The Poison Morality (4 page)

“Any change,” a gruff voice brought her back to the present and Sophie found herself down the dim lit alley she had called home for a while.  The cold life after the darkness of her mother’s house, full of people shivering against the walls, huddled around a barrel fire for warmth, covered in their tarps and cardboard, their breath poured thick from their mouths. 

One minute she was walking towards the station and somehow drifted here.  She was used to it by now.  This was the way it was, absent mindedly drifting through life.  Once she was headed to the library, on the train towards Euston station to return some books and landed in a pub eating chips in Kensington.  It was the benefit, she supposed, of having no schedule and doing what she wanted, when she wanted.

Perhaps seeing the girl she had given the dead man’s dinner to had triggered something in her, reminding her of the life or lack of it she had living rough before the day her first envelope appeared, changing her life.  Or sometimes she came on the days that guilt started to creep in or the memories of her home life dominated her thoughts and she needed to forget again.

The familiar smell of filth and damp filled her nostrils.  “Sure.” Thankful this wasn’t the life she had any longer, she reached into her pocket and pulled out all the change she had and put it into his palm covered in a ratty glove with the fingers cut off revealing dirty nails.  It was hard to see his face but what she could make out in the shadow and the smudges was a man not much older than she was, lips chapped, covered in a few days of stubble, and his nose hooked and extremely bent to one side broken at least once.  He trembled from the cold or an addiction or both.

“How about that coat, too,” a heavy smell of sweat wafted from him when he stepped closer to her.  It was the first time she had felt her safety threatened standing in the middle of this alley.  Either end seemed so far away.

He was too close to her now, advancing on her, invading her personal space.  She stepped back into a wall.  Lightly she replied, “You can’t have my coat but here,” she slid the scarf off of her neck and handed it to him.  He snatched it from her hands and sniffed it deeply instead of putting it on, more interested in the scent than the warmth it would provide.  While he held it up to his face, she took the opportunity to get away.

Sliding sideways against the wall, her eyes were fixed on him until she was free to run for it. Dropping the scarf, he followed her.  For every step she took, he advanced quickly on her, his strides longer.

There was nothing to be said, nothing to do but try to get away.  Sophie analysed the distance to the street, confident that she could make it and once in the street she would be safe.  Sirens sounded very close, they passed by making his words hard for her to hear but she understood, the shine of a blade came into view when she glanced back to see how close he was.  He grabbed her arm.  She broke away, sprinting.  The adrenaline pushing her faster than she knew she could go.

The sound of their running footsteps echoed.  His hand tugged her coat at the nape of her neck, nearly pulling Sophie off her feet.  The tug pulled her hair with the coat, she winced.  Shifting her shoulders, the coat slipped off of them easily.  She had no choice but to let the coat go to escape.   Once her left arm was clear, he pulled straight back on the coat, causing her to be jerked backwards and she felt the piercing pain in her side and cried out.  The warm blood quickly cooled as it trickled out.  The thought of blood made her feel sick above and beyond the pain but she had to get away.  No one offered help, only turning away or watching.

The needle, she thought, still in her pocket.  Was there enough poison left on it to get free of him?  It was doubtful and she abandoned the thought as quickly as it came.  The pain was like a stabbing over and over with every move she made.  Her body felt heavier like she was carrying her own dead weight.  Her legs seemed shorter, tighter, seizing up while her knees were wobbling beneath her.  Sophie struggled to stay upright.

Pulling forward with all the power she could muster while he pulled harder in opposition made tension in the fabric and she couldn’t move.  Once it was so strong that the shoulder seam bit into her right arm, she jerked straight back, her arm sliding out smoothly and the man reeled backwards falling off his feet.

Sophie stumbled but managed to stay on her feet, trying to run but feeling sluggish now.  Focusing on the people walking at the end of the alley, some stopping to give change to the beggars that stood beyond the edge of the brick cavern.

Quickened steps were behind her, one glance and she could see he was in pursuit again.  He was yelling to her, she heard ‘sorry’.  Sorry wouldn’t make the blood stop seeping out or sharp pains dissipate.  The cold bit into her face but the heat in her side was localized.

Faltering forward, her feet began to slow, she thought she was running but she couldn’t be or she would have gotten out of there sooner but the pain and smells were making her nauseous, her lungs were burning.

She didn’t look back but gritted her teeth and from her very core took strength from somewhere, almost there, the salvation of the street.  A few more steps and Sophie slammed square into the chest of a man when her legs couldn’t hold her up any longer.  The force of the collision made him stagger but instinctively he grabbed her arms to steady them both catching her, preventing her collapse.

“She told me to,” the homeless man yelled behind her, “she told me to, she saw you” he repeated and then she didn’t hear him at all.

At first, she couldn’t focus.  Embarrassed, she tried to right herself but even clutching his coat lapels, she could hardly pull herself up without his help.  She was breathing hard from the run, lungs aching, wincing with every intake of breath.  Her body broke out into a cold sweat.

“Are you alright?” There was something familiar about his voice, quiet tenor, gentle but with the streetlight behind him, she still couldn’t see his face but it was hard to keep her eyes open too.  Gasping, she pulled on him to stand and he straightened her up on her trembling legs but didn’t let go yet.  What she really wanted to do was to collapse into him, the warmth of him, the steady and calm feeling that just his voice offered.  She still couldn’t catch her breath to give him an answer but nodded yes.

Whether it was on her face or not that she was actually in pain, she wasn’t sure but his attention turned to the blood stain on her shirt and trousers, her forearm instinctively pressed there.  “You’re hurt,” he said matter of fact and put his arm around her shoulders and steered her down the street.  Noticing she was without a coat, she was shaking uncontrollably.

Under the street light now shown on both of their faces and when they looked at each other they mutually had the look of surprise and recognition.  Panic settled into her nerves but a smile curled his lips and he seemed glad to see her but his expression immediately turned to concern.  His face was only a few inches from hers he said, “It’s you.”

Run.  Run again, she thought.  She should run away from this man but he was simply the only thing holding her up so even if she wanted to run, she could not.

She opened her mouth to acknowledge him but her clamped jaw would not release.  “The hospital is this way,” he said and her heels dug into the ground.

“No,” was all she could manage through clenched teeth.

Oliver looked at her, ecstatic that she had come back into his life, even more dramatic than the first time however, she was hurt and bleeding.  After the episode on the train, it didn’t surprise him that she didn’t want to go to the hospital or that she had been attacked for that matter. 

He could drag her kicking and screaming to the end of the block of course but he pushed her against the wall, “Try to stand so I can take a look.”  If it was something he couldn’t do on his own, that would possibly be his only option, to drag a hysterical woman, bleeding into
casualty.

The cut was deep but not life threatening.  Trying to push his hands away, she kept repeating, “I’m okay, I’m okay,” not sure if she was trying to convince him or her.  Sophie’s head felt heavy but the adrenaline and pain kept her alert.

His scarf slid easily off his neck, managing to get it around her waist, it was nearly impossible for him to tie it when she was clawing at his hands but he worked quickly, her nails leaving welts but he managed to pull a knot tightly until she cried out through clenched teeth.  It hurt more and she started pulling on the knot for relief.  He took her hand gently but firmly, “Stop.  It needs pressure.”  The pain started to change to a dull throb but a chill began deep inside her and penetrated outwards so that she couldn’t even feel the frigid temperatures any longer.

Pulling on her arm, he directed her to the edge of the sidewalk, waving down a cab and taking his coat off and wrapping her in it, holding it closed around her like a cape.  He all but shoved her in the taxi, spouting an address.  His arm was around her shoulder, his hand held steady pressure on her wound.  Positioning her in somewhat of an embrace, she sank deeper into the warmth of his body. 

Occasionally, she realized her head dropped heavy on his chest, jerking her head up a few times.  But once she realized he didn’t care and neither did she, she let it rest there, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest to keep her focus away from the source of the pain that now throbbed with every heartbeat.

They rode in silence, the swishing sound of traffic passing by, the hum of the engine, the blur of the lights, the steady way he held her, was both comforting and yet unnerving. 

A short ride later, they arrived at their destination, she only recognized as somewhere in Kensington by the route they took.  He led her into a building of a very nice, quiet neighbourhood.  Very fancy by her standards, the kind of places that had brass door knockers and doorbell frames, clean white columns and tree lined streets.  Keys jangled as he opened the front door of the building and they proceeded up a flight of stairs slowly and carefully, his arm supporting her.

“Where are we,” she asked wide eyed.

“At my flat,” he felt her stiffen and she planted her feet, “I assure you, you’re quite safe, I’m going to see to you,” he said opening the door.  The warmth of the flat caressed her cold skin but she did not feel the benefit of it especially when one hand was still around her and the other took the coat off her shoulders. 

Assisting her gently on a leather sofa, he was patient.  The phone fell out of her pocket with a loud clatter on the floor.  She struggled to reach for it but he picked it up hurriedly and tossed it out of reach on the coffee table.

He was busy turning on lights that hurt her eyes and pulling an ottoman over for him to sit on.  His movements seemed without urgency but it was only from the efficiency and knowledge of what he was doing did it seem so. 

Sophie looked around at the modern apartment, its sleek furnishings and full kitchen, the candles on the fireplace mantel, never melted, a painting of a girl with dark eyes, lying naked and a couple of other black and white photos that did not match the painting
centred on the walls, heavy drapes hung simply over the windows.  Everything was very neat and organized.  A small bookcase housed an array of books of light reading and medical books.  She wanted to get up and go look at them but she abandoned the idea as soon as it came.

Disappearing momentarily, she could hear him shuffling around, going in this drawer, going in that cabinet and the tap until he came back supplied and snapped on some gloves.  Slowly, he took her wrist and moved her arm away, instructing her to put her hand behind her head.  He made her nervous, she was on his territory and while she didn’t think he would do her any harm, he blocked her way to the door and she didn’t like that.

Oliver loosened the scarf and slid it from under her carefully.  It made a slapping sound when he dropped it on the tile floor.  Tenderly he pulled her shirt up and inspected the gash.  “It’s not as deep as I thought but you’re going to need stitches.”

“Oh,” it was more of a groan when she looked down at it but slumped back, the back of her other hand pressed against her lips.  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she spoke through chattering teeth.  Looking intently into her eyes, his filled with concern only briefly and covering her shivering legs with a throw blanket.

He continued with the job at hand, “Don’t like the sight or the smell of blood?”  He got up and went for something he had forgotten before she answered and returned.

“Both, but it’s been a while since it affected me like that,” she focused on his face.  If she closed her eyes, she thought she would faint and she didn’t want to do that in a stranger’s flat, but she had to put her attention somewhere.

She focused on his wavy hair that rippled while he fixed his concentration down on what he was doing.  “I think I have all that I need to do the stitches but not sure about a numbing agent.”  He dug around in his supplies and lay out on the table what he needed to do the stitches, organized.

“Aha,” he spouted, “I do,” he held up the needle with the bottle on the end.

Sophie moaned.  “Don’t worry, stitches are easy, and I know you’re not afraid of needles,” he reassured her, pulling the plunger back, the liquid drawing into the syringe.  When she didn’t take the bait, he asked instead, “What’s your name?”

“What’s….yours,” her teeth still chattered slightly, the warmth of the flat still not penetrating, the throw he laid on her legs helped a little but not much.