Chapter 2

I didn't see anything of Arthur for the next couple of days. He didn't follow me to work on Thursday and Friday was my day off. Saturday, I worked, but I left home earlier than usual so I could call at the bank on the way and sort out an error on my account. They opened from nine until one on Saturdays and Sophie, who worked there, sorted it out for me easily. Then I continued to the shelter.

The weather was worse than usual—pouring rain—and I kept the worst off with an umbrella. It was as I reached the shelter that I got that weird feeling. Unwilling to uncover my head to look around, I ignored it and hurried into the building. Maybe he was out there watching me again, but so far he hadn't done anything to hurt me and when we'd spoken, he seemed shy. It was probably nothing to worry about.

He didn't show up for lunch and when I left in darkness and continuing rain, there was no sense of being watched or followed. I could have imagined the whole thing. I went home, took a shower, and made dinner. When I returned to the living room after washing the dishes, I froze in the doorway, breath catching in my throat. A dripping figure sat on my sofa, head down, hands clenched together between his knees. I cursed the unreliable deadlock on my door and my own forgetfulness in putting the chain on. I'd meant to sort out the lock yesterday and it slipped my mind.

"What are you doing in here?" I cleared my throat, annoyed that my voice had trembled.

Arthur slowly raised his head, his expression one of despair. Droplets of water collected on his forehead from his hair, and rolled down his face.

"You need to leave," I said firmly.

"I-I-I'm—" His attempt to speak was cut off by a burst of hysterical laughter. Eyes wide, he clamped both hands over his mouth to stifle it, but muffled guffaws continued to issue from him, interspersed with gasps and choking.

"I'm-I-I—" He tried again, closed his eyes and shook his head, appearing agonised. After another moment of attempting to stop his crazed laughter, he dug into a pocket of his sodden jacket. He pulled out a laminated card and held it out in my direction.

Tentatively, I crossed the room to take the card, while at the same time I wondered how quickly I could reach my coat where it hung by the door. In the left hand pocket was my can of mace. I took the card and read both sides, learning that he suffered from a condition that caused him to laugh inappropriately. The last few words requested the card be returned. I held it out to him. He took it, and finally his laughter stopped.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped out.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" I spoke softly, hoping not to set him off again. My heart raced, and I couldn't decide whether he was a danger to me.

He rose to his feet in a quick, fluid movement, and I backed away. He held up both hands, shaking his head. "Please. Please don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."

"You've been following me. You broke into my apartment," I accused. "How do you expect me to feel?"

"I didn't break in. Not really. The door was open."

"It was unlocked," I corrected. "You weren't invited."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He waved his hands, continuing to shake his head. "I wanted—I needed—" Another laugh cut off his words and he turned away, stumbling towards the door. Damn my soft heart.

"Arthur, wait." I followed him and touched his arm. He stopped, choking. "You're soaking wet. Take off your jacket. I'll make you some tea, okay?"

The man had followed me for two days, let himself into my home, and I was offering him tea? I could just imagine what Jason would say if I told him.

"Tea?" Arthur queried.

"Do you like tea?"

"Yes."

"Take off your jacket," I repeated. "Sit down. I'll just be a minute." I hurried into the kitchen, and boiled the kettle while keeping one eye on the door. A rack full of knives stood beside the kettle, and I worried less as I made the drink. But Arthur didn't appear and he stayed quiet. I almost hoped he would leave before I returned to him, but when I carried a tray into the living room, he was still there, shivering and rubbing his arms. He wore a sweater over a shirt, and the garments seemed almost as wet as his jacket had been. I noticed he'd placed it on the floor beside his feet.

He looked up, eyes big and sorrowful. "I'm sorry I came in without being invited."

"Never mind. How do you like your tea?"

"Milky and with two sugars, please."

I added milk from the small jug I'd filled, and two lumps of sugar, gave it a vigorous stir, and passed him the mug. He wrapped his hands around it as if to warm them, and sipped carefully. "Thank you."

I put the tray on the coffee table and sat on a chair the other side of it. "You want to tell me why you've been following me?" I asked.

"I, um, I liked you."

"You don't know me. We met once, in the lift," I reminded him. "You didn't even know my name until you came to the shelter."

"You spoke to me in the lift. And smiled." Arthur offered me a fleeting smile, then lowered his gaze. "Everyone ignores me. It's like I'm not even here. But you didn't."

"You could have knocked on my door," I pointed out.

"I was—" He paused and sipped his tea. "I was upset. I didn't think. I'm sorry I scared you. I didn't mean to."

"Okay. So, do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

"Wrong?" His brow wrinkled.

"You said you were upset."

"My, um, my mother died two days ago. She had a stroke."

"Oh, Arthur." Instantly, my wariness dissolved and I felt only sorrow. He had no one now, and had turned to the one person who smiled at him once, months ago. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged, then. "That's not why I'm upset. Today I went to the hospital. Arkham, I mean, not the General where she was taken. My mother was a patient at Arkham years ago. I found out—" He started to laugh, quickly placed the mug on the table, and covered his mouth with both hands.

I realised then that the involuntary laughter seemed to be a response to distress. I waited it out, and eventually, it subsided into gasps. He lowered his hands and picked up his mug again, then drank most of the tea before speaking. "I found out she wasn't my mother. I was adopted. When I was a child, her boyfriend abused me. She did nothing to stop it. Most of the time I was chained to a radiator. One day he beat me so badly I ended up like this. I had a brain injury."

Horrified, I got up and hovered, wanting to go to him and offer something—squeeze his hand, or his shoulder—but then I noticed how much he was shivering, and instead I grabbed the blanket from the other chair—the one I wrapped myself in when I was watching TV in the evenings. "Arthur, you're soaking wet. You're gonna catch your death. Take off your sweater," I said.

"Take it off?" He looked up at me in confusion.

"It's wet. You need to get dry and warm."

"Oh." Numbly, he pulled the sweater over his head. "My shirt is wet too."

"Take it off," I told him without hesitation.

Slowly, with shaking hands, he unfastened the buttons, revealing the skinniest torso I'd ever seen on a living person. He was obviously malnourished, pale skin stretched tight over bony shoulders, collar bones jutting, every rib visible, stomach concave. Biting off any comment, I draped the blanket around his shoulders, then switched on the electric fire. I sat down again, beside him rather than opposite.

"You've had an awful shock," I said.

"Yes. I can't remember any of what happened to me. It was like reading about somebody else. I cared for her for ten years, you know. She's not even my mother. She let him do all that stuff to me." He choked slightly, and I expected another burst of laughter, but instead, he covered his face with both hands and began to sob.

"Arthur." I touched his shoulder. He sobbed harder, and I slid my arm around him. "Shh, it's okay. It's all right," I murmured.

He buried his face in his hands and I rubbed his back. How could I have been nervous of him, I wondered? He was harmless. Hurt, lonely, and suffering the effects of a head injury gained in childhood. God only knew what the so-called mother's boyfriend had done to him. Had he been sexually abused, as well as beaten?

Eventually, Arthur quieted and straightened up. I took my hand off him and rested it in my lap. "I'm sorry about that." He wiped his face with one hand and snuffled.

"It's all right." I passed him a box of tissues, then got up and collected the wet garments he'd discarded. I hung them on the drying rack near the heater, then went to my room to find something he could wear. I had a big baggy sweatshirt with a fleece lining that would easily fit him. I dug it out and took it to him along with a towel. "Why don't you put this on? It's warm and dry. Use the towel for your hair."

He nodded and dried his hair first, squeezing the wet strands in the towel and scrubbing his scalp, then combing with his fingers. He shrugged off the blanket, pulled on the sweatshirt, then tugged the blanket around himself again. "Thank you."

"Have you eaten today?" I asked.

"No."

"Would you like something? I have leftovers from dinner I can heat up."

"Please, don't go to any trouble."

"It's no trouble. I won't be long." I returned to the kitchen, put the remains of the mild curry and rice on a plate, and slid it into the microwave. Five minutes later, I handed Arthur a tray with the plate and a fork on it. "It's chicken curry. Not very spicy," I said.

"That's okay. I don't like too much spice." He smiled and picked up the fork. "I really appreciate this. You're so kind. I don't deserve it."

"Everyone deserves a little kindness." I sat in silence while he ate. It wasn't a large portion of food, but it still took him a long time to eat. I wondered how often he went without food. His half-starved appearance indicated he did it a lot. When he finally finished, I took the plate from him and put it on the table, then checked his clothes. My heater kicked out a lot of heat, and his shirt was already dry. The sweater and jacket were still wet but not dripping.

"I'll get out of your way." Arthur scrambled to his feet and grabbed his clothes. "I'm sorry, again, that I bothered you. Please don't be angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Then don't be scared. I'm no threat to you. I wouldn't hurt one hair on your head."

"I must admit I was a little worried when I realised you were following me."

"I'm sorry. I—" He looked down at himself and plucked at his sleeve. "I'm still wearing your sweater."

"It's fine, don't worry about it. You can return it another time. Keep it for now, okay?"

"Yes. Thank you." He fidgeted, awkward, and giggled a little. "I'll be going now. You know, you should put the chain on your door if the lock's broken."

"Yes, I know." I laughed, relieved that this encounter hadn't turned out to be what I expected. "Take care, Arthur."

I put the chain on the door after he left, then found a screwdriver and fiddled with the lock until it clicked back into place. I couldn't stop thinking about Arthur. That poor man—how he must have suffered, treated like that as a child, brought up God knew where while his mother was in the asylum, then caring for her, not knowing what had happened to him. All his life he'd had to deal with the involuntary laughter. I imagined people would point and snigger; call him a freak. People were cruel. I'd seen plenty of it in my job. Now he was alone. Obviously, he didn't even have a friend, if he'd come to me in his time of despair.

I worked Sunday, but Monday and Tuesday were my days off. I spent Sunday afternoon with Sophie watching movies—not scary ones—and told her I'd met Arthur.

"His mother died," I said. "He was pretty upset."

"Penny died? I know paramedics came, but I thought maybe she was just sick—sicker."

"She had a stroke."

"How is it you know this?"

"He came to the shelter for a meal. Then he turned up at my apartment the other day. I don't think he has anyone now his mother's gone. He wanted someone to talk to, I guess. A friendly face."

"You should be careful," Sophie warned. "He's a real creep."

"I think he's just lonely."

"He's a nut-job." She scrunched up her face. "I'd be surprised if he hasn't done a stretch in Arkham, too."

"He had a head injury as a child. He can't help the laughing."

"I still think he's a freak."

I didn't tell her Arthur had let himself into my apartment. I was almost certain he was harmless now I knew a little about him, but I was still glad I'd fixed the lock on my door.

On Monday morning I went to the grocery store. In the afternoon I went to the movies, and picked up Chinese food on my way home. The lift was finally back in action and it lumbered up to my floor, clanking and groaning as usual. As I approached my door, the sight of a paper grocery bag propped against it surprised me. I put down my bag of food and picked it up. Inside was my sweater, freshly laundered and smelling of fabric softener, and a bouquet of deep pink roses. I loved roses, although pink wasn't my favourite colour. But I knew the meaning of them as gifts, and dark pink said "thank you."

I grinned as I opened my door and took the two bags inside. I put the roses in a vase and stood it on my coffee table, before I ate my meal. Then I headed down to Arthur's apartment to thank him for the flowers.

I rang the bell twice, but didn't hear any sound from within, other than a faint noise that might have been a television show. Assuming the bell didn't work, I knocked instead. A minute later, the deadlock clicked and the door opened a few inches, its chain visible. Arthur peered through the gap.

"Hey, Arthur."

"Hey!" He closed the door again, took the chain off, and opened it wide. He was wearing a blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up and casual grey pants. His feet were bare. I managed to take in all of this before I met his eyes.

"I wanted to say thank you for the roses."

"Oh, you don't need to thank me. That was my job." He flushed and quickly broke the eye contact. He seemed shy and embarrassed, although his mouth pulled up at the corners in a small smile.

"Well, thank you anyway. How are you?"

"I'm, you know, so-so." He shrugged. "I've been getting rid of my mother's—Penny's things. She didn't have much. At least I get to sleep in a bed now."

"Didn't you have a bed before?"

"No, there's only one bedroom. I slept on the couch. Would you, um, would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

I hesitated, wondering if I should take him up on the offer. I no longer had any fears about him, and he had plenty of good qualities—polite, gentle, pleasant looking. He needed a friend. So did I—I only had Sophie, and my workmates.

"Of course you don't." He shook his head, his expression slipping into one of sadness. "Why would you? I've acted like a crazy person."

"I didn't say no," I pointed out.

"You didn't say yes." He took a step back so he could close the door. He almost seemed to shrink, shoulders slumped and chin sinking towards his chest.

"Do you have coffee?" I shot him a smile. "I'm not much of a tea-drinker."