The Poison Morality (5 page)

“Oliver Reece.  But I asked you first,” he started to clean enough of the blood off so he could see what he was dealing with.

“Doctor, are you?”  Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes red rimmed from the kind of tears only pain brings but she didn’t actually cry.  Either she had a high tolerance for pain or she had enough of it in her life that she learned to push through it, he reasoned.

Oliver picked up the syringe again, looked at it and looked at her, “What gave it away,” he chuckled, amused, “lucky for you, since you didn’t want to go to hospital. Now,” he held up the needle so she could see, “I can either numb it all the way, part of the way or not at all.”  He was lying of course, ready to do all that he could to help her, she didn’t try to call his bluff, the tip of the needle had already gone into her skin by the time he asked the question again.  “What’s your name?”

Looking around panicked, she squinted at the book shelf, looking for a name. Curious what she was concentrating on, his eyes followed the direction she was squinting and patiently waited for her to pick a name, trying to look serious.  Sophie blurted out the first female name she saw, “um…Lauren.”  He stifled a laugh.

He injected the contents and proceeded to thread the curved needle waiting for it to take effect.  Amused he replied, “I know three things for sure about you,” his blue eyes were tired, she could see that but he didn’t act at all agitated with her.  Once the needle was threaded, he looked down at her, she nervously looked away, caught staring but he continued, “the sight and smell of blood make you ill, you’re not afraid of needles, and you’re a terrible liar.  So tell me your real name,” he demanded.

“Why d-do you need to know my name?”  Her brows furrowed in distress, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind her head the other resting across her stomach.

He stooped down to begin work, “Something to call you by,” he answered with a sarcastic note, without looking up.

“Sophie.”  The pain was starting to ease up now even though she could feel him working.  The pain was replaced by a tickle and then occasionally just pressure.  Suddenly, she took a deep in draw of breath, feeling like it was the first full breath of air since her run. 

“No,” his hand rested on her ribs, “try to breathe shallow and steady, pull the air into the top of your lungs,” he waited until she demonstrated what he told her to do then he continued with the conversation and the task at hand, “Sophie what?”  He glanced at her, his blue eyes reflecting the light from the lamp, the lines of his face evidence that he smiled and laughed a lot.  She envied that.

“Sophie Newton.”

Taking advantage of her weakened state, he proceeded to question her finding the rhythm of tying off the stitches; sliding the needle into the pale skin, pulling it through, gripping with the tool, looping the thread, and tying the knots with the rise and fall of her chest.

“Why did you push the emergency buttons at the station,” he paused, when she stopped breathing, her muscles tensed, losing his rhythm when she did so, he stopped.

“I,” she hesitated, “did what you told me and he was having a heart attack or, or something,” she stuttered.

“Do you
not
know you’re a bad liar,” hands still poised where he stopped, he looked fully at her then.  She had either revealed that she knew the result of what she injected or really made an assumption.  “How did you know it was a heart attack?”

“I said, ‘or something.”

“So you did,” he bent over her again, resuming the rhythm when she started breathing again like he told her.  Every once in a while she would catch a glimpse of his bloody hand and felt faint.  “You seemed very interested in his movements prior.”

“Are you accusing me of pressing the emergency button in the event of an emergency,” Sophie struggled up on her right elbow.  Oliver held his hand up to stop her, unable to touch her for the blood but the blood was more affective when she dropped back down, covering her mouth again.

Smiling mischievously, he knew how to get her to stay, “Not at all.  He had what looked like a puncture wound on his neck after we got on the train that was not there before.  I’m thinking you might have had something to do with creating the emergency.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  That could be anything, he could have nicked himself,” she remembered to breathe again and he continued, almost done.

“Yes, he could have,” he agreed slowly, she could see the wheels turning.  He was so calm in his accusation.  Finishing the last knot, he tied it off and put the needle on the table and turned his head sideways and over her face, “but if
you
had injected him with something that would cause a heart attack I don’t understand why you would call for help.” 

Arm flung across her eyes, she looked at him, one eye uncovered, her lower lip trembled, “I wouldn’t,” she tried to sound angry to try to cover the fact that he could tell when she was being dishonest.

“Right,” obviously not taking her word for it but not arguing either and he went back to cleaning the remainder of the blood off with the damp flannel that now turned cold, causing goose pimples.  “So then why would you run if you weren’t guilty of something?”

“I was frightened,” things were spewing from her mouth that didn’t seem to have any premeditative thought.  He unnerved her and between him and coming down off the adrenaline rush, she couldn’t think straight.

“Frightened of what,” he enquired, putting antiseptic on his handiwork, “Getting caught?  This brings me back to my question.  Why would you summon for help in no less than three different ways.  It just doesn’t add up and on top of it all, here you are.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here but under different conditions would have been nice.”

“You needed help,” she blurted out, exasperated by his questioning.  “I mean he needed help.”

The first part he believed, she didn’t do it for, what he was sure he knew to be her victim, but for Oliver, how intriguing and wonderful, under the circumstances.

He smiled to try to put her back at ease, “There, all done,” he said putting the dressing on and dropping instruments into the bowl, “You didn’t know I was there, did you?” 

She croaked, closing her eyes, tired but the shaking at least had reduced down to a slight shiver.  It was the best course of action, she felt, just to avoid his questions all together.  It was easy to do, her energy draining but she had become calmer as he worked.

He felt that her sensibilities were not offended enough at the accusation to be innocent but she knew he had no proof.  Nothing else would come from her until she was willing to give it up.

“That was my favourite scarf,” he said changing the subject, throwing the gloves in the bowl with the towel, flannel, and scarf, all ruined.

“I’m sorry.”  It was a sincere apology.

“It’s just a scarf.  You, however, lost a coat and some blood, much more precious,” he smiled, revealing white teeth, his bottom lip protruding slightly.

“I can buy another coat but the ….,” she started to say the needle was still in her pocket but stopped.  There was something about the way his lips seemed to always be turned up at the corners and the caring way that he tended to her that made her want to answer any question he asked.  Searching for anything, she said, “my wallet.”  Yes, wallet, most people were worried about losing their wallets.

“How much did you lose,” he asked, prepared to loan her money if needed.

“A couple hundred quid but…,” she didn’t finish the sentence seeing the stunned look on his face she didn’t need him to question that too.

“Why were you walking alone down that alley in the first place, especially carrying that kind of money,” he asked incredulously.

“I’m not worried about the money.  I…. don’t remember much,” she stared at the ceiling, her free arm draped across her forehead, recalling, “I was going to go home but …... I just got lost in thought I suppose,” she turned her head away.  “I lived in that alley before,” she grimaced, not from pain but by revealing one unpleasant thing about herself to avoid confessing another.

“Oh,” he paused and looked at her questioningly, “you were homeless, you mean,” another look of concern creased his forehead.  “You went from homeless to someone that doesn’t worry about losing a couple hundred quid?  You are quite the enigma.”

She turned to face him with a confused look.  He elaborated, “Enigma, you know puzzling, mysterious…..”

“I know what it means,” she interrupted.  “I’m not an enigma, I am quite uninteresting, I’m afraid,” the words came slower, her brain becoming as relaxed as her body.  “I think you want me to be more interesting than I am so you can reason out events that happened a fortnight ago. 
Life
is mysterious not me, sometimes thing just happen, Oliver.”

A snort, almost a chuckle escaped him, he liked the sound of his name when she said it, even with a note of sarcasm.  “I know about life and death, I deal with both every day and usually there’s a reason for everything.  You are very interesting if for no other reason than after the man on the train died and you ran out into the night, you crash into my arms wounded after walking down an alley that you said you lived in once, chased by another man.”  And because you seem sad and beautiful and you peak my interest, he wanted to say but refrained. 
“You know,” he hunched over her, elbows on knees, clasping his hands, “I almost approached you that night, to ask you to dinner.”

Sophie started to push herself up, now that he was done, it was time to leave.  No soft touching on the shoulder would keep her down; she just gently moved his hand away.
It wasn’t a question, he wasn’t asking but telling her what he wanted, “I don’t date,” her face a few inches from his, it was the first time she looked him square in the eye.

“
I believe that,” he acknowledged softly. “Ok, then we can share a table and talk like friends.  Is that acceptable?”

“I…that’s different, but…”

“Good, but in the meantime, Sophie,” emphasizing her name, he walked out of the room again and came back with an black tee shirt with a faded Union Jack on the front, “you can put this on and you’ll be sleeping here tonight.  You can have the bed,” he said without asking her opinion on the subject, already raising the bottom of her blouse. 

She gasped, horrified at his brazenness and she immediately put her elbows down tight to her side.  “I can’t stay here.”

“Sorry,” he threw up his hands not realizing she would be so modest as well, she was one great mystery.  “If you had gone to the hospital you wouldn’t have lost so much blood and would have been sent home but as it were, I had to bring you here, you lost more blood, you’re still a little weak and need to be looked after.”  He sat on the side of the sofa speaking softly to her, uncovering her legs and taking off her shoes, his long fingers encircled almost her whole ankle.  Instinctively she would have kicked him but he was so gentle in his movements.

He nodded towards the bedroom, “You are perfectly safe; safer here than most places you roam into alone apparently.  This tee shirt is yours, it doesn’t fit me anymore, I’ve had it since I was a teenager,” he smiled recollecting.  “My mum gave it to me,” he seemed sad all of a sudden, the smile dropping from his face, his fingertips felt the creased paint on the front.  “I couldn’t bear to throw it out so you can have it and you won’t have to sleep in a bloody shirt.  Bathroom is that way, you can clean up, and I can help if you need it, just say so.”

Opening her mouth to protest, he put the back of his fingers on her forehead and frowned, “You are free to go, of course” he said, changing tactic, “but you shouldn’t be alone, I think, not after what you’ve been through.  I’m here if you need help, that’s all.”

Contemplating, she hesitated.  “That,” indicating the events of the evening, “that was nothing.”  He nodded in acknowledgment.

He had a way of making the decisions for her in gesture, regardless of what he was saying.  He handed her the shirt and stood, reaching out his hand to assist her but she ignored it, taking the time to push herself up to stand.  His hand instinctively went to her elbow but that was all until she steadied. 

Sophie felt like she was moving in slow motion.  Once in the bathroom she saw in the mirror that he had dressed the wound neatly and all the blood was gone except for the residue from the shirt.  She struggled to take the shirt off, closing her eyes so she couldn’t see the blood and put the tee on, wishing she was comfortable enough to let him help her but she wasn’t, so she continued to struggle, chucking the bloodied shirt in the rubbish bin.

He escorted her to the bedroom with its large bed and luxurious wood furnishings.  Once she was tucked into bed, he sat beside her in the chair, pressing his palm to her feverish brow and smoothing the loose curls away from her face.  She jerked her head away but the movement was so slow it was completely futile.

Sophie couldn’t fight him, too tired to care whether she lived or died at the moment because the softness of a bed seemed the best comfort she could hope for.  She drifted off to sleep in the luxury of high thread counts, down, and softness that her body wasn’t used to and couldn’t resist. 

Once Oliver realized she was asleep, he sat back in the chair and drifted off to sleep as well.  Soft snoring woke Sophie momentarily in the partial darkness; only the light filtering in from the other room rendered just enough for her to see Oliver’s outline slumped in a chair.