Thanks once again for the reviews. They make my day and keeps the muse happy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bleeding Inside
By NorthernStar
Part Ten – Charlotte's Webb
Christmas Day, 2003
Mickey drifted, half awake, half not. There was dull pain, hardly there but constant, never going away. It wore him down over the hours. Doctor's came and went, asked him questions, poked him and prodded him, until their very touch made him physically sick. The nurse said it was the medication. Mickey knew different.
A young girl brought Christmas Dinner sometime later, gently placing the tray on the little bedside table and arranging it so all he had to do was sit up a little straighter to reach it. She wore a Santa hat and a bright smile and smelled faintly of detergent.
Mickey picked at the meal and stared out of the window.
Boxing Day, 2003
The nurses made him get out bed almost as soon as the sun was up. Walking hurt like hell but he forced himself to stay upright. If he stumbled, the male nurse hovering at his side would catch him in his arms and the thought of that was utterly repulsive.
He made it to the shower room, and managed a quick wash under a stream of water that was warm, but not hot, the way Mickey preferred it to be. Being clean made him feel a thousand times better and returning to fresh sheets on the bed was the best Christmas present he could have.
He nibbled at the lunch they brought him at noon, but left most of it. The nurse made it clear she wasn't pleased that he hadn't eaten, and noted it down on his charts.
It was about three in the afternoon when he got his first visitor.
Mickey sat up in his bed, "Jack."
-----
The DCI smiled, "how you doing?"
"Better."
Jack could see there was some truth in that. There was a little colour in Mickey's cheeks and some of the swelling around his eyes had gone down. The bruises were still bright though.
Then he remembered the reason he was here. "I…er…I brought you a present."
Mickey's eyes flickered to the small gift, held out in an attempt to be casual. Then he took it. "Fanks."
Jack watched him open it. He'd asked Laura what she was getting for her nephew, who was about Mickey's age, and got the same. It didn't occur to him until after he'd wrapped it to wonder if Mickey actually had a games machine.
Mickey grinned as he pulled out the Return of the King Playstation game.
"I've kept the receipt. If you don't-"
"Nah, this is great." He said, "'fanks."
There was an awkward silence. Jack remembered those accident reports, but coming out with the question was proving harder than he'd thought.
"So…when do you think they'll let you out of here?"
"The doctor said a coupla days. Just need ta test me liver, make sure it's working prop'ly."
"Good." More awkwardness. "That's good."
Jack sat down in the bedside chair.
"'Ope the test's OK." Mickey said. "I wanna get back to work."
Jack frowned. "Well, after a few weeks, maybe."
"Nah," Mickey shook his head, "as soon as, yeah?"
"You're still recovering, Mickey. You have to give yourself time."
"I've 'ad time." Mickey looked down at his hands. He sounded frustrated. "I can't 'andle sitting looking at me walls all day."
"Well, handle it, because that's what you'll be doing." Jack said firmly.
That got Mickey's back up. "What's it got to do wiv you, ay?" He demanded. "What has it got to do wiv you?"
The sudden anger surprised him. "I'm concerned, Mickey. You're pushing yourself too hard."
"I just like workin' that's all."
"Sounds like you're running away to me." Jack told him. "Hiding yourself behind your job."
Mickey screwed his face up, obviously nonplussed. "Wot?"
"Well you've got to face up to this sometime." Jack tried to keep his voice even, but the fear he felt for Mickey was coming out as anger. "Otherwise next time you won't be so lucky!"
"Next time? What'd'you mean, next time?"
"I've seen the accident reports. The doctor's are right, aren't they? This wasn't an accident."
"'Course it was. What'd'you take me for?"
Jack shook his head. "Nothing wrong with the car, nothing wrong with the road and you just spontaneously crash, is that it?"
"Yeah."
"I don't buy it, Mickey. And neither do the doctors."
"Well it's the truth." His head fell back against the pillow.
"Is it?"
"You don't believe me." There was a worrying lack of disbelief in his voice.
"I want too." Jack told him.
The head came up, "wot are doing 'ere, ay?"
Jack heard the dangerous note in Mickey's voice. He knew this boy, knew the warning signs, but it wasn't in Jack's nature to back down. "I came to see you. Make sure you're all right."
"'Cos of what?" Nor was backing down in Mickey's. "You feel guilty? Well you should, yeah. It's cos of you this 'appened."
Jack frowned, "the crash?"
"No, not the crash. Delaney."
Jack looked down; his own guilt stopping any denial cold before it even reached his lips.
Mickey gave a snort. "You 'ad to fancy Rachel."
That made him angry. "You leave Rachel out of this!"
"Nah, nah I won't." Mickey snapped, sitting forward in his bed. "'Cos you didn't! You woz gagging for it and she knew it. She saw a chance to get off the assault charge and she took it."
"Leave her out of this, Mickey!"
But the young man carried on. "You forgot who you woz an' wot you 'ad to lose." His voice was hard, "and you 'ad a go at me when I reminded ya."
Jack felt a wave of anger. "You treated Rachel like dirt; don't think I've forgotten that!"
"I treated her like I treated any other criminal."
"You assaulted her."
"It wasn't like that."
"It certainly looked like it from where I was standing!"
"I just wanted it her leave you alone."
"It wasn't up to you." Jack's lips curled. "What gave you the right?"
"I'd just buried me muvver, yeah? I weren't finking straight!"
"That's no excuse." He snapped. "You had no business poking your nose into my life!"
"And you 'ad no business screwin' a Tom!"
"You little-!"
"That's right, Jack! Have a go. Like you did then." Mickey raged. "And you got to me, Jack, you know that? You finally got to me. You 'ad me jumping frew 'oops trying ta make it up to you."
Jack got up and couldn't stop his hands from grabbing Mickey. "You've got no right to speak to me like this!"
Mickey stared him right in the face, as if Jack wasn't threatening him. "It's crap like that that sent me after Delaney, yeah! He might 'ave done the hard part, but you were the one 'olding me down!"
"All right, that's enough!" The nurse flew over. "I can hear you down the corridor!"
Jack let go, suddenly aware that there were tears in Mickey's eyes.
And in his own.
The nurse came to stand in front of him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir." She said to Jack.
"I just need a minute."
She shook her head. "I'll call security."
Jack sighed and nodded.
He didn't look back.
-------
The nurse brought Mickey some diazepam and the calming effect of the drug uncoiled the anger inside him. He hadn't known where all that came from. All that hate and venom, hurled so spitefully and yet…he wasn't sorry. Not really.
In a dull sort of way, he felt better. Maybe.
There was thump as something landed on the floor beside his bed. Mickey opened his eyes to see what it was and saw the familiar black leather rucksack. Then sighed and rolled onto his back. At the end of the bed stood the one person Mickey wanted to see least in the world, Jack included.
Charlotte.
"What d'you want, ay?"
The woman sat down in the chair beside the bed without an invite. "You've asked me that before, Mickey. The answer's still the same – to help you."
"Yeah, well I don't want counselling."
"I'm afraid its no longer just a case of you're saying you don't want come to the sessions anymore." She told him. "Mickey, I'm here because your doctor called me. He thinks you were attempting suicide."
"Well I wasn't, all right?"
"Weren't you?" God he hated her questions! Always questions…
"No."
"What were you thinking when you were driving?"
"Nuffing, I was finkin' of nuffing."
"OK, what were you feeling?"
He sighed, loudly. "Nuffing."
"Just you and your motor." She said evenly.
He hated it when she did that. Even when he was determined to stonewall her, she always made it seem like he given something away.
"Still, if you're fully comp, you'll get a shiny new one to drive 'til you get your one sorted."
"They ain't gonna sort it." He snorted. "Fire crew 'ad to cut the top off ta get me out."
"Not necessarily. Ever fancied a convertible?"
He laughed.
"You remember them cutting you free, then?"
"Yeah, just about."
"And the accident?"
In a way, he guessed that that could be his get out clause – saying he didn't remember the accident. But the word that came out was, "yeah."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"No." He paused a long moment. "But I fink I 'ave too."
"At some point, yes. Even if it's only to your colleagues in the police." She leant forward a little. "I'd rather you talked to me."
"I've tried it, yeah? Doesn't work."
"Mickey, counselling isn't a quick fix. It's a long process and while there's a little bit of teamwork on the part of the counsellor, it's mostly your hard work that gets you there. You are worth the effort."
He was silent a long time. "Angry," he finally admitted so very softly, "in the car, I was angry."
Charlotte smiled and he could read the "well done" on her face.
------
They talked for a long while, and he could tell that Charlotte was relieved to realise he hadn't meant to crash. But from the slight frown she couldn't hide, he guessed that erratic careless driving and a complete indifference to crashing was probably almost as bad as suicidal intentions.
Yet another Christmas Dinner arrived after a while, on account, the girl in the Santa hat playfully told him, of it being Boxing Day, as if that were an excuse to provide the same thing to eat two days running. When he complained she pointed out that he should have filled in his card if he'd wanted the choice. Since he hadn't, he had to take pot luck, and that was a seasonal roast.
Mickey picked at the food. Charlotte watched him, interested. She was now perched on the edge of his bed. She had pulled out her note pad from her ever present rucksack at some point and was now doodling between the coils of the binding. "Are you hungry?" She asked casually.
He'd come to learn that nothing she said was casual. "Nah."
"I've heard your stomach rumbling a few times while we've been sitting here." It wasn't said accusingly, just as a statement of fact.
"So?"
"So it's obvious you're hungry." She leant forward. "You know, for hospital food, it doesn't look bad."
He pushed it over. "You can have it."
She pushed it back. "The doctors aren't only concerned with why you crashed. They're concerned about your weight." She frowned. "And I'm concerned too."
He chucked the fork down. "What's it to you, ay?" He demanded. "So I'm 'ungry and I'm not eating. I 'ate Christmas Dinner, all right?"
"Do you?"
"Yeah."
"I sure I can find you something from the canteen. Sandwiches?"
"I don't want anyfing."
His stomach growled. Mickey's head moved, but he didn't look at her.
"Mickey…?" She asked gently. "Are you hungry?"
He snorted. "A little."
"But you don't want to eat?"
"Nah…"
"Why do you think that is?"
He hated those coaxing questions, so gently put. It made it so hard not to answer her. She'd have made a great copper. "I didn't feel like it, well, after, you know. And then when I did, I didn't want too."
"Why didn't you want too?"
"I dunno." He looked out the window. "Eating didn't feel right." He admitted.
"Did not eating feel right?"
"Yeah, sort of." He shrugged. "I dunno."
"Do you think feeling right makes you feel better?"
He twisted his fingers. "A bit, yeah."
"Even though being hungry kind of hurts?"
"Yeah."
"Does going hungry make you feel better, Mickey?"
He looked up. It was a long time before he answered. "Yeah."
"Why do you think that is?"
He didn't answer.
"Why do you think hurting makes you feel better?"
"I dunno."
"How about before, other times, when did it feel right again because of hurt?"
"Ovver times?"
"Growing up, at school, whenever."
Mickey lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Punished." He finally admitted quietly.
"When you were punished?"
He nodded.
"Because you did something wrong?"
Another nod.
"Do you think you should be punished now?"
He opened his eyes and sat up. "You fink I ain't eating to punish myself for what 'appened?"
"No." She answered evenly. "I'm asking you questions. Do you think that?"
He was silent for a long while.
Charlotte picked up the fork. "You haven't done anything that needs to be punished." She told him and held out the fork. "No-one has the right to make you hurt, Mickey. Not even yourself."
Mickey stared at the fork.
"You don't want to take it, do you?"
He looked away.
"That's about control, Mickey. When you don't feel you have control of your life, you start controlling the things you can. Like whether you eat or not. Only it's a false control and pretty soon you can't control that either." She wiggled the fork. "You can make the choice."
He took the fork.
"Trust me, OK?"
And for the first time in a long time, Mickey ate a proper meal.
-----
Jack sat outside the hospital. He didn't understand how that could have happened, where it had suddenly gone so wrong. He didn't want to leave without sorting this out, so he stayed.
Finally, the cold drove him back inside and his feet took him to the ward without his really thinking about it. He didn't have a clue what he was going to say. But the moment he got there, he realised it had been a useless effort.
There was a woman at Mickey's bedside, and he knew he shouldn't intrude.
He went down to the cafeteria and got a coffee, which tasted worse than the muck that came out of the machine at Sun Hill. After about an hour, he decided to try again. The woman was still there and this time the nurse saw him and shushed him off, obviously afraid of another slanging match on her shift.
Jack wandered back downstairs and returned to the cafeteria for a sandwich. It was even more unappetising than the coffee, but he was hungry and finished it.
When he got up to go, he saw flash of black leather in the corner of his eye and turned. And there was the woman from Mickey's bedside, standing at the counter, deciding what to buy.
Jack went over to her. "I'd avoid the sandwiches." He told her. "Unless you like cardboard."
The woman turned. She had caramel coloured hair, cut just below her shoulders, and a pleasant young face. "Thanks for the tip." She said and grabbed a Lion bar. Jack watched her pay for it and then grabbed one for himself.
While he'd handed over the money, she sat down at one of the tables. He followed her and pointed to the opposite chair.
"Do you mind?"
The woman gave a glance around. There were plenty of empty tables and chairs, but politeness kept her from refusing. "Of course."
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude." Jack said as he sat down.
"That's OK. I guess I owe you one, for saving me from the Sandwiches From Hell."
"I have an ulterior motive actually."
The smile faltered.
"Do you know Mickey Webb?"
She looked confused.
"Jack Meadows." He said and held out his hand. There was flicker in her expression, quickly and skilfully hidden, that practically screamed 'You're Jack!' He almost missed it, but he wouldn't be the copper he was if he had.
"I'm Charlotte." She shook his hand. "I'm a friend."
The name rung a bell and Jack frowned, trying to remember. Then the penny dropped. "You're Mickey's counsellor."
She gave him a wide smile. "That's right."
"How is he?"
"You know I can't discuss Mickey with you." She told him.
Jack wondered if counsellors were as flexible with that rule as most coppers were. "We had a bit of trouble earlier on." He told her. "I just want to know if he's all right."
She paused a minute and obviously decided that generalisation was the way to go.
"Mr Meadows, rape isn't just a crime against the body; it's also against the soul. The majority of victims do find a method of coping. The important thing is that it's a healthy coping mechanism."
"Are you saying that Mickey's found a way that isn't?"
"You know I can't answer that." She told him. "But I think you already know that Mickey is a strong young man."
"I just want to help him."
"Then back off. Mickey needs to find his own way. He doesn't need to worry about your feelings as well as his own. If you like, I can give you the number of a colleague of mine. She's very good. You can talk things over with her."
"I don't need counselling."
"It's possible you do. Rape isn't just about the victim. It affects the people who love them as well."
Jack didn't reply, uncomfortable with her words.
"It'll help." She promised, reaching into her rucksack and pulling out a card. "Both you and Mickey."
She got up, obviously ill at ease with his company now she knew who he was.
"It was nice to meet you."
----
Jack stared at the card Charlotte had left on the table. Gillian Borrows, Dip Couns, BACP, LCSP.
Back off? Could he do that? Should he?
Wasn't Mickey his responsibility?
Jack shivered in the chill air.
-----
27th December, 2003
Jack had a sleepless night, his mind going over and over the argument. He got up, resolved to apologise, not just for the argument, but for his insensitivity when Mickey's mother passed away, for all the blazing rows they'd had over Rachel and for blaming him so hard for Delaney's escape and the revenge attack on Rachel.
And, Jack thought humourlessly, after all that, he might just have breath enough to apologise for living too.
When he arrived at the hospital, he recognised the tall dark haired man standing at reception. The man was obviously waiting for the staff to notice him.
"Jaime Marshall?"
Mickey's older brother turned. He looked questioningly at Jack. Jaime had Mickey's mouth, but little else. There was a good 6 or 7 years between them. Mickey had once said he'd taken after his mother, Jamie must have taken after their father.
"I'm Jack Meadows. We met at your mother's funeral."
They shook hands, although it was obvious Jaime didn't remember him at all.
"I'm Mickey's DCI. Or I was."
That got his attention. "You know where he is?"
"He's on the Riven ward. It's upstairs. I was just going up myself."
Jack showed him up to the ward. In the lift, he had tried to make conversation, but Jamie didn't really make any replies. Jack could read enough of Mickey on Jaime's face to know that this was the way the Webb's, and the Marshall's, dealt with worry.
At the ward, Jack had to bite down on his own desire to set things straight and held back, letting Jaime go the rest of the way alone. Jack stayed at the end of the bay, where he could see Mickey, but unless Mickey actually turned and looked, he wouldn't see Jack.
Jaime approached the bed. "What have you done, eh?" Jack heard him ask.
He watched as Mickey looked around; saw the small, tired grin that spread across his face when he saw his brother.
Jaime sat on the bed. Then he reached out and hooked his hand behind Mickey's neck.
Mickey allowed himself to be folded into his brother's arms.
Then Jack heard sobbing, real sobs, hard sobs.
Back off, Charlotte had told him.
Jack turned away. He guessed he had to now.
----
TBC…
(...almost three and a half thousand words. Someone pass me some of Mickey's Valium?)