Chapter 61: Chapter 62

In their tiny shared apartment, Jenny gets to know her new roomie. She is finding it an education.

Natalie picks at her knee. “Damn, these were new this morning.”

“You've ripped them?”

“Yeah, he wanted a BJ. Ripped ‘em while I was kneeling.”

Jenny thinks about this then, “What's a Bee Jay?”

Natalie rolls her eyes. “Where've you come from? You know… BJ. Blow job. Very popular. Good money for not a lot of work. You want to try it. With looks like yours, you'd make a packet.”

“Oh, I don’t think so….”

“You kidding me? Take a look at yourself.” Natalie abandons her ripped stockings, stands and takes Jenny by the shoulders, steering her to face the cracked and stained mirror. From behind, she looks over Jenny’s shoulder at their reflections. “You’d make a fortune. I’ve got the experience and the contacts. We could work it as a pair, like you and me. Threesomes. You get paid extra for that. It's a bit kinky but there's lots of them into it.”

Jenny screws up her face, then remembering her manners, tries to look polite. “I don't think I fancy it.”

“It’s better money than wiping tables or washing dishes in that dump of a cafe for a living. It'd help you with that college fund of yours.”

“But I’d have to….” Jenny baulk and runs out of words.

“Not all the time. Like this morning for me. Sometimes all they want is a BJ. Do it right, it only takes ten minutes. They’ll pay twenty for it, but with the two of us together, we’d make more ‘cos we could advertise the novelty thing….” She taps a tooth with a long painted fingernail, chipped at the tip. “Hey! I could wear a red wig. Make out like we’re sisters.”

Jenny screws up her face. “I really don’t think I want to.”

Natalie squares to her, planting a hand on one hip. “How much they paying you in that cafe? Five?

Less? And I bet you don’t get a lot in tips there either.”

Jenny mumbles something, looking away.

“So, what do you come out with at the end of a shift? Fifty? Sixty?”

“Not that much.”

“See. And you’re working ten hours at a time. More sometimes. You could make that much in an hour with a couple of decent johns. And you do a lot of it lying down. You don’t spend all day on your feet.

How long do you think it’s going to take you to save up enough money to university doing what you’re doing? How much have you managed to save?”

Jenny doesn’t reply.

Natalie peers in at her roommate's face. “How much? Anything?”

Jenny swallows and shakes her head.

“You see. You’re working every hour there is and barely making ends meet, even by sharing this shit-

hole with me.”

Natalie’s voice softens. “You don’t have to worry about getting hurt you know. Paul sits in the back there….” She tosses her head back to the kitchen. “He keeps an ear open to make sure they don't get stupid. ‘Course, he takes a cut but everyone has to earn a living, eh? You're your own boss and nobody tells you what to do.”

Jenny hovers. “I don’t think….”

“Got a better plan?”

Jenny’s voice is miserable. “No, not yet.”

*****

Richard When Elizabeth and I arrive at the hospital, James is still in surgery. Charlotte and Michael, silent and strained, sit out in a waiting area. A couple of dozen seats accommodate a sketch of humanity: a small crying child, perhaps a girl, although it’s hard to tell through the snot and tears, with her mother trying to comfort her. A couple of old ladies sit talking and laughing raucously, sharing tea from a flask. Two young men try to control a comrade who yells and struggles, clearly much the worse for drink and with a head wound bleeding down his face and clothes.

Michael looks rough, sitting with one arm around her shoulders, his other hand holding hers.

Charlotte looks appalling. Her eyes, dark-rimmed, are bloodshot hollows. Her hair and clothes, while she’s obviously made some attempt at cleaning up, still carry traces of James’ blood. As we arrive, she looks up and then away again, lost in tears and misery.

They don’t belong here….

I catch Michael’s eye, but he simply shakes his head. “He’s in the operating theatre. We’re waiting to hear.”

Elizabeth tugs at my arm, murmuring. “Master, they shouldn’t be out here at a time like this.”

“I’m ahead of you, My Love. Why don’t you call Ross and get him to pick up some of your clothes for Charlotte? Something comfortable and casual. I’ll make the arrangements to get them a private room and whatever else might help.”

I don’t bother going through nurses or receptionists, simply cutting through to the Head Administrator. I dislike him on sight; an obstructive ‘jobsworth’ who makes it his business to be as difficult as possible until I point out that the hospital is already asking my company for contributions towards a new maternity facility. As it dawns on the oik who I am, his manner switches from obstructive to obsequious.

I don’t care. He can be as much of a shite as he wants so long as I get what I want.

Within minutes we are being ushered into a private waiting area. I rack my brain for what else I can usefully contribute.

She brought my Elizabeth back to me….

And the price she pays for honouring her perceived debt is to lose James….

…. Her beloved Master….

It's unconscionable.

What can I do?

Ross marches into view, carrying a suitcase. “Mr Haswell, is it true? James has been shot?”

“It's true, yes.” Widening my eyes at him, I head-point the stricken Charlotte.

He nods, dropping his voice. “Will he live?”

“He’s in surgery now. We’re waiting to hear the news.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think any of us can do anything until we get news from the doctors.”

“I’ll keep my phone on me. If I can help, just call, whatever the hour.”

“Thanks, Ross, I will…. Oh, yes. Can you ask Francis to cancel all my appointments for today and tomorrow.”

“Of course I will.”

He drops a tentative hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “We’re all rooting for him Charlotte.”

She nods and the tears streak down her cheeks again. “Thank you.” Her voice is tight, her throat swollen I think.

“Anything I can do Charlotte, anything at all…. Michael, here’s my phone number, just call if…”

They both nod, trying to be polite.

*****

At last, the door whooshes open, a green-gowned doctor stepping through, peeling off latex gloves.

She surveys the gathering, Charlotte and Michael, me and Elizabeth, then turns, addressing her remarks to Charlotte. “We have the bullet out. It was lodged just under the skin. This isn’t uncommon in these cases. We have repaired the damage to the artery and we have replaced the lost blood. We have done what we can to repair the damage to muscle and other tissue.”

Charlotte listens to her in silence, gnawing on her fist.

The surgeon continues. “He is still unconscious, and we are going to keep him that way for a while to let him stabilise further. After that, we will let him wake naturally.”

Her voice is a trembling whisper. “Is he going to live?”

The surgeon’s face is blank, her voice brisk and professional. “His signs are steady. He’s stable. His chances are good. We’ll have a better idea in a few hours.”

“Can I see him?” asks Charlotte.

“Of course. We’re taking him through now. If you follow me….”

“And then what?” asks Michael.

“We wait.”

*****

It’s necessary but so disheartening. The very image of a hospital: pale walls, fluorescent lighting. The smell of disinfectant and that handwash they put out everywhere now. A whiteboard with notes and staff signatures. Stainless steel surfaces and sink area. Rolling tables and mysterious equipment.

And at the centre of it all, James, pale, unmoving. Wires spider-web over the bed to monitors and machines. Some sort of drip feeds into one arm and a mask over his face, I assume, is feeding him oxygen.

She looks utterly lost. Utterly bereft. Still in her blood-stained and tattered clothes, she sits, staring at him, inconsolable.

“Why don’t I run a bath?” suggests Elizabeth. “You’ll feel better when you’re cleaned up.”

Michael casts a grateful look at her. “Good idea, Beth. And you can get into some clean clothes too.”

Charlotte doesn’t move, simply watching James’ pale face fixedly.

Michael nods my wife through to the bathroom, then when she returns a few minutes later, takes Charlotte by the hand. Come on, Babe. Let’s get you cleaned up a bit.”

But she resists him, refusing to move. “He might wake.”

“Charlotte,” I say, “if he does wake, he shouldn’t see you looking like that.” Her eyes rise to mine.

“You’re still covered in blood. Do you think he’d want to see you like that?” She blinks but still doesn’t move. “If something like that happened to me, when I woke up I think I would want to see Elizabeth looking clean and healthy and happy for me.”

She shudders and gulps back a sob. As she rises, she stumbles, Michael catching her before she falls.

A hand under her elbow, he guides her into the bathroom.

“We’d better leave them with it,” I say. “Give them some privacy.” Elizabeth hesitates then nods.

*****