The Poison Morality (6 page)

He sacrificed his comfort for her, helped her, a genuine good deed but he wanted something, answers to his accusations and…what was it again?  Half asleep, her memory was hazy.  Oh yes, a date, eating at the same table, and conversation.  She started to rollover until the sharpness reminded her, she cried out and Oliver stirred, awakened by the slightest sounds.

In the dimness he couldn’t tell if she was awake or not but felt her cheek with the back of his fingers, not caressing but just enough to make sure she wasn’t feverish and left the room, closing the door behind him.  She was cool now so he slept on the sofa not wanting her to be surprised to see him at her bedside in the morning.

***

The sun in her eyes indicated late morning but she stayed in bed listening to the muffled sounds of breakfast being made behind the door.  The sizzling of bacon, the toaster popping up, the kettle clicking, the clanking of mugs and once the smell drifted under the door into the room she found that she was famished.  Confused, she had forgotten where she was and then remembered but before panicking, she realized, if he was going to hurt her, he would have done so.

The events of yesterday lingered over her like a dark cloud.  Sitting up, she paused, the numbing agent had worn off and her side stung and throbbed.  Quiet as she could, after she had gotten used to the pain, she turned the door knob and daylight filtered in, now she could hear music underneath the sounds of Oliver’s cooking noises.

On tip toes, she went to the bath to freshen up.  The mirror revealed a version of her that she had never seen before, she was horrified.  Darkness circled her eyes, she was paler than usual, even her lips lost colour and her hair looked like the snakes on Medusa’s head.  She ran her hands through it to try to tame it back down.  Not trying to impress but mortified that he or anyone would see her in this way was a little too embarrassing.  But sneaking out the front door was probably not an option and the smell of the food was too tempting.  He sees sick people all the time, he was used to it, she reasoned.  One thing’s for sure, he wouldn’t bring up dates again and with that thought, she tousled her hair a little again, that should turn him off, but decided against it and attempted to smooth it back down again.

The floor was cold under her bare feet.  He noticed her, fry pan in hand and smiled, “Good morning, I hope you’re hungry.”  He too was barefoot and wearing jeans and a tee shirt, she noticed he was thin and agile and then she looked away quickly.

“What’s the music,” she asked, to keep from talking about anything he might be thinking.  She sat at the small table on the edge of the kitchen and watched him move.  He was stealthy in everything apparently.  He didn’t see her cringe when she sat down.

“Opera.”

She sighed loudly, “Yes, I know that much, but what is it?”

“It’s from Mozart’s The Magic Flute; it’s the aria,” he was waiving around the spatula, thinking, “Queen of the Night or something like that.  Do you like it,” he scraped scramble eggs on top of toast, the table already set with utensils and mugs of tea.

“I do.  I’ve never heard anyone’s voice do that before, it’s,” not sure the word to use, “wonderful,” he set the plate before her and she breathed deeply, cringing again.

“Would you like to go to an opera or the theatre sometime?”

Obviously looking like hell was ineffective at deflecting any mention of dating.  She nervously pulled on the curls that dangled past her shoulders.  “I’m not sure,” was the best answer she could give.  Yes, was the truth, no, was the lie he could see, her answer was somewhere in between.  “I’ve never been.”

Oliver almost choked on his tea, “Never?  London has some of the finest.” 

“No, never.  There are lots of things I haven’t done.”  Sophie mumbled under her breath, averting his stare.

Sensing her nervousness he answered, “Perhaps we can get through breakfast first.  I’ll give you some supplies, you need to keep your wound clean and dry as possible,” noticing the pain in her face.  “Tuck in,” he sat opposite her.  She started to pick up a piece of toast with her fingers and noticed he used knife and fork so she did the same as he started eating.  “And then I’ll take you home before going to hospital.”

Panic swept through her, she sat upright in the chair, “That’s not necessary, I can get home on the tube, really its fine,” she sipped the tea, crinkling her nose.

“I have to make sure you make it home alright or I’ll worry about you until I hear from you again.”

“I don’t think
that’s
a good idea,” she reached for three sugar cubes, dropped them carefully into the tea and stirred.  Oliver took note of her sweet tooth.

“Never the less, I’m escorting you to your door,” he said it with conviction and she knew by his tone he was done discussing it and she was not fit enough to argue, concentrating on the contents of her plate.

“No I mean hearing from me again,” she did not look up instead struggling with cutting her toast without it sliding all over the plate.

“Oh,” his smile faded and he put his fork down, disappointed, watching her struggle with her breakfast but not making an attempt to assist.  Sophie was confused, could he really be that interested in her.  If she admitted the truth, she found his presence comforting or was it the real food that she was eating, picking up the bacon and chewing on it. 

“I hope you change your mind again, obviously.  You have my number in your mobile.”

“Do I,” she put her mug down and looking around, forgetting yet again about her side and biting her lip to keep from crying out.  The mobile still sat on the table by the sofa.

“Yes and I have yours,” he said slowly, “I took the liberty of doing so, to check up on you,” he said when she looked at him accusingly.  Looking at his watch, he said “We better be going, I have to be at work soon, although I would rather stay here talking to you.” Oliver started to touch her hand but she withdrew it quickly, noticing the scratches on his hand.

“Did I do that?”

“Oh yeah, you were like a scared cat,” he smiled, she looked away.

“Sorry. I guess I was.”

“It seems to me that you weren’t so much scared as startled.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Startled is more like something throwing you off for a bit and then you recover quickly but fear,” he hesitated, thinking, “fear of something is more deep rooted I think.  If you were afraid of that man, you would have crumbled in that alley.  I think you’re more afraid I might know something about you, something you don’t want me to know.”

Sophie glared at him.  Oliver knew he shouldn’t have said it out loud, trying to make light of it, he shrugged, “Never mind, stings a bit but they’ll be gone by tomorrow, yours is much worse.”  He busied cleaning up instead of seeing the look of disapproval on her face.  Sometimes he had the habit of saying too much.  Part of being a doctor by telling the way things are without beating around the bush.

With a sideways look, Sophie stared at him again, he didn’t seem like a stranger but he was.  The statement he made hung in the air and she thought she should feel threatened but she didn’t.  The comfort of putting trust in people of certain professions, she supposed but there was something very palliative about him.  He must be very good at putting his patients at ease.  She roamed over to the window, looking out at the cloudy sky, threatening rain.  After the music stopped, she felt a coat across her shoulders.  It was too big for her so she easily slipped her arms into the sleeves, struggling only slightly on the left side.  Distracted, she started to protest when she thought he would go out without his coat but he had put on a short leather jacket.

Sitting in silence, the cabbie having his own conversation quite loudly, Sophie stared out at the people on the streets; Oliver stole occasional glances at her.

Outside her building, she turned to speak to him, to try to get him to go away but he just nodded his head and pivoted her back around.  “The cab is waiting,” she said.

“He doesn’t mind Sophie.”  The front door to the building had a busted lock; indicative of this particular area of Waterloo.  It didn’t make any sense that she lived this way and not worry about losing a few hundred last night.

She walked slowly until she saw the envelope leaning against the door, her pace picking up to grab it quickly like she thought he would grab it from her.  Oliver thought it was odd, it had no postage and no address, just her name.  She thought she was hiding something but he could put two and two together.  Quickly, she scooped it up hoping he had not seen it and cradled it against her chest, opening the door.

Thinking to get rid of him as quickly as possible she jerked his coat off and turned to hand it to him but his attention was on something he was holding.  “This was on the floor, you must have dropped it.”

“What is it,” she asked, shaking the coat, arm outstretched, indicating he should to take it from her.

“It’s a photo.  It was right here on the floor by the door,” he flipped it over.

“I don’t have any photos.  Here’s your coat.  Thank you very much for escorting me home.”

“It has to be yours,” he held it out to her with one hand, taking the coat in the other.

“Why,” she shrugged.

“Because it
is
you,” he read the back, “Sophie and Sydney, age four, it says.”

“Sydney?  Who’s Sydney?”

He chuckled, thinking she was joking but he saw her face, her focus still on him leaving, his smile fading.  “Sophie…she’s your sister.”

“What are you talking about?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I don’t have a sis…hold on, how would
you
know?”

“See for yourself,” he handed her the photo.  Sophie was stunned; it was the same look she had when she realized he was on the train.  Snatching it from him, she teetered, looking at two girls almost identical in every way except she didn’t recognize the other child.  She sat on the edge of the coffee table, it being the closest thing to her.

“I’ve never seen this photo before in my life, or,” she paused astonished, “this girl,” she recognized herself somehow but her twin, “I-I didn’t know.”

“How could you not know,” he knew she was telling the truth, her eyes wide, breathing heavily, half smiling, half bewildered.

“It’s always been just me, mum, and,” she swallowed hard, her voice lowering, “umm…Declan.”

“Who is Declan,” Oliver asked.

“My stepfather but more importantly, who is Sydney and why don’t I know about her,” she still looked disbelieving even when the proof was in her hand.

“I suspect that’s a question for you mother,” he walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“My mother,” she exclaimed, looking up at him, nostrils flaring, he removed his hand, “I don’t speak to my mum.”

“So where did the photo come from,” it was a rhetorical question because they both knew only two things, one girl in the photo and that it was found on the floor in her flat.  There was no answer so she didn’t even attempt to reason one out.

“Sophie, I have to go,” he glanced at his watch.  “Will you be all right, until we meet again,” he asked concerned by the fact that she was obviously taken aback by the discovery but a little tilt of her lips meant she was also, maybe, possibly glad about the revelation.  He was unsure.

She didn’t look up, “Yes, okay, thanks for everything.”  It was sincere but she was distracted.

Maybe, just maybe, he thought, “If you want help finding your sister I am at your disposal.”

“Hmm?”  She looked up at him, the
colour coming back to her face. 

“We can still share a meal and talk about your sister.  Maybe you’ll remember something.”

But she was too distracted and waved him away, “Yeah okay.”

Sophie was thinking, processing.  It was something else to hate her mother for not telling her she had a sister.  It should be easy enough to get records but past records wouldn’t tell her anything about Sydney now.  Did she even want to know or go back to being ignorant of anymore family?  Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted to find out but someone did want her to know but whom?  It was more than a photo; it was a message with a multitude of possible meanings.  Did Sydney get a copy as well?

Oliver could see her mind working; he kissed the top of her head, ecstatic at the prospect of spending time with her even if it meant using the estranged twin as an excuse.  “I’ll ring you,” he said and the door closed behind him. 

It was several minutes later that she looked up to find Oliver gone, a vague recollection of what went on after he handed her the photo.  Did he kiss the top of her head?  Did she say she would go out with him?

There was no need to worry about these things, at least for the moment, she thought looking at the envelope.  She has work to do and it was not finding her mum to ask about a sister she had not known.

The British Library hummed with people this morning.  School groups of children clumped behind their teachers, constantly being shushed.  Their energy couldn’t be restrained; even a trip to the library seemed exciting to them, or more likely, being out of class.  Sophie envied them and she couldn’t say that she remembered ever being as excited about anything as they were. 

Dropping her returns, she set off towards the shelves without any particular book in mind.  Book after book, she searched for anything that appealed but she wasn’t in the mood really to search.  She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see someone that looks like her watching, unable to concentrate.  She had been looking forward to being back in her favourite place in London but she was too distracted to enjoy it, finding it difficult to settle on even one book in contrast to the ten that she returned.  Who left the photo?

The one thing she could say about running into Oliver is, despite his suspicions, she also confirmed that he didn’t think they were valid without a confession she wouldn’t give.

Coming across some romance novels, she pulled one of the paperbacks and sat at a table.  The cover had a handsome pirate with long dark hair, shirt open to the waist and the woman clinging to him, mouth open beckoning to be kissed. 

Thirty pages in, she wondered if anyone had drama like this in real life.  A young woman, kidnapped from her wealthy family by a pirate when another notorious pirate rescues her and she becomes Kate from Taming of the Shrew.  There was a lot of drama to stir the emotions in these novels.  If she compared to her own dreary life it seemed exciting until Oliver showed up and now there was more excitement than she could deal with.  She tossed the book across the table frustrated, drumming her fingers on the table, looking around.   Who knew where Sophie lived and would have access to such a photo?  

Staring again at the front of the book, she speculated, sliding it back towards her and flipping through the pages looking for the lovemaking, just out of curiosity.  When she finally found the sex, there was so little detail that Sophie felt like she had actually learned very little.  Of course,
if
she wanted to learn more about sexuality, there were plenty of books on the subject but she was too embarrassed to even go into those sections. Was Sydney alive?  If so, where had she been for twenty years?

Maybe she should give it a rest and do something else for a while.  Maybe lunch at the café or checking out the exhibit or going onto the internet in search of the missing sister, which made her hesitant still not knowing how far down this rabbit hole she wanted to go. 

She could start by searching the social media websites but nothing came up for a Sydney Newton in London.  Maybe, she didn’t want to be found.  Maybe someone else wanted her to know about Sydney and perhaps Sydney got a copy of the photo and had the same shock of finding out about Sophie.

She was restless, that was it, restless.  Her mind drifted to Oliver.  Oh great from Sydney to Oliver, there were too many new people in her life suddenly.  Being a recluse it was somewhat a shock to the system. 

He was a nice guy and no amount of bad past experiences would change what Oliver is, not to mention handsome.  Her phone startled her, vibrating in her pocket.  It was him, again.  She had successfully ignored his calls and his messages without listening to them.  She may have inadvertently agreed to share a meal with him but she didn’t say when.  They obviously were thinking of each other at the same time.  If this was a romance novel, she thought, that would be considered kismet.

Sighing, she rushed through the aisles, grabbing books without looking.  Leaving without books just wasn’t an option in her opinion.  She checked out and walked out into the early February day.  The sun was surprisingly warm, minimizing the chill.  Sophie walked the ten minutes to Regent’s Park and picked a bench by the lake watching the swans glide gracefully across the water.  The ducks waddled to her in the hope that she had crumbs to give them and quacked at her when she didn’t deliver.  The birds signalled the arrival of spring and Sophie was glad.  She was tired of the cold.  The warm weather made her work easier.

Reaching into her bag of books, she pulled one out, totally ignorant of what she had picked up and pulled out a book of photographs from around the world.  For an hour she sat looking at it enjoying it very much, even wishing that she could go to some of those places but she had never left England. 

They revealed mysterious and glamorous worlds her favourite being Paris; she always wanted to go to Paris.  It was so close, yet it seemed so far away.  She stared at a photo of the Eiffel Tower for several minutes when an older man shuffled along standing on the side of the lake, his bread bag in hand, caught her attention.  Birds surrounded him in anticipation, beaks upturned; chasing the bread he tossed about. 

He was hunched over in the shoulders, his coat ragged looking, and his pants were at least two sizes too big held on by a belt cinched tightly around his waist.  His gaunt face making his hooked nose seem more prominent, a short white, scruffy beard, lined his jaw and chin.

Sophie watched him throw the last of the crumbs and fold the bag neatly and stuff it in his pocket.  He spotted her and walked over and sat on the other end of the bench.  “What you got there?”

Sophie felt awkward, fingering the pages nervously, “Um… photos from around world.”

“Ah, the world, eh?  Well, you’ll never get anything out of that book.  You want to see the world, go,” he waved his hand, “Go.  You’re young,” he spoke slowly; “you should just go see it.  When I was in the Royal Navy, I travelled but I saw more water than land.  I can’t go anywhere now.”

“Well I’ve never been out of England, I’m not sure if I can go by myself.”  Was this what people defined as small talk?

“You don’t have a bloke?  A pretty bird like you doesn’t have anyone to take her places?  Pity,” he paused and Sophie didn’t feel the need to respond.  “Agh…you don’t need anyone, just hop a train and go anywhere.  Start off with a short trip, dip your toes in and next thing you know you’ll be walking the Great Wall of China.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she chuckled, nervously hiding her smile behind her hand; the pages of the book blowing in the breeze, carrying the smell of rain.

“If I had married, I would have taken her anywhere she wanted to go.  The world is small, only the difference in humanity makes it seem big.”

“You never married then,” Sophie asked genuinely curious.

“No,” a look of regret shown on his face.  “No wife, no children, no legacy but the country I served.  When I die there will be no one to cry over me and that’s fine,” he shrugged.  “No one to hurt, no one to disappoint.”

“Do you regret it at all,” she looked at him waiting for an answer.

“Every day.  It’s too late for me now, I’m dying,” he looked at her face for the first time to see her reaction, “Cancer.”

The wind was picking up, making her eyes tear up from the cold but he misread it as sympathy, “Don’t feel sorry for me.  I’ve lived a long life.  I’ve done a lot that amounted to very little.  In the Royal Navy I saw and did unspeakable things and saw and did some amazing things.  Trying to find happiness in the darkness, not just during war time but in everyday life, that’s all there is.”

“Did you,” Sophie paused wanting to ask the question, the subject being a delicate one, “kill anyone?”

“Oh yes,” he stared across the lake, leaning back, his arms outstretched on the back of the bench, one ankle rested on the knee of his other leg, “I’m sure I did.  But only from a distance, you see.  I never had to look the enemy in the eye because if I did, there would have been no way I could have pulled the trigger.  I would have been the dead one because I couldn’t watch the enemy die.  They were young men like us.  It was easier to launch a torpedo on another vessel than to aim a gun at someone’s head.  That’s why I chose the navy instead of the army.”

“I can imagine,” she understood completely what he was saying.

“How can you, love?  Fortunately, you will never be burdened with such a decision because even still, the guilt is a heavy cross to bear.”  That’s where he was wrong about her, she knew all too well.  “You can’t let the guilt get to you or the fear will.  I justified it by thinking that I was doing it for someone else not just for my own survival.  For King and country, for the countless millions that was imprisoned for their beliefs, and not just those of us young men fighting on our side but the ones on the other side as well.  Not the Nazi’s I mean, the ones who fought because of the terror of what their own country would do to them if they didn’t would be worse than dying in war.”

Not knowing what to say, Sophie just sat in silence for a while and then said, “You sacrificed your youth and peace of mind so generations could go on living the life you wouldn’t have?”

“I could have had that life but I was too messed up and I thought what woman would have me, little did I know that everyone is some kind of crazy,” he looked at her again, this time she met his gaze, “Don’t waste the sacrifice someone made for you by looking at a bloody book.  Go live, it’s my little gift to you,” he smiled and patted her shoulder. 

They both lived through some traumatic experiences and both have chosen lonely lives because of them but he was old and dying and she was young and alive feeling completely unworthy of the chances she was given. 

Her mobile rang, it was Oliver again, he was relentless.  She nodded and smiled, “I have to go, now.”  There was a job planned in a couple of days she had to prepare for and the air turned chilly when the sun faded behind dark clouds. 

“Sure, sure,” he waived her away, “If that’s a potential future husband, answer it, don’t keep him waiting.”  Putting the book back in the bag she stood.  The medicine on her cut started to wear off but she wanted to take one last walk through Queen Mary’s Gardens before the rain came.  “Time is the only real enemy.  Don’t keep him waiting,” the man repeated.  The mobile chimed signalling another message, saying her goodbyes to the man, knowing she will probably never see him again. 

He looked at her and saw a woman incapable of doing something he himself had a hard time doing during wartime but like him it was survival.  It was different of course, there was no war, just making a living.

On a bench by the fountain, the evergreens lined the perimeter of her favourite part of the grounds; she listened to the succession of messages.    Listening wasn’t commitment of any kind.  First they were just to ask her out again and to make sure she was alright.  And then the messages turned more urgent, worried about her cut and that he had not heard from her, to just a plea to call him to let him know she was okay.  Courtesy dictated she should call him, he had done her a tremendous favour but he witnessed and that made him a potential threat.  Once home, she unloaded the books, she found an eclectic mix, all of which seemed interesting but ironically one of the books she picked up was about World War II.