He lets her go, and seems to stagger slightly as he goes to lean against the banister. ‘She was just so… oh, my God, who would do something like that? She’s only a kid. I thought she was going to die. I honestly thought I wasn’t going to get her home and she was going to just… I thought she was going to die right there on the street, in my arms.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Poor you – it must’ve been horrible.’
He snatches his specs off and polishes them ferociously with the tail of his shirt. Without the shading lenses, his eyes are huge, pale blue, like the eyes of a bush baby. ‘She’s only a kid,’ he says, again. ‘Can I…?’
‘Not right now, Thomas. She’s sleeping. Best to leave her. I’m sure she’ll want to see you later.’
‘I think – I should have taken her to casualty. I just wasn’t thinking. I should have.’
Again, she rubs his arm. She needs to calm him down. There can be no hospitals for Cher. No GPs, no crime reports. ‘No. You did the right thing. You did. She doesn’t want the hospital. You can’t make her if she doesn’t want it.’
‘But that’s crazy, Vesta. She shouldn’t be… I mean, what if there’s some internal damage? She could be bleeding inside, and…’
‘Well, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,’ she says, more matter-of-factly than she feels. She’s worried about the big nasty bruise on the girl’s stomach herself. It doesn’t feel hard to the touch, but then, she couldn’t touch it very firmly, with Cher howling and fighting her off. It might have to be the hospital, whether Cher likes it or not.
‘And she was filthy. Covered in dirt. And all those cuts…’
‘I know. I know. We washed her, gave her a bath, and we’ve put antiseptic everywhere we could get to, Thomas. Please, don’t worry. We’ve got it as under control as we can.’
There’s a hesitation. She can tell that he wants to ask about the blood on her leggings, doesn’t know if he can. Despite the fact that this is the person who carried her home, who stroked her hair off her face as though she was a toddler, Vesta feels as though confirming his fears would be some sort of betrayal. She puts him off. ‘She’s sleeping. No better medicine. And she’s got the medicines Hossein got for her – penicillin and enough tramadol to knock out a horse. Thank God for the immigrant community, eh?’
I wish I could help,’ he says. ‘Isn’t there anything I can do? Can’t I help?’
‘You are helping. You have helped. She was just lucky she bumped into you. I’m not sure she’d have made it home if she hadn’t. Go on. I’ve got to get back. I don’t want to leave her alone for too long.’
‘Okay,’ he says, doubtfully. ‘You’ll call me if —’
‘Won’t need to,’ she says firmly. ‘You can come down and see her when she’s awake.’
‘Would she like something to read, perhaps? She’s going to be in bed a while, I should think. I’ve got some old Spectators and New Statesmen. I know they’re probably not…’
She fights an urge to laugh out loud. Oh, bless you, Thomas. You don’t have the faintest idea, do you? ‘I don’t think she’ll be up to reading for a while,’ she replies soothingly. ‘But it’s a kind thought. I should get back to her now, though. Sorry. And thank you.’
She leaves him standing on the landing and re-renters the bedroom. The air in here is acrid with sickness, overlaid with Dettol. In the bed, the diminutive figure lies on its side, hair plastered to the pillow, the cat wrapped in her sleeping arms. He hasn’t left her side, that cat, since Thomas brought her home. Sits and lies beside her all the time, emitting a loud rattling purr, as though he thinks that this will somehow help her heal. Vesta tries to creep across the room quietly, but Cher hears her and jumps awake with a gasp.
‘It’s okay, Cher,’ says Vesta. ‘It’s okay. It’s just me. You’re all right.’
The girl groans as she shifts in the bed, and the cat moves a couple of paces away and squats, glaring evilly. Vesta goes to shoo him off, but Cher grabs him by the scruff and squashes him to her chest. Vesta leaves it. He must be all over germs, that cat, but Cher loves him and it’s pretty clear that the feeling is, as far as cats go, mutual. God knows, Cher’s not had many things to love in her life. Why deprive her of this one?
And the girl needs all the help she can get. Vesta’s stomach churns as she sees the mess this man has made of her face, of the mouth that gingerly presses itself to the sensitive patch behind Psycho’s ear. Such a pretty face. She could probably have done with stitches in that lip, but what can I do? I’m not a nurse. I’m just a first-aider. How am I meant to know if that’s a straightforward black eye, or if something’s actually broken in there?