The Shepherd – Hefted (Chapters 14 & 15)

Chapter 14
Thursday night

Steam billowed out as the door opened. He was not at the basin as she had supposed, and she froze on seeing the tall figure standing there, his back to her, one hand on the wall as water poured over him, pooling palest brown in the cheap white shower tray. The knowledge that he must have been hurt in the attack, as well as the sudden realisation that he was in fact naked, made her reach for the thin and somewhat inadequate bath towel that was draped over the sink before she pulled open the shower door.

‘Just what the hell do you think you are doing?’ Concern made her voice harsher and louder than she had intended, and startled, John turned. He stumbled against the side of the cubicle, one hand reaching out again for support, the other clasped against his side, too exhausted to even be embarrassed at being found there. Without a word Rebecca held out the threadbare towel and when he made no move to take it, she leaned forward, wrapping it around his hips, her eyes watching his face as he stepped out, weary and hesitant.

She put the lid down on the toilet. ‘Here. Sit down and don’t move.’ He obeyed her numbly, eyes half-hooded and averted, water streaming from him to lie in neat pools on the linoleum floor while she turned off the shower. Head down and shoulders hunched he waited, as she crouched beside him, and with careful fingers prised his hand away from where it had been pressing against his side.

‘Jesus. What happened to you? Why the hell didn’t you say something?’ She looked up at his face, the eyes now closed, lips tight as if to suppress any sound of pain that he might inadvertently utter.

Shepherd took a deep breath and winced, ‘I’m fine, really. Just leave me alone.’ He leaned back against the cistern as her fingers continued to probe the edges of the deep slash that ran parallel to his ribs. She ignored him, her fingertips continuing to skim over the rapidly swelling wound while blood and water tracked down his skin and soaked into the towel she had wrapped around his hips. He put one hand on top of hers, fingers clasping, and opened his eyes to stare at her, ‘Please, leave it.’

‘Don’t be a fool, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.’ she growled, pulling her hand free of his grasp and returning to investigate his injury. ‘This needs stitching.’ She stood up and stared down at him seeing his skin begin to quiver as he sat there, still wet from the shower and now getting cold once more.

There were other scars on his body, more than she had expected, more than she had seen before; old scars that rippled his skin, silvered and faded. She stepped back and folded her arms. ‘Stay there. I’ll call for an ambulance and bring some clean clothes from your room.’

‘No, really.’ his voice was quiet, pleading, ‘I’d rather not. And there’s no need. It will stop shortly, I’m sure it will,’ he grimaced up at her, with a wry smile. ‘If you can bring me a first-aid kit that will do.’ He looked back down at his thigh, one finger tracing a narrow silver scar that extended from under the scrubby towel for several inches, a perplexed expression on his face as if he had not been aware of it before.

‘It won’t hurt, you know,’ she started to argue, but he stood up holding the meagre towel in place with one hand, the other on the wall for support.

‘No, not hospital, not there. They…..’ He didn’t carry on, didn’t need to. She knew how they regarded homeless patients at the local A and E, and he’d been a patient there recently enough. No wonder he wanted to avoid a repeat of that experience.

John Shepherd, one hand pressed again the wall in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright, stared at Rebecca, willing her not to force him, not to insist on taking him to Casualty. There was something lurking at the back of his mind, the mere thought of returning to the hospital filled him with dread. ‘Rebecca, please, don’t make me.’ His eyes were shadowed with fear of more than just the thought of callous unconcerned doctors. A memory again, of being hunted, of strangers wanting to harm him. He only knew that he was safe here, safer than anywhere else and that Rebecca would help him.

It was obvious that he was not going to comply, that even if she called an ambulance he would refuse to go. There was nothing for it but to deal with it herself. ‘Okay, I won’t, but you need to get a dressing on that cut. At least let me do that? Yes?’ It was her turn to plead this time, as she stepped forward and took his arm. ‘Come on. There’s a medical room just down the corridor. I can patch you up, at least for the time being.’

Without giving him a chance to argue she opened the door and, guiding him out onto the corridor, headed for the room almost hidden away at the other end. It was identical in size to his and as austere and functional with a bed, easy chair, cupboards and a neat but functional sink. He stood in the doorway, hesitant and unsure of what she expected from him.

‘Sit down on the bed. No, on second thoughts, John, lie down.’

She eased him back, until he was lying flat and staring at the ceiling, his face impassive, as if all thoughts of arguing had fled.

He listened to the sounds of doors opening, material slurring, small rustles and the clink of metal. He was cold. The warmth from the shower had gone, his skin was still damp, and the sharp sting and burn of the slash was beginning to overrun his senses, making him unable to concentrate on the things around him. It filled his mind and flooded his nerves until he wanted to clutch at his ribs in a vain attempt to stop the onslaught.

‘There.’ Her voice was closer than he had thought and he flinched as something heavy fell over his lower body. It took a moment for him to recognise the feel of a blanket, thick and soft as she tucked it around his hips and legs, the weight and warmth making his shivering lessen and finally fade.

Her hand tightened on his wrist, and he cringed again as she moved his elbow away from his body. ‘I can’t see it clearly; just raise your arm will you?’ and he obeyed in silence, lifting it to rest across his body, his hand now on his shoulder, his eyes still focussed on the ceiling, on the strip light, not wanting to look at her. Even that small movement hurt now, as abused and swollen skin complained.

‘No,’ she murmured to herself, and took his wrist again, lifting his arm up and over his head, bending it so that his head was nestled in the crook of his elbow. Skin gaped and he gritted his teeth, biting his lips to stop himself from calling out.

‘I’m sorry,’ she put her hand on his shoulder in apology, a warm and comforting contact, ‘but I need to be able to get at it. I’ll clean it now. This will sting, but it has to be done.’

The light was hurting his eyes and he closed them as she moved nearer to him, her breath soft on his skin now as she examined the wound, her fingers moving with delicate care as they traced the boundaries. He kept himself still, unwilling to speak, his breathing shallow and faint as he waited, as she moved away leaving a cold space next to him. Water running, a cloth moistened and wrung out, liquid dripping into a bowl, the familiar sounds soothed him as he lay there, the blanket cocooning him in security.

Her breath again, on his chest this time, and with his senses now honed to sharpness by pain he caught the tang of antiseptic solution close to him.

That initial touch of deep warmth was comforting, but he knew what was going to come next and turned his head away from Rebecca as she pressed the cloth harder against his side. There was no time to do more than gasp in one deep breath and hold it as rigidly as he held his body. The antiseptic burned through raw flesh, stinging without mercy.

Shepherd, for all his resolve, clenched his fists and teeth in a futile attempt to prevent the stifled cry that escaped his lips.

There was no escape from this, no way of relieving the pain which had to be endured, and so he lay there, crushing his shoulders and his heels down, his muscles cramped with the strain of fighting the burning that seemed to consume him.

Rebecca concentrated on flushing the wound with the solution, paying no attention to the muted sounds of distress from the man lying there as she continued to probe and wipe and dab at the bloody slash. He was pale and sweating by the time she finished and squeezed the cloth out one last time and she put her hand once more on his chest, as if to try to ease his frantic gasps.

‘Done,’ she sighed, ‘Lie still. I need to close it up now.’ She felt the tension in his body gradually slacken until his breathing was less ragged, his fingers loose and his eyes open once more. He turned to stare at her, a thin look, dull and listless, his clammy skin still trembling under her hands.

It took time for Rebecca to close the wound with steri-strips, and then dress it. Shepherd was silent throughout, watching her through eyes half-closed in the aftermath, not seeming to notice as she moved his arm back against his side before tucking more blankets over and around him. She smoothed his hair into its usual neat style before her hand moved down the side of his face to caress his cheek.

‘Okay?’ Warm enough?’ and when he replied with a mute and exhausted blink of assent, she smiled, ’Good, get some sleep and try not to move too much. I’ll take another look at it in the morning.’

She dimmed the light to a soft glow and he allowed himself to fall asleep, aware that she was still there, wrapping herself in a blanket as well before she settled down in the big easy chair to watch over him.

Chapter 15
Thursday night

She sat there, listening to the sounds of life, the occasional breath held against the continued pain that invaded his sleep, the slight stir against thick material as he moved. The blanket that enveloped her was warm, and so was the room but even so she felt cold, not that coolness of lowering temperatures, but a deeper chill that seemed to fill her with dread.

Where would this lead to? What was going to happen? Her heart constricted as she contemplated the future, and the past. The hurts, the treachery, the pain that she had suffered and was still enduring. Thirty-five, single, alone. She had never planned for this, had confidently expected that by now she would be settled, secure, loved. And look what had happened. Life had betrayed her, abandoned her to an empty sterile existence where even fellow workers looked at her with something akin to contempt.

She knew what Barry thought of her.

He stirred again, muttering as if speaking to someone, and she unwrapped herself to go and stand beside him seeing his eyes closed, lips moving, soft sounds. ‘Shh,’ she whispered, before pulling the covers back with delicate caution. Good. The dressing looked clean; bloodstained but not overly. She tucked the blanket back around his shoulders and stared down at his face, as if she had not really seen it before.

Clean skin, unmarked and untainted by drugs or the redness of alcoholism, a handsome face. Well no, not really handsome. She’d always considered handsome to be more rugged somehow, that certain indefinable appearance that she had associated with the heroes of her teenage years. Dark-haired, square-jawed, a body with muscle and power; that had always been her ideal image. Schwarzenegger, Stallone, the images came to mind, charismatic men of action. Every woman’s dream. Someone to sweep them off their feet, to transport them to wondrous destinations, to treasure them, to protect them.

But she hadn’t been protected had she? He hadn’t done that. HE. The man she had entrusted with her life. The man with whom she had planned a future. The one who should have cherished her, supported her, shared her life. And he had betrayed her.

Utterly.

She shuddered as the memory swept over her again. She had thought it was over, that it was finally in the past, that it had been entombed deep within her, under the rubble of the last long years of mundane work and study and boredom. Dear lord she had tried hard enough to bury it. What had this man, sleeping here in front of her, done to bring it up to the surface again? How dare he come here and disturb her ordered existence, her dry and unthreatening plans for a future of dreary work and duty.

Or was it him?

She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, not wanting to disturb his sleep, but needing to be close. Hands clasped together, she held herself rigid, looking down at the man there.

The first time in so many years that she had felt so close to a
man. To have touched him, as she did the night before, to have dared slip into his bed, to hold him with such a sense of safety and, yes, a sense of desire.

Desire. She hadn’t desired a man since. Since. She took a deep gasping breath, and exhaled slowly. So why this man? What hold did he have over her after such a short time? She hadn’t intended to sleep with him, and she laughed softly. Sleep with a man….the euphemism for sex, and yet those few brief hours she had spent curled close to him as he slept were more sensuous, more intense than any encounter she could remember.

Her fingers were stiff with tension, her shoulders tight, as she sat there, her eyes filling with tears of regret. Regret for the mistakes of her past, for her lost future, the chances that passed her by. And this man was the catalyst.

If he had not arrived on that night just one week ago, she would still be here, still be working, still be alone at night in her beautiful apartment that was the symbol of her hollow success and her failure, and mocked by those who thought of her as incapable of any emotional involvement. She would still be imprisoned inside that fortress that she had so carefully constructed around herself, distanced from the slightest emotional contact, protected from the possibility of any further hurt, but his arrival had brought those memories up to the surface again.

She reached out one tentative hand, her fingers trembling with anticipation. She had touched him before, touched his face, his skin. His body. She had even seen him naked, but this was different. This was.. secret. This was… she pulled back, clasping her hands together in uncertainty. He would not be aware of her touch, and it was not a touch of need, he didn’t need her hand now to calm him, or quieten the nightmare, or to cleanse his skin.

Not even a touch to sooth him after she had hurt him. No, this would be … theft. She would be stealing from him. Stealing something that she had never thought she could ever want again.

She eased the cover back, down past the broad shoulders, past the stained dressing on his ribs. He did not stir; the room was warm enough for him not to be aware of the change.

The feel of his skin under her hands. His body there for her, not to abuse, not to treat with contempt or to mock. The pulse of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept, that soft touch of his breath, even the roughness of the beard on his jaw, all these were there, waiting for her, as if in anticipation of her need.

He slept on, as if spellbound by the silence in the small room. She had no fears that he would wake if she placed her hand on his chest, on the sprinkling of pale hair that grew on his breastbone, no fears that his eyes would open and he would stare at her, with blue eyes anxious and full of distrust.

She wiped the treacherous tears away, and leaned forward, feeling the warmth of his body rising to meet her hand as she gently touched him with just her fingertips, so lightly at first that she was almost unsure that she had actually made contact, then with growing confidence and wonder lowered her hand to let it lie flat on his breast, delighting at the beat of his pulse, at the feel of surprisingly firm muscles lying there under pale skin.

The only sound she could hear now was her own breathing, loud in the stillness, as she sat there, poised to jerk back, to break that contact, should he stir. And deep within she knew that she wanted him to wake, wanted him to open those eyes. She wanted him to see her, to know that she was here. That she existed. That she was a person, real, alive.

But he was still. The only movement that of his chest, slow regular breathing and her hand rising and falling with him. For these few minutes she was at peace, safe and trusted, no-one judging her, or condemning her. A chance to think about her life and what was to be.

He moved his head, as if aware that she was sitting looking down at him, and she tensed. But her hand stayed firm, betraying her instinct to abandon him and move back to the safety of the easy chair that was waiting for her. She knew that once she stood up she would never again have the courage to return to sit so close to him. To touch, to watch and maybe to dream of what might have been. He didn’t wake, just murmured about a shadow and settled once again into his dreams.

In the muted light she sat there, as silver-bright memories darted through her mind. Silly fleeting thoughts. His hand on her head, holding her gently as she cried, the smell of soap, his heart beating as she clung to him, the glint of light on pale hair, his fingers as they trickled her bracelet into the palm of her hand, the taste of his skin on her lips. Small precious moments. And, tired, she lay down next to him, not as before, close and comforting; she did not need that now, and neither did he. It was enough to lie there, separated by the blankets, her hand still light on his body but knowing that, whatever happened to John Shepherd, whoever he was, whatever future he had waiting for him, he had released her from her self-imposed isolation and she would never be the same again.

………………………..

Hell, it hurt. More than he had expected, much more. He hardly dared to move he was so sore and he lay there trying to summon up enough courage to turn over while his ribs throbbed and burned. It didn’t help that there was something heavy on the bed next to him. He cursed himself for his foolishness in getting injured, but he could not have stood by while Sam was threatened. He might not know his name but he knew that whoever he was, whatever he did, he would never have allowed any man to slash a woman open as the attacker had intended doing.

Rolling his shoulders he loosened the stiffened and tight muscles but even that simple movement tugged at the swollen skin making him gasp sharply as the dressing snagged on the blanket. He lay still, waiting for the stinging to lessen and slowly eased his left hand up to ……..

Fingers. A hand light and soft on his chest. And he felt the fingers clench and slide across his skin as if reluctant to lose contact.
Rebecca.

She was here, with him, but not to reassure him or dispel his nightmares this time. He had anticipated that she would have been watching over him; over the last few days he had come to know her well enough to be aware that she took her responsibilities seriously. Too seriously at times. But he had not expected her to be here now, on his bed. Shepherd turned his head with care, unwilling to disturb her sleep.

She was awake, her eyes watching his face with wonder, as if she had never seen him before, her hand slowly retreating from his body.

‘Hello.’ his voice was quiet, hesitant, as if he was scared to break the spell that seemed to have pervaded the small room.

‘How are you feeling?’ her voice was as tentative, as soft.

He didn’t answer. What was there to say? The truth? That he felt lost and afraid and scared? That he ached and hurt and throbbed. But that, at the same time, she made him feel wanted and accepted. Did he have the right to do that to her? To put that responsibility on her? To make her aware just how lonely he felt? It was not fair. To her, or to any family that he might have out there waiting for his return. Though somehow John Shepherd knew that he had no-one, knew that he was alone and that this woman had shown him more tenderness in this last week than he had experienced for a long time.

He lifted one hand, and laid it against the side of her face. ‘It’s early; go back to sleep.’ And he closed his eyes and sighed.

Regret or relief? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew was that he wanted her to stay.