able to balance the food on them. Chicken and rice flew all over her plate.

  “Do you like it,” he asked through a mouthful of pork.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said exasperated, attempting to squeeze a piece of beef between the sticks. It flipped and landed in the middle of the table.

  “Here,” he said, leaning over the table, trying to hide his amusement. His limber fingers manipulated hers into holding the chopsticks correctly, then demonstrating the movement with his own chopsticks clicking when he tapped them together.

  She managed to get a piece of broccoli in, “It’s good.”

  Oliver looked around at the shabby flat. Why did she live this way when she obviously had money? “I think your paintings are amazing by the way.”

  “You looked at them,” she asked, surprised, her dark eyes grew large.

  “Yes, last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “If I did would it matter now?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Oliver watched her face, making her nervous, she turned her attention back to her plate. Eating shouldn’t be so hard, she bit into an eggroll, easier to eat. “Sorry, I have a tendency to be inquisitive. I’m an information collector. I’m too curious; it’s one of my idiosyncrasies.”

  “Which is a nice way of saying nosey,” she pushed the food around on the plate recalling the order out of the chaos of the bathroom before he left, was he nosy in there as well?

  Oliver chuckled, “Yes I suppose so. What else do you do besides paint and read,” he emphasized looking at the multiple stacks of books, “and give men heart attacks,” he looked back at her.

  She stopped chewing, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still alive.”

  “Which must mean you like me,” she looked at him speculatively. “I hope.” He was a little nervous when she didn’t acknowledge. “As far as I know there’s no one that will pay to have me dead.”

  Sophie gasped sucking up rice to the back of her throat and started coughing. He patted her on the back until she could breathe again and both resumed eating. He knew he had hit the nail on the head. The deaths, the money on the bed, he knew his answer but wanted to know for sure, without a doubt.

  After a long silence she mentioned, “I met an old man at Regent’s Park feeding the ducks. He was in World War II,” she took a bite of shrimp and chewed slowly having a hard time swallowing, “he saw me looking at a photo book of the world and he mentioned he travelled in the Royal Navy but he saw more water than land, he said,” she continued talking meanwhile scraping the remainder of the shrimp onto his plate. “He said he chose the navy because he thought it would be easier to launch torpedoes at boats than to look a man in the eye and shoot him.”

  Oliver nodded, “I could imagine that would be the case if you didn’t want to watch your victims die,” one eyebrow lifted in speculation.

  “You see people die all the time,” she grimaced, forgetting about the twelve year old. His lips got thin.

  “They’re not ill because of me, though,” he said, “It’s the misery that’s hard to watch.”

  “Sometimes you have to make a victim to keep from being a victim. A decision to do something to someone you shouldn’t is also the decision to pay the price for it,” she had a pained expression. He looked seriously at her, eyes squinting, studying her. It was not just a truth but a conviction or was it more of a justification. Tossing the chopsticks aside, she went to the kitchen.

  “You do know that theory goes both ways don’t you?” He was amused at the definitive way she moved. He admired her while she wasn’t looking, turning his attention back to his plate when she turned back spoon in hand, scooping up the food and relaxing a bit.

  “Not always, hence the offensive tactic.”

  “Don’t you feel that you might be in danger?” Oliver sipped the wine, noticing her glass was untouched.

  “Not unless a druggy with a knife learns to aim better. Which reminds me, I almost forgot. Today…”

  “Don’t you like the wine,” Oliver interrupted.

  “I don’t drink. I mean, I don’t think I would like it,” she crinkled her nose and shrugged passively.

  “Try it. I think you’ll be surprised. It’s a moscato, it’s sweet. Probably too sweet for the food but I thought you would prefer it.”

  Sophie sipped it, “Mmm,” she approved and then her head jerked up. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, you like a little tea with your sugar so I know you like the sweeter things,” his smile curled deeply at the corners and she looked away quickly, blushing, taking a larger sip.

  He finished his second glass and poured more repeating Mary’s description of wine, “The nectar of Dionysus.”

  Sophie’s mouth hung open like she was going to say something but she just looked at him and waited, expecting elaboration. Instead, he continued by explaining, “Dionysus, the Greek god of wine.”

  Mouth snapped shut, Sophie rolled her eyes at him, then busy on the floor beside the couch she was fussing with something, Oliver just watched until she produced the oversized book and dropped it on the table, “And festivities and fertility. I also know Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite, Athena, Hermes, Demeter…”

  “Ok, ok I’m sorry,” he chuckled and the corners of her mouth tilted up slightly too. “You’re extraordinary, do you know that?”

  The smile on her face completely dropped in a second, she took a deep breath and held it, and her hand shook slightly when she took another sip of the wine. He noticed and immediately felt to blame for it; she did not take compliments well, perhaps thinking a compliment warrants a return. Immediately he wanted to put her at ease again. “You wanted to talk about Sydney?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You mentioned her last night before you went back to sleep.”

  “Oh yes. Well I returned to the alley to find the man that attacked me,” she was so passive about her safety in a dark alley and yet warned Oliver not to make any moves on her.

  “Wait,” he stopped her, a hand in the air, becoming serious, “you went back to the man that attacked you with a knife? Sophie.”

  Here we go, she thought.

  “Do you have no regard for your own safety? You’re worried that I might try to kiss you but you’re not afraid of confronting someone that could have killed you,” wiping his mouth on a napkin, agitated, he came around to sit on the sofa beside her.

  “I’m not worried that you might try to kiss me, it’s not kissing that bothers me,” she was annoyed that somehow the conversation shifted to kissing, she glanced at his mouth, set rigid now, “besides he was no threat. He’s a junky, he was high and he didn’t mean to hurt me, just chase me a bit.
”

  “So that makes him less dangerous, does it?”

  “Are you going to let me tell you or not?” He gave her a warning glance, relaxing back in the corner of the sofa after refilling his glass.

  “He said, they were ‘putting on a show’ for someone,” she used the air quotes with her fingers, “when he saw me, he was to chase me. He thought that she was talking about her, that’s how she put it to him knowing I would be there at some point.”

  “Sydney told him to do this,” pointing to her left side.

  “No, not to cut me, just to chase me,” she shook her head, “her I mean and he thought I was her today. I didn’t correct him. Apparently they have some kind of rapport.”

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “Yes, because he then asked me if you were the one they put the show on for and did I get what I wanted.” Sophie sipped the wine cautiously.

  “Did you,” he asked, setting the glass on the table.

  “Did she? And if you are, the only time she would have known of you would have been that night on the train.”

  Oliver had a distant look and sipped the wine, “No, it was just the three of us, I’m sure of it. You didn’t pay attention but I did. But why would she want to scare you like that?” His brows furrowed together.

  She ignored the jibe, “He said that she said it was for my own good, or her own good, or something. But she didn’t tell him it was me, he thought that they were acting it out together and she never referred to me.”

  Oliver thought about that for a minute, Sophie waited for him to share his thought. “Meaning not to go into that alley again?”

  “That’s what I thought,” she agreed.

  “Well it backfired,” he looked disapprovingly at her, “if that’s the case, because you did go back, didn’t you?”

  “I do go back occasionally,” he had put her on the defensive and then the revelation; “Maybe that’s where she saw me before, maybe that’s how she found me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well it makes sense if….”

  “No, I mean why you go back there occasionally,” his voice was calmer, back to the smooth relaxed tone.