H'ok I'm sorry it was so long in coming but inspiration only truly hit on the beach on holiday, so yeah I may also have been slightly intoxicated when it was being done but its finished, I've got the sequel started and is called Blame it On the Moon so keep an eye out.
Chapter 11.Crash and Burn
It had taken the several weeks after the attack for Connie to come to make sense of its effects. Physically her wounds were healing perfectly, doted on by Michael who was trying his hardest to please her every beck and call, for very little in return. The one thing neither husband, nor wife had done yet though was talk to one another, he didn't do that well. Actions he could, sitting with her as she vomited after another restless nightmare in the small hours of the night he was able to do, talk to her, make her see sense was something he couldn't.
Without Michael's knowing Ric had continued to visit after their first encounter only hours after her return from the hospital. Both he and Connie had found the solace of a local coffee bar, he discussing the short life of his second grandson, she still quantifying the mountain of her attack. To assume that she was letting it drag was wrong, Connie had previously been a person to hold emotions so close to her chest that not even her husband had been able to release, trying to talk about it was pointless, she'd either have a battle with her tears to stop them falling or she'd change the topic of discussion in an instant. Ric knew this was the case; she would draw him into a vicious cycle of blame disgust and unease, he attempting to break it. There would be moments, mostly at home when she would release anger, cry either on her own in the bath, or in front of Ric whilst they kept a warm fire company. He would patiently listen to her regale the same confused story. How she blamed herself for being foolish enough to walk that road, blame herself for putting Michael in such an awkward position as to pick her up from the hospital, see her bruised and tattered body he'd thought of as his own, semi private temple.
All in all it reduced itself to blame, the disgust in thinking that it wasn't her fault, that she was innocent in his dirty, sick dreams. They'd heard nothing from the police, nor did they expect to. In one visit, lasting more than two days Ric had persuaded her into the idea of reporting the rape; releasing the evidence she'd let them collect. He'd sat for hours with her at the police station holding her hand as they'd looked through copious numbers of convict books, to see if her attacker was in fact a re-offender. The night after they'd done so Ric had vanished as quickly as he'd appeared. Leaving Michael to wine and dine her in their minor celebration of progress.
Over many a coffee he'd come to suggest that she ditch the ideal and tattered perfection of London to return to her own quiet kingdom. He'd told no one apart from Jess about the affair, she'd needed an explanation as to why he kept scampering off. Connie still possessed keys to their tiny mansion in Holby, she's curtly told Michael that she would move to London provided they kept it, that or divorce. Everytime he suggested it he pictured it slightly more clearly than the time before.
"Please Connie," he sighed as they made slow progress of the twenty minute walk back home. "You'd be far more happy in Holby, I know that much, it's silly for me to keep coming down here, you always look upset,"
"Ric, I was raped for God's sake, am I not allowed to be sad?" she retorted coolly, readjusting her scarf so it covered the last stages of a bite mark she'd been left with.
"Connie you didn't die," Ric scolded her sharply.
"No but it's hard for me, leaving, leaving now would..." she trailed off, uncertain herself of the reason why she needed to stay in London, "let the attacker, whoever he may be, win."
"But you aren't living a proper life Connie, you are scared of your own shadow at night," he protested.
"Ric it just wouldn't work, Jess needs you in Holby, you are running the hospital, the last thing you need right now is some whimpering has been clogging up your life," Connie retorted pitifully, striding out in front of him slightly as they made their way down the icy road.
"Jesus Connie, is that what you think you are to me, that you are some sort of burden, I wouldn't have wasted near on my entire pay check on coming to see you if I thought it to be a waste of time." Ric sighed, quickening his pace to catch up with her.
"Your problem then isn't it, if I move to Holby I'd simply increase the guilt of it all ten fold, I wouldn't wish that burden on my archenemy," Connie told him vehemently.
"Please it would put my mind at ease more than anything else, I could arrange a job for you, make you medical director if you really want it," Ric could see her smile lightly, using her job as a bargaining tool was something he didn't think he'd be reduced to but it was proving ever powerful.
"Don't do that Ric, you know I didn't want to leave Holby in the first place, returning is simply out of the question," her smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
"Why? If it were a place that made you happy why don't you entertain that thought, please," Ric was verging on sounding like a petulant child, he sorely wanted her to be with him, but never if she were there against her will and incredibly strong belief.
"Just, just leave it Ric,"
"Fine then I will Connie, but just don't expect me to be running after you in months to come, I'm sick of your games," he shouted, immediately regretting it at every passing word, he never meant for anything he said to come out harshly, it was one of his attributes, yet he'd stifled all of those in an instant.
"Goodbye then Ric," she shouted, resting her hand on the edge of her gate.
"I'll be on the half five train back to Holby if you change your mind," he sighed, lifting his hands up in a fit of anger at his own stupidity.
She crossed the threshold of her London home, sinking her feet gently into the soft blonde carpet. Lifting the various layers off she hung them neatly on the coat rack, something she'd done since she was a child. Wandering through to the sitting room she was startled by her husband's rare presence at home. He'd taken to staying late at work, attending every dance and ball under the sun and going into work far too early with a raging hangover. Avoidance was one word high up in the vocabulary of Michael Beauchamp.
"Michael," she smiled sweetly as she entered the room, slouching into the tough leather sofa. Sat before him were two glasses of whisky, one near enough drained, the other waiting to be drunk, the amber liquid shooting shards of light round the room.
"Where were you?" he asked offhand, sitting forward in his impressive armchair, staring intently at her answer.
"I went out for a coffee, why?" she told him evasively, shifting uncomfortably, clasping her legs up so they were underneath her.
"Nothing, I just thought you'd be home, I don't suppose you heard that shouting match outside, that was one very out of love couple," he spat clearly suspicious of his supposedly ill wife's movements during working hours.
"I didn't particularly, it's their business, I doubt I can handle other peoples' problems at the minute," she lied; whether he'd seen her through the lifeless bay window she was unsure.
"Who was he?" Michael asked forcefully, clearly taking none of her miserable attempts at concealing the truth.
"Ric, why is there a problem with me having friends," she spat, unwilling to rise to his level of confrontation, they'd done nothing illicit or wrong since the attack, before that was by the way, they'd both been up to no good then.
"Yes actually, when you spend your hours sleeping with them in our marital bed," his paranoia had clearly reached new levels, she'd half-heartedly expected this in the past, to be as much paranoid as guilt ridden about his doings.
"I have done nothing of the sort EVER," she raised her voice instantly, regarding Ric as close as friend as she did it wasn't up to her husband to dirty his good name.
"Oh really," Michael taught his eyebrow in suspect. He knew Connie was still vulnerable, but he also knew her to be an avid player of games, the moral sort that only a certain breed of people would entice in.
"Yes Michael, some of us still posses a modicum of moral fibre, I'm going upstairs," with her statement Connie rose from the uncomfortable sofa, nimbly climbing the stairs two at a time, swiftly locking the bathroom door behind her. Slipping into an indistinguishable heap on the floor fresh tears filled her eyes, soaking her jumper sleeve within a minute. In one fell swoop she'd lost the support of her friend and the respectability with her husband, it was crystal clear that something was eating him up, most likely sexual frustration, they'd not actively slept together for several months, since her first night in London if she was frank. She was unsure if he'd taken to picking on idle staff members to satisfy his needs, or whether he'd been reduced to paying someone, it wasn't like she gave a dam. What was more concerning to her was the rage in which Ric had stormed off in, unable to leave to Holby until half five was giving him the perfect opportunity to gamble what little pay he'd left himself, she hadn't thought to take his credit cards away from him, who would of? Thinking of him turning to such a vice in contempt was hurtful; it clearly showed a greater devotion to her. So what if he'd not held her at nights when she woke in a cold sweat, when she cried out in protest to stop, when she took a poker hot shower at two am. He'd been there during the day, when night wasn't there to cover her.
"Connie, I believe you," Michael whispered through the lock on the door, its tiny gap providing a clear view of her mousy brunette hair.
"Go away," she sobbed, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
"I'm just worried, you haven't been the same since the attack, I want the old us back," he continued, the commotion of him sitting down giving her time to build a stronger response.
"Newsflash Michael, you've got a waste of space wife who cannot face the idea of sex with you," Connie spat, feeling her eyes begin a puffy ascent to emotional breakdown.
"I don't want sex with you Connie, I just want you to be happy," he sighed, though the mini psychologist within her knew he was lying, his idea of being home in the middle of the day was to give another valiant attempt to win her round.
"I am happy for the time being Michael, seeing friends, being on my own is all I need just now,"
"It doesn't sound like it, please I'm beginning to feel like a spare part in this marriage,"
"You know you're doing all you can," Connie lied, slowly moving round to face him, despite the door being in the way. "I love you like I did the day we met, the high's we've been through, the lows we've taken, the passionate moments, now,"
"Then prove it," Michael replied, speaking two steps in front of his mind, cursing inwardly as soon as he had done so.
"How?" Connie questioned, not entirely sure how his warped mind was working.
"Kiss me," he smiled, as she slowly opened the door, the two of them sitting just clear of the footprint the door occupied, he toying with his hands nervously, her biting her lip.
"I can't" she told him, suddenly lifting herself from the floor, "I may if you do something for me though, I need a lift to the train station," she smiled, hopping down the stairs to get ready.
"What the hell is going on Connie?" Michael questioned, following her out the door, grabbing his coat on his way.
"I need to do something before I kiss you, Michael," she smiled getting into the passenger seat. As he started up the car he raised an eyebrow, under any other circumstances he was sure she'd be accused of loosing the plot, never feeling the need to pay attention to the psychological effects of rape in med school, it had been one lecture his hung over self had forgone.
They didn't speak until they reached the tiny car park at the edge of the train station. Connie released the seat belt and got out of the car, dipping in and out of melting puddles, scanning the giant information screens, thanking whatever Lord that be she ran towards platform nine. "Ric," she called not able to actually see him till she reached the last carriage.
"Connie," he sounded in surprise, fumbling in the pockets of his thick grey coat, "I didn't think you'd come," he smiled, spying Michael in the distance.
"Neither did I, he wants me to kiss him Ric, I don't know, I can't but I want to, I need to feel loved but can't give it back in return, please help me," she waffled, stopping as he pressed a finger to her lips.
"Do you want to kiss him?" he asked hurriedly.
"No, I want to kiss you," she smirked, reaching up as they let their lips brush together, Michael stopping feet from their embrace, watching in shocked horror as they took it further, the lips pressing tightly together before releasing, her arms reaching round his muscular frame. In one breath Michael could tell she was happy, yet he was jealous, they hadn't felt that spark for quite sometime, ever even. She seemed so mixed up and confused all in the same instant, happy yet sad, gleeful yet sombre, stolen yet given. A mess.
The END