By now the woman’s husband had run back to them, red-faced and shaking with nerves. ‘I’ll get the police. Are you okay?’ The woman suddenly became suspicious of Lorraine, and caught her husband’s arm. ‘Get in the car, just leave her. She said she doesn’t want any help. Get back to the children!’
He looked from his wife back to Lorraine, who managed a half-smile. ‘I’m okay, thanks for your help.’
Still he hesitated, but his wife called him again, and as he hurried across to her, Lorraine could hear the shrill voice. ‘Can’t you see what she is? Didn’t you see her face? She’s a whore, she was probably trying to steal from him. Just get in the car!’ They continued to argue, even as they drove out and he stared back at Lorraine, confused and shocked.
In the ladies’ room Lorraine soaked a handful of toilet tissue, and held it to the back of her head. She had lost a shoe, her dress was bloodstained and she couldn’t stop the flow of blood from the back of her scalp. Her mouth, too, was bloody, and she panicked. Had he hit her in the mouth? But it wasn’t her blood, it was his, from the bite she had given him. She was shaking now, her legs jerky, and she had to sit down on the toilet seat to stop herself fainting.
With trembling hands she opened the wallet. A driving licence plus a photograph — but not of the man inside the car. There were odd ticket stubs and dry cleaning receipts, and more than three hundred and fifty dollars. She folded the money, and stuck it into her panties. Then she stuffed the wallet into the trashcan.
She remained at the washbasin for another fifteen minutes, using more tissue soaked in cold water as a pad. When she had recovered enough to make her way slowly outside, she still felt dizzy and faint, so she hailed a passing cab and gave him Rosie’s address.
Lorraine hardly had the strength to get out of the cab and the driver was blazing when he found his seat was bloodstained. Jake, who had returned to check on Rosie, was watching the display from the apartment window.
Thinking her as drunk as Rosie had been, he nevertheless helped Rosie to carry her upstairs. When he spotted the wound on her head he insisted Lorraine go to the hospital. She refused. She didn’t want any hospital or police reports — she was fine. And she had not had a drink.
The wound was still bleeding freely, so reluctantly Lorraine agreed to go with Jake to his clinic to have it stitched. By the time they arrived she was subdued. She lay on the couch as Jake examined the gash. He doubted her claim that the wound had been caused by her falling on a loose paving stone. It looked to him as if someone had struck her from behind; if the blow had landed an inch further up, her skull could have been shattered. She’d been lucky.
Lorraine returned home with Rosie and Jake, her head bandaged and with a cropped haircut. Rosie put her in her own bed, and gave her the sedatives and antibiotics Jake had prescribed. Once she was asleep, Jake began to quiz Rosie. ‘What did she tell you that you think is lies, then, Rosie?’
Rosie shrugged. ‘Oh... just that she used to be a police officer.’
Jake smiled, his eyes concentrating on unscrewing the hinges of the damaged screen door. Well, that may be fantasy, of course. I think she’s a whore and that’s why she didn’t want to go to the police. Someone nearly killed her today, though. But my worry is you — because you are my main concern, Rosie dear, and you were doing so well before she came on the scene.’
‘I don’t think she had anything to do with me tying on a load, Jake. That was down to my husband.’
Jake squinted at the hinge. ‘Maybe, but you’re vulnerable right now, sweetheart, and it won’t take much to make you fall off the wagon. How long has she been dry? Not long. Right?’
Rosie knew he was right and that he meant well, but she couldn’t keep calling him just for social reasons — even though she had every right to call him when she was in trouble. ‘I get lonely, Jake. I need a friend.’
Jake held up the new hinges. ‘Who am I to say what you should or shouldn’t do? I’ll have to come back and fix this tomorrow. These aren’t the right screws.’
Rosie sighed and looked to the bedroom. ‘I think we’ll be okay, for tonight anyway. It’ll take my mind off things looking after her.’
Jake put on his jacket. ‘Up to you, but keep your eye on her. I don’t trust her.’
He had made no mention of Lorraine’s reaction when he had seen the thick wad of notes fall out from under her skirt. Her expression was angry and when he asked about the money she had told him to mind his own business; it was just her savings. Jake was sure she had a police record, he could tell by her face: that hardness. She must be as tough as any man to have taken such a crack and still be able to walk around.
Rosie started to make some chicken soup, even though it was eighty degrees outside. She was feeling a bit wobbly and had almost eaten the entire pot before taking a small bowl in to Lorraine. She had been awake for quite a while, but kept her eyes closed, wincing as Rosie collapsed onto the bed. Her head ached, a sharp nagging pain that pressed into her eyes.
‘Soup,’ barked Rosie, holding up the bowl and a large spoon. Lorraine smiled. It was the last thing she would have thought of asking for on a warm clammy evening but when she tasted the first spoonful, it hit the right spot — as her mother always used to say. She took the spoon from Rosie, and fed herself, dunking the fresh white bread into the remains, and finally wiping the bowl clean.
‘I’d offer you some more but I made a pig of myself,’ Rosie admitted as she took away the bowl.
Lorraine snuggled down. ‘I’m full and it tasted so good... and I don’t mind you sleeping with me — you’ll never fit on that sofa out there.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Well, thank you very much! I thought I’d take the cushions off and put them on the floor. I’d kick you out, but Jake said you should watch it, you know, not roll about or bang your head. I’ll manage out on the sofa — but only for one night.’
Lorraine listened to the plodding feet moving around. Her hand had slipped up her panties to feel the money, afraid that maybe Jake had mentioned it to Rosie. It was still there, and it acted as a comforter. She had more than three hundred dollars, enough to get away from Rosie.
The bedroom floor shook as Rosie reappeared with some hot chocolate, slipped the mug onto the bedside table, turned on the night light, and straightened the duvet. It was the caring that did it, simply being tucked in like when she was a little girl, that made Lorraine’s heart ache.
‘Rosie... you still there?’ Lorraine whispered.
‘Yep, hovering like a hot-air balloon. Don’t forget to take your antibiotics.’
Rosie watched Lorraine slowly raise herself on her elbow, her face twisted. ‘You want an aspirin?’
Lorraine nodded, and Rosie fetched two tablets and held the mug of hot chocolate to her lips. Lorraine felt the thick sweet liquid slip down her throat.
‘I’ll be right outside if you need me.’
Lorraine flushed. ‘Rosie, I, er... well, I guess I do want my life back and if it means going to those meetings, well, then we’ll go together.’
Rosie nodded. ‘I should fuckin’ hope so. G’night, sleep tight. Tomorrow you’re back on the sofa.’
Lorraine gave a soft laugh, and nestled down. She hadn’t heard the sound of her own laugh for so long that it warmed her now, and made her feel good, as did the soft duvet and big, squashy pillows. Nearly four months, she calculated, and she had not had one drink. Could she — did she really want to stay on the wagon? The money was a hard lump in her panties. She eased it out and tucked it under the pillow, keeping her hand on it, feeling drowsy, wondering vaguely why the driving licence had a different picture from the guy who had picked her up. The car was probably stolen, she told herself, the wallet must have belonged to its real owner. She sighed deeply as she recalled the incident. The claw hammer kept in the glove compartment. Very convenient. The position he had forced her into on his lap, the reclining angle of the seat... as if he had done it before? Jake had said she was lucky to be alive, another fraction of an inch higher and he would have cracked her skull open. If she hadn’t bitten his neck she’d be dead. She knew she had marked him — the bite was deep. Should she call the LAPD in the morning, give them an anonymous tip-off? Describe the attacker? She yawned, maybe. Maybe she should just get some sleep, take it all day by day as Rosie said.