Chapter Eight

"Dom!"

"Shh, String. Wake up. You're having a dream."

String got his eyes open at last, and saw Elena bending over him. The helicopters and the men flying them disappeared. "Elena?" he said groggily. "What was I dreaming about?"

"I don't know, String," she answered patiently. "It sounded like you were looking for somebody. Somebody called Dom, I think. At least that's what it sounded like."

He couldn't remember anything about the dream, or anyone called Dom. He let his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh, eyes closing again. Then he yanked the blankets over his head, trying to burrow back down into the dream.

Elena pulled them back down again. "Oh no, you don't. Come on, String, it's time to get up. And I want you to do something for me."

"What?" he asked grumpily.

"I want to see how much you can do on your own. I'll bet you can do a lot more than you think you can."

He looked at her suspiciously. "You mean you're not going to help me?"

"I don't think you need nearly as much help as we've been giving you. Don't you want to see if you're not as helpless as Dr. Fairling thinks you are?"

"I'm not helpless," he snapped.

"Then prove it. Get into this chair on your own. At least try, for pity's sake."

He looked at the wheelchair, parked next to the bed, and felt as if he could no more get into it without her help than fly to the moon. He was angry that she thought he could, and perversely he felt peeved at being called helpless. He glared at her. She looked equably back at him. "Are you planning on staying there all day?"

He shoved the blankets aside and dragged himself over to the side of the bed. "Do I get a gold star for this?" he asked mockingly, reaching out for the closest arm of the chair.

"No stars. But if you tell me what your favorite breakfast is, I'll see what I can do."

"A really puffy omelette with lots of cheese, fresh squeezed orange juice and a pot of decent coffee," he said unhesitatingly.

"Oh, dear. How do you feel about some really nice cereal?"

"You go to hell."

"Certainly. As soon as I see you try a bit harder."

"Bitch," he muttered. He reached across the chair for the other arm. "Now what?" he growled.

"Pull with both arms. Don't worry, the chair won't move. I've got it. Which is more than you deserve, swearing at me like that."

"I can swear a lot worse than that."

"I know you can. I've heard you. Now put some effort into this, will you? What would you do if your bed was on fire?"

"Get out the marshmallows."

"You'd be a marshmallow. Now come on."

It took nearly five minutes, but finally he collapsed in the chair, exhausted. Elena applauded ecstatically. "Very good! That was wonderful!" She bent down to give him a brief, impulsive kiss on the top of his head.

"Now what?" he asked again, sarcastically. "A brisk jog around the block?"

"Of course not. You're not dressed yet. Let's see how much you can do in here on your own." She pushed the chair to the bathroom door.

Breakfast was much later than usual that morning, but he felt a definite sense of accomplishment when he was finally dressed, with food in front of him, even if it was only cereal.

That minor act of independence wasn't enough to satisfy Elena. It was obvious to her, if not to String, that he was capable of much more. Depending on his mood, she began to coax, tease, or bully him into doing more for himself. Usually he seemed to enjoy the challenge, even if he scowled and snapped at her. The effects of the disaster that had happened to him at the time of the food poisoning incident seemed to be abating, and most days he was alert and willing to push himself. But there were times she found him so uncooperative that she just left him in peace, and there were still a few days that were hopeless, when nothing could get through to him.

Dr. Fairling had left a supply of his medication to be administered weekly, and the senior nurse at the clinic made sure that the orders were scrupulously followed. The drugs were given by one of the night nurses after the evening shift was gone, drawn out of 5 cc vials that were unlabelled except for Tommy Vine's name. String dreaded the needles. Whatever was in them made him feel muddled and mixed up, unable to tell what day it was or even to keep a coherent thought in his head for at least twenty four hours. But without the doctor's voice talking to him at the same time, it didn't seem to be quite so bad. He didn't tell Elena about the drugs. When things began to make sense again, he knew there was nothing she could do.

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In the middle of another sleepless night, it came back to String that Ann had told him there was nothing wrong with his legs. No reason why he couldn't just get up and walk. It was only Dr. Fairling who had made him believe he couldn't.

He couldn't imagine himself walking. He had no idea how to even take a step. But he had to try, because however he was going to get away from here, it sure as hell couldn't be in a wheelchair.

No time like the present.

Luisa had put up the side rails on the bed. All of them did that, even Elena, probably because several times he would have fallen right out while in the grip of a nightmare, even without the use of his legs. Still, it was one more thing to hate about this place, making him feel like he was sleeping in a goddamned baby's crib.

It took a few minutes of fumbling, and got him a good bang across one forearm and some pinched fingers, but he finally succeeded in sliding down the right-hand rail. He sat up, pushed the sheet and blanket away, and then tugged with both hands until he got one leg and then the other hung over the side of the bed. They dangled there, useless as ever. He couldn't even move his feet.

Now what?

Keep going. See what happens next.

What happened next was that he heaved himself off the bed with his arms and promptly went down in an ignominious heap.

Shit.

Cursing, he dragged himself back to the side of the bed and tried to pull himself up. But his arms didn't have enough strength to get more than halfway, and after struggling for a few minutes, he could no longer even remember what he was trying to do. He spent the rest of the night sleeping on the floor next to the bed.

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Karen found him in the morning, still there. "Oh, for God's sake," she said crossly. "What were you trying to do, play Superman?" She brought the wheelchair over, hauled him more or less upright and got him into it, then pushed him into the bathroom to get the day started.

She was stronger than either Elena or Luisa, probably stronger than he was, but he suddenly had the briefest spark of an idea. Something that might work, if he could only hang onto it for long enough.

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February seemed to gallop past, colorless and cold. In spite of the distraction provided by Elena's unofficial physiotherapy, there was no doubt that the thought of the doctor's return was worrying String; whether that worry could be justified or not obviously depended on how much truth there had been in what Ann Strete had said. Her story had seemed fantastic at the time and it didn't grow any more believable the longer Elena thought about it. In any case, what could be done? All the staff at the clinic deferred to Dr. Fairling; she couldn't expect any help or even support from anyone there. As for going to the police, she didn't have one shred of firm evidence that any harm had been done to String at the clinic; that Tommy Vine wasn't a legitimate patient there, being treated for injuries due to a motorcycle accident. They certainly wouldn't take his word for it, against Dr. Fairling's. And Ann, the only one who could provide any proof of wrongdoing, had fled.

If only she had trusted Elena enough to give her the name of someone else who was willing to do more for String than she, Ann, had done. Preferably someone who would come and take him away from this place, out of Dr. Fairling's clutches. But she hadn't. The only hope now was that String would remember on his own. But his memory and ability to think coherently, although much better than they had been, were still a long way from perfect.

The more he became aware of how much his life was regulated and restricted, the more snappish and impatient he became. One afternoon he almost flung his food tray again, at Luisa this time, accompanied by some choice and imaginative profanities. Luisa, good-natured and boisterous, took the incident in her stride. She had always treated her patients like overgrown children, and included them in her prayers every Sunday at Our Lady of Sorrows (something that shamed Elena into making one of her rare visits to St. Elzbieta's, to offer up a few words herself on String's behalf). Luisa could be irritating, but was never malicious, and String generally seemed to realize that.

With Karen, on the other hand, his relationship was becoming more like unarmed combat. Elena knew that the other woman actively disliked their patient. She continued to treat him like a little kid, even though he had become much more rational lately, guessing correctly that that would annoy him more than anything else. His attitude became even more resentful and non-cooperative. It was a vicious circle; each made the other worse. Elena just hoped that he had enough sense to avoid doing something stupid. If Karen put in a formal complaint, String could be declared violent. If he felt a sense of confinement now, that would be nothing in comparison to what would happen if he was considered a danger to others.

She didn't know how close that had already come to happening.

Karen had been looking after String the evening before. He had given her a hard time over supper ‒ he had to be the pickiest eater she'd ever met. She retaliated when it was time to get him into bed, teasing and touching him unnecessarily, intimately, something that she wouldn't have dared try in a more conventional institution. Considering his reaction the last time she'd played this game with him, she'd thought it would be easy to get him aroused. Instead he seemed to have found some self-control somewhere. Trust the bastard to be as perverse about this as about everything else. Angry and uncomfortable he certainly was, but determined not to give her any satisfaction.

At last she got tired of playing with him, and pulled up his sheet and blanket. "So, String, have you been getting it someplace after all? Elena doing extra duty for you? Or did that blonde chickie that was here decide she wanted to get it on with a cripple?"

He reached out, fast as a snake, and grabbed her wrist with one hand. He didn't say anything, just gave her a chilling glare for a long moment before finally letting go. Then he closed his eyes and turned his head away, effectively sending a message that as far as he was concerned she had ceased to exist.

She remained frozen for a brief time. There had been something truly terrifying about that look. She found herself badly shaken.

Then she recovered and flounced out of the room, snapping off the lights and locking the door behind her as loudly as she could, and went directly to Anne Marie to complain that Tommy Vine had become aggressive and tried to intimidate her.

The nurse wasn't overly sympathetic. Although Mr. Vine had made few friends among the clinic staff, Anne Marie knew perfectly well that Karen rubbed him the wrong way far more than anyone else did. Also, she still felt the other woman was at least partially responsible for the shit that had hit the fan after the food poisoning incident ‒ a great deal of which had landed on Anne Marie ‒ by not reporting that her patient had been ill before slapping him down in the basement for the night. She made soothing noises about getting Mr. Vine's doctor to look into the problem when she came back, but didn't offer to take any further action.

The next day turned out to be one of those brilliant winter days, when the sun shines from a cloudless sky and turns the snow on the ground into something resembling a carpet of diamonds. Sitting in the lounge after breakfast, String pestered Elena to take him outside. Elena, for once, refused to do what he wanted.

"It's way too cold out there," she protested. "The temperature was about five degrees above zero when I came in."

"Come on, Elena. I need to get out of here. Just for a few minutes."

"Forget it. You don't even have a proper coat."

"I'll be fine."

"No."

He started to get angry, and his voice rose in volume. "Is this a clinic or a goddamned prison? Why can't I go outside if I want to?"

"String, please ‒ "

"Well? Answer me, Elena. Is this a prison? You know it is, don't you? You damned well know it is!"

A few startled heads turned toward them. A nurse hurried over. String had started to push himself out of the chair, as if intending to walk out. She pushed him back down. "Please, Mr. Vine, keep your voice down. You're upsetting the other patients. We don't want that, do we?"

"I don't give a damn who's upset! All I want is some fresh air. You keep people cooped up in this place for weeks, like we're rats in a cage or something. I just want to go out for a walk for a few minutes ‒ who the hell are you to tell me I can't?"

"Now, be reasonable, Mr. Vine. It's far too cold for you out there. Of course you can go out for a walk, when it's warmer."

"Which won't be for a long time, now will it?"

" Mr. Vine, if you don't keep your voice down and stop upsetting others, Elena will have to move you somewhere where you won't be able to see the nice view at all."

"The hell she will. Elena wouldn't do that to me, would you, Elena?"

"String, for pity's sake ‒ "

"Calm down, Mr. Vine, or you'll have to spend some more time in one of the rooms downstairs."

He subsided, still with a mutinous, rather petulant look on his face. The nurse said to Elena, "You'll be glad to know that Dr. Fairling called yesterday. She's decided to come back early."

"Oh, really?" Elena managed to get out. "Did she say when?"

"Sometime late next week. Apparently her research project wrapped up sooner than she thought." She smiled brightly at String. "So whatever it is that's upsetting you, Mr. Vine, I'm sure she'll be able to sort it out as soon as she gets here."

She left them, having effectively managed to stop String's tantrum. He gave Elena a horrified look and reached out, grabbing both her hands in his. "Oh God, I can't go back ‒ I need to think ‒ Elena, I've got to do something!"

She held him, trying wordlessly to comfort him and stave off the spectre of mental subjugation that the doctor's name had invoked. She felt useless. It wasn't comfort he needed, she realized; what he really wanted was a plan. And she still had absolutely no idea what that could be.