Six
He holds her for a long time, there on the hallway floor, as she sobs and sobs into his shirt, trying to make his anger dissipate into the air. All the times he imagined holding Kitty so close, he'd never dreamed it would be like this, rocking her back and forth as she weeps with unanswered questions running rampant in his head. Who was that man?
Eventually, she sits up, disentangles herself from his arms, cradling her wrist to her chest.
"Let me see," he says, gently, and she looks away, hissing a little as he takes her wrist. It's swelling, and there is a pattern of bruises and red scratches already forming around the base of her hand. "I think you've broken it. If we get you settled in the kitchen, I'll find something for a sling, okay?"
She doesn't move, so he carefully takes her good arm and pulls her gently to her feet, supporting most of her weight as he helps her into the kitchen, into a chair at the table. He boils the kettle to make tea, heaps sugar into the mug and puts it in front of her. "I'll be back in a second."
When he gets back with one of her t-shirts in his hand, she's still sitting there, staring into space with the tear-tracks drying on her cheeks. There's a terrible blankness in her eyes, no flicker of anything as he kneels opposite her. "Look, Kitty, you've got to drink the tea. It will make you feel better."
She picks it up mechanically, avoiding his eyes. Takes a sip and puts it back down again. He sighs, and picks up the shirt, fashioning it into a sling about her injured wrist. "We've got to get you to a hospital, and I've got to phone my hospital to let them know I can't make my shift."
"I don't want to."
"Kitty, you've broken your wrist. You've got to get it looked at."
"You can."
"I don't have any of the equipment here. They'll need to X-Ray it, and put a cast on."
"I want Sylvie." Her eyes fill with the silver of tears again.
"I know, Kitty, I know."
She subsides into silence, and he makes his call, explaining that there's been a family emergency in brief, terse words. A little white lie won't hurt anyone. "Right, come on."
She stands up, and follows him without a word.
When they get back from hospital, quiet, at that time of the evening, with Kitty's arm protected by thick, white plaster, Miles is waiting for them at the doorway to their own flat. "I…" he starts, "Kitty, what happened?"
Thomas shoots him a warning look, leaning across to unlock the door to Kitty's flat and gently usher her in. I'll tell you later, he mouths. Miles nods, follows them in.
"Are you okay staying here alone tonight?" he asks Kitty. She nods.
"Sure?"
Another nod.
"Okay, we'll see you in the morning, then. If you need anything, come and find us."
A third nod, and then he takes Miles' arm and pulls him out, shutting the front door carefully behind them.
She goes into the bedroom, sinking into the softness of the mattress where only last night Sylvie slept, curled up like some sort of cat, her breath whistling past the hair that stuck up at every odd angle. Sylvie. Pain drags itself through her chest, and then she's weeping again. Sylvie. Sylvie.
"Tell me," Miles says, dumping a cup of coffee unceremoniously in front of Thomas. He stares at it for a second, then blinks, looks up.
"What?"
"What happened? How has she broken her wrist? Where's Sylvie?"
Thomas rubs a hand across his face, tiredness tugging at the backs of his eyes. He briefly considers telling a lie, but no, that's not right. He can't lie, not to Miles. "I was getting ready to go to work," he says, the words burning the back of his throat. "And then I heard screaming, from next door. The door was open, so I went in and…in the hall…there was this man. He had Kitty by the throat, up against the wall and I pulled him off her. He said some things, and I made him leave."
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. Kitty was in no fit state to tell me. The only thing she could say was that 'he's got Sylvie.' She'd broken her wrist, so I took her to the Victoria Infirmary to get it looked at."
"Did you phone the police?"
"No, I didn't."
"Tom, it could have been a kidnapper, it…"
"It wasn't."
"How do you know?"
"I just," he pauses. "I just have this feeling that Kitty knew who it was. It wasn't some random person off the streets…it was someone she knew. I don't know who, though."
"God."
Thomas closes his eyes, resting his head in his hands. "What do we do?"
In the morning, he finds her sitting against the headboard of her bed, staring into space with Sylvie's princess dress crumpled and tearstained on her lap. He makes a plate of toast and tea, and perches on the edge of the bed.
"Have some breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"Kitty, you've got to eat."
She shakes her head. He sighs, and puts it down on the bedside table. "It's there if you want it later. How's your arm? Do you need more painkillers?"
"I'm fine."
He doesn't push, though the questions must be so evident in his expression, spreading across his face like floodwater. She looks at him, dully.
"You want to know who he was, don't you?"
"Only if you want to tell me."
She fiddles with the hem of Sylvie's dress, ducking her gaze. The white plaster cast is so blatantly white against the fadedness of the bedroom that he keeps looking at it, then noticing the way her loose hair falls about her face in a tumble of midnight-coloured curls.
"He was my husband," she says, as softly as a breath of wind. "Is my husband."
The anger is sudden, furious, makes his vision tremble and a metallic taste rise in his mouth. Husband. Her husband. How can that be – how can a husband treat his wife in such a horrific way? How can a husband…
Kitty is looking at him, again, and he pulls himself together sharply, taking a deep breath and clenching his fists. He has to control himself. He takes a deep breath, and another, then forces himself to stand. "You've got your fracture clinic appointment in an hour or so. I'll be by to pick you up."
"Okay." Her voice is a monotone, and she looks away. "See you."
He and Miles fall into a habit of dropping by every couple of hours – him whenever he's not asleep or writing, Miles in the evenings when Thomas is at work. He calls in to both of her jobs, and tells them she's sick, but it can't go on much longer. She sits, in the same position, all day, every day, her cast – now a yellow one – cradled in her arms, her unwashed hair falling over her shoulders, staring into space with blank eyes that do not see the world around her.
"Here, look," he says, the day before Christmas Eve when he comes to see her, holding out a plate of pasta.
"I'm not hungry."
"Kitty, you can't keep going on like this."
She doesn't reply. Her arms are thinner than they were before, there's a pallor creeping across her face and it makes him remember, it makes him scared. "Kitty, you have to eat."
"I said, I'm not hungry."
His control snaps.
"Katherine Trevelyan, eat. Now."
She starts at the loudness of his voice, stares up at him, a battle of wills turning the air red. Then finally, she nods, and takes the plate.
It's the first victory.
They invite her to spend Christmas with them, but she doesn't want to. She just wants to be alone, sitting and going through the gifts that would have gone under a tiny fake Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. It wouldn't have been much, but they would have been happy.
Why did he have to take that away from them?
She remembers the Christmases when she was a child, her loud, buoyant father tossing her up in the air, her mother, prim, proper, uninterested, seated a safe distance away on the divan as Kitty tore the wrapping paper from her presents and her baby brother gurgled from his pile of toys nearby.
She puts her face in her knees and begins to cry.
After taking a few days off for Christmas, going to the other side of the city to see his family, he receives word that his shift has been swapped again and he's working daytimes, nine until five instead of seven until two. It's a relief – night shifts are more taxing than any other – and he throws himself back into his work, using it to distract himself from the misery stretching itself out like a tragic play in the apartment next door. She's still fragile, brittle, and there's nothing he can do to piece her back together, not like the people beneath the surgical paper and anaesthesia that can be helped so easily.
And, of course, there is the problem of Yelland.
At first, it was snide comments, to do with Thomas' mother – God knows how the bastard got hold of that – and his family situation, but Thomas ignored those like a duck ignores water, but then it got worse. Jabs at his surgical skill, little insinuations that resulted in more observations than usual, messing around with his paperwork and confusing his notes so that he's late more and more.
Miles tells him to report Yelland, but he won't. The man's just an idiot with a superiority complex, and to report him means that he's won.
So Thomas battles onwards, trying to forget about lifeless dark eyes and the knife that twists in his heart every time he comes in to see her hastily wipe away the pearlescent traces of tears.
A/N Hi there again! I'm sorry you've had to wait so long for this - I've been in a little coastguard cottage with absolutely no Wi-Fi whatsoever, but never fear, I have been writing and updates will come pretty smoothly now. Thank you to Kate for reviewing, and thank you all for your lovely ideas about Joan/Anton. I may fit them in here, or I may write a whole story about them on their own, perhaps. Review! N xxx