Edge (29 page)

    "Keep your safety off and brain switched on."

    "I owe you one."

    "No one's keeping count. But if they were, you owe me seven."

    "Is that all?"

    Suzanne helped Josh manoeuvre Richard on to the pavement. Then Big Tel gave a half salute, put the taxi into drive and moved off. Richard wavered a bit, then took a step as Josh encouraged him, then another, to the front door.

    They ascended the stairs step by careful step, an improvement on having to carry the lad. Finally, when Suzanne opened the door of her top-floor flat, Josh was glad to see she had left the lights on, a dim and cheerful orange, the lounge a place of restful reds and browns. Suzanne closed the door.

    "Sit down, Richard."

    Josh settled him on a soft couch, and waited. Suzanne went into the kitchen. A minute later, she returned with a steaming mug, honey-sweetened milk, and placed it in Richard's hands.

    "Take hold, that's right. Now drink."

    Richard took a sip, shuddered, then relaxed.

    Suzanne worked with him, encouraging him to drink. When the milk was all gone, she said: "Time to get clean, now. And Josh will help you."

    Richard's mouth formed an arch of misery.

    "Soon you will feel better now and safe because… everything is all right here… you can relax, deeper, that's right."

    Josh found himself blinking. But the focus of Suzanne's ambiguous syntax was Richard, who received the full effect of her reassurance, growing calmer. Then he allowed Josh to help him to his feet, and escort him to the bathroom – Suzanne showed them where it was – and even helped remove his gritty, pungent clothes.

    After switching on the shower, Josh stepped back and encouraged Richard to get in, prepared to manhandle him inside if necessary, thankful when Richard stepped under the spray and stood there, eyes closed and swaying. Finally, Richard used the shower gel, washed and rinsed and did the whole thing again, then a third time.

    He came out clean, smelling of pine, but still not talking. When Josh told him to, he dried himself with one of the big bath towels.

    Josh opened the bathroom door halfway to call for Suzanne, but she was already there, offering the new T-shirt and shorts for Richard to wear. Afterwards, dressed in fresh clothes for the first time in days, Richard seemed revivified.

    "Do you want something to eat?" asked Suzanne.

    He nodded.

    A stomach unused to food could rebel; but Suzanne appeared to know that. She made soup for Richard, then gave him a small sandwich to eat. After a few bites, he stopped.

    Tears welled up.

    "You're safe," Suzanne said.

    When she was sure that Richard had finished eating, she nodded to Josh, and they helped him stand up. She led the way to a small guest bedroom that held shelves of hardcopy books. The duvet was blue and smelled newly laundered. Richard slid into bed.

    Then Suzanne began to speak to him in a lilting voice, and Josh crept from the room, because this was for Richard alone. Suzanne seemed to think of herself as a scientist and healer; but there was something magical about her work.

    Finally she came out. "He'll sleep now. For a good eight hours, I hope."

    "Well done."

    "If his father doesn't come barging in to interrupt things."

    "He won't."

    "How do you–?"

    "Because I haven't told him about Richard."

    "And you're going to do that when, exactly?"

    Josh stared at the bedroom door."When he's happy about going back to whatever scared him off."

    "So you haven't told the police, either. Legally, we're probably guilty of kidnapping. You know that, right?"

    "
Mais oui.
" He deliberately anglicised it:
may-wee.
"We probably are. While I'm facing suspension and worse, you're disregarding your employer's wishes."

    "Client. Broomhall's my client, not my boss." He could have added: I'm freelance, just like you.

    "Like that makes a the difference."

    "Actually, it does."

    "Hmm." Suzanne glanced toward the door. "One of us needs to make sure he doesn't just wander out. I don't think he'll wake up, but nothing's certain."

    "The couch looks fine." Josh pointed. "I'll wake up if he moves."

    "You sound certain."

    She was standing very close to him now.

    "Confident," she continued. "Not to mention capable."

    When he kissed her, the explosion of sweet electricity slammed through his body, swirled up and down, beyond anything he had experienced.

    "My God," he whispered, holding her upper arms. "Suzanne."

    "I've never done this before, Josh Cumberland. Not this fast."

    "Done–?"

    "Can your ninja senses detect someone sneaking out beyond a closed door?"

    "I don't…"

    "Come on." Her hands pulled him as if he were weightless. "Come on."

    Inside her bedroom, she pushed the door quietly shut. The room was lit by a small bedside lamp, which she tapped, switching it off.

    Only faint silver moonlight illuminated her form as she pulled her blouse off over her head, then undid her skirt and let it slide to the floor. Time slowed as she removed bra and panties, and stood there, a perfect goddess, the long scars glistening like moonlight inside her arms.

    Josh blinked eyes filled with grit, with salt, with the overwhelming knowledge that he deserved nothing, and certainly not this. Then he removed his clothes with a Zen exactness, his gaze never deviating from her face.

    They embraced standing, her skin incandescent, smooth and warm, and then she was pulling him to the bed where they lay down, his mouth finding her throat, working slowly down, to her nipples like black cherries, to the smoothness of her stomach, her soft inner thighs and the sweet surprise within, burying himself until she arced back, giving a low cry; and a shuddering sob as she took hold of his head and pulled him up to her face.

    "In me," she said.

    Then he was riding to the stars, expecting it to be immediate, but silky, soft strength enclosed him, prolonging the voyage, every nerve juddering; and then the atomic fireball cascaded outwards, bursting with nova energy until he was done, lying on her and in her, holding her forever, only her name in his mind and on his lips: Suzanne, Suzanne, Suzanne.

    After a time, she said "Sorry, you're squashing me."

    "Sorry." He rolled sideways, and she turned with

him, so they remained embraced though he popped out of her. "Oops."

    "Shame," she said, then burped. "Oh."

    They shook together in shared laughter.

    "Now what are we going to do?" Josh stared at her in the darkness, amazed at the world.

    "We could sleep."

    "I guess."

    He continued to stare, wonder seeping through him, with no awareness of the moment when he drifted downwards into restorative sleep for the first time in an age, with a sense of correctness, of security at last.

    Everything paused.

They awoke still embracing, with no trace of cramp, as though their bodies fitted together exactly. Their kiss was soft, on the lips, and then she had him pulled inside her and they rode together, for longer this time, grinning, staring into each other's eyes at the moment of explosion, his before hers but only by seconds; and then he collapsed beside her.

    "I need to brush my teeth," he said. "And did I mention you're beautiful?"

    After taking it in turns to use the bathroom – a quick trip each, then a longer sojourn in the shower – they dressed and went into the small kitchen area. Suzanne put coffee on, then turned to him.

    "You realise I'm not white?" she said.

    "My God. And did you notice I'm not black?"

    "I noticed everything."

    "Me too."

    The world was at peace as they kissed again, very soft and very still. Then they disengaged and got ready for breakfast, putting out bowls and cereal, occasionally glancing at the door to Richard's room, neither mentioning the boy's name.

    "You're going to work with him today?" Josh kept his voice low. "Or would that get you in trouble with the disciplinary board?"

    "Probably, if it gets that far."

    "Ah. Let's sort out his problems, then maybe nothing will happen. It's his father who–"

    The guest room door clicked open, and Richard was standing there. "Can I use the–?"

    "It's over there."

    He nodded, then shuffled past them to the bathroom, and went in.

    "The poor lad looks awful," said Josh, "but not as bad as last night."

    "No. The first thing I need to deploy is a powerful psychophysical technique for integrating body and mind for the day ahead."

    "Cool."

    "It's called breakfast."

Afterwards, while Suzanne did more work with Richard, Josh went into her bedroom to use his phone, checking the hospital for Opal's condition. He could have hacked into the watchcams, but the always-present memory of Sophie stopped him. A nurse told him that Opal was in post-op recovery, no further details available. The earliest she might possibly receive visitors would be tonight at 7.30, but he should call in advance, in case she was not ready. Thankful to have talked to a human being, Josh closed the call.

    When he entered the lounge Richard was in an armchair, apparently in a light doze.

    "I'm going to talk to Josh now," Suzanne told the boy. "And when I talk to you again directly, you'll know the difference. For now, just rest."

    As she turned to Josh her tone changed. "He's all right."

    "Good." He said nothing about Opal. "That's good."

    Suzanne nodded. Somehow they were on the same wavelength – if there had been positive news from the hospital, it would have been OK to share it; otherwise it was best to say nothing. She reached out her hand; when he took hold, it felt wonderful. With a smile, she led him into her bedroom – their bedroom? – and this time he knew it was only to talk. They smiled, holding each other's hands, as though about to start some oldfashioned dance.

    "So what are we going to do?" she asked.

    Josh let go of her hands and sat on the bed.

    "You've no idea how warfare" – r
emembering fourteen
years old and the rifle coming up and his head exploding
but that was not the worst of it – "screws you up."

    "We can deal with this later," said Suzanne. "And I mean it – we will deal with it."

    "Maybe there are things that shouldn't be… but it's Richard we need to think about. Sorry, my l… Sorry."

    Her lips twitched.

    "Everyone," she said, "has the resources they need to deal with their life and make it better, and I mean everyone."

    "What if I want to learn Chinese, and I have no materials and no ability? There's positive thinking and there's delusion."

    "I didn't say you could learn the language in ten minutes, but that's more than enough time to dissolve whatever holds you back, like the false belief that you can't learn a language. I worked with a webmovie writer who'd been blocked for three years. Freeing up the block took five minutes. It still took him a year to write the next script, but he did it, that's the point."

    "And you didn't discover what caused the block?" he said.

    "Actually, the guy knew precisely what had caused it, but if he hadn't, I wouldn't have tried to find out. I didn't need to know. It's a form of brief therapy, and that's a technical term."

    This was what he did not understand about her work. Despite the counselling he had been through, he still thought of therapy as uncovering hidden pasts.

    "So treating traumas, you don't need to know the details."

    No heads exploded in his memory. Her presence kept him calm.

    "It depends. If someone was in a traffic accident, not their fault, just something dreadful they had experienced… then all I need do is recode the memory, so they don't re-experience anguish whenever they think of it. Not amnesia, but no overwhelming emotion, either. Delving back into their childhood and how they related to their parents would be nonsense, because it's not the problem."

    "All right."

    "The old opponents of that approach called it treating the symptom instead of the cause, but sometimes treating the symptom is all you need. For example, sweating is a symptom of bubonic plague. During the Black Death, if the victims had been given more fluids, many would have lived, because it was the dehydration that got them."

    This was not what he wanted to hear, because there was something odd about young Richard's reactions,

and not just to witnessing his friend fall.

    "On the other hand, if the trauma patient is a victim of violence" – Suzanne glanced down at her own inner forearms – "then recoding the memory is not enough, because two-thirds of such people become victims again within eighteen months. Their behaviour patterns mark them out as soft prey for predators, so then I do have to explore their world, use the psychodynamic approach, and help them get more freedom in their lives."

    "So maybe you need to uncover Richard's past."

    "Ah. That's what you're after."

    "Look, obviously my first sight of him was when he's under stress. But he gave this strange reaction…"

    He described the soft cry that Richard emitted, seeing the bulldog logo on the back of a paramedic's jumpsuit. And how his catatonia – if that was what it was – started then, not at the moment Opal fell.