The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1997 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I pulled up outside the station and James pecked me on the cheek, “Thanks for the meal and the lift–not so sure about the rant–but when you stop thinking all men are rapists or bastards, give me call.”

“I didn’t mean it like that–I don’t think all men are sex fiends or bastards–I guess I just got a bit het up about the assault on the boys and its consequences.”

“From what I saw, Danny seems to be coping quite well.”

“He still has the odd nightmare.”

“Yeah, not surprising really–but he knows the two who attacked them can’t touch them again–doesn’t he?”

“His head knows it, his body doesn’t.”

James gave me a very strange look–“I’ll have to think about that, my train will be here in minute, I’ve got to go.” He pecked me again and trotted into the station, waving as he turned into the entrance. I locked the doors and started up the engine.

As I turned out of the car park, I saw a melee of bodies on the pavement. The headlights showed two men were kicking someone else who was on the pavement. They saw the white Jaguar slowing down and ran off, I presumed they thought it was a police car. I pulled up alongside the person on the ground. It was a girl–she was dressed like a tart but she was trying to get up and kept falling down. There also appeared to be a fair amount of blood around. Now what do I do? I couldn’t do nothing–which meant I had to do something.

I stopped the car and got out carefully, grabbing a handful of tissues as I did. I glanced around but the two attackers had run off. The woman was now sitting on the pavement. I handed her the tissues. And she held them against her face–it seemed much of the blood was coming from her nose and mouth.

“D’you want me to call an ambulance or the police?” I asked.

“No police.”

“Ambulance then?”

“No–I’ll be alright.”

“You don’t look alright to me.”

“Just gimme a few minutes, okay?”

“I’ve got some water in the car–want some?”

“Yeah–I mean, please.”

I reached into the back of the car and pulled out one of the bottles of water I’d bought earlier. “Here,” I said handing it to her.

She accepted it, asked me to unscrew the top and then washed out her mouth. “The bastards–I only just got that one crowned last week–cost two hundred friggin’ quid.”

“Working girl, are you?”

“No I always dress like this when I go to the dentist, don’t you?”

“No, I always have my kids with me.”

“Yeah, so?”

I ignored the question and considered I should have ignored the earlier one. She washed out her mouth again and spat the water out onto the pavement. Passersby were curious but not curious enough to offer help, they just crossed the road or gave us a wide berth.

I tuned into her–she had a broken nose, two smashed teeth and a couple of cracked ribs. She needed to be seen by a doctor or trauma nurse.

“Let me take you to casualty.”

“No thanks, lady, nice of you to offer–but I’ll be okay. I usually am.” She reached for something on the pavement and I saw her pick up two teeth, she shoved them in her jacket pocket.

Seeing her reminded me of my first meeting with Julie. This was a biological woman, though her frequent abortions meant she was no longer fertile, which might have been an advantage in her case. She wore two much makeup, her skirt was far too short and her shoes were ridiculously high, even with the platforms. I’d let the girls try some on in New Look, the other week and they’d clopped round the shop giggling.

They did finally goad me into wearing some and showing them how to walk in them, which I did. However, I wouldn’t like to walk more than a few yards in them because they were so damned uncomfortable. Perhaps I was just getting old or something?

“If you sit there much longer you’ll get piles,” I suggested to the woman.

“I already got some, courtesy of my kid.”

“Let me take you up to the hospital.”

“No friggin’ way, I’ve had enough abuse for one night.”

“They won’t abuse you at the hospital.”

She laughed at my remark, “Lady, you are so naíve, what d’ya think they’ll do, roll out the red carpet?”

“They’ll stop the bleedin’ and kick me out like they done last time, okay? They don’t want junkies an’ prossies clutterin’ up their waitin’ room.”

“And you come into both categories, don’t you?”

“So? What’s it to you?”

“And what does Emily think of that?” The name just came to me.

“You leave my Emily out of it or I’ll knock your effin’ ’ead off.”

“Gillian, that is no way to speak to me.”

“How d’you know my name.”

“I know a lot about you.”

“Who are you?”

“Does that matter?”

“Too friggin’ right it do.”

“Press hard on your nose–now.” I said quietly but firmly, she did, squealed and then gasped.

“I can breathe again. How’d ya do that?”

“Stand up, Gillian.”

“I can’t ya daft bitch, they done my ribs–I ’eard ’em go.”

“Stand up, Gillian–now.” I clapped my hands and she saw the blue flash and felt something pushing her up from the pavement.

“Geez-uzz, what the freak are you?”

“Your piles should feel easier now–go home, dump the drugs and call this number tomorrow–there’ll be a proper job available–if you love Emily enough to take it.”

“What if I don’t?”

“She’ll be an orphan in less than a year.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend, good bye, Gillian,” I got back into my car and drove away while she looked blankly at the ground and thus unable to remember my car number. I didn’t fix her teeth, although they would miraculously restore themselves if she went for the job. I wasn’t judging her, but as a receptionist, she’d need to have a pleasant smile–the job was at the hotel–I’d call the manager when I got home and ask him nicely to offer her the job on a probationary basis. I knew she was more than capable of doing it–she’d worked at the Grosvenor before she got pregnant.

How did I know all this? I didn’t, it was as if someone was telling me her details as I stood beside her–weird or what? But then I should be used to weird by now. I drove home and went to call the manager of the hotel in Southsea–he’d be half expecting my call.