Chapter Three:

The Physician's Cell

"And where have you been?" I ask Bane when he arrives back at the cell the next night, as though I were his mother or his wife.

"Socialising," he says, swaggering into the with him two bowls of stewed vegetables. He's smiley, more bubbly than usual, almost sloshing the hot stew over me as he hands me a bowl. I watch his eyes, barely visible in the darkness, and see that they're unfocused; It's at this point I clock on to the fact that he's intoxicated.

"Are you drunk?" I say, affronted, watching him as he collapses back on the bed, the bowl still in his hand, spilling half of it down his arm. I rush to fetch a cloth to clean up the mess and he laughs as I dabble it away from his skin.

"At least you're a happy drunk, not a violent one," I muse, preparing to tuck him straight into bed.

"Oh, I am a happy drunk," he gurgles, laughter in his throat, "a very happy drunk."

He laughs; he's close, so close I feel his warm breath against my neck. I pull back from him slightly- the nauseating fumes of alcohol on his breath are unbearable.

"Jesus, what have you been drinking, mouthwash?!"

"The Chef's just brewed up a new batch of moonshine, you see. It tastes like poison- well, it is poison- but good God, does it ever do the job! There might have been a bit of mouthwash in there- everything goes in the Chef's moonshine. Gives it a bit of a kick..."

I fetch him a glass of water from the drum we keep in the back room and make him drink the whole thing.

"Time for bed, I think," I say, pulling the blanket from under him and then back over his legs. His vest is doused in liquor, too, so I help him ease it over his head- he stops me midway through, my bunched hands touching his abdomen, pulling me closer and saying,

"Thank you for taking care of me, dear Anya. I would be lost without you."

"You're drunk," I say, shying backwards.

Still laughing, he raises his hands and takes my face in them, then brings his lips upon my cheek and makes an over-exaggerated smacking sound.

"You're very drunk," I correct with an embarrassed smile. I'm glad it's dark so that he can't see the blush in my cheeks. I pull away his hands awkwardly then pull the rest of his shirt over his head, only to find there is a bandage pressed below his clavicle, brown blood darkening its centre.

"Christ, Bane," I say with concern at the size of the wound, "what the hell is this?"

"It's nothing," he says blurrily, "nothing at all."

"It doesn't look like nothing." Carefully I begin to peel back the bandage, and see that there is an angry red wound beneath, surrounded by bruising. Thin red tendrils are creeping from its centre, and any fool who's not a drunken fool could see that it's the beginning of an infection.

"Damn it, Bane!" I say, "Why didn't you tell me about this?!"

"It's fine, I checked it this morning!"

"Well it's not fine anymore, it's the start of an infection!"

"I'll see to it in the morning-"

"No," I insist, "you said it yourself, an infection can be a death sentence around here. We're going to see the doctor this instant."

"Don't mither me, Anya!" he insists, and rolls over to sleep. "Besides, the old cad is a fool."

"A fool with medicine and training. Now please, Bane, get up."

Still he resists. I sit for a moment on the edge of the bed and try to think of how to convince him.

"Fine. Be selfish. And when you die because the wound is too far gone, and I'm left here all alone, what about me? Whatever happens to me will be all your fault."

"My fault-!", he begins, but seems then to consider it. Very slowly, he gets up into a sitting position.

"Fine," he mumbles, "we'll go. But we'll have to go quickly and not draw attention."

"So long as you don't act like a drunken idiot, that shouldn't be a problem."

I find the key tucked into the pocket of his roughspun trousers and gather a few things- a spare shirt for him, one of the knives that he'd hidden away- and off we go, very quietly out of the cell, locking it behind us. Luckily at this time of night there is no one about to see him stumbling, and though he gets a little confused he leads us to the physician's cell soon enough. The moonlight is white and strong, the most beautiful thing I've seen since being condemned to this pit. We head straight forwards and under an alcove which leads to a short row of cells on ground level. There's a mechanical buzz and I look up to see a television screwed onto the wall.

"Is that a TV?!" I whisper to Bane, "that's a bit bloody fancy for a hole in the ground, isn't it?"

"It's all about giving hope," recalls Bane, "reminding everyone of what they're missing. Keeps everybody fresh in misery and despair."

"Pleasant," I say dryly. "More importantly, though, why don't we get a television?"

Bane shrugs and stops outside a secluded double-cell, where an ageing gentleman lies asleep on a raised bunk. In the conjoined cell beside his lies another man, perhaps in his late forties, with jet-black hair striped grey at the sides.

"Andri," Bane begins to whisper, none too quietly. "Andri, it's Bane."

"I know you're there," the younger of the two men moans, "that's why I was pretending to be asleep. What do you want, you drunken fool?"

"He's hurt," I chip in, and at this the younger man chirps up. He sits on the end of his bed and says,

"Well well. It appears you've brought your whore."

I bite my tongue and don't retaliate, knowing that we need his help. I hope he doesn't take it as a sign of weakness.

"He needs help," I say, clinging to Bane's arm to support him. "There's a wound to his chest, I think it's becoming infected. I don't know how he got it-"

"Oh, I know," the man says, and begins to unlock the door, muttering something in a language I've never heard before.

His accent lies somewhere between Arabic and Eastern European, and is impossible for me to exactly pinpoint. The man, who stands at an average height, moves aside and allows Bane to pass. I follow, and the man raises his eyebrows.

"You've been scrapping again, have you, Budalla?"

"It was only with the Cajun. More for show than anything, I fell hard, this was only an accident."

Andri scalds Bane, smacking him on the arm where his bruise it before having him lie down on the bed.

"And you are not wearing your Brace! A thousand times I tell you-!"

"Leave off, Andri!"

"Budalla!" cries the Doctoe in his own language, smacking Bane in the side, then begins to scold Bane in his home tongue, the European in his accent becoming thicker.

"Marrë, Chuni... you put it on when you go back, understand?"

"Yes, okay."

"Do not forget!"

"Okay!"

The assistant shakes his head and wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. He locks the door behind us, lights several candles so that he can see what he is doing and begins to work. I stand aside and watch as the man cleans the wound, cursing under his breath all the way, using a variety of different instruments and treatments I couldn't put a name to. As he patches Bane back up, I thank him.

"More trouble than he's worth," the man says, "but he should be okay now. I'll keep him here, keep an eye on him. Drunken imbecile."

"Thank you, Doctor."

He lets out a short laugh.

"Doctor? I am not the doctor, Budalasha. Him there, he is the Doctor."

I look to the snoring old man asleep in the conjoined cell. No wonder Bane was loathe to come to him.

"He does not do much work himself now, the blind old fool. Wasted away his talents with alcohol and morphine, and now he is blind on top of it. Still, he remembers his trade, and has taught me well. I am too old to be an apprentice at my age, but it has suited me well- and when the old fool is gone, Zot carry his soul, I shall take up the position. People are always in need of Doctors, especially in a place like this.

"You may stay," the man tells me, and hands me a blanket that I may sleep on the floor. Then, to my suprise, he gets down beside me and closes his eyes.

"Giving up my bed for this," he murmurs, nodding his head. "Budalla..."

~oOo~

In the morning I wake to find that Bane is sitting up now, a cold compress to his head to alleviate his hangover, and is taking a scalding from the Doctor's apprentice. The real Doctor is awake also, the door between the cells open, staring into nothingness with milky eyes clouded by cataracts. When the two seeing men realise that I am awake, their eyes land on me.

"I'd heard you had conducted another of your rescue missions," said Andri, his English fluent through his Eastern drawl. "I wonder, how long will this one last?"

I look to the man, then to Bane, comprehension registering. Andri smiles.

"Do not think you are the first woman to be tucked under Bane's broken wing, my dear."

I don't know why this comes as such a shock, but it does. Of course there will have been other women in here at some point- few and far between, I know that, but it's not a displeasure executed solely for me. The question is, why wouldn't he tell me about them? I look over at Bane, who has moved to sit beside the ageing man with the clouded eyes. Bane shows no sign of recognition towards the greying man's comment. As I look at him, an odd emotion stirs- the beginnings of jealousy, mad as it seems.

Why would I be jealous? So Bane has helped other women in my position, and why shouldn't he? It does no displeasure to his character. What is there to be jealous of? I can't fathom an answer, only that there is nothing to feel so inclined towards and I'm just being stupid. Some lost sense of being special in his eyes, perhaps... maybe something more.

"Too extreme," Andri scolds Bane, leaving me to my thoughts as he presses harder at Bane's wound, dabbing it clean again winces at a spot. "I have told you, these fights are good for nothing!"

"Fights?!" I cut in, "you've been fighting-?!"

"It is only a game," Bane says cooly, "boxing, nothing more. Bets are taken and the strongest man wins a sum. This was only a playful wound; I took a punch and fell awkwardly, sliced myself on the fall down. It comes in useful to help store resources as these winter months roll in."

"It's only June," Andri says, going to fetch some ointment or other. He takes good time with cleaning the wound, before taking an almost-empty bottle of what I assume to be antiseptic, an alcohol-based one by the stench of it, and dripping a precious drop of the liquid onto each arm and evening it across the cuts with the wet rag. As he begins to pat Bane's chest dry, a call is taken up in the hub of the prison.

"Deshi! Deshi! Basara! Basara! Deshi, Deshi! Basara, Basara!"

"Oh, not again," Andri says, "you'd think the fool would have learned from yesterday's failure."

"What is it?" I ask, "another fight?"

"No no, my dear, far better than a fight. Another shall make the climb."

I stare dumbly. Bane is the one to enlighten me.

"He will try to climb the wall of the pit."

I blink stupidly- this possibility hadn't even occurred to me. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Obscenely so," Andri says, "but there is a rope, which can be tied around the waist, so that if one does fall, they are secure. Still... accidents happen."

I look out of the cell bars to watch the scene- sure enough, a smallish man is clawing himself slowly up the wall, whilst a growing group of others stand around, still chanting.

"What are they saying?" I ask, watching as the climber almost loses his footing on a loose shard of stone which protrudes from the wall. He quickly regains it and steadily continues his attempted escape.

"it means, 'rise up'," Bane explains, looking up at the scene himself.

"Have lots of people done it?" I ask, inwardly questioning my own climbing skills.

"Hundreds have tried," says the doctor, "none have succeeded."

"That's because it is impossible," Bane says, waving his hand dismissively. The old Doctor next to him nods in agreement. "No-one has ever left this pit alive."

There's an unpleasant scuffing noise from outside, the heated chanting cuts out and is replaced by an ear-piercing scream. I look up just in time to see the man who had attempted his climb to freedom being snatched up by the rope, as it snags violently. He groans in exhaustion and despair as a new man begins to lower him to ground level, and the others disperse with mumbles of disappointment, their entertainment cut short.

Bane nods, as if to show his point has just been proven. "No-one has ever left here alive," he repeats, "and no-one ever will."

As the crowds disperse, a huge blond man approaches the bars. He's bigger than Bane, though a little more fleshy.

"So 'ere you are, my friend," he smiles at Bane, his accent thick and hard to place, "had 'nuff of our fighting? Looks like I hurt you worse than we thought, now you're in 'ere with the docteur."

Bane grins at him and wearily mumbles, "you're not getting rid of me that easily, Carriveau. It was the fall that did me, not you."

The large man chuckles, a he-he-he sort of sound. "Mon chagren! You keep on believing tha', Couyon. I still beat you every time, sha Cher."

"Oh, I'm not your darling," Bane laughs, leaning back on his pillow.

"Dat's what you think," his friend coos in his thick, mutilated version of French, voice friendly and laughing. "So, boy, you gotta tell me all bout dis lil' tink you're keepin locked up in 'ere."

His eyes go to me. I've never been referred to as a 'tink' before, and I'm not sure if I like it at all.

"Anya, this is Carriveau," Bane tells me, gesturing to the man. "Carriveau, Anya."

"Pleasure to meet you, Cher," the man says, grinning. I manage a smile- he is frightfully big.

"Carriveau's the one I was fighting to put me in here," Bane explains. "All in good sport, I assure you."

"You have a strange idea of sport," I say sceptically. Both men laugh a little.

"I'sh leave you two lovebirds to it," Carriveau says, "just makin' sure you weren't dead, a man worries hearin' you've been laid up. That an i's nice to see a lady round 'ere again. Doc will take good care of you. Night, all."

"Goodnight," I say, as he drifts away from the bars.

"Some friend, to put you out like this," I say to Bane, as he rests back against his bed.

"In this place," Bane muses, closing his eyes, "a man is thankful for any sort of friend."

~oOo~

The following morning comes quickly. Having elected to stay one more night in the Physicans' cell, I'm surprised to find that Bane is nowhere to be seen. I ask Andri where he's gone and he rolls his eyes to the heavens, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders again.

"I tell him over and over, but does he ever listen to Andri? No. Budalla. He goes out there to fight again, the great fool, and leaves you here with us, as though I am a babysitter. Come, dear, let me see this leg Bane has told me of. It is healing well?"

I rush to the bars, to see that indeed there is an altercation commencing in the centre of the pit; one arm sticks out from underneath a hulking mass of man, and I know in an instant that it belongs to Bane. He somehow makes it back to his feet, red covering his face and hands, fists clenched tightly as though he was asking for more. His well-built frame pales in comparison to that of the second man, who could easily pass for a true fairy-tale giant- his stance is that of the Nephilim, all muscle and brute force with nothing held back. The giant takes a swing at Bane and he just manages to slide out of the way, the impact being delivered instead to a spectator foolish enough to get too close. Bane throws in one hit, but isn't able to dodge the one he receives in retaliation. The pure size of the other man throws him off, and as he tries to regain his balance he is knocked to the floor again.

I spring into action, rip across the room and grab the key from the table, unlocking the cell door quickly and storming out into the main block of the prison with the knife Bane gave me tucked neatly into my palm. Andri shortly at my heels.

"Where are you going, girl?!" He yells after me, but I'm too quick for him. "Budallasha!"

Heads turn as I move through the Hofra, the first woman the inhabitants have seen in perhaps years, but I do not let their looks dissuade me. I march straight into the centre of the pit, where the carnage is strongest, and as the men begin to notice me their cheering for the fight begins to dim, their attentions on me now. Most of them look as though they can hardly believe their eyes; the dull thudding of flesh bouncing against flesh continues, though, and the crowds part to reveal the sparring pair, rolling on top of one another.

"Bane!" I bark, and the distinctive female tone of my voice makes even his attacker look up at me. Both men stop throwing punches, and in one swift motion, Bane pushes his stunned opponent off of him. His face is drowning in blood, and his bare chest is also, the bandaging on his chest wound having fallen off.

He gets to his feet in an instant, treading in a pool of his own blood, grabs me by my upper arm and drags me away from the circle, begging him to loosen his grip, crying out in acute pain. No one stands in his way as he charges through, that hulking, bloodied mass of a man, dragging me along with him. There are a couple of unsavory jeers as I walk through, to which Bane gives short, threat-dealing replies.

"You're hurting me," I manage quietly, trying to break free of the painful grip he still holds. He doesn't let go. He leads be back to the physician's cell, where Andri waits by the door, and once we're through the doors he lets go of me with a push, so that I bash my bent arm against the far wall.

"Not so savage, Bane!" Andri calls, but doesn't get between the pair of us. Instead he stands back at Bane barks,

"What were you doing out there?!"

Saving you is what comes to mind- but I realise now that this was never going to be the case.

"You're ill!" I implore, "he was beating the hell out of you!"

"you make a fool of yourself," he says darkly, his angered expression putting me on edge. Bane looks down at his own hand, knuckles tensed, and slowly releases them. He takes a step back from me, rubbing his temples as though doing so might wish me out of existence. He shakes his head at me, then raises his hand. I flinch away automatically, and he tries again- this time I allow it to rest on my shoulder.

"I don't mean to shout at you," he says, "and I'm sorry for being so rough, but we must give them a certain impression, must we not?"

I'm teary-eyed now, a little frightened still.

"I don't know what you mean."

His expression softens a little, knowing perhaps that he has gone too far. "I told you yesterday, it's a game!"

"What sort of a game is that?!" I bark, directing my hand to his face, "look at the state of you, you're dripping with blood!"

"Come now," Andri says, trying to diffuse the situation. "Bane, let's get you cleaned up."

Bane does as he is told and takes a seat, allowing Andri to mop up his face. As Andri works the extent of the damage is revealed; there is a cut above Bane's lip, an unsightly gash above his right eyebrow, a disjointing in the positioning of his jaw and bulbous bruises puffing underneath his eyes, already a little bloodshot from last night's drinking. I look down the rest of his figure to see bruises embedded in the muscle of his exposed arms, and a large purple-blue splodge on his collarbone to add to the wound that's already there.

"Hold," instructs Andri, bringing Bane's thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and placing them over it to stem the blood. "I have seen worse, Bane, but you must be more careful. Who did you fight?"

"Ehiemloch," says Bane, his voice distorted due to the fingers over his nose. Aghast, the elderly doctor by his right side scoffs, then scolds him in Moroccan-Arabic. Bane waves him off, then the younger man joins in the onslaught.

"What are you thinking, fighting him?" He barks, now attaching a scrap of bandage over the wound on Bane's face, "he is far too strong, even for a man of your size. You know you do not stand a chance- Budalla!"

Bane shakes his head, then says, "I am getting better."

"Do not make yourself out to be more than you are, Bane, fighting that man is foolishness! And do not tilt your head like that, do you want to choke on your own blood?! Besides- that is not the point, you fool! The point is you wander in here looking like you have been in a war, week in, week out, and who is left to clean your wounds? Me, always poor Andri!"

Bane laughs, catching a dribble of blood on the back of his free hand. I grimace at him, and he grins back, blood smeared across his teeth.

"You won't need to worry about cleaning me up again, Andri. Not when this one won't let me fight." He recounts the story of me disrupting the fight and everyone laughs.

"I will have to set your jaw," says the Doctor's assistant, "is it painful?"

"Extremely," says Bane, though his countenance doesn't show this fact. The doctor waves Bane's hand from his face then takes his head in both hands.

"This shall hurt more," Andri says, then there's a sharp click and a grunt of pain from Bane. "No more fights. Not until the pain is gone. Yes?"

"Yes," agrees Bane somewhat reluctantly, his jaw in his hand. Andri bandages Bane's chest back up and seems satisfied with the work he's done.

"See to her arm," Bane mutters through his pain, swaying his free hand in my direction. Andrei looks over to where he had been directed and nods.

"Come, I shall clean it," he says, patting the bunk beside him and reaching out for a bowl of water.

"It'll be fine," I say kindly, touching the ruffage of skin at my elbow, "it's just a graze, that's all-"

"You tell me it's just a graze when it begins to fester and putrefy. Come, sit, budallasha."

Not entirely keen on the idea of my skin festering or putrefying, I do as I'm told and sit beside Bane on the bed. I wonder if he can sense that I'm still a little frightened by him. Andri examines the damage done by scraping my elbow against the wall then twists my arm back over and glances at the red ring around the top of my arm where Bane grabbed me, but doesn't say anything about it. I can feel already that it is going to bruise.

I watch Bobby as he sits out front of the cells on his old chair.

"Is he okay out there?" I ask Andri. The lederly man has his unseeing eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the day.

"Yes, he is," Andri affirms, "he spends many hours each day out there. It is a quiet life- it is soothing to him. Keeps his mind turning over."

I nod. It has been difficult to shove off Andri's comment about considering selling the key to the cage I was trapped in, but I've managed it, even if it does slightly tether like the sword of Damocles over our interactions.

"Is he okay with the others?" I ask. "I mean- none of them give him any trouble, do they?"

"They will not bring any harm upon the doctor, no no. He has served the men here well over the years- dressed the wounds of most, saved the lives of many in his younger years. None here would care to dishonour him."

I smile in the direction of the old doctor- his head is leant back, the corners of his mouth creased into a smile as he absorbs the heat and vibrancy of the day.

Andri takes a clean-ish rag and squeezes luke-warm liquid over the feathery cuts on my arm. It stings slightly, but it's nothing compared to the pain Bane must be feeling.

"Well, I've done all I can for the pair of you," Andri says, "you are not my problem anymore. Visit me again in the morning, Bane, and let me see that wound of yours. And you, young lady, you keep that arm clean."

"Thank you," I say to them both, and follow after Bane as he makes his exit.

After leaving the doctor's cell, Bane leads me up the flights of stairs, along the twisting corridor and back to where his cell lies. Again eyes watch us as we move through the prison, but no one says a thing or makes a move against us. I keep the dirk steady in my hand, ready to strike.

I unlock the door to the cell and hand the key to Bane, who locks it behind himself.

I find myself a little tongue-tied, the pain in my left arm serving of a reminder of his roughness with me. Unsure of what to do, I sit myself down on my bed and watch him as he bends to the floor, groaning with the effort, reaches under my side of the bed and pulls out a bulky belt of some kind, covered in buckles and straps, and though it is ill-made and worn, it looks as though it would withstand anything. He throws it on his bed and, as he turns to put it on, I have to stop myself from gasping.

All along his spine runs an inch-wide scar, raised and ragged against his muscular back. The unsightly scar continues below his waistband and disappears up into his hairline, which is parted slightly by it. I have no difficulty speaking now; my words betray my mouth before I can even think to stop them.

"Bane, what happened?!"

He turns his head to me as if to question what I mean, but realisation catches him before he can ask. For a long time he doesn't speak, as he unbuckles the brace on the bed.

"There was no rope," he says, folding his shirt, "when I made the climb."

Very carefully, I reach out my hand and touch the ghost-white tissue at the base of his spine. He flinches, as though it could still hurt, or the memory of it does; I wonder when a woman last touched him. Though he flinches, he doesn't move away, so I allow my light fingers to trace their way up the train track scar.

"When?" I ask lightly.

"Years ago," he says. "A mistake I won't be making again."

"Can I ask... what caused the scarring?"

"The doctor had just begun to lose his eyesight at the time- and he was off his head on cleansing alcohol. Emergency laminectomy, he called it. I will never let that old fool touch me again, but he did save my life in spite of his incompetence, and for that I thank him."

He coughs suddenly, and I see it as a sign he does not want to discuss this further. I gently remove my hand from his back, and he turns to hand me the belt.

"Do you mind?" he asks. I shake my head, taking the belt and securing it around his waist as he turns back around. In the soft blue silence I secure the three buckles, my warm fingers on his cold skin, slowly securing him into the brace. My breathing is audible; I close my mouth, conscious of the sound, and feel it rising up in my chest.

Bane turns slowly back to me.

"And the others," he says, half question, half mandate. I do as I'm bidden, my hands coming up close against his chest. I could almost swear I feel his pulse beneath his skin. It's almost overwhelming, the strength of him. He's carved of solid iron, and I feel light as a feather beside him, like his slightest touch could blow me away. The silence is deathly, for all but the metallic click of the metal buckles, fastened one by one.

"Done," I say breathily, my eyes downcast, meeting his torso rather than his face. I haven't removed my hands from his abdomen. I can feel him looking down on me, his lips so close to my face. I'm close enough to feel the heat coming off of him. I watch his chest rise and fall, and could swear his breath has quickened just as my own has. His hands stay by his sides, but I feel my own moving upwards over the contours of his chest.

The moment I'm brave enough to turn my eyes up to his, I know that the kiss is inevitable.

I open my mouth to say his name, and the moment I do his lips are on mine.