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“Do you want your boots off…? … Do you need some help?”

He goes still for a second and looks at me. I don’t know why, but I think I’ve got it. His boots are uncomfortable, and he wants them off. “I’m going to untie them for you…. okay….? Stay still for me…” he defiantly rolls his head to look directly up at the ceiling, but does straighten and hold his leg still. So I push the sole of his foot into my thigh as I stand at the end of him.

Lord have mercy. From this angle he is huge. His top end is in another postcode. I can still see his beard protruding from past his… mountainous pecs. It’s like looking over one of those hilly landscapes, just rolls of abs and the underside of his… you horndog! He’s basically dying on your dining table, focus!

I loosen the laces, almost friction burning my fingers, and gradually free his ankle. Taking hold of the back of his boot I try to slide it off, but it’s so snug. “I’m going to have to pull a bit harder now, okay?” I monologue. With far more force than I thought I’d need, I eventually get his boot off. “Do you want your socks off, too?” but I’m still monologuing. If it wasn’t for the very obviously British tattoos I’d wonder if he even spoke English at all. But he adjusts his foot angle so I take his sock off and move to the other foot.

He can’t be comfortable up there. It’s a wooden dining table, for fuck’s sake. Even the NHS give you a pillow and one of those recliner things.

“Shall we find you somewhere a bit more comfortable?” I ask him, still monologuing. I mean, he’s being a bit fucking rude at the minute. “It’s okay… I want to help you… we can move you to the sofa, maybe that will be better”

There’s an ulterior motive here. I want to clean my bloody kitchen. Of all the rooms to desecrate, obviously it would be my glorious kitchen. My poor, clean, designer kitchen.

Then it occurs to me. I don’t know what this man weighs, but it’s very obviously a whole load more than me. How do I move him? He seems to read my mind. But, differently.

In my head, he’d just sit up and we’d get him off the end of the table. He rocks himself to lie on his good side first, then brings his knees up towards his chest and off the side of the table. That’s pretty smart, actually. Pushing himself up sideways looks difficult, I try to offer some help and he just looks at me with a raised eyebrow. Alright, dick. I was trying to help. Though he now sits with his feet hanging above the floor. He pushes himself off the edge and immediately has to catch himself with both hands, because his legs did not consent to carrying his massive bulk, leading to his head taking the express lane to the worktop. If I wasn’t wincing at what I thought was going to happen, I’d probably laugh.

“Would you like some help?” I offer, with almost deliberate smugness. His look tells me he’s fuming as he plants his foot and tries to push himself upright, his legs straining under the sheer weight of him. He doesn’t break eye contact as he somewhat robotically does manage to stand upright. “Bet you’re glad you didn’t skip leg day now, huh” oh my God. Why? What is wrong with you, Sawyer? You’re stood in front of this monstrous mute murderer and I know, we’ll take the piss. He still doesn’t break eye contact. Just kill me. Kill me now. Just let the gates of hell open up and swallow me whole.

“Want some help?” he shakes his head, but I start to approach anyway. Barely lifting his arm past his waist, he raises his palm so slightly that it stops me. “Okay… that’s okay… there’s a sofa in the front room… it’s the doorway there” I tell him. Fuck it. He can do it on his own.

It takes about eighteen working days for him, one painful, wincing step at a time, to make his way to the living room. I offer help almost every step. He chooses deep breaths, a tensed stomach and an unmoving gaze instead. That’s okay, different strokes for different folks. He has left an absolute trail of grubby handprints, and one shoulder print, on my wall though. So that’ll be fun for me to clean later.

The sigh of relief slash pain-induced groan as he flops into the sofa and stretches out is audible. Probably the most noise he’s made all night. But he is now safely stowed away, like a massive trunk shoved under a bed.

“I’m going to clean the kitchen” I tell him, he opens his eyes long enough to look at me, almost as if to show me he’s not going to respond. Fine, rude but fine. “Shout if you need anything?” losing confidence in my hitman’s hostess role almost immediately.

This isn’t my first rodeo. Well, it is. But it isn’t the first time I’ve tried to scrub blood from a kitchen so I’m pretty quick at getting everything shoved out the way, all the surfaces scrubbed, disinfected, and the kitchen resembling a kitchen again. Then I glance up and see the handprints, shoulder mark and various other trail of shit he’s left. That’s a problem for… not now.

I don’t know anything about this guy sat in my living room and it’s making me uncomfortable. Both on the, hey there’s a stranger in my house, and also on the don’t leave him unattended with all my stuff kind of way. Come on, Sawyer, it’s your house. We are not being bullied out of the living room, nope. No way.

Let’s be tactical about this. Snacks. Everyone likes snacks. I grab the breakfast-in-bed tray and load it up. We’ve got Doritos - in a bowl, because we’ve got company - a huge chocolate bar, some biscuits. Oh his whisky, grab a glass for that. And a joint for me, because fuck knows it’s been a day. Couple of cans of coke, maybe he wants a soft one.

I make my way back with my tray and sit next to him, cautiously. I mean, it’s a big sofa, but he takes up a hell of a lot of it with his huge self. Some strands of his long black hair still slicked to his head with blood and muck. I start explaining my way through everything I’ve brought, he just looks at me and examines the contents of the tray. Apparently only the Scotch appealed to him, but fine, whatever.

I put the spliff in my mouth. “Mind if I?” He doesn’t object, and as soon as it’s lit, he reaches out and takes it from my mouth, puts it between his lips and puffs. Hard. Leaning his head back against the sofa he blows his smoke straight up.

With the faintest of chuckles “heh, leg day” and he just smokes his way through half of my spliff.

Five

Sawyer

Did he just steal my fucking smoke? He’s got to be kidding. And, he laughed at my joke? Of everything that’s happened tonight that is what he decided to say? Come on, girl, be reasonable. Who even knows what he’s been through tonight, cut him some slack.

But before he passes out, I’ve got to burn his clothes. And his dressing needs changing, I can see he’s going to bleed through it. He also needs cleaning up, I’m not cleaning up the trail he leaves everywhere he bloody goes.

Who knows, maybe now he’s had a smoke, demolished about a kilogram of chocolate and had a drink he’ll be a bit more cooperative.

“Sorry, I’ve just… realised I don’t… I’m Sawyer…” he looks at me, nothing. I raise my eyebrows, urging him to say something more “… I don’t know your name”

“Okay” he replies

“So I’ve introduced myself, and normally… you know… you’d do the same, you’d tell me your name back” I feel like I’m gentle parenting a killer at this point, this is ridiculous. He just looks back at me, doesn’t say a damned word. “So… you’re just what? Not going to tell me your name” exasperated and honestly I could never.

“No”

Oh. Well that answers that then, I guess. But I still have to do what Harry’s men told me to.