The constable's pen is poised in midair. Underneath an official-looking black cap, her brow is knit with motherly concern.
She has seated Belle in the backseat of her warm response car, and the two women sit knee-to-knee, the constable patiently waiting for Belle to describe "the incident" in the alley. Gerald is standing a ways off, giving his statement to a less sympathetic male sergeant, an embroidered linen handkerchief pressed to his bloody nose.
"He cannot hurt you now, dear," the constable says kindly, laying a warm hand on top of Belle's shaking knee, and for a surreal moment Belle believes she is speaking of poor, rattled Gerald. Of course Gerald can't hurt her! Belle can manage his moist, wandering hands quite easily!
"They'll catch him. You'll see, dear. Sergeant Philips has never lost a man in a foot race."
Oh. Of course. They'll catch Nosty. With a painful little lurch, Belle realizes the kind constable is under the impression that the embrace in the alley wasn't consensual, that it was, rather, an assault.
Best she unstick her well-kissed tongue before today spirals entirely out of control.
"What happens if they catch him?" Belle asks, her voice high and anxious and not entirely under her control.
"Well, that depends on you and your dapper friend, dear. If the two of you bring charges, he'll spend the weekend in a jail cell and stand before the judge early next week. But he'll never find out where you live, and he'll never lay a hand on you again, promise you that."
The constable gives Belle's knee a reassuring little pat.
"He's—he didn't…he's my…he's a friend."
The constable's eyes widen slightly at this improbable assertion, but she remains silent, waiting for Belle to elaborate. How to make things clear to her? What to say and what to leave out?
"I met him while my brother was in hospital." The words tumble out: "He wasn't hurting me, before…in the alley, he was—it was…welcome." She forces herself to keep her gaze steady, meeting the other woman's searching, grey eyes. "He thought he was…protecting me."
"Gerald," Belle gestures out the car window, "the dapper one, he's an old acquaintance from university, and when Nos—…when my friend saw him become a bit too forward with his hands during lunch, he…lost his temper. It was more of a lovers' quarrel than anything else. I'm very sorry. We shouldn't have involved the police."
The constable finishes scribbling this jumbled account on a little notepad, then regards Belle's flushed cheeks, tapping her pen against her teeth. Considering.
"So this…'friend' of yours, you're in a relationship with him?"
"Of a sort, yes ma'am." Belle remembers the rough and hungry kiss, Nosty's wild eyes and his labored breathing, the way he had shivered and nearly lost his footing when she slipped her fingers through the opening of his kilt. Oh lord, if she could only dissolve into this seat and disappear. Where ever had she found the courage?
"Does your friend have a name, dear? Do you know where we might find him?" The constable raises her eyebrows, pen at the ready.
Belle is startled to realize that her first impulse is to lie to the woman. To give her a false name. Did James's death truly teach her nothing? She had piled lie upon lie for her addicted brother: lied to his boss, lied to Matthew and Mary, lied to their friends, and, of course, lied to herself. Little good it had done him.
"His name is Nosty, ma'am. I don't know his surname or where he sleeps."
The constable makes a strangled noise upon hearing "Nosty" and hastily excuses herself to go and speak with the sergeant outside. They whisper, huddled together, casting covert glances over their shoulders at the backseat of the service car.
Gerald is led away to have his injuries photographed and cataloged, and suddenly Belle feels decidedly ill. She opens the door and calls out to the constable, "May I…may I go now, ma'am?"
Startled, the woman agrees, "Yes dear, I think we have everything we need for the moment, and I have your mobile number. Are you quite certain you're alright?"
"Quite certain," Belle lies, fighting a powerful need to retch. She looks over to Gerald, who is staring dolefully at the camera as it flashes away. "Gerald! Please call me?" Belle mimes a telephone pressed to her ear. Gerald signals his agreement with a sad little wave of his bloody hanky.
During the brisk walk home, Belle phones the university to cancel her afternoon class. Her Shakespeare students will be sorely disappointed. They have only just reached Desdemona's death scene and are eager to have a desk-pounding discussion of who is to blame. Othello is almost universally reviled this semester, and it's interesting to observe the ebb and flow of student opinion on his jealousy and culpability.
Inside her snug flat at last, Belle tumbles onto her overstuffed sofa with her jacket still on and promptly falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hours later, the sound of her cell phone jangling inside her pocket wakes Belle abruptly. Her flat is nearly dark, so it must be past six.
"Gerald?" Her tongue is dry, and her voice is no more than a squeak.
"They caught him, Belle! He didn't even make it more than a block. They want us to come down to Belgravia Police Station to ID the blighter!"
Belle is suddenly very much awake. It sounds as though Gerald has continued the drinking he began at lunchtime.
"Listen to me. Gerald, listen. I don't want you to press charges."
He snorts into his phone, a very ungenteel little sound. Oh yes, he is well past drunk. "And why the bloody hell wouldn't I press charges, Belle?"
She gathers her strength. If tears are needed, Belle isn't above using them, but, for now, she holds her voice steady: "Because of James, Gerald."
"What rubbish are you talking? What does your brother have to do with any of this?" There is a loud clatter. It seems he has dropped his phone.
"Gerald? Are you there? He's dead, Gerald. He died. Three weeks ago. I didn't tell you over lunch because…it didn't seem to be the right time, and I didn't want to blubber in front of everyone in the restaurant…"
"God, Belle, James is dead?" He sounds nearly sober now. Gerald always got on well with her younger brother.
"Of an overdose. Yes. But please…" Belle's voice wobbles, and she lets it. It's honest grief, and perhaps it will help Nosty. "…before he died, he got into trouble like this. So much trouble. Brawling. Theft. Run-ins with the police. I'm trying to help this man as a way of honoring James, and…he won't get the help he needs in prison. Please Gerald. Go home. Sleep it off. Let this be my decision. For James and the second chances he'll never get. Please."
He considers silently while Belle holds her breath. "If that's really how you want to handle this," Gerald says at last, "God, Belle, I'm so bloody sorry. James. You should have said something. There I was, rattling on about my bloody book…"
"Thank you, Gerald! Thank you! I'm so very sorry about your nose. I have to go! Thank you! Goodbye!" Belle struggles to tug her boots on as she talks. She'll need her checkbook for bail, her gloves, her scarf…
Her heart is racing.
It's time to rescue Nosty.