“Easy now, love.” A floorboard creaked as a woman with hair the color of fire swam into focus. Deep lines framed her eyes and mouth. “You’ve been out for two days. Gave me quite a scare.”
Jack scrambled back, but flinched when his body protested.
She stilled and held out a calming hand. “Easy now. You’re safe.” She set a stack of linens on the dresser and slowly approached, cradling a steaming bowl in a tea cloth. “Name’s Myrtle. You’re in Whitechapel. In my flat. Remember?”
He didn’t. The last thing he remembered was the alley. The shadows closing in. Swinging for his life.
Braced on his elbows, his body trembled as he tried to stay partially up. “My things.” His voice scraped like rust on metal. “Where are my things?”
“Your things are safe.” She nodded toward the corner where two pillowcases sat, lumpy and familiar, propped against the wall. Beside them, on an overturned milk crate, the money that had been stuffed in his pockets sat stacked in neat piles and sorted by currency. Pounds in one column. Euros in another. American dollars in a third.
All of it.
“That’s quite a bit of money for a boy your age in your condition,” Myrtle said, taking another slow step closer to the bed. “Didn’t take nothing. You can count it yourself when you’re feeling better.”
Jack stared at the money, then at her, waiting for the other part where she told him what she wanted in return for helping him.
“You need your strength.” She took another cautious step toward the bed, staring down at the foot but not daring to sit in the open space. “It’s nothing special. Just some beans and broth. But it will help.”
He didn’t move when she held the bowl out to him.
“Suit yourself.” She set the soup on a stack of old magazines serving as a nightstand. “It’ll be there when you’re ready.”
She moved to the door, pulling on a coat with a matted fur collar, worn thin at the elbows. She toed on a pair of scuffed red heels. “I have to work.” She glanced back and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be back before dawn. Try to sleep, love. You look like you haven’t properly rested in years.”
She was right. He hadn’t.
The door closed with a soft snick as she locked him inside. Money in the corner. Warm food steaming to his right. But his body was still in control, and he could only manage to collapse in exhaustion. When he woke up, the soup was cold, but he ate it anyway.
The week passed in fragments. Soup going cold. Light shifting from grey to black to grey again. The radiator hissed its endless complaint. Myrtle came and went like a tide, each return marked by the click of her heels on the stairs and the soft sigh she released when she finally slipped out of that matted fur coat.
Jack slept more than he’d ever slept in his life. Deep, dreamless hours that pulled him under like a riptide. His body demanded rest, and for the first time, no one woke him with heavy footsteps or hands reaching through the dark.
When he finally managed to sit up without the room spinning, Myrtle brought a basin of warm water and a soft cloth.
“Let me see how you’re healing,” she said gently.
He flinched when she reached for his shirt.
“I won’t hurt you.” She waited, patient as stone, for him to signal her that touching was allowed. “I’ve already seen you, love. You needed attention when you first got here. I just want to make sure the bruises haven’t gotten worse, and nothin’s infected. I promise.”
She reached again, and this time Jack only stiffened.
Myrtle gave up and sighed. “Then you show me.”
Jack met her weathered stare and nodded. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he lifted his shirt.
“What do you say I soak that in the sink. I can give you something clean to wear.” She held out her hand, chipped red polish tipping each finger, and he placed the soiled shirt in her palm.
Her face didn’t change. Not when she saw the bruises mottling his belly and ribs like rotting fruit. Not when her sharp gaze traced the raised ridges across his shoulders, where fading pink scabs layered silver scars. And when her eyes found the brand above his hip, those two letters seared into his flesh like a rancher marking cattle, her expression still remained stoically blank, only her chin rising in comprehension as if she could somehow see the moment the letters RA were permanently branded into his skin.
“You’re mending nicely. But you still have a ways to go.” She wet a cloth in a basin of warm, soapy water. “Do you like jasmine? It’s all I had on hand.”
As she soaked the rag, the cool air warmed like honey on a breeze at dusk. The scent reminded him of pears and moonlight. He liked it.
“May I?” She wrung out the cloth, and Jack gave a stiff nod, not quite sure what she planned to do.
The first contact was hesitant, but the water was warm. He shivered, and she gently stroked the damp cloth around his wounds, careful not to apply pressure where the skin had split. Her hands were warm and sure.
