The Poison Morality (24 page)

Oliver shook his head, running his hand through his hair, “I don’t know,” Oliver interrupted her.  “All I know is we are players in someone else’s game.  Whether she is the queen or a pawn like us I don’t know but I think you should stop waiting for her.”  He inspected the bruising of her wrists and neck.  “It has to stop because,” he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “I can’t stand to see you like this,” his expression gave away his thoughts of concern.  “I can’t wait for you to come home not knowing what condition you’ll be in because eventually your luck is going to run out.”

Her lip trembled, “I can’t do that.  It’s the only thing I’m good at.”  She had forgotten the needle dropping into the Thames until now.

“You’re not or you wouldn’t be in this state,” it came out harsher and more abrupt then he meant it to then his voice became low, “and I wouldn’t have seen you on the train that night.”

She stood up straight and opened her mouth to protest when he interrupted her, “Is he dead?”  He moved her hair, she shivered when it tickled her neck, he saw the bruises again, fingertips.  If he wasn’t dead he would go kill him.

“Yes, I think, yes I watched him die and then I saw you….,” her voice trailed off, too much effort to continue.  The warmth from his body and the steady and sure way he inspected was calming, while she felt a chaos of nerves and emotions.  He still handled her gently, even though some of his words were a little harsh and matter of fact.

“That’s something at least,” somewhat relieved by that thought.  “Look at me,” his tone low and she glared at him.  “You will just have to forgive me for not telling you sooner.”

“Sooner?  You never told me.  I told you everything and you told me nothing.” 

“You didn’t tell me remember?  I followed you; I saw you just as you saw me.”

Every muscle in her body felt like it could seize up any moment.  Her eyes dropped to the floor while he examined.  She didn’t want to admit he was right.  But what about what she had confided in him about…“Did he rape you,” he blurted out the question.

Sophie just shook her head no slowly; if she told him he tried he would be upset even more.  Her eyes were getting heavy.  Her wounds were not that severe after all and he believed the shock was more from the ordeal itself.  He was satisfied that he could help her here.  She was winding down, coming off the rush of the adrenaline and anger, her energy depleted.

Pulling her by the arm, he dragged her to the bed moving her body parts around for her when she didn’t or couldn’t move fast enough for him, leaving and returning with the bag of supplies from the cut hoping there would be enough of what he needed.  The quick intake of breath between her teeth indicated she could feel the disinfectant and that was a good thing.

He went to the bath and got a damp flannel, when he returned she asked, “Why haven’t I heard from you?”  He pressed it to her face, cleaning the remainder of the blood off, the bruise already forming on her cheek around the cut.  It was cool but felt good against her flushed face but the rest of her was getting colder by the second.  “I called; you didn’t answer or return them.”

“You know,” he cleared his throat, “I was angry at you.  And I know you didn’t hurt Sam, I know it but when I think about Sydney and I looked at you.  I put it all together as one thing and that feeling you felt when you saw me tonight?  You’re right that’s how I’ve felt since that day and I’ve been waiting for it to fade and when I saw you,” he was cleaning the cuts on her wrists now, gently wrapping her shaking arm before she fell asleep, “I was ashamed that I felt that way and it wasn’t just Sam’s death that made that time miserable.  It was being away from you and that’s my fault not yours.  I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He worked diligently on her wrist, to keep from looking at her face.  Sophie used the last of her energy to touch his cheek, her hand shook.  He stopped and closed his eyes relishing the feel of it and he pressed it against his face to stop the shaking and just to feel her touch made his heart beat swiftly. 

“Don’t….don’t do it again,” she mumbled, she tried to smile but it hurt, her hand slipping when she fell asleep.  He reached under the blanket, undoing her trousers and at the end of the bed pulling them off by the cuffs, knowing that was how she was most comfortable.

She was feverish, concussed, wounded.  Sitting by the bed, Oliver crossed his arms on the side and rested his chin on them.  How was he going to explain to her what he is without telling her the beginning?  He owed her that much and he knew this wasn’t the last he would hear of it.

She was dreaming.  The jerking motion of her body led him to believe she was reliving the events and as he looked at her, tears welled up in his eyes.  He was exhausted not only physically but emotionally and he was glad the man was dead.  Before he didn’t care but this time he was glad he was dead. 

Oliver wanted to shake her, tell her she didn’t have to do it anymore, tell her risking her life wasn’t worth it but she didn’t like to be told what to do and then he remembered.  He felt her feverish cheek, the clamminess gone that was some relief but she curled up still shivering, the blankets not sufficient. 

He climbed into bed behind her, his body forming the shape of hers to try to warm her.  Contemplating how he would feel if he lost her was the equivalent to losing his mother.  Sophie had now become the dearest thing in his life but how much could he protect her if she continued on this path and someone was really trying to get her killed.  He wasn’t sure if she understood that but he would have to make her understand, there was nothing else for him to do.

If she lived an ordinary life, would he still be so enthralled by her?  He thought about it.  He loved the artist, the side of her that gave so easily, the woman who moved to music, and looked at families with a longing he shared.  He loves
that
woman as much as he had been fascinated by the recluse, the femme fatale, the battered woman that needed his help.  The fascination turned into concern and worry.

His snoozing was sporadic because of her interrupted slumber.  Feeling her forehead, her fever had broken, the shivering subsided and he finally allowed a deep slumber to take him too.

Sophie spent two days in bed as Oliver monitored her closely when he was there and when he was at the hospital he continually woke her by calling.  He only assisted her only if he saw that she struggled with something but for the most part she stayed quiet, able to help herself and slept between.  Finally, as they both lay on the bed, each struggling with emotions beyond their comprehension, Oliver asked her the events of that night.

Broken images were all she could relate but she told it in her straight forward manner as Oliver grappled with it.  Once she had told him what she could remember, she rolled onto her side, propping up on an elbow and saw the stern look on his face, contemplating.  He didn’t look at her but continued staring at the ceiling.  His hands behind his head, his ankles crossed, he seemed relaxed in his tee and jeans but something was weighing heavy on his mind more than Sophie’s ordeal. 

She forgave him for not telling her, after all he discovered her by accident and then confirmed by following her so she didn’t exactly tell either but she wanted to know, “Why do you do it?”

“I knew you were going to ask me that.”  He took a deep breath, “It began with my mum,” he paused finding the right words, words that she would understand and he chose to confide in her the sorrowful beginning.

“I was away at medical school.  I had been gone several months when I got a call from my father telling me I needed to come home urgently.  My mum needed to see me and that was it.  I knew she was missing me because I was missing her terribly.  We had a special bond.  My father never gave her enough attention but she completely devoted herself to my brother and me and Sam of course.   But my brother was more like my father and I was more like her.”

“Yes, Phillipa told me you were like her.”

Oliver smiled, recollecting, “There were days when I was a boy when we would plant flowers in her flower beds and chase the dog around the garden, laughing while my father looked disapprovingly and my brother scoffed at our silliness.  I always remember the sun in her hair and it seemed like she was always smiling but that could be because she glowed from the inside out.  Once, she told me she knew I would be leaving and it would be hard on both of us,” his smile started to fade, “but the more she saw I was inclined towards medicine she pushed me to do it even if that meant leaving her behind with my brother and father.  I felt guilty about leaving her but I swore I would go back when I graduated and take her anywhere she wanted to go if she wanted to leave.”

Oliver took a deep breath, closing his eyes, “Anyway, I went home one weekend expecting a warm reunion and instead I found my father sitting by the fire drinking his scotch.  When I walked in, he didn’t greet me, just told me mum was upstairs.  I thought it odd that she wasn’t at the door as soon as I came.  I yelled for her but she didn’t answer and when I walked in her room I couldn’t believe what I saw.”

Oliver paused, the lump in his throat getting bigger, “She was lying on the bed, she was pale and gaunt, and most of her hair was gone.  I just stood at the door staring at her, trying to grasp the concept that this person, what was left, I didn’t even recognize as my mother.

I ran back downstairs and grabbed my father by his shirt and shouted at him.  I can’t remember all that I said I was so angry that he didn’t even tell me she had been sick.  If I had known I would have come home immediately.  He said she didn’t want that,” Oliver scoffed.  “It was the only time I remember him doing anything she wanted.  She didn’t want me quitting school to come take care of her as she knew I would do.  He didn’t fight me or yell back but told me matter of fact that she had cancer and there was nothing left to be done.  By the time she went to the doctor it was too late.  She had done the chemo and the radiation but it was too much for her.

I went back upstairs and went to her bedside.  Fell to my knees and,” he let the tears slide down his temples, he didn’t try to hide them from Sophie, there was no need, “I just sobbed, helpless.  I never felt so helpless in all my life.  I held a pillow to my face to try to stifle the sound of my weeping but she woke and reached for me.  She looked decades older than she was.  Her hair was all but gone, not the long waves it had once been.  I took her hand and we just stared at each other unable to speak, crying.  Because I couldn’t think of anything to say for the sadness I felt and because her
laboured breathing made it physically hard.”

Oliver rolled over onto his side, propping up on his elbow to face Sophie.  Her chin trembled, trying not to cry in empathy for him and he managed a slight smile, sliding his arm under her and scooping her towards him to lay her head against his chest, and he continued, his hair wet from his tears and his shirt wet from hers.

“Do you know what her eyes said to me?  What she said to me without speaking and only I could understand?  Tired of the pain, she asked me with her eyes to end it, end her suffering.  She was choosing when to go and she was ready and she chose me to do it for her.

Ironically enough I felt like I abandoned her to go become a doctor when she needed one the most.  I was too busy to call, too busy to visit and now she was almost gone.  I wanted to hate her for that but I couldn’t, I loved her too much, I couldn’t deny her the last thing she asked of me.

Taking my hand and whispering, I had to lean in close to hear her and she said…” Oliver paused until he could continue. “I’m sad to leave you but I’m ready to go.  I’ll always be with you.’  Just to say that took all the strength she had left. 

That night I drove back to the clinic I was working at and managed to steal morphine without raising suspicion and a syringe.  All I could think was getting back to her.

I drove back; I hadn’t slept all night, weeping the whole way to and from until I was dried up.  I was getting used to not sleeping very much but the emotional strain was exhausting, I felt like I was in a haze, that what I was doing wasn’t really me but someone else. 

I went to her room, closed the door and took out the morphine and filled the syringe.  I turned over her arm, her veins were easy to find,” Oliver took Sophie’s arm and kissed it below the crook of her elbow, “her skin was so pale and she had grown so thin.  My hand shook, making it impossible but she smiled and nodded and I steadied my nerves, injecting the morphine into her arm.  I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips to her wrist feeling her heartbeat slow and then stop,” he pressed his lips to Sophie’s wrist, not kissing it but feeling the life pulse under his lips with no regard to the abrasion that was still there.  “Once it did I found the courage to look at her and there was peace for both of us.  I was thankful I could do that for her, the
only
thing left to do for her, and I was the
only
person that would.”

His palm cupped Sophie’s face, “So you see, there are others like my mother, it’s my job as a doctor to help them any way I can and sometimes, that’s the only way.  So I ask them if they are ready and if they give me consent, then I give them the morphine.
It was something only she and I could understand until you.”

He moved so he could look at her face, part of his weight rested on her.  “Death isn’t just about the dying; it’s about the living and who is left behind.”

“Is that the real reason you turned off the boy’s life support?”

Oliver took a deep breath, sliding his fingertips up and down her arm, “No.  His parents asked it of me and I couldn’t deny them.  Even though the heartache was extreme, they needed the release.  Children always hope.  They’re not afraid of dying or living.”  He changed the subject, “Surely, you have enough money by now you can stop, do your painting fulltime.”

“Maybe I don’t want to stop.”

He cocked one eyebrow, “Maybe you don’t like being told what to do.”

She didn’t reply, not feeling the need to confirm what they both knew to be true.  His fingertips tickling her skin distracted her.  He traced the blue veins under the pale skin of her arm, contemplating, “I don’t believe that,” he declared, “It’s against your true nature.”

“My true nature?” She looked sceptically at him.  “What is my true nature?”

“You open doors for old people, empty your pockets for the homeless, the yearning to have a children, family, normality.  The only thing keeping you from having the things that you truly want is the poison.  You poison them and it poisons you too.”

“I’m not ready to stop yet,” considering, “It’s more than about the money.”

“What is it then, some great loathing or retribution?”

“I’m indifferent to it so it can’t be either of those things.”

“I don’t believe you’re as indifferent to the outcome as you think.”  She thought about it.  Thought about how she felt about it when feeling wasn’t an option before and how she reacted when the needle plummeted into the river.  She didn’t know how to answer.  “Is this what they call pillow talk?”

Oliver chuckled, “Well pillow talk usually involves sex at some point.”

“Oh,” he felt her stiffen.

“Don’t worry I’m in no mood.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Oh yeah, I’m going to have to work on my poker face,” slowly and with some difficulty from stiff muscles, she rolled off the bed.  He was at her side but just waited patiently and followed her in the living room.   “I have something to show you.  I found it at Maurice’s flat outside the door.”

“Who?”

Sophie looked at him sarcastically, “Oh.”

He walked over to the table while she inspected it.  “Where do these come from Sophie?”  He asked about the envelope.

“I don’t know,” she walked over and threw it on top of the fireplace grate.

“What...,” he squinted, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I told you the poison chose me.”

“When?  I mean, how did this come about?”

“Make some tea and I’ll tell you.”  The sun was glowing behind the skyline and faded past the hemisphere.  She clicked on the lamp and he returned with tea a few minutes later.  Both sat on opposite ends of the sofa.

“The money I took ran out, I had turned to scavenging and begging and I thought if I was lucky, the cold would take me.  Have you ever been so cold that, aside from your body shaking uncontrollably, it also constantly moves limbs competing for the little bit of warmth the friction could create?”   Sophie asked the question but she closed her eyes, picturing in her head the memories of living on the street and Oliver’s steady breathing beside her.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he was watching her intently.

“The alley was where I called home, as you know.  One night, it was so cold; a lot of people went to the shelters.  I went occasionally but I tried not to, pride, maybe, I don’t know.  Every day it got harder and harder.  I thought, get a job any job but I was good at nothing, I didn’t finish school so I stood on the corner and hoped I begged enough money out of the working class to eat that day.  I stayed at Paddington and Victoria stations as much as I could.”

I had fallen asleep one night, to the sound of traffic, counting the cars and the buses, scarf under my head, coat, boots, and tarp and still the cold permeated my bones.  I had no concept of time anymore.  I woke with the sun in my eyes the next morning.  I rolled over and my hand landed on something I had not fallen asleep with.  It was a big envelope with my name on it in big, black, swirly letters, as to look pretty as one would do on a gift.

I remember feeling curious and thrilled at the same time.  No one knew where I was and no one would have cared if they did so I had no concept of what it could be or who it was from.”  Sophie paused smiling.  Oliver smiled too but didn’t interrupt her.

I walked to Hyde Park and sat on my
favourite people watching bench in the Italian garden.  I used to pretend I was certain people walking by; the mother, the office worker, the girlfriend kissing passionately by the pond.”  Her smile faded again.

“I lifted the flap,” Sophie mimicked how she opened the envelope.  “On the underside, a note was taped to the flap so as I pulled the flap open it lifted with the flap in the same swirly writing it had what to do and information about a man, the poison and bank account information in my name.  Under the circumstances, I didn’t see any way I could turn it down but I didn’t know if I could actually do it but I did, I poisoned him.  I do what I do and the poison does what it does, it was so easy and they were still alive when I moved on. Once I found out how easy it was I just continued.”

She stopped, taking the photo and placing it on the table flattening it with the palms of her hands, “Do you see what I see?”

“I see you.”

She pointed to the red top that peaked out of the jacket.  “Funny Oliver,” they chuckled lightly at his joke that wasn’t really funny but both really needing a laugh.  “I don’t have any red in my closet.”

Oliver sat on the edge of the sofa, putting down his tea and studying the picture.  Sophie took a deep breath and held it, not wanting to get emotional.

“I think that means either she’s the extortionist and/or she’s in danger.”

“And/or you’re in danger because someone thinks you’re her.”

“Owen,” he looked at her curiously, “the homeless guy,” she elaborated, “told me ‘you don’t find her, she finds you’ I have to try to find her now that I have something to go on.  This photo is the best place to start.  All I have to do is find this angle.”