Very, Very Carefully
Part 8
Most of the letters that had been forwarded from his previous address weren't worth the paper they were printed on, let alone the postage, but John could tell this one was different. He slit the top with a butter knife and smiled when he saw what it was.
"You look happy," Steve said. She had come to London with him on the day after his visit to Margate and now she was sharing his flat while she attended the same therapist that Layla had recommended for him. John liked having her around, especially when the nightmares and flashbacks came, and she seemed to like being around him, too. He'd soon given up sleeping in his own bed and had simply moved onto the sofa-bed next to Steve, after so many nights of ending up there anyway.
"One of my old mates is getting married," John told her. "I thought he was a confirmed bachelor."
"Whirlwind romance?" Steve teased. "Or is there a baby on the way?"
"I don't know," John admitted. Having been out of the loop for a long time, even before he'd met Steve, he was surprised to have received the invitation at all.
She came around to where she could peer over his shoulder at the picture. "Oh, she's pretty! She looks a bit like Lucy – but you can't see whether there's a bump or not."
"Would you like to go to the reception with me?" John asked.
"Um …" Steve said. "When is it?"
John checked the date. "In about two weeks. Either they're in a hurry, or this got held up in the post."
"Um …" Steve said again, and John could feel the anxiety radiating from her. "No. No, I don't think so."
"Fair enough," John replied, and gave her a smile to show he understood.
Steve was silent for a moment, then asked, "You won't have any problems being around – you know – soldiers?"
John stared at her in confusion. "Steve, we served together. He's my mate!"
"Sorry," she said softly. "I guess it must be different if you know them."
But when John arrived at the reception two weeks later, he was reminded of her words when he glanced around the room and saw one unfamiliar face after another. For a moment, he wished he had Steve there with him, no matter how much he understood her reluctance. Then he spied the groom through the crowd, which helped, and after that, he spotted a few more men that he knew. And when he found where he was supposed to be sitting, he even discovered Layla sitting at the same table.
"John!" she exclaimed, looking genuinely pleased to see him.
"Layla," he said. "Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?"
"The bride, mostly," she said. "And the groom, a little bit. You could almost say I helped bring them together. What about you?"
"The groom's an old mate of mine," John explained. Someone passed by behind him and slapped him on the shoulder, which startled him until he'd looked up to see another old mate. As they exchanged greetings, John thought he noted a touch of false heartiness in the man's voice, and got the sense that the man was sizing him up, looking for something. He knew what it was; any sign of what had happened to him, any weakness. When the man had moved on, John glanced back to see Layla looking at him with the same expression she'd used in the hospital in Nigeria.
"So, how are you doing?" Layla asked.
Still a bit sensitive after the soldier's reaction to him, John leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice. "I'm fine, and I don't need your pity, Layla."
She blinked, then assumed her "superior officer" face and retorted, "I was concerned, Porter, that's all. If we weren't at a wedding, I'd come round and kick you in the – in the ankle, that'll show you how much I pity you!"
"You were going to say *rse, weren't you?" John shot back. "You were going to say you'd come round and kick me in the *rse, but then your pity took over and you didn't."
"I don't have any pity, and especially not for you," she snapped. "And just to prove it, I'll ask you to dance with me instead!"
It was John's turn to blink, and then he felt his anger disappear as quickly as it had come. "I'll take you up on that."
"You might not want to, Sergeant," said a voice from behind him, and he turned to see a blond lieutenent. "The last time Lieutenant Thompson danced with somebody, people from Amnesty International showed up and begged her to stop the torture."
Layla frowned. "I only stepped on your foot once!"
"With your heel! I couldn't walk for days!" the man exclaimed, and Layla's frown deepened. "That is not true, Michael."
"No, it's not. I love to exaggerate," the soldier admitted, then grinned at John. "You're John Porter, aren't you?"
"Yeah," John said, but before he could ask, the lieutenent introduced himself.
"Michael Blair. We met briefly in Nigeria, so to speak, but you probably don't remember."
"No," John said. When he realized that Blair was probably one of the men who'd pinned him to the ground after he'd gone for Cobb, he felt a sudden, sharp sense of discomfort.
"I was the medic," Blair explained. "And I'm really glad to see you looking so much better than the last time I saw you. So, Layla, I'll come back later and give you another chance to cripple me, all right?"
He went off smiling, and John watched Layla staring after him. When she finally glanced away, he raised his eyebrows, and she actually blushed. "He can be such a tease, but he's a good medic."
John smiled a little to himself, then poured a drink for both of them. He didn't have a chance to drink his, however, before yet another soldier came by, one that he'd served with the year before.
"Hey, I heard what happened," the man said. "I just wanted to say I'm glad you're better now."
John forced a smile and lifted his glass. "Cheers, mate."
From then on, there was a slow, but steady stream of well-wishers, most of whom he knew, and even some he didn't. John was also aware of the occasional stare and whisper, but those were easy to ignore.
When it was time for the dancing, Layla kept her word and led him out onto the dance floor. She wasn't such a bad dancer as Blair had made out, and managed to keep her feet off his until the song ended and they were both turning to leave the dance floor. Then she stumbled over his shoe and lost her balance. John caught her automatically, and somebody collided with them from behind.
"Sorry," John said, and then he saw that it was Cobb.
"You don't need to apologise, Porter," the man sneered. "Injuries like that could make anyone clumsy."
He pushed past them, practically dragging his dance partner along. Not waiting until he was out of earshot, Layla murmured an unflattering description of the man, and with a wry smile, John agreed. He started to lead her back to their table, but Blair caught them halfway, and took a strangely unresisting Layla back to the dance floor.
Later in the evening, John finally got the chance to wish the happy couple all the best, and dance with the bride. She was indeed pregnant, visibly so, but it didn't seem to slow her down, and she laughed each time her bump collided with him. John remembered when Diane had been pregnant with Alex. There hadn't been any dancing, and precious little laughter; his memories were filled with her vomiting miserably all day, or so it had seemed. He hoped his mate's marriage turned out better than his own had. From there, his thoughts moved to Steve and her desire to have children, now put on hold, but then the song ended.
Having done his duty, John went back to his table, thinking to finish up his last drink and then leave. Layla was already there, looking for her bag and finding it on the floor under her chair.
"I'll be right there – oh, John," she said.
"Expecting somebody else?" he teased, and smiled when she blushed again.
"Did you find it?" Blair asked, coming up from the side, and Layla smiled up at him as she displayed the handbag. Blair glanced over at John and said, "Well, we're off, but it was good to meet you properly."
"Good to meet you, too," John said.
"Just a word before we go, Porter. You might want to watch out for Cobb. He's been going around saying nasty things about you to anyone who'll listen," Blair said.
"Thanks for the heads up, mate," John said, though he wasn't sure how to combat whispers. It would be best to just ignore it, pretend he hadn't noticed and didn't know it was going on, but the thought of passively letting Cobb slag him off without doing anything about it made his gut twist in an all-too-familiar way. Given half an excuse, he'd punch the man again, but he also knew he was no longer on top form, and without the incredible burst of adrenalin he'd had during the rescue, he'd come off worse in a fight with another member of the Regiment.
"I think he's got a drinking problem," Layla proclaimed with a frown.
"Among other things," Blair said, and Layla asked, "Now who's saying nasty things?"
"In comparison to him? And you thought I exaggerated? I might tease, but I'm not nasty, not like that." He turned to John. "I heard him tell someone else that you were begging for more, and you broke his nose after he thought he was rescuing you. He said you even invited him to join the orgy, that he could jump the queue and just carry on in their place. According to him, you attacked him when he said no."
The taste of the drink soured in John's mouth and for a moment, he thought he might vomit. Blair went on, but there was a kind of rushing sound in his head that made it hard for him to hear what Blair said next. "He moved away pretty sharpish when he saw I was listening, though. Probably couldn't stand to have anyone around who knew the truth. I told the others that it wasn't like that, and I didn't even exaggerate, but I don't know who they believed."
Swallowing hard, John struggled to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. He felt cold, sweaty, and shaky, but he knew for a certainty that if he stayed any longer, he'd start a fight, no matter what his chances. The realisation that he couldn't hope to win, that he'd probably be beaten down and humiliated once again, enraged him as well. Pushing away his glass, not caring that his unsteady hand knocked it over, he stood up. "Right. I'm off. Nice to see you again, Layla. Blair."
"Can we give you a lift anywhere?" Layla offered, but John shook his head. "I'll be all right, thanks."
Some of his old mates tried to prevent him from leaving so soon, saying they had some entertainment planned for later and they wanted him to be there, but John forced an apologetic smile and went on. There'd been a time when he would have stayed, drinking with the lads, but even without Cobb's presence, that time was over. He was sure it was just because he was separate from the regular units in the Regiment, after having been away for a while, and especially now that he was a special operative. He knew he didn't fit in with them anymore. And he was getting older; he'd turned forty shortly before his most recent mission.
At breakfast with Steve the next morning, John said, "I passed a health club on the way home last night. I thought we could sign up at one, and go swimming together."
It wasn't only the idea of swimming that appealed to him; the health club offered more possibilities for him to become fitter and stronger than he could manage on his own.
"Um …" Steve murmured, sounding distinctly hesitant.
"I thought you said you liked swimming?" John prompted.
"Yeah," she replied. "But …"
"But what?" John asked. "If it's a question of money, I've got plenty."
Kenwright Oil had paid him a sizeable sum, calling it a thank you for his efforts, but John knew it was thinly-disguised pain compensation.
"It's not the money, and I've got plenty, too," Steve said, frowning, and John realised belatedly that Kenwright Oil must have given her money as well, probably even more than him. She definitely deserved more.
Taking a deep breath, Steve said, "I'd have to wear a swimsuit, and I don't want people staring at the scars on my back."
John looked at her, slightly surprised. Once his whiplashes had healed, he rarely considered his own scars anymore, only in terms of which parts of his work-out he could now attempt again. He hadn't thought about people staring, though he supposed that he could just tell them he was SAS and had been tortured during captivity. Steve, however, didn't really have that option.
"Couldn't you wear a shirt over it?" John suggested.
Steve squirmed a little. "Yeah, I guess. And what about you? Would you wear a shirt, too? Or would you rather let everybody see and think you're into S&M and who knows what?"
John hadn't thought of that, either, and felt suddenly sick to his stomach at the thought of somebody – a male somebody – getting the wrong message and propositioning him. "I'd probably wear a shirt, too. Or some kind of wet suit, maybe."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Steve said suddenly, "Don't they make swimsuits for Muslims that cover the whole body? Maybe I could wear one of those. I'd rather have people thinking I was a Muslim than letting them see my back."
"As long as you can swim in it," John said.
"I'll go to the library later and see what I can find out on the internet." She gave him a brief smile. "One of us really needs to buy a computer."
"Yeah," John agreed, but it had never been his first priority.
His phone rang, and he went over to where it was charging. "Porter."
"John, tell me you didn't have anything to do with what happened last night," Layla said.
Caught completely off guard, John asked, "What happened last night?"
"Somebody beat seven kinds of sh*t out of Cobb, and now he's in hospital. According to the nurses, he said the name Porter at least twice."
"I never touched him," John said, his mind going back to the evening before.
"He was slagging you off all evening," Layla reminded him. "And the more he drank, the nastier he got. What Michael said wasn't the worst."
"I left at the same time you did. You and that medic both saw me go," John said. Layla was silent, and after a moment, John added, "If you need more proof, Layla, you work for MI-6. Get one of your agents to hack into the CCTV cameras and watch me take a bus and the Tube and another bus to get home. Shall I give you the numbers and the times?"
"All right," Layla said. "All right, I believe you. And you don't know who did it? You didn't see or hear anything …?"
John suddenly remembered what his old mate had said when he'd been preparing to leave, that they were planning some entertainment and wanted him to be there. Had they been meaning to beat up Cobb for him, because of all the nasty remarks? They might just as well have been thinking of some kind of stripper or something else completely. And anyway, they were his mates.
"No," he said. "Nothing."
"Michael was right," Layla said. "You need to watch out for Cobb. If somebody beat him up last night because of what he was saying about you …"
"I can take care of myself, Layla," John stated. He'd make sure of it. The next time he met Cobb, he'd be ready.
"Let's hope you don't have to," she said, and hung up.
+++++
The days went by, however, and all remained quiet on the Cobb front. John gradually forgot the man, even as he remembered his reason for wanting to get fit again. When they'd both found something that covered their scars – Steve a swimsuit with a high back that did not conceal her entire body, and John a shorty wetsuit – they went to the health club to sign up. On their first visit, though, John caught a whiff of the strong chlorine smell of the pool, and had a flashback to the lawn of that house in Port Harcourt. Shaken, he let Steve lead him out of the building again, but after some time in the fresh air, he forced himself to go back inside. He also went back the next day, the day after that, and all the following days, going a little farther each time until, eventually, he made it all the way to the pool. From then on, he and Steve swam together regularly.
Whether it was the swimming, John's presence, or simply the passage of time and the healing of wounds, Steve finally felt confident enough to start looking for a new job. To her great surprise and joy, she was offered employment in the hospital closest to the university where John's daughter was studying. Now, John was lingering in the lobby of that hospital, waiting for Steve to finish her shift so that they could celebrate over dinner.
"Andy!" she called out.
Smiling, John glanced up from the rack of health brochures he'd been studying. "Steve!"
They hugged in their careful way, and John asked, "How was your first day?"
"You know how they say it's like a riding a bicycle because you never forget?" she asked. "This was like getting back on the bike and suddenly discovering you're in the Tour de France!"
John threw back his head and laughed, but his mirth was interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.
"Dad?"
He turned, alarmed. "Alex! What are you doing here – you're not hurt?"
"No, it's all right, I'm with a friend," she said. "Who's this?"
"This is a friend of mine, her name is Alexandra, too. Alexandra Kehoe," John said, then turned to Steve. "This is my daughter, Alex."
"Hello," Steve said. "I've heard so much about you, but don't worry, it's all good."
Alex grimaced accusingly in John's direction, then flicked a polite smile at Steve. "Nice to meet you. Sorry if I was interrupting anything."
"You weren't," John and Steve both said at the same time.
"Which friend are you here with?" John asked. "It's not Brandon, is it?"
"Brandon? No, it's a girl I know from university who lives just next door. She was raped, and the man beat her up, too." Alex flexed her fingers in a sign of agitation. "She's in X-ray now."
John was now able to hear the word without wincing inwardly, and Steve made a sympathetic face. "I'm so sorry! I hope she'll be all right."
"Do you want us to wait with you?" John offered, but Alex shook her head. "No offense, Dad, but she won't want too many strangers around, you know?"
"I know," he said. "Look, Alex, if you ever need anything, you can always come to me."
"You say that every time, Dad," Alex protested, but she smiled a little as she did so.
"That's because it's true every time," he said. "I'll call you to-night, see how everything is?"
"Yeah," she said. "Hey, um, are you still so hurt that I can't hug you?"
"Nope," he replied. She must really have been rattled if she suggested it voluntarily, he thought, and steeled himself for her embrace. But her touch wasn't as bad as he'd expected, and he squeezed her back, grateful for even the smallest opportunity to show her his love and support. At last, she released her hold on him. "Thanks, Dad. I'll talk to you to-night."
After their dinner, John excused himself from Steve for a moment, and took out his mobile to call Alex. She didn't answer. He left a message, but also interrupted their journey home fifteen minutes later to try again, then tried a third time as soon as they arrived. As he stood in the doorway of the flat, wondering if he should wait and call a fourth time, or go over and check up on her, his phone rang in his hand, and he saw with relief that it was Alex.
"Where were you?" he asked, watching Steve take off her coat. For one single moment, he caught a glimpse of the perfect profile of her breasts under her jumper, and the sight stirred him until he remembered Alex. "I was just about to come round and see if you were all right."
"Sorry, I forgot I switched off my phone in the hospital," Alex said. "My friend has to stay for a day or two, and I was getting some things from her flat for her, and contacting her parents in Milton Keynes."
"Oh," he said, hoping he would never get such a phone call from one of his daughter's friends. "But you're all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"If there's a rapist going around your street, maybe you should move in with Brandon for a while, until he's caught," John suggested. He had a short-lived vision of himself moving in with Alex, with a full arsenal of weapons, tracking devices, maybe a small tank; anything he could use to keep her safe, but he knew what she'd think of that idea.
"Actually, Brandon's moved in with me," Alex said.
"Oh. Well, that's good, then," John replied.
"Yeah. Dad, I'll be fine, really. It was just a shock, you know. But Brandon's here now and everything's going to be all right."
"Okay," he said. "And you know, Alex, if you ever need anything …"
"I know, Dad. I'll talk to you later," she said. "Bye!"
"I love you," John said, but Alex had already ended the call. Only then, while looking wistfully at the phone in his hand, did John realize that he'd said the word "rapist" without flinching, without even thinking of it. His therapy sessions were starting to work – maybe he could be cleared for active duty again soon.
Part 9
"You look happy," Steve said. She had come to London with him on the day after his visit to Margate and now she was sharing his flat while she attended the same therapist that Layla had recommended for him. John liked having her around, especially when the nightmares and flashbacks came, and she seemed to like being around him, too. He'd soon given up sleeping in his own bed and had simply moved onto the sofa-bed next to Steve, after so many nights of ending up there anyway.
"One of my old mates is getting married," John told her. "I thought he was a confirmed bachelor."
"Whirlwind romance?" Steve teased. "Or is there a baby on the way?"
"I don't know," John admitted. Having been out of the loop for a long time, even before he'd met Steve, he was surprised to have received the invitation at all.
She came around to where she could peer over his shoulder at the picture. "Oh, she's pretty! She looks a bit like Lucy – but you can't see whether there's a bump or not."
"Would you like to go to the reception with me?" John asked.
"Um …" Steve said. "When is it?"
John checked the date. "In about two weeks. Either they're in a hurry, or this got held up in the post."
"Um …" Steve said again, and John could feel the anxiety radiating from her. "No. No, I don't think so."
"Fair enough," John replied, and gave her a smile to show he understood.
Steve was silent for a moment, then asked, "You won't have any problems being around – you know – soldiers?"
John stared at her in confusion. "Steve, we served together. He's my mate!"
"Sorry," she said softly. "I guess it must be different if you know them."
But when John arrived at the reception two weeks later, he was reminded of her words when he glanced around the room and saw one unfamiliar face after another. For a moment, he wished he had Steve there with him, no matter how much he understood her reluctance. Then he spied the groom through the crowd, which helped, and after that, he spotted a few more men that he knew. And when he found where he was supposed to be sitting, he even discovered Layla sitting at the same table.
"John!" she exclaimed, looking genuinely pleased to see him.
"Layla," he said. "Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?"
"The bride, mostly," she said. "And the groom, a little bit. You could almost say I helped bring them together. What about you?"
"The groom's an old mate of mine," John explained. Someone passed by behind him and slapped him on the shoulder, which startled him until he'd looked up to see another old mate. As they exchanged greetings, John thought he noted a touch of false heartiness in the man's voice, and got the sense that the man was sizing him up, looking for something. He knew what it was; any sign of what had happened to him, any weakness. When the man had moved on, John glanced back to see Layla looking at him with the same expression she'd used in the hospital in Nigeria.
"So, how are you doing?" Layla asked.
Still a bit sensitive after the soldier's reaction to him, John leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice. "I'm fine, and I don't need your pity, Layla."
She blinked, then assumed her "superior officer" face and retorted, "I was concerned, Porter, that's all. If we weren't at a wedding, I'd come round and kick you in the – in the ankle, that'll show you how much I pity you!"
"You were going to say *rse, weren't you?" John shot back. "You were going to say you'd come round and kick me in the *rse, but then your pity took over and you didn't."
"I don't have any pity, and especially not for you," she snapped. "And just to prove it, I'll ask you to dance with me instead!"
It was John's turn to blink, and then he felt his anger disappear as quickly as it had come. "I'll take you up on that."
"You might not want to, Sergeant," said a voice from behind him, and he turned to see a blond lieutenent. "The last time Lieutenant Thompson danced with somebody, people from Amnesty International showed up and begged her to stop the torture."
Layla frowned. "I only stepped on your foot once!"
"With your heel! I couldn't walk for days!" the man exclaimed, and Layla's frown deepened. "That is not true, Michael."
"No, it's not. I love to exaggerate," the soldier admitted, then grinned at John. "You're John Porter, aren't you?"
"Yeah," John said, but before he could ask, the lieutenent introduced himself.
"Michael Blair. We met briefly in Nigeria, so to speak, but you probably don't remember."
"No," John said. When he realized that Blair was probably one of the men who'd pinned him to the ground after he'd gone for Cobb, he felt a sudden, sharp sense of discomfort.
"I was the medic," Blair explained. "And I'm really glad to see you looking so much better than the last time I saw you. So, Layla, I'll come back later and give you another chance to cripple me, all right?"
He went off smiling, and John watched Layla staring after him. When she finally glanced away, he raised his eyebrows, and she actually blushed. "He can be such a tease, but he's a good medic."
John smiled a little to himself, then poured a drink for both of them. He didn't have a chance to drink his, however, before yet another soldier came by, one that he'd served with the year before.
"Hey, I heard what happened," the man said. "I just wanted to say I'm glad you're better now."
John forced a smile and lifted his glass. "Cheers, mate."
From then on, there was a slow, but steady stream of well-wishers, most of whom he knew, and even some he didn't. John was also aware of the occasional stare and whisper, but those were easy to ignore.
When it was time for the dancing, Layla kept her word and led him out onto the dance floor. She wasn't such a bad dancer as Blair had made out, and managed to keep her feet off his until the song ended and they were both turning to leave the dance floor. Then she stumbled over his shoe and lost her balance. John caught her automatically, and somebody collided with them from behind.
"Sorry," John said, and then he saw that it was Cobb.
"You don't need to apologise, Porter," the man sneered. "Injuries like that could make anyone clumsy."
He pushed past them, practically dragging his dance partner along. Not waiting until he was out of earshot, Layla murmured an unflattering description of the man, and with a wry smile, John agreed. He started to lead her back to their table, but Blair caught them halfway, and took a strangely unresisting Layla back to the dance floor.
Later in the evening, John finally got the chance to wish the happy couple all the best, and dance with the bride. She was indeed pregnant, visibly so, but it didn't seem to slow her down, and she laughed each time her bump collided with him. John remembered when Diane had been pregnant with Alex. There hadn't been any dancing, and precious little laughter; his memories were filled with her vomiting miserably all day, or so it had seemed. He hoped his mate's marriage turned out better than his own had. From there, his thoughts moved to Steve and her desire to have children, now put on hold, but then the song ended.
Having done his duty, John went back to his table, thinking to finish up his last drink and then leave. Layla was already there, looking for her bag and finding it on the floor under her chair.
"I'll be right there – oh, John," she said.
"Expecting somebody else?" he teased, and smiled when she blushed again.
"Did you find it?" Blair asked, coming up from the side, and Layla smiled up at him as she displayed the handbag. Blair glanced over at John and said, "Well, we're off, but it was good to meet you properly."
"Good to meet you, too," John said.
"Just a word before we go, Porter. You might want to watch out for Cobb. He's been going around saying nasty things about you to anyone who'll listen," Blair said.
"Thanks for the heads up, mate," John said, though he wasn't sure how to combat whispers. It would be best to just ignore it, pretend he hadn't noticed and didn't know it was going on, but the thought of passively letting Cobb slag him off without doing anything about it made his gut twist in an all-too-familiar way. Given half an excuse, he'd punch the man again, but he also knew he was no longer on top form, and without the incredible burst of adrenalin he'd had during the rescue, he'd come off worse in a fight with another member of the Regiment.
"I think he's got a drinking problem," Layla proclaimed with a frown.
"Among other things," Blair said, and Layla asked, "Now who's saying nasty things?"
"In comparison to him? And you thought I exaggerated? I might tease, but I'm not nasty, not like that." He turned to John. "I heard him tell someone else that you were begging for more, and you broke his nose after he thought he was rescuing you. He said you even invited him to join the orgy, that he could jump the queue and just carry on in their place. According to him, you attacked him when he said no."
The taste of the drink soured in John's mouth and for a moment, he thought he might vomit. Blair went on, but there was a kind of rushing sound in his head that made it hard for him to hear what Blair said next. "He moved away pretty sharpish when he saw I was listening, though. Probably couldn't stand to have anyone around who knew the truth. I told the others that it wasn't like that, and I didn't even exaggerate, but I don't know who they believed."
Swallowing hard, John struggled to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. He felt cold, sweaty, and shaky, but he knew for a certainty that if he stayed any longer, he'd start a fight, no matter what his chances. The realisation that he couldn't hope to win, that he'd probably be beaten down and humiliated once again, enraged him as well. Pushing away his glass, not caring that his unsteady hand knocked it over, he stood up. "Right. I'm off. Nice to see you again, Layla. Blair."
"Can we give you a lift anywhere?" Layla offered, but John shook his head. "I'll be all right, thanks."
Some of his old mates tried to prevent him from leaving so soon, saying they had some entertainment planned for later and they wanted him to be there, but John forced an apologetic smile and went on. There'd been a time when he would have stayed, drinking with the lads, but even without Cobb's presence, that time was over. He was sure it was just because he was separate from the regular units in the Regiment, after having been away for a while, and especially now that he was a special operative. He knew he didn't fit in with them anymore. And he was getting older; he'd turned forty shortly before his most recent mission.
At breakfast with Steve the next morning, John said, "I passed a health club on the way home last night. I thought we could sign up at one, and go swimming together."
It wasn't only the idea of swimming that appealed to him; the health club offered more possibilities for him to become fitter and stronger than he could manage on his own.
"Um …" Steve murmured, sounding distinctly hesitant.
"I thought you said you liked swimming?" John prompted.
"Yeah," she replied. "But …"
"But what?" John asked. "If it's a question of money, I've got plenty."
Kenwright Oil had paid him a sizeable sum, calling it a thank you for his efforts, but John knew it was thinly-disguised pain compensation.
"It's not the money, and I've got plenty, too," Steve said, frowning, and John realised belatedly that Kenwright Oil must have given her money as well, probably even more than him. She definitely deserved more.
Taking a deep breath, Steve said, "I'd have to wear a swimsuit, and I don't want people staring at the scars on my back."
John looked at her, slightly surprised. Once his whiplashes had healed, he rarely considered his own scars anymore, only in terms of which parts of his work-out he could now attempt again. He hadn't thought about people staring, though he supposed that he could just tell them he was SAS and had been tortured during captivity. Steve, however, didn't really have that option.
"Couldn't you wear a shirt over it?" John suggested.
Steve squirmed a little. "Yeah, I guess. And what about you? Would you wear a shirt, too? Or would you rather let everybody see and think you're into S&M and who knows what?"
John hadn't thought of that, either, and felt suddenly sick to his stomach at the thought of somebody – a male somebody – getting the wrong message and propositioning him. "I'd probably wear a shirt, too. Or some kind of wet suit, maybe."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Steve said suddenly, "Don't they make swimsuits for Muslims that cover the whole body? Maybe I could wear one of those. I'd rather have people thinking I was a Muslim than letting them see my back."
"As long as you can swim in it," John said.
"I'll go to the library later and see what I can find out on the internet." She gave him a brief smile. "One of us really needs to buy a computer."
"Yeah," John agreed, but it had never been his first priority.
His phone rang, and he went over to where it was charging. "Porter."
"John, tell me you didn't have anything to do with what happened last night," Layla said.
Caught completely off guard, John asked, "What happened last night?"
"Somebody beat seven kinds of sh*t out of Cobb, and now he's in hospital. According to the nurses, he said the name Porter at least twice."
"I never touched him," John said, his mind going back to the evening before.
"He was slagging you off all evening," Layla reminded him. "And the more he drank, the nastier he got. What Michael said wasn't the worst."
"I left at the same time you did. You and that medic both saw me go," John said. Layla was silent, and after a moment, John added, "If you need more proof, Layla, you work for MI-6. Get one of your agents to hack into the CCTV cameras and watch me take a bus and the Tube and another bus to get home. Shall I give you the numbers and the times?"
"All right," Layla said. "All right, I believe you. And you don't know who did it? You didn't see or hear anything …?"
John suddenly remembered what his old mate had said when he'd been preparing to leave, that they were planning some entertainment and wanted him to be there. Had they been meaning to beat up Cobb for him, because of all the nasty remarks? They might just as well have been thinking of some kind of stripper or something else completely. And anyway, they were his mates.
"No," he said. "Nothing."
"Michael was right," Layla said. "You need to watch out for Cobb. If somebody beat him up last night because of what he was saying about you …"
"I can take care of myself, Layla," John stated. He'd make sure of it. The next time he met Cobb, he'd be ready.
"Let's hope you don't have to," she said, and hung up.
+++++
The days went by, however, and all remained quiet on the Cobb front. John gradually forgot the man, even as he remembered his reason for wanting to get fit again. When they'd both found something that covered their scars – Steve a swimsuit with a high back that did not conceal her entire body, and John a shorty wetsuit – they went to the health club to sign up. On their first visit, though, John caught a whiff of the strong chlorine smell of the pool, and had a flashback to the lawn of that house in Port Harcourt. Shaken, he let Steve lead him out of the building again, but after some time in the fresh air, he forced himself to go back inside. He also went back the next day, the day after that, and all the following days, going a little farther each time until, eventually, he made it all the way to the pool. From then on, he and Steve swam together regularly.
Whether it was the swimming, John's presence, or simply the passage of time and the healing of wounds, Steve finally felt confident enough to start looking for a new job. To her great surprise and joy, she was offered employment in the hospital closest to the university where John's daughter was studying. Now, John was lingering in the lobby of that hospital, waiting for Steve to finish her shift so that they could celebrate over dinner.
"Andy!" she called out.
Smiling, John glanced up from the rack of health brochures he'd been studying. "Steve!"
They hugged in their careful way, and John asked, "How was your first day?"
"You know how they say it's like a riding a bicycle because you never forget?" she asked. "This was like getting back on the bike and suddenly discovering you're in the Tour de France!"
John threw back his head and laughed, but his mirth was interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.
"Dad?"
He turned, alarmed. "Alex! What are you doing here – you're not hurt?"
"No, it's all right, I'm with a friend," she said. "Who's this?"
"This is a friend of mine, her name is Alexandra, too. Alexandra Kehoe," John said, then turned to Steve. "This is my daughter, Alex."
"Hello," Steve said. "I've heard so much about you, but don't worry, it's all good."
Alex grimaced accusingly in John's direction, then flicked a polite smile at Steve. "Nice to meet you. Sorry if I was interrupting anything."
"You weren't," John and Steve both said at the same time.
"Which friend are you here with?" John asked. "It's not Brandon, is it?"
"Brandon? No, it's a girl I know from university who lives just next door. She was raped, and the man beat her up, too." Alex flexed her fingers in a sign of agitation. "She's in X-ray now."
John was now able to hear the word without wincing inwardly, and Steve made a sympathetic face. "I'm so sorry! I hope she'll be all right."
"Do you want us to wait with you?" John offered, but Alex shook her head. "No offense, Dad, but she won't want too many strangers around, you know?"
"I know," he said. "Look, Alex, if you ever need anything, you can always come to me."
"You say that every time, Dad," Alex protested, but she smiled a little as she did so.
"That's because it's true every time," he said. "I'll call you to-night, see how everything is?"
"Yeah," she said. "Hey, um, are you still so hurt that I can't hug you?"
"Nope," he replied. She must really have been rattled if she suggested it voluntarily, he thought, and steeled himself for her embrace. But her touch wasn't as bad as he'd expected, and he squeezed her back, grateful for even the smallest opportunity to show her his love and support. At last, she released her hold on him. "Thanks, Dad. I'll talk to you to-night."
After their dinner, John excused himself from Steve for a moment, and took out his mobile to call Alex. She didn't answer. He left a message, but also interrupted their journey home fifteen minutes later to try again, then tried a third time as soon as they arrived. As he stood in the doorway of the flat, wondering if he should wait and call a fourth time, or go over and check up on her, his phone rang in his hand, and he saw with relief that it was Alex.
"Where were you?" he asked, watching Steve take off her coat. For one single moment, he caught a glimpse of the perfect profile of her breasts under her jumper, and the sight stirred him until he remembered Alex. "I was just about to come round and see if you were all right."
"Sorry, I forgot I switched off my phone in the hospital," Alex said. "My friend has to stay for a day or two, and I was getting some things from her flat for her, and contacting her parents in Milton Keynes."
"Oh," he said, hoping he would never get such a phone call from one of his daughter's friends. "But you're all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"If there's a rapist going around your street, maybe you should move in with Brandon for a while, until he's caught," John suggested. He had a short-lived vision of himself moving in with Alex, with a full arsenal of weapons, tracking devices, maybe a small tank; anything he could use to keep her safe, but he knew what she'd think of that idea.
"Actually, Brandon's moved in with me," Alex said.
"Oh. Well, that's good, then," John replied.
"Yeah. Dad, I'll be fine, really. It was just a shock, you know. But Brandon's here now and everything's going to be all right."
"Okay," he said. "And you know, Alex, if you ever need anything …"
"I know, Dad. I'll talk to you later," she said. "Bye!"
"I love you," John said, but Alex had already ended the call. Only then, while looking wistfully at the phone in his hand, did John realize that he'd said the word "rapist" without flinching, without even thinking of it. His therapy sessions were starting to work – maybe he could be cleared for active duty again soon.
Part 9