The Fitzmary House is located at the very heart of the sprawling Bethlem Royal Hospital. It is an austere building, built many decades ago with unvaried stacks of drab, red bricks. For awhile there was English ivy, creeping all the way up to the eaves and flaring a glorious crimson in the autumn, but the stubborn tendrils worked their way into the building's crumbling mortar, widening cracks and letting in moisture, and, in the end, it all had to be pulled down.
Inside the Fitzmary House, there are thick metal doors, painted and re-painted a soothing shade of mint green. These sturdy doors have been scuffed and dented by the shoes of hundreds upon hundreds of recalcitrant patients, and the mere sight of them has been known to reduce grown men to blubbering, contrite tears. High above, well out of reach, are narrow windows which let in daylight only grudgingly, between the hours of twelve and two. And far off in the rear, largely forgotten, there is a small solarium that no one ever visits, save for the janitorial staff when they are in need of a solitary smoke break.
Stacks of glossy brochures in the main reception area advertise "expert, evidence-based, in-patient treatment for people with complex and co-morbid psychosis." Dr. Archibald Hopper picks up one of these brochures and turns it over and over in his freckled hands, waiting for the receptionist to call him up to her desk.
"Why, if it isn't Dr. Archie Hopper—it's been ages! And here's me thinking you had moved on to grading papers and supervising students over at Maudsley. What brings you back to Bethlem Royal?"
The receptionist adjusts her bifocals and tugs at her loose cardigan, peering curiously over the desk at the small woman sitting next to Dr. Hopper. She is dreadfully pale, bundled up in a thick winter parka, with a cashmere scarf looped several times around her neck.
"I'm here about a patient, Poppy."
Archie stands up and walks over to the receptionist's desk, returning her friendly smile. "He was a Section 2 from King's College about three weeks back. Goes by the name of 'Nosty,' with no given surname. They said they sent him over here to you. I'll be taking charge of his care." Archie slides a thick packet of paperwork across the desk.
"His real name is Arran," the pale woman adds softly.
She has followed close behind at Archie's right elbow. Her eyes are kind and anxious, the irises a singular shade of tide pool-blue. They are made all the more striking set off against her bloodless skin.
"You're here for Nosty?"
The receptionist's eyebrows shoot up above her round eyeglasses.
"Oh yeah, he's here alright. Seems like Mr. Nosty is always here. Normally, we would've discharged him by now, but during this recent go-round his behavior has been so outrageous that we had to hold onto him." Poppy leans across her wide desk and speaks in a low, confidential tone: "You know, just between us three, I had always fancied him for a right faker before this particular stay."
"Please—when can we see him, Miss?"
The pale woman has been soaking up Poppy's offhand words with a quiet, rigid intensity. She grips the crook of Archie's right elbow and leans hard against him. Her pink nail polish is chipped.
"Why, right now, if you like," Poppy replies amiably, pushing herself up out of her padded office chair, "Just make certain to sign the visitors' sheet. Oh—and don't be expecting Mr. Nosty to say sod all for awhile yet. The doctors have him up to his gills in Vitamin K after the daffy stunt he tried to pull last night."
Archie picks up a pen, scribbles down their names, then quietly asks, "What happened last night?"
Beside him, the pale woman shudders and closes her eyes.
"Well, apparently he took it into his skull to stack up some furniture and try to smash his way out through a high-up window." Poppy shakes her head and clucks her tongue in disbelief. "Not that he's the first patient to try it, mind you. The attendants had quite the to-do hauling him down by his ankles, and then I heard he just went plum barking mad, screaming nonsense and dashing his head against the floor and walls."
Poppy sighs. Such is life at Bethlem Royal.
"Belle," Archie says when his companion makes a soft noise and digs her fingers into his jacket sleeve, "It's going to be just fine—he's going to be fine. We'll go to him right now. Poppy will take us straightaway."
The receptionist gives them both an odd look—because, honestly, who could really be so keen to see Nosty?—and beckons them around behind her desk. She leads them down a long corridor lit with yellow fluorescent bulbs and decorated with the faded portraiture of the psychiatric staff, then through two battered, mint green doors that open with a loud click and a shrill buzz, and then they finally find themselves standing at the entrance to a sad approximation of a living room. A dozen patients dressed in thin cotton bathrobes, pajama bottoms, and colorful slipper socks are gathered around a large table, twisting twine around small, plastic hoops.
"It's occupational therapy hour," Poppy explains in a loud whisper, "They're working on their dreamcatchers."
"But—I don't see him," Belle says anxiously. She releases her tight grip on Archie's elbow and steps inside the room. "Please—where is he?"
Several men glance up from their intricate, therapeutic handiwork, their fingers hovering in midair. Many of their hands have the tell-tale tremor that accompanies heavy doses of antipsychotics.
"Why, Nosty's right there, dear—he's in the wheelchair by the sofa."
Poppy points out a slight, lean man who is slumped over his own lap, sitting a little ways off from the rest of the group. He has a small, plastic hoop resting on his bony knees and a length of twine laid over his right hand, but his face and arms are slack and immobile.
A slender, shimmering line of saliva runs from his wet lower lip to the waistband of his cotton pajama pants.
"Oh, that's right," Poppy says, reading the look of shock on both their faces, "Where's my mind run off to? You're having a bit of trouble recognizing him on account of his new haircut. See, what happened was the night shift nurses needed to be certain-sure he didn't require any sutures after the way he carried on yesterday, and he'd been tearing at his dreadful, ratty hair since he was brought over here anyhow, so…"
Poppy shrugs. "So they had to cut it all off."
Tears swim in Belle's eyes and blur her vision as she quickly crosses the room, ignoring the curious stares of the other patients. Her legs are trembling as she crouches down in front of this slumped, vacant replica of the man she loves, and so she reaches out to steady herself with a hand against his wheelchair.
The nurses have made hasty work of his dark hair with an electric trimmer, and now Nosty is nearly bald in several patchy places.
His forehead is decorated with gashes and raised, purple bruises.
"I'm here," Belle tells him softly.
She sets aside the length of twine and the plastic hoop resting on his knees, then gently lifts his limp hands in hers. "I'm sorry it took me so long, sweetheart. I was in hospital; they wouldn't let me go to you—but now I've come to bring you home."
She lifts his right hand to her mouth and presses a kiss to his palm, watching his unfocused eyes, waiting for the smallest flicker of recognition—but there is none. Undeterred, Belle trails a line of gentle kisses down to the scarred, nearly-transparent skin of his inner wrist, then replaces Nosty's hand on his lap and carefully unwinds her cashmere scarf. A square of snowy-white gauze is affixed to the side of her neck with tidy strips of medical tape, and the bruises on her throat and collarbone have faded to greenish-yellow.
Belle brushes at his lower lip with the scarf, wiping away the saliva.
Once she is satisfied with the state of his now-dry lips, his prickly chin, and his damp pajama shirtfront, Belle balls up the cashmere and presses it against his open palm, tenderly curling his fingers around it.
"Arran," she says, "Can you hear me?"
She feels a hand touch her shoulder and glances upwards at Archie, who has crossed the room to stand beside her. Poppy, it would seem, has returned to her sentry position at the front desk.
"Belle," Archie tells her, "Even if he can hear you, he won't be able to respond for awhile yet. The doctors have given him an oral dose of ketamine. It's an extremely powerful sedative."
"When will it wear off?" Belle swallows and lays a hand on Nosty's bent knee, caressing it. "Will they let me stay with him? We can't leave him here—not alone like this, Archie…"
Archie smiles because these are precisely the sort of questions he anticipated from his big-hearted friend—and after his impotent, unending vigil with Matthew and Mary at Belle's hospital bedside, it feels so good to finally be able to do something for her. "Well, the medication should wear off in two hours, perhaps less. I just spoke with one of the on-call psychiatrists, and she's bringing me Nost—ah, she's bringing me your friend Arran's case file. Apparently, it's quite substantial. I'll give it a close read-through while you wait for the ketamine to taper off, and you can stay with him for as long as the attendants are in the room."
Archie squeezes her shoulder, then discretely slides a hand down her coat sleeve, reaching beneath the cuff of Belle's thick winter parka and feeling for her pulse rate. "How are you holding up, Belle? Let me get you a chair, alright? And some fruit juice, maybe?"
"I'm better now," she reassures him, her eyes riveted on Nosty's immobile face and the exposed, waxy-white skin of his scalp, "God, I'm so much better now."
She accepts the chair, but waves away Archie's offer of a sugary drink, then gratefully turns her full attention back to the beloved man slumped over in front of her. Nosty's lips have begun to twitch and work against his crooked bottom teeth, but his eyes remain as bleary and impenetrable as a deep, muddy puddle. They are fixed on the day room's scuffed linoleum floor, which is a shabby shade of yellow.
"Sweetheart, it's Belle."
She leans forward and softly touches her fingers to the underside of his chin, gently raising his head. "I'm right here, baby."
He blinks slowly, ponderously, his eyes groping at her face as if struggling to reassemble a fractured kaleidoscope image. His tongue pushes against his lower teeth, unconsciously working at his wet bottom lip—and then there is a sharp, sudden flare of his nostrils, a hoarse, eager intake of breath—and with a frantic, guttural moan, Nosty is heaving himself up out of his wheelchair, toppling it onto the linoleum tiles, and lurching clumsily forward into Belle's arms.
She gasps and catches him, half-rising to her feet in surprise, and awkwardly supports his rag doll weight, wrapping one arm around his waist and another around beneath his clumsy arms.
"That's right—it's me! Oh, sweetheart…"
Belle's face crumples as she presses a fierce kiss to the right side of his neck, just above his little swallow tattoo. She is thinking of the nights she held onto her pillow because she couldn't hold onto him, wondering if he would ever come back, wondering if he was safe, if he was sick, if he was frostbit, if he was hungry, remembering the sweet warmth and weight of him, wishing he would come home, not knowing if she'd ever find him.
Nosty is trying to tell her something, attempting to pick his cheek up off her shoulder and twist his nearly-bald head around to look at her, his tongue thick and uncooperative in his mouth. His eyes are unfocused and wild with panic.
Belle reassures him, "I'm listening. I'm here. Let's go sit down."
"Da bid!—da bid!…no bid…"
He makes these strange sounds over and over as a health attendant, drawn away from the art table by the loud clatter of metal against linoleum and Nosty's anxious, incomprehensible chatter, picks up the toppled wheelchair and helps Belle walk him over to the nearby sofa.
"Doing all right, Miss?" the attendant asks, "He botherin' you?"
"No—just the opposite, actually," Belle says, smiling because she cannot help herself, her eyes alight, "But could I maybe trouble you for a lap blanket? His skin feels a bit cool and clammy."
The attendant shrugs and fetches a frayed cotton blanket from a linen closet filled with towels, disinfectant, and art smocks.
With great care, Belle unzips her winter parka and eases Nosty backwards into her arms, reaching down to tuck his slipper-clad feet and slender, hairy calves up onto the sofa, being very cautious of her own injured neck. When the back of his bare head is resting comfortably in the crook of her arm, and his bent knees are propped up against the back of the sofa, Belle settles and tucks the thin blanket all around him, stares down at his dear, gaunt face, and tries to make out what he is saying.
"Da bid…da bid…"
"Are you trying to tell me about the bridge, sweetheart?"
He nods, relieved, his pale face twisting and collapsing in on itself, suddenly distorted by grief. Yes, yes, the bridge!
Belle bends forward and listens intently, concentrating, breathing slowly, focusing on the words he is trying to fit in between the jagged sounds he makes when he is beginning to cry.
"You don't want me to go to the bridge? Is that it?"
Nosty nods again, jerkily, the sharp little intakes of air giving way to true, full-throated sobbing, and then he miserably twists his face around to hide it against the side of her breast, muffling the noise.
Belle exhales and lifts his warm, shorn head up a little so that she can kiss his temple and so that he can hear the soothing, rushing-water sound of her shushing very close to his ear. While he cries loudly and wretchedly, thoroughly wetting her shirtfront, Belle nuzzles her nose against his rough cheek and promises him, "I won't go to the bridge, baby. I'm going to stay right here. I'll stay right here with you. Oh, Arran, precious sweetheart, please don't cry…"
And then, just as she has learned to do while they are tangled up in bed together, submerged beneath a dark sea of sheets and blankets, Belle allows simple instinct to take over, rocking him gently side-to-side with steady, reassuring movements, shushing and soothing and speaking the sweet-sacred words—sweetheart, baby, beautiful boy—and waving away the health attendant who earlier brought them the blanket. He's fine. Really, truly, we're both fine.
My sweetheart was scared, but now it's passing.
Long minutes go by, and at last Nosty's miserable crying grows quieter and more restrained. His ragged breathing begins to slowly, slowly even out, and then—finally, finally—he is drifting off to sleep in her arms, his fingers still curled securely around the cuff of her jacket and his wet mouth ajar against the side of her breast.
"You must be Belle."
The health attendant is still lingering a little ways off from the sofa, watching them with a thoughtful expression on his face. Behind him, patients are gathering up their twine and beads and colorful feathers and plastic hoops, preparing to leave for an afternoon meal at the Fitzmary dining hall. Archie is nowhere to be seen.
"He's been screaming his nut off for a 'Belle' ever since they brought him over here. Everybody assumed he was talking about, you know, 'ding dong,' but I figured it must be a girl." The attendant smiles, and although his deep-set eyes are very tired, they crinkle kindly at the corners. "You know, I honestly never thought I'd live to see the day a girl came in here after Nosty. These are odd times, eh?"
He scrubs at his thick mustache contemplatively.
"Can I stay with him?" Belle asks, "Please, Mr.—ah…"
She squints at his name badge, but he waves a hand dismissively.
"Just call me Barrie. Aye, you can keep him company until he wakes up. I'll just stick around here and get the art supplies sorted. You know, I think it's real fine stuff what you're doing for him just now, holding onto him like that. I mean, please don't get me wrong, these modern day medicines we have to treat delusions, paranoia, deep depression, and the like—they're absolutely vital. I'm an old codger, halfway-retired, so I've seen how it was before the shots and the pills. But there's the other half of it, too. The human half. I look at some of the lonely, hurting folks who are in here, and I can't help but think, 'Wouldn't it just do them a world of good to have someone bundle them up warm and snug, rock them for a wee bit, and tell them everything is going to be okay?'"
Barrie shrugs, backing away. "Well, that's my windbag two cents, anyhow. I guess I'll just be over here if you need anything."
Belle thanks him sincerely, then remembers, "Ah, Barrie? May I have that scarf from off the floor? It helps him sleep."
He hands it over, and she tucks the cashmere up around Nosty's visible cheek, then kisses his bruised forehead and brushes her lips over the short, ticklish stubble at his hairline. Without his long dreadlocks, he is significantly diminished in size—a boastful emperor who has had his clothes torn off in front of a crowd.
While Nosty sleeps the listless, impenetrable sleep of the drugged, Belle wills him to hear her racing thoughts, sometimes whispering, barely moving her lips.
She kisses his flickering eyelids and tells him—you saved my life.
She strokes his curled, grasping fingers and confesses—what I did was stupid, I know, but I'd risk it again just for the chance to hold you. She brushes her cheek against the prickly crown of his head and thinks—I'll never be able to understand your life before this. Never, never. I can't begin to imagine growing up without someone to comfort me when I was scared or sick or hungry. But Arran, if you stay with me, I promise that you'll never have to face anything like that alone again. No one should.
After a tender, quiet hour has passed, Barrie moves a folding chair whilst tidying up, and its metal legs make a high-pitched screech against the linoleum flooring. In the warm circle of Belle's arms, a young man named Arran—who used to be without a home—startles, rouses, and blinks himself awake.
"Hey," Belle says, her voice soft and uncertain.
"Ah—hey," Arran replies, still blinking slowly.
His dark eyes are hazy, but clearer than they were before he slept.
"Do you know where you are, sweetheart?"
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he swallows hard, looking around them. "Ah—it's Bethlem, isn't it? Am I—did I fucking die?"
A smile nearly splits her face in two.
"No, baby—neither one of us did."
Belle twists her neck around to show him the square of snowy-white gauze. "See? You saved my life. Well, you, three pints of blood, and some excellent surgeons over at King's College Hospital."
His fingers twitch against her coat sleeve, and Belle guides his hand up to her breastbone, pressing it tightly against her beating heart.
See? Still warm and thumping.
He stares up into her smiling eyes and suddenly remembers: "You came after me. Jesus, Belle, I told you not to! You came right down to the fucking bridge…and then that cuntarsed bastard Marley, he stuck a knife right into your fucking windpipe, and then…"
He stares furiously at the side of her neck, Adam's apple bobbing.
"Marley is in jail," Belle tells him firmly, "And that's where he'll be staying for a very long time. The police took a description from me as soon as I could get a few words out. They caught him down by Blackfriars two weeks back. Hey, let's not talk about Marley anymore, okay? I don't want to think about him." She shivers.
"You're actually here having a chat with me, aren't you?" he quietly marvels, his eyes going wide and soft, "This isn't some cracked k-hole dream. You're really fucking here."
"I'm really here, sweetheart. I've come with Archie to bring you home."
His brow furrows at this news and also at her easy endearment. (Wasn't she finally fucking finished with him? After all that shite?) He struggles to sit upright in order to get a better, clearer look at her. His beautiful, beautiful bird, somehow alive and still beside him.
He swallows several times against the tightness in his throat and chest.
Belle helps him right himself, steadying him with a hand on either one of his thin shoulders. His shabby, institutional bathrobe hangs open, and his pale skin is covered in clammy goose flesh. Arran's bony kneecaps poke up against his cotton pajama pants like saplings against a clear-cut landscape.
With the heel of one hand raised to his battered forehead, he quietly confesses, "I've, ah—shite my head hurts. And, ach, I gotta take a pish. I'm really sorry, beautiful."
"I'll come with you. Just take it slow, alright?"
Belle helps him stand up gradually, taking firm hold of his right elbow, and together they make make slow, shuffling progress across the yellow linoleum floor, heading for a far-off door marked 'WC.' Midway there, Arran suddenly halts and curses in surprise, staring down at his sagging pajama bottoms and damp slipper socks.
He has lost control of his bladder.
"Jesus…" he says faintly.
"Hey—that's alright. That's okay," Belle hastens to reassure him, "That's easily fixed." She calls over to Barrie, who has been watching their progress from a discrete distance, and asks if he would happen to have an extra pair of pajama pants handy. "And also some fresh slipper socks, Barrie?"
"Jesus," Arran repeats unhappily, allowing her to guide him a few steps forward out of the musty, spreading puddle. "Jesus. I'm so fucking sorry, Belle. Oh fuck, I'm so sorry. Christ, I'm so fucking sorry about everything. I cocked it all up, didn't I? I made a fucking mess of it—of us. You nearly fucking died!"
His lips twist, and he begins crying again, twisting his face away and hiding it in shame. Belle softly demurs and steps around in front of him, wrapping both arms around his skinny torso, hugging him hard, not at all concerned about getting her own trousers a bit soiled.
"Hey, it turned out alright in the end, didn't it, sweetheart?" she says, "I finally found you, didn't I?" She kisses his shaking chest through the thin fabric of his pajama top and reaches up a hand to cup the back of his bowed head. "You didn't ruin anything, Arran—not one single thing. Well, there may be a couple of outfits that will never come out right in the wash, but that's all."
This surprises a wet laugh out of him, and when he turns his ruddy face back to look at her, Belle kisses the tears from his cheeks.
Barrie reappears with fresh, folded clothing in hand, but Archie steps into the day room doorway at the very same moment and takes stock of the situation, politely clearing his throat. He offers, "How about I go get the street clothes?" Then, addressing only Arran, "Ah, if you're feeling up for it—and with your permission, of course—we could do a psych consultation and possibly an exit interview all in one go. Belle, do you want me to ring Matthew and Mary at the hotel and get them ready to bring the car round?"
Arran nods, not yet ready to speak, and Belle answers gratefully, "That all sounds splendid, Archie. Thank you. And thank you as well, Barrie."She brushes a thumb over Arran's wet cheek, beaming up at him, "Just give us a moment in the toilet to get ourselves sorted, alright?"
Belle leads him the rest of the way to the small washroom, which has no stall and no lock. Together, they peel off his soiled pajama pants, and then Arran sits down on the covered toilet seat to remove his wet socks. Belle dampens several paper towels with warm water from the sink and carefully wipes his thighs and calves clean. He watches her, lips parted, struggling for something worthy to say.
Once she has finished and tossed all the wet paper into the bin, Belle remains kneeling in front of him, chewing on her bottom lip. With an unsteady breath, she reaches deep into her jacket pocket and draws out a small, white box. Scrawled upon the lid in Belle's precise, elegant cursive are the familiar words:
"my blood approves,
and kisses are better fate
than wisdom"
"Arran…" she says softly.
She gingerly lifts the lid, and inside is a brass house key, just like the one that is still tucked within his leather jacket pocket somewhere. Next to the house key is a new bracelet—not made of silver chain link. This one is brown, braided leather.
Belle lifts both items out of the box.
"The other bracelet likely got lost," she explains, "On the night that…" She lets her words fade away, rolling her shoulders back as if to shrug off the ugly memory. "It was time to say goodbye to it anyway, I think. I don't need it to remember James."
She reaches for his hand and says, "You misunderstood me that night on the sofa. The night you left my flat. I would never go off and leave you behind. Certainly not for a job. Not for anything, Arran."
He licks his lips nervously. His eyes are still pink from crying, and they begin to water again at that hated memory. "Well, I couldn't very well follow you across a fucking ocean, could I? Not like Uncle Sam's going to give a midgie-raker like me a fucking work visa, right?"
Belle smiles anxiously and says, "See, that's what I'm trying to get at. Oh, bollocks, I'm so nervous! I should just spit it out, right? Well, what I wanted to ask you was—do you think you might want to come with me to New York—as my husband? We could get you a visa that way."
"Eh?" he asks, unable to take it in.
She pushes the leather bracelet and brass key into his open palm and closes his fingers around them. "I'm trying to ask you—in a rather clumsy way—if you'd consider marrying me. And becoming my family. Because then we could go anywhere together. If you wanted to."
He blinks slowly. "I'm not a—I wouldn't even know how to go about it, Belle. I fucking love you, but I don't think that I'm built for…that."
She grips both his hands, her forehead creased.
"Please know—I'm not talking about a white picket fence and three babies and supper at six. We could figure out what we want it to look like as time goes on. I'm just asking…if you might want to come with me and stay with me—and be my family? At least that way they could never keep us apart at hospital again…"
She attempts the light-hearted joke because of a roiling, stomach-churning excess of nerves, and she exhales with relief when he finally opens up his fingers and stares at the new bracelet as if it's made of something far more extraordinary than braided leather.
She hastens to add, "This isn't 'marry me or go back to living under a bridge.' If you don't want this—if you'd rather not be with me—then I'll have Grandma Isabelle's flat made over in your name. You could live in it or let it out for income or…whatever you choose to do with it. But I'd rather you chose me. I do need to tell you this: if you choose me, you'd need to give up dealing. It would break my heart to watch you carry on selling. I'd always be thinking of my brother."
"No more fucking 'merchant of death,' eh?" He contemplates the slender, braided bracelet. "I wouldn't be able to bring in any money, you know," he adds thoughtfully, "I'm not fit for anything but selling and stealing and running my mouth."
"You've got a quick mind," Belle says, "I think you'll find you're fit for many things. But money won't ever be an issue thanks to Grandma Isabelle. There's something else, too—you'd have to promise me that you'll never frighten me by throwing things again. That scared me, Arran. If I feel unsafe with you, we can't be together."
"Aye," he promises, wretchedly remembering the silver picture frame and the fragments of shattered lamp spread out upon the rug.
Her eyes are glistening, suddenly awash with hope. "'Aye' to the last bit, or maybe—'aye' to all of it?"
A half-smile creases his cheek, and he slowly stretches out his wrist.
"Aye to all of it."
She lets out a loud, wet laugh of relief, and quickly fastens the leather bracelet around his skinny arm, grinning ear-to-ear. "You're fucking mental, bird," he tells her fondly, "And it's a pish-poor deal you'll be getting, but I'll spend every waking hour trying to make you happy. If I had a mum, I'd swear it on her life."
"Oh yeah?" she asks, happily taking his face in her hands.
"Yeah," he affirms, and bends down to capture her pale lips. It's a very soft kiss at first, just a tender way of getting reacquainted, but then his hand comes up behind her head to cup her skull and tangle in her soft hair, and her arms reach up to twine around his neck, and both their mouths open hungrily, his warm tongue seeking out hers again and again and again.
They kiss until they're both trembling and breathless. Truly, it doesn't take much. Both of them are still as weak as a newborn lambs.
"Arran?" Belle says, nuzzling elatedly against his stubbly chin.
"Aye?" he whisper backs, ducking his head down for another kiss.
"Maybe we should get you some trousers."
They both stare down at his naked lap, and then Belle begins to softly snicker and—though he isn't overfond of birds having a laugh at the expense his bait and tackle—he cannot help but follow suit, allowing, "Aye, that would probably be for the fucking best."
Belle sticks her head out the washroom door and calls over to Archie, "We're completely sorted and ready for clothes!"
Together, they discard the dreary institutional robe and pajama top and then reassemble his street clothes like a suit of armour: pressed kilt, fresh t-shirt, wool socks, black boots, and his shiny leather jacket.
"Just one final touch," Belle tells him as they exit the toilet.
She crosses over to the sofa and picks up the cashmere scarf, then returns and wraps it securely around his neck. "Splendid. Very posh. Are you ready to talk to Archie?"
He is. Arran takes her hand and follows Archie Hopper down the hallway and into a small conference room. "I can leave if you like," Belle offers, but he just shakes him head and squeezes her hand all the harder. The tall, ginger doctor asks him questions about his earliest memories, the homes he remembers and the homes he'd really prefer to forget, when he first started to cycle through mental high and lows, how long he's been living on the streets of London, his eating, drinking, sleeping, and smoking habits, and about whether or not he's ever used medication to manage his symptoms.
"On and off, years ago," Arran tells him, "They got me onto lithium while I was in here, actually. But it's not like I had time to pop round to the chemist and get a fucking prescription filled. Plus, it made me fuzzy-brained."
"I'd like you to try it again, but we'll tinker with the dosage so that the side-effects are minimized. Does that sound manageable?"
He allows that it does.
"Okay," Archie says, "Matthew and Mary are waiting out front with the car. Are you two ready to get going? They're extremely eager to meet the man who saved Belle's life."
Together, they walk down the long, fluorescent-lit hallway, through the mint green metal doors, past Poppy's wide desk, and out to the stately Fitzmary front entrance. A white car is waiting for them, glinting in the winter sunlight, with Belle's brother Matthew waiting by the driver's side door and Belle's smiling sister-in-law Mary—her belly round with their first child—waiting by the passenger side.
Seeing them, Arran pauses, tugging at Belle's hand.
"I don't know the first thing about being in a family. What if I make a fucking mess of it, Belle?"
She lifts his hand to her mouth and fondly kisses the inside of his wrist, then the braided leather bracelet, then reaches upwards to readjust his scarf. "Messes are inevitable, I think. That's just how families always are. Messy. We'll make a mess of things many times over, then set to work untangling it. Are you ready, sweetheart?"
He nods, holding his breath, and she pushes open the heavy door. The three of them squint their eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the crisp, cold air and bright winter sunshine.
Standing at the top of the cement steps, Arran glances over at his beautiful bird, grasps her warm hand a little tighter, and releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding all his life.
Then he takes the first step.