Cross - Ken Bruen [32]
I tried to make a splint but couldn't get it together, and as I rooted around I found a card.
Gina De Santio
And phone numbers underneath.
What was it she said? If I needed help? Well, let's see if she was full of smoke.
I dialled the number with difficulty, waited then heard, 'Si?'
Decided to go for it.
'This is Jack Taylor. You gave me your card in the canteen of the hospital, said if I ever needed help?'
I could detect sleep in her tone – see, detection is my profession.
Took her a moment, then, 'Ah yes, Mr Taylor. I didn't expect you to call.'
I was going to reply, 'So why'd you give me the fucking card?'
But said, 'I need help, now.'
To my amazement, she said, 'I will come.'
Life – or people – just when you've lost all hope in the fuckers, they surprise you. The reason I was still getting up in the mornings, I suppose. I gave her my address and said, 'Bring some stuff, I have broken bones.' Thinking that would give her pause.
It did, but then she said, 'I will be there in twenty minutes.'
Go figure.
Stewart's pills had kicked in by the time she arrived. She looked radiant, and I felt something I hadn't felt in, oh, such a long time. A stirring.
Fuck.
She was wearing an old Trinity sweatshirt, worn jeans, trainers and a tan raincoat. Her hair was swept back and she looked wonderfully dishevelled.
'I really appreciate you coming, seeing as you don't really know me.'
She was surveying my flat as only a woman can. Not exactly critical, though there was that, but more a total scan of the whole set-up, not missing a thing. Her eyes lingered for a moment on my curtains and I knew she was thinking, And when were they washed?
Guys think, Where's the booze?
She was carrying a Gladstone bag, and it looked like it had seen active service.
She said, 'I might know you better than you think. I qualified as a doctor, but I work as a therapist mainly.'
That slight trace of an accent was very attractive, as if she had to carve out the right pronunciation.
I asked, 'Get you anything – tea, coffee? Oh, and I have Jameson and vodka.'
She gave me a look that asked, 'This is a social occasion?'
She said, 'Sit down and let's see what you've done to yourself.'
She was thorough. She washed and cleaned the wounds, made those hmmm sounds unique to the medical profession, then applied a splint to the fingers of my right hand.
'Those fingers have been broken before, but I'm fairly sure they're not broken now. However we'd need an X-ray to be certain, and I'm thinking you're not in any hurry to get that done?'
My hands dressed and wrapped in light gauze, she stood back.
'You'll live, but get to a hospital tomorrow.'
I was feeling very laid back, not hurting at all and able to appreciate her scent – the scent of a woman and something else I couldn't quite identify, but I liked it.
She looked at her watch, a very slim Rolex, and said, 'I'll have that drink now, vodka with tonic. I'm not working tomorrow so I can lie in.'
I wanted to lie with her. Blame Stewart's pills.
She asked if I was hurting much and the addict in me said, 'Lie big.'
I did.
She took some pills from her bag, rationed them out as doctors do, with that measured concentration lest they give you one more than you could need.
She said, 'These are very strong. Don't take alcohol with them.'
I tried not to grab them. I was building a nice little stash of defence. I got her the drink, asked, 'Why did you come? I mean, it's – what's the term – highly irregular?'
She sighed and then I recognized the scent. Patchouli oil, like the hippies used to peddle. Don't know why, but it gave me hope. Of what . . . I don't know, it had been so long since I had any. I just took it without analysis.
She stared into her glass. I knew there were no answers in there. The illusion of them, sure, but nothing that would give you the truth.
She said, 'I am from Napoli. We grew up poor.