Sunday 15 August
Unfortunately, that conversation was the high point of the day. Whether Rory was in pain, or whether he was just regretting his momentary openness, Charlie didn't know. What he did know was that Rory only picked at the lunch Charlie prepared, turning up his nose at the baked beans on toast and demanding a bacon sandwich instead. He silked when Charlie pointed out that they didn’t have any bacon - Chris hadn't brought the groceries yet - and proceeded to find fault with everything that Charlie did for the rest of the afternoon. The tea was too weak, then too strong, then too cold. The sheet were rucked and uncomfortable - but when Charlie changed them, taking extra care to smooth the bottom sheet so that there wasn't a single wrinkle, Rory complained that he kept sliding down the bed. He demanded that Charlie bring up the radio, but then couldn't find anything he wanted to listen to. He said he wanted to read, but he couldn't hold a book for long and refused Charlie's offer to read to him. When Charlie tried to cajole him into having some more ibuprofen he swore and said he wasn't going to be treated like a half-witted bairn, at which point Charlie told him he was acting like one and left him alone for a while in the hope that things would improve. They didn't, and Charlie had difficulty holding his temper in check as the afternoon drew on.
To make things worse, Rory had managed to get out of bed on his own and into the bathroom, but he'd stumbled on the way back, jarring his ribs and left thigh, already the worst of his injuries. Charlie had heard the thump from the kitchen and had come running up the stairs, to be greeted with as vicious a string of curses as Rory could manage (which wasn't very much, actually, given the difficulty he had breathing). Painkillers and ice had not done much to ease Rory's pain - or his temper - and nor had whisky, which Charlie had brought up to the bedroom on Rory's orders.
If Chris hadn't turned up when he did, a little after five, Charlie was sure there would have been murder done within the hour. He'd been seriously contemplating his chances of making it to the continent if he gave in to temptation and strangled the git. Luckily, Chris's arrival allowed Rory to concentrate on something else besides his own suffering, and the distraction did more than anything Charlie had done so far to improve his mood.
Charlie stayed out of sight in the kitchen while the men talked upstairs. He put the groceries away (and thank heavens Chris had brought all the items he'd asked for - he didn't think he'd have been able to survive if Rory had to go without marmalade as well as without bacon), and placed the new tray on the kitchen bench, ready to use that evening. After that, he sat down in the living room, happy that there was someone else to look after Rory, even it was only for a few minutes. He put the TV on and caught up with the weekend's sports results. There wasn't much, of course, since most of Europe was on holiday - just county cricket matches and some overseas games - but at least it was something, and he could let himself relax for a few minutes.
Chris's head appeared in the doorway about twenty minutes later, and Charlie hurriedly pulled his feet off the coffee table.
"The boss wants the TV brought up to his room."
Charlie was surprised and annoyed. "I asked him earlier if he wanted it taken up and he said no."
"Looks like he's changed his mind."
"Fuckwit," he muttered under his breath, but Chris heard him anyway.
"Language, kid. Show a little respect."
Charlie fumed. It wasn't as if Rory treated him with any respect, was it? And if the TV was upstairs there wasn't going to be much chance of him watching the cricket (or anything else) in peace. But he held his tongue and helped Chris to unplug the TV and take it upstairs. It took several minutes, since the TV was large and heavy, and the stairs rather narrow, but they got to the top with no real drama. They placed the set, somewhat precariously, on top of the chest of drawers (which they had to shift along the wall until it was in the right position), and plugged the aerial cable into the socket.
The picture was excellent quality, which pleased Rory and relieved Charlie - one less thing for Rory to complain about.
"You're lucky having a TV outlet in the bedrooms," he pronounced, still annoyed with his patient. "Wish we had that at our place. We've only got an inside aerial and I'm always trying to get it to work properly. Have you ever thought about getting one of those widescreen TVs?"
"Have you ever thought about keeping your mouth shut? Oh, fuck," Rory winced as his ribs caught again and he tried to cough.
"Sorry. Here, let me," Charlie moved in and pressed a hand gently over the bruised area, steadying the ribs.
Rory leaned back against the pillows, exhausted by the brief effort.
"I guess it's time for more pills," Charlie murmured as he broke them out of the foil. "Here," he held them out with a glass of water. "Get these down you and have a rest, play with the remote control or something. Just don't get out of bed without calling me. All right?"
Rory swallowed the pills but gave no other evidence that he'd heard a word Charlie was saying.
Charlie pressed on, regardless of the silence. "You going to be all right for a couple of minutes? I'll see Chris out and then put the kettle on."
Rory gave a slight nod at that, so Chris and Charlie went down the stairs.
"I swear it's worse than looking after a baby," Charlie said in exasperation as they reached the front door. "At least a baby doesn't argue back."
Chris looked sympathetic. "Hang in there, kid. You're doing fine."
Charlie sighed. "I'll try. But I'm not a nurse, you know. What if he's got lung problems? What if his kidneys are damaged? What if he's got bleeding in the head? What do I do then?"
"Look, if he's a lot worse tomorrow we can talk about calling a doctor. But I've seen a lot of beatings, and he looks OK to me."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Charlie felt very much relieved at Chris's confidence. "OK, I'll see how he goes tomorrow. But if he starts going off his head, or has a fever or something, then I'm calling the doctor."
"I'm sure everything'll be fine."
"Yeah. And thanks for bringing in all that stuff."
"No problem. See you tomorrow."
"See you." Charlie closed the door behind him softly.
When Charlie went back upstairs a few minutes later, with a fresh pot on the new tray, his patient was morose and taciturn, but no longer bloody-minded. He accepted the mug of tea with a faint smile, and Charlie felt some of the tension disappear.
"What do you want for tea? Chris brought some bacon in so I can make you that bacon sarnie if you like, or there's fish and chips, or a frozen pizza."
"Pizza. But some extra cheese on it - they never put enough on those things."
"No problem."
* * *
Charlie had hoped that TV and pizza would settle Rory down, but it wasn't the case. Rory wasn't happy with the pizza, or the TV shows being broadcast, or anything else, and tried, as best he could, to vent his anger on Charlie at every opportunity. Charlie hung on to his temper for as long as he could, but eventually exploded, in a near-repeat of the afternoon's argument, saying, "Well, you can do what you like because I'm going downstairs and I couldn't give a flying fuck what happens to you anymore."
He stormed out, listening to the cursing as he descended the stairs, and slammed the living room door behind him before flinging himself down on the sofa. Nothing was worth this much grief, he fumed, not even protecting his family.
Only a few seconds later, though, he got up and opened the door again, pushing it as far as it would go. It was one thing to walk away in a temper, quite another to risk not hearing if Rory really needed help.
Monday 16 August 7:30 am
Charlie woke up to bright sunlight, the beams pouring through the gaps in the curtains and hitting the far wall, making the room look at once bright and gloomy. He glanced over to the other side of the bed and saw that Rory was lying unmoving on the pillows, It had been a restless night, and Charlie had twice got up to give Rory painkillers and replace the icepacks, but the small lines on his patient's forehead suggested that more of each would be needed soon.
He stood up and stretched. It felt good to move, and he stretched this way and that, easing out the kinks in his neck and shoulders. He needed some exercise, but he doubted he'd be able to get away - although Rory had mentioned that he could go to the supermarket.
He snorted. It was an indication of the state of his pathetic existence that a trip to the supermarket was an exciting prospect.
"Charlie?"
He turned around and looked at his patient. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
Rory grunted. "Fuck," was all he managed to get out before he reacted to the pain of breathing in.
"That bad?" Charlie said as he walked around the bed and popped another two tablets from the blister pack. He helped Rory to sit up a little to take the tablets. "Do you want some tea?"
Rory nodded, then said, "Bathroom."
Charlie lifted the bottle from the bedside table, but Rory shook his head and shifted around in the bed, wincing as his ribs caught again. Charlie helped him to sit up, and to bring his legs around over the edge of the bed. Getting Rory to stand up was much harder - he was still weak in the left leg, and Charlie couldn't exert any pressure on his chest or shoulders to help.
Rory was trying to swear under his breath.
"Save your breath, mate," Charlie advised him. "It's going to be another long day."
They made their way to the bathroom, where Charlie assisted Rory to loosen his trousers and sit down. "Are you going to be OK for a couple of minutes?"
Rory nodded.
"OK then, I'll go and put the kettle on, make you a nice cup of tea." He grinned, adding, "Yeah, I know, I know, toast and marmalade as well."
Rory smiled faintly, which pleased Charlie but also worried him. Rory seemed much more passive today, and Charlie wondered if the pain was worse, or if yesterday's experiences had led him to accept that he did need help in the short term. Either way, made it a little easier for Charlie to look after him if he wasn't fighting every inch of the way.
He hurried down the stairs and made the promised tea and toast, making sure that the new pot of marmalade was sitting prominently on the tray. When he took the tray up to the bedroom, he found that Rory had managed to straighten himself up and wash his hands, but, like yesterday morning, hadn't been able to negotiate the open space between the bathroom floor and the bed unassisted. At least this time he hadn't tried it on his own. Charlie put the tray down and helped the invalid back to bed, fluffing up the pillows and smoothing the sheets.
Once Rory was comfortable, he lifted the tray and settled it over Rory's thighs, checking to make sure the legs were locked down and that it didn't tilt too far. He tucked the sheet up under Rory's chin, like a napkin, to divert any crumbs, and straightened up, pleased with how smoothly things were going.
He left his patient to eat his breakfast in peace and went down to the kitchen for his own meal which consisted, unsurprisingly, of toast, though he decided to forego the marmalade in favour of a liberal spreading of butter, which melted and ran down his fingers as he lifted the toast. He licked it off, not wanting to leave buttery fingerprints everywhere.
Chris arrived at eight-thirty with a newspaper, milk and bread. Charlie took the groceries and continued cleaning up the breakfast things, while Chris went up to talk to Rory in peace. He came down again after about twenty minutes, and stuck his head into the kitchen.
"The Boss says you have a list of stuff to get at the supermarket."
Charlie frowned. That wasn't quite what he remembered of their conversation the day before. "He doesn't want me to go myself?"
"Not that he told me. You shouldn't leave him at the moment anyway."
"I need the break." He sighed. It wasn't that important, really. He'd written the list down anyway, so he retrieved it from the bench top and handed it to Chris. "Here you are. Don't leave anything out - he wants me to do some cooking so I need everything that's on there."
"I won't."
"Umm..."
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing." He rubbed his eyes. "It's just that I'm really tired. He hasn't slept well at all. I was wondering if there are any sleeping tablets you can get without a prescription?"
Chris looked at him quizzically. "For him or for you?"
"For him. I'll sleep if he does."
"I'll pop into the chemist and see what I can do."
"Thanks, Chris." He gave the man a genuine smile and watched him leave.
He looked around the kitchen. The floor could do with being swept, and the sheets he'd taken off the bed yesterday really ought to be washed. He grimaced. He was turning into a right little queen with all this domesticity. Just for that, he decided to leave the sheets in the laundry basket for another day.
Chris returned an hour later with the bag of groceries and a small packet of gel capsules that he put on the kitchen table.
"The chemist said that these are pretty mild, but they should give him about five or six hours sleep. I asked if they were safe to take with the painkillers and he said they should be all right as long as he's not on the really strong stuff."
Charlie smiled gratefully. "Thanks. I'll give him a couple tonight. I'm sure he'll be a little easier after a good night's sleep."
"You look like you could use them yourself."
"You're not wrong." He yawned, and smiled ruefully as he closed his mouth. "Sorry. It really was a rough night."
"I saw the postman coming down the drive as I came back - you might want to check the mailbox."
"Thanks. I'll get the key off Rory in a minute."
Chris gave him a slightly odd look but said nothing and continued on his way.
When told about the post, Rory told him to take the spare set of keys from the hall table. Charlie scrabbled around in the drawer until he found them - there were four keys on the ring, and he guessed that the smallest was for the mailbox. He walked out of the flat and down to where the mailboxes for all the flats were situated, just outside the main door. He scanned the numbers until he found the one for Rory's flat and slid the key into the lock. The box opened smoothly, revealing three thin letters.
He flicked through the envelopes - it was an automatic reaction, even though he knew that none of the letters could possibly be for him. There was a letter from National Geographic, one from the local council and one in a brown OHMS envelope, addressed to a Mr Francis McManus. He wondered if that was Rory, or if someone had got his name mixed up with someone else. He checked the other two again, and found that they were addressed to Mr F. R. McManus. Well, it wasn't a crime to use your second name, and Rory was certainly preferable to Francis.
The breeze was quite cool on his skin, and when he looked up there were clouds on the horizon. He guessed that it would be raining before the day was over, and smiled. Looks like Rory gets treacle pudding weather after all. He exchanged a polite greeting with an elderly woman who had obviously come out on the same errand and headed back into the building.
Once back inside he hurried up to the bedroom. "Three letters," he said, holding them out. "One's addressed to a Francis McManus - I'm not sure if that's you or not."
Rory took them, giving the brown one a morose look. "Aye, that's me," he said, but didn't elaborate, and Charlie, looking at his expression, didn't think it was a good time to press the subject.
Instead he returned to the kitchen, where he made himself a coffee and started to think about what he'd need to cook lunch. He had plenty of time yet, but it didn't hurt to be prepared, and he deserved a break anyway - he'd hardly had a moment to himself the last few days. He held his hands around the coffee mug, sipping as he let his mind drift, and started to hum to himself.
He was roused from his thoughts by the unmistakable sound of the toilet flushing, and realised that Rory had, once again, managed to get to the bathroom on his own. Remembering what had happened yesterday afternoon, he raced up the stairs at near the speed of light and confronted Rory as the man was standing in the doorway between bathroom and bedroom.
"And what do you think you're doing?"
"Fuck off."
"I'd love to, but I've been given the job of looking after you, and I don't fancy trying to explain to Chris why you've collected a few more bruises since he was here last."
Rory glared at him, and Charlie felt an absurd desire to laugh. "Come on, let me give you a hand. Then I'll get you some more ice - I reckon those packs must be warm by now."
"They are. Useless fucking things."
"Look, I know you're getting bored out of your skull here, but it will get better, honest. Mum says the third day is always the worst. Tomorrow it'll start to ease off, and in just a couple of days you'll feel a whole lot better.
They reached the bed and Charlie helped Rory ease himself between the sheets. Charlie straightened everything up as best he could, and picked up the used ice-packs and the tea tray. "I'll get you some more ice and tea - or would you prefer coffee?"
"Coffee. And there's a tin of biscuits on the top shelf of the pantry cupboard - you can bring that up as well."
"OK, coffee it is, and I'll look for the biscuits. Then I'll get cracking on lunch - your egg-and-bacon pie. Do you want cheese in it?"
"Yes."
"Right then."
He went down to the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors. He couldn't see anything, so he grabbed a chair and stood on it to see up into the top shelf. There was a tin of Danish butter cookies at the back, still sealed, and he brought it down to have a closer look. The use-by date was June 1999 - two months ago. Still, he thought, they would probably be all right as long as they were eaten reasonably soon after opening.
He prepared the tray and debated whether to take up the whole tin or to put a few of the biscuits on a plate. He decided to put some on a plate - three or four. It would look better, and it would prevent Rory from scoffing too many and then complaining he didn't want lunch. If Charlie was going to go to the trouble of cooking for Rory, he wanted Rory to appreciate it.
* * *
The egg-and-bacon pie turned out beautifully - golden on top, moist but not runny on the inside, and the pastry firm but not brittle. Charlie was very pleased with himself for having produced such a marvel in a strange oven. The aroma that came off it was mouth-watering, and Charlie carried it upstairs whole so that Rory could see the pie in all its glory before it was cut.
Rory certainly looked appreciative as Charlie came into the room, and hurriedly cleared away the newspaper that was sitting over his knees.
"That smells fantastic," he said as Charlie put the pie on the bedside table and picked up the knife to cut it.
"Wait till you taste it," Charlie answered, and cut a large wedge, easing it onto the waiting plate and handing it over to Rory with a fork.
Rory took a forkful, sniffing appreciatively.
"Careful, it's hot," warned Charlie, and took Rory's plate, cutting the pie up into small chunks so that Rory wouldn't have to try and put pressure on a knife.
Rory took a small bite, nodding as he assimilated the flavours. "It’s good," he said, with more enthusiasm than he'd shown all day. "Excellent." He dived in with his fork and speared another piece.
Charlie beamed. He loved seeing the happy expressions of people who ate his food, and a happy Rory was likely to be an easy-to-manage Rory. He might even get a bit of a kip this afternoon, if he was really lucky.
* * *
After lunch, Rory wanted a shower, but Charlie was reluctant to allow it.
"I'll give you another wash," he offered. "You shouldn't be exerting yourself right now."
"I want a fucking shower. My scalp's all itchy and I want to wash my hair."
"You can't lift your arms up that high anyway."
"Well you can do it then."
"What, get in the shower with you?"
"Why not? I'm not going to see anything I haven't seen already. Or vice versa."
"Well, no, but... oh, all right." He gave Rory a teasing grin. "Anything to stop you complaining."
"Anything to stop you acting like Genghis Bloody Khan."
"And there I was channelling Florence Nightingale," he countered with a long-suffering smile.
It was odd, thought Charlie, as he gently massaged Rory's scalp a few minutes later, how something like this could be so much more intimate than a shag. Here he was, standing a few inches away from Rory, the suds running down his forearms as he applied the shampoo, and yet in some ways he felt closer to the man now than he had when Rory was inside him. He couldn't explain it. It just was.
When Rory tilted his head back to rinse off, Charlie lifted his arms to cradle Rory's body, making sure he didn't lose his balance. He felt his own heart thumping as Rory leaned against him, back to chest, and was very glad that Rory couldn't see the funny little smile on his face as they moved under the water. It felt good, holding Rory like this - protecting him and looking after him - and he could happily have stayed there as long as the hot water held out. Unfortunately, Rory was beginning to tire, so Charlie switched off the water and helped Rory to get out.
Rory looked suddenly exhausted, and swayed a little.
"I think we'd better get you back to bed," said Charlie, grabbing a towel and patting him down quickly. Luckily the day was still warm, so his patient wasn't likely to get a chill, and he guided Rory across the open floor to the bed, helping him to sit down and then lifting his legs and swinging them up onto the bed.
"You take a bit of a rest and I'll clean up, then I'll get you some more tablets."
Rory nodded, but his eyes were already closed, and Charlie hoped that he'd have a good nap. At least he was breathing a little more comfortably now, after finally giving in and taking the painkillers Charlie had proffered.
Charlie stood there for several minutes, just looking at the man's face. He felt that he'd never get tired of watching Rory, especially when he was asleep. The hard, forbidding expression disappeared entirely and he was left with the innocent, almost cherubic features that had attracted Charlie the first time he'd seen the man.
It was such an odd situation, he reflected. Here he was, Rory's rent-boy, his slave for the month, and yet Rory was the one who was helpless in bed. If he wanted to, Charlie knew he could take his revenge on Rory for every threat he'd made, every humiliation he'd made Charlie endure, and Rory couldn't do a thing. Well... not until the next time Chris called in, at least, and at that point Charlie's life would come to a sharp and deeply unpleasant end. He hadn't needed Chris's warning, though. He wouldn't hurt Rory when he was helpless - it just wasn't his way.
Rory stirred, and Charlie felt a rush of warmth and love for this strange contradiction of a man, who acted so tough and looked so fragile, who treated him like a possession but then defended him against his own brother.
Hang about -
Oh fuck. No, it couldn't possibly...
As Charlie mentally replayed the thoughts that had just run through his mind, he felt a wave of nauseated realisation. He wasn't in love with Rory McManus. He wasn't. He couldn't be. It was absolutely, flatly, irrefutably impossible. The man was a criminal, a moneylender, a gangster who beat up anyone who couldn't pay. He only took Charlie on because of the debt Liam had incurred, because Charlie gave good head. He didn't like Charlie, he didn't love Charlie, he certainly wasn't going to ask Charlie to be his boyfriend. If he ever realised that Charlie lo- liked him, he'd just use it as a weapon.
Information is a weapon.
Charlie couldn't remember where he'd read that, but he knew it had to be true. And this information would be the ultimate weapon if Rory ever found out. He couldn't let Rory have that much power over him. He couldn't ever let Rory know just how he felt about him. He'd have to act normal, so Rory didn't suspect anything, but he'd keep his feelings hidden, and at the end of the month they'd go their separate ways and Charlie would take good care that he kept well away from anywhere that Rory might be. He'd be safe. He'd never see Rory again.
Strange how it hurt, to think of not seeing him again.
Life is pain.
Another platitude, one he had a feeling he was going to get to know very well.
Fuck.