The first thing Connie knew was pain, pain like she'd never felt it before. She coughed, tasting the blood that had trickled into the back of her throat, her lips cracked and swollen. She tried to open her eyes, but her left one was closed by a bruise. As she moved her right arm, she gasped at the feel of her skin being torn asunder, the dried blood having held it fast to the carpet. She could feel the shards of broken glass under her fingers, and but for the clotted blood blocking her nose, she would have been able to smell the stale remnants of spilt red wine. Grabbing at the edge of the sofa with her left hand, she struggled to pull herself into a sitting position, sucking in a breath that instantly caused her further pain. Putting a hand to her ribs, she could have sworn she could feel a vague displacement where there really shouldn't be one. As she valiantly tried to pull herself to her feet, every muscle seemed to cry out in protest, any lingering soreness at her centre only briefly registering with her. She glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece to see to her astonishment that it was after eleven o'clock in the morning. So, she had either slept, or more likely been unconscious for over twelve hours. That really wasn't natural, though probably the best thing in the circumstances. She wondered vaguely where Michael was, but was thankful to see on looking out of the front window, that his car wasn't in the drive. Making her way slowly towards the stairs, she began trying to remember what had transpired the evening before. She could remember the argument, and she could certainly remember his beginning to hit her, or more like beat the living daylights out of her. She kept receiving horrendously stabbing pains from her right breast, presumably from where he had squeezed it in response to one of her taunts. She traced the bruises on her neck, where his fingers had dug into her skin to stop her from fighting. But what then? What had he done to her once she'd lost consciousness? From the disheveled state of her clothes and the slight tenderness in her groin, she could certainly hazard a guess. As she waited for the bath to fill with water, she peeled off all her clothes, wincing as the material was ripped away from any cuts, and finding the mammoth task of reaching round to undo her bra, almost impossible. Her shoulders were so stiff, every muscle feeling bruised and battered beyond redemption. She positively avoided looking in the direction of the full-length mirror, not wanting to see the full visual devastation of her once beautiful body. Switching off the taps, she was about to step into the hot, soothing water, when the phone rang. Slightly hesitant to answer it, she wondered if it would be Michael, perhaps trying to apologise whilst remaining at a safe distance from her wrath, not that she currently had the energy for real anger. But to her surprise, it was Ric.
"You sound as though I've just woken you," He said, sounding concerned. "Not quite," She told him ruefully, wondering if having just woken from a state of unconsciousness counted. "Connie, are you all right?" He asked, hearing something in her voice that he couldn't quite place. "I'm fine," She said a little flatly. Then, after a moment's thought, she said, "I, erm, I wish you were here," And inwardly cursed the tears that rose to her eyes. Wanting him here was pointless. He mustn't know about this, he mustn't know that she desperately wanted his help, but didn't know how to ask for it. How could he possibly find her remotely attractive after seeing her in such a state? "Connie, talk to me," He cajoled, hearing just how much she needed him, and feeling utterly useless. "I can't, not now," She said, rummaging in the bathroom cabinet for alcohol wipes and sterile dressings, knowing that the cut in her arm probably needed stitches, but being entirely unable to do them with one left hand. "Is Michael there?" Ric asked, a vague plan forming in his mind. "No, thank Christ," Connie said without thinking. "So at least I'll get some peace today." "Would you like me to come and see you?" "No, you can't, you mustn't," Connie replied in horror, her voice sounding almost hysterically terrified at the prospect. "Ric, I've got to go," She said, now suddenly desperate to get rid of him, in case he should work out what had happened to her. "No, Connie, don't..." But she had already hung up.
Thoughtfully putting the phone down, Ric stared out of the window on to a garden submerged under the winter frost. So far, his stay with Jess and Zubin had gone a lot better than he might have hoped, Zubin having done everything possible to try and keep the peace. Going back into the lounge, the cordless phone in his hand, Ric found Jess with the baby on her knee, trying to convince him to eat some mashed banana, and Zubin reading the paper. "That was quick," Zubin observed dryly. "I take it Michael was in residence." "No," Ric said worriedly. "I'm not sure what, but something isn't right." These words brought both pairs of eyes on him. "It's just a feeling," He tried to explain. "Your instincts are better than most people's, dad," Jess said fondly. "What are you going to do?" Zubin asked warily. "Go and see her. What else?" "Do you really think that's wise?" Zubin asked, putting down his paper. "Something's happened to her, Zubin, something that she badly doesn't want me to know, which probably means it's something I ought to know." "Put money on that, would you?" Zubin asked a little scornfully. "Yes, if I had to," Ric countered back. "Stop it, the pair of you," Jess admonished firmly. "Dad, how are you going to see her, if you don't know where she lives?" "Who's on duty on Darwin today?" Ric responded, suddenly getting an idea. "Tricia, I think," Zubin replied, seeing just where this was going. "Brilliant," Ric said, switching on the cordless phone. "She'll do anything for an old friend."
They listened as he got through to Tricia, and explained what he wanted her to do. "Ric Griffin, you'll get me shot," She insisted. "I don't care how long I have known you, I can't just give you anyone's address from the computer." "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Ric assured her. "That's what all men say when they want a favour," She told him blithely. "What's it worth?" "I'll buy you a drink before I go back," He promised her. "Make it a double and we might be talking," She replied with a smile, and he could clearly hear the sound of rapidly clicking computer keys. "You're a star," Ric told her, knowing that only Tricia would have done this for him. "Don't you dare tell her who you got it from," She told him firmly. "Or I'll be out of a job." Switching off the phone and asking if he could borrow Zubin's car, Ric prepared to leave them to it. "You know that mum's coming round this afternoon?" Jess reminded him. "She doesn't need me," Ric said matter-of-factly. "Besides, I've heard enough of her grandma's stories to last me a life time." "Just be careful," Zubin said, handing over the car keys. "You might not be all that welcome."
As Ric drove through the empty streets towards Connie's house, his thoughts centred back on what could have happened to her. She had sounded as though she was in pain, but no, that couldn't be, could it? She had been terrified at the thought of his turning up to see her, which made him wonder if he really was doing the right thing. Oh, well, nothing ventured and all that, he thought ruefully, turning into Connie's driveway, and seeing that only Connie's silver-grey jag was still there.
Connie was just getting out of the bath when the doorbell rang, and thinking that Michael must have at last decided to slink his way home, she wrapped herself in a towel, and went downstairs to answer it. The longer she left him standing on the doorstep, possibly looking stupid in front of the neighbours, the angrier he might be. But on opening the door, any colour in her cheeks from the heat of the bathwater totally drained away on seeing Ric. He wasn't supposed to be here, he wasn't supposed to see her like this. "You shouldn't be here," She said, clearly preparing to close the door on him. But putting a hand out, he managed to stop her just in time. "Can I come in?" He asked her quietly, unable to take his eyes off her battered face. He'd known something was wrong, and he'd been right, though not in a million years would he have thought it was something like this. "I suppose you may as well now you're here," She said dismissively, turning away from him as he came into the house and closed the door. "Connie," He said, putting a hand out to touch her bare shoulder. "Don't," She replied a little hoarsely, flinching away from him. "What happened?" He asked, inwardly kicking himself at the inanity of the question. "What does it look like?" She said disgustedly. "Did Michael do this?" He asked, not letting her sniping frighten him off. "You really have a knack for stating the bloody obvious, don't you?" "And you were so terrified of me coming to see you, because you didn't want me to see what he'd done to you." "Full marks, Sherlock," She said very bitterly, clearly struggling to keep it together. "You look like I ought to take you to A and E," He said, scrutinizing as much of her as he could see. "Absolutely no way," She told him firmly. "I'm barely holding onto my iron facade in that place as it is. I am not letting any of my staff see me looking like this. Harry would hardly be able to keep something like this quiet." "He probably would for you," Ric said with half a smile. Then, turning serious again, he said, "Fine, but if you won't let me take you to hospital, at least let me check you over, to put my mind at rest if nothing else." "You're not going to give in, are you," Connie said wearily, not having the strength to argue. "You need looking at," Ric told her gently. "Trust me, I really wouldn't insist on it if I didn't think so." Turning from him without another word, Connie led the way painfully up the stairs.
When they entered the bedroom, Ric's eyes strayed to the pile of discarded clothes on a chair, taking in the torn, blood stained blouse. "You need to know that I really don't want you to do this," She told him, her voice sounding strange without its usual air of slightly detached self-confidence. "I think I'd managed to work that out for myself," He told her kindly. "Connie, all I'm concerned about at the moment, is precisely how hurt you are." "Fine," She said tonelessly. "But it won't be very pretty." Undoing the towel, she removed it and laid it over the chair. Raising her eyes to meet his, she watched his face for reaction as he scrutinized her from head to foot, taking in every bruise. His eyes widened when he took in the far too evident finger marks on her throat, and still further when he caught sight of the handprint on her left breast. "How much does that hurt?" He asked, gesturing to her breast. "A lot," she admitted reluctantly. "May I?" He asked, knowing she wasn't going to like this, but needing to examine her more closely. With the barest of nods she acquiesced. He took her breast delicately in his right hand, very gently exploring the tender tissue. "I think it's just bruised," He said, taking his hand away from her as soon as possible. His gaze then moved downwards, taking in the many bruises over her ribs, as well as the ones on the tops of her thighs. "Does it hurt when you breathe?" He asked, thinking of the possibility of cracked ribs. "Yes," She said. "It hurts like hell." "Where's your stethoscope?" "In there," She replied, gesturing to the bedside cabinet. Retrieving it, Ric caught a waft of her perfume as he held it up. After listening to her chest and delicately palpating her ribcage, he said, "I can't be certain without an X-ray, but I'm pretty sure that you've got a couple of cracked ribs, so you're going to have to be very careful over the next few weeks, but you know all that." Putting the stethoscope away, his gaze again returned to the bruises on the tops of her thighs. When the awful realisation occurred to him of just how she had come by these, he almost recoiled in shock. When he'd first caught sight of Connie's face, he'd simply thought that Michael had beaten her up, but now he was beginning to wonder. Seeming to realise where his thoughts were heading, Connie moved away from him, retrieved a nightie from the chest of drawers and tried with difficulty to pull it over her head. Instantly coming out of his introspection, Ric moved to help her, seeing that her shoulders were simply too stiff to accomplish such a thing. "Thank you," She acknowledged quietly, and he could see that she was shivering. "Are you cold?" He asked, also realising that she'd just got out of the bath. "Probably," She said bleakly. "I think I'm in shock." "You should go to bed," He told her, wanting to warm her up himself, but thinking that this probably wasn't wanted. "What's under the dressing?" He asked, gesturing to her right arm. "Something that probably requires a bit of your handiwork," She told him, sliding gratefully under the soft, thick duvet. "A fabulous surgeon I may be, but even I can't stitch myself up with one hand." Moving over to her and perching on the side of the bed, Ric took her right arm between his hands. Drawing back the dressing, he winced when he saw the jagged cuts in her skin. Peering closely at it, he said, "How did you get this?" "I'm not sure," She replied tiredly. "I think I fell on a knocked over wineglass." When she felt the reflexive tightening in his hands, she said, "Ric, please don't be angry." Realising that his reaction had frightened her, Ric turned to face her, taking both her hands in his. "Connie, you really don't need to be frightened of me," He promised her, looking straight into her eyes. "I know, and I'm sorry, I just..." "It's all right, you don't need to explain," He told her gently. "Now, have you got anything I can sort this arm out with?" "There's some surgical thread and a needle in the bathroom cabinet," She told him, grateful for his having changed the subject. Connie badly wanted to be in his arms, to feel the warm, comforting security of him, but she just didn't know how to ask. This wasn't something Connie Beauchamp usually did, ask for help, reveal she was in any way vulnerable, so how did she start? Finding what he wanted, Ric returned to sit on the side of the bed, using a pair of sterilised tweezers to remove tiny shards of glass from the cuts in her arm. When he glanced over at her, he could see that her eyes were screwed up with the pain of having her wounds so thoroughly probed. "Do feel free, to call me every name under the sun whilst I'm doing this," He told her, knowing that the pain really might be too much to stand. "Because you don't have any local anaesthetic, and this is definitely going to hurt when I start sewing you up." Connie tried to restrain herself, not entirely wanting to introduce Ric to her more than elaborate vocabulary, but the stitches hurt more than everything else put together. When he'd finishing the stitching, Connie looked exhausted. After clearing away the wrappings from the needle and thread, Ric again took her hands in his, gently chafing them between his.
"Are you going to tell me how this happened?" "Where do you want me to start?" She replied dejectedly. "It began with our usual Christmas discussion, on the pointless possibility of us having children, even though he knows that has never and will never be part of my game plan. Then we moved onto the delightful little subject of his wanting to control my every move, which led very neatly onto whatever it is I appear to have going on with you. I really shouldn't start talking when I've had a few glasses of wine, but I suppose I couldn't quite resist rubbing his nose in it. Actually, some of the things I said to him were pretty bad, even for me." "That doesn't give him a remotely plausible excuse for doing this to you, Connie," Ric insisted vehemently. "Doesn't it? Because I really am beginning to wonder." "Connie, you didn't deserve any of this," He tried to convince her gently. "Ric, you really don't know the half of it," She told him wearily. "So tell me," He prompted her quietly, wondering if he might be about to hear the full truth. "I can't," She said, the tears finally rising to her eyes. "Besides, it really wouldn't solve anything for me to tell you." Reaching to put his arms round her, Ric pulled her gently against him, resting his face in her hair. "Connie, nothing you could tell me, would ever make me think any less of you, I promise you that. You, did, not, deserve any of this, no matter how much you think you did. For now, all I want you to do, is to go to sleep, and we'll talk about this again when you wake up." "I'm sorry," She said, and he could feel the slight warmth of her tears against his neck. "What for?" He asked, running the soft strands of her hair through his fingers. "I wish you hadn't been dragged into the middle of all this." "That's what I'm here for," He told her softly, touching a very gentle kiss to her bruised cheek. "Please don't disappear, will you?" She asked as she lay down again, pulling the duvet around her. "I'm not going anywhere," He promised her, sitting with her and holding onto her incredibly clever hands until she fell asleep.