Nikki And The Lone Wolf / Mardie And The City Surgeon. Marion Lennox
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to be good.
What to do? Deep breath. This was no time for hysterics. He looked as if he was trying to focus.
She placed the poker behind her. Out of sight.
‘Are you … Are you okay?’ she managed.
He groaned. He closed his eyes and appeared to think about it.
‘No,’ he managed at last. ‘I’m not.’
‘I’ll find a doctor.’ Her voice wobbled to the point of ridiculous. ‘An ambulance.’
He opened his eyes again, touched his head, winced, closed his eyes again. ‘No.’
‘You need help.’ She was gabbling. ‘Someone.’ She went to touch his face and then thought better of it. She definitely needed help. Someone who knew what they were doing. She reached inside her jacket for her cellphone.
His eyes flew open, he grabbed her wrist and he held like a vice.
‘What did you hit me with?’ His voice was a slurred growl.
‘A … a poker.’ His voice was deep. In contrast, her voice was practically a squeak.
‘A poker,’ he said, almost conversationally. ‘Of course. And now what?’
‘S … sorry?’
‘You have a gun in your jacket? Or is only your poker loaded?’
Her breath came out in a rush. If he was making stupid jokes, maybe she hadn’t done deathly damage.
‘There’s not … that’s not funny,’ she managed. ‘You scared the daylights out of me.’
‘You hit the daylights out of me.’
Reaction was making her shake. ‘You snuck up.’ Her voice was getting higher. ‘You grabbed me.’
‘Snuck up …’ He sounded flabbergasted. ‘I believe,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘that I was running up the track. On my land. Back to my house. And you burst out of the undergrowth. Bearing poker.’
He had a point, she conceded. She’d almost fallen as she lurched onto the cleared track. She might indeed have fallen into his path.
It might even have been reasonable for him to grab her to stop them both falling.
And he was her landlord. Hitting someone was bad enough, but to hit Gabe …
It hadn’t been easy to find decent rental accommodation in Banksia Bay and she’d been really lucky to find this apartment. Apart from howling dogs, it had everything she needed. ‘Just be nice to your landlord and respect his privacy,’ the woman in the rental agency had advised. ‘He’s a bit of a loner. You leave Gabe in peace and you’ll get along fine.’
Leaving him in peace wouldn’t include hitting him, she conceded. Mentally she was already packing.
‘I need steak,’ he said across her thoughts.
She blinked. ‘Steak?’ She groped for basic first aid; thought of something she’d once read. ‘To stop the swelling?’ She tried to look wise. Tried to stop gibbering. ‘I don’t … I don’t have steak but I’ll get ice.’
‘For the dog, dummy.’ He’d raised his head but now he set it down again, staying flat on the leaf litter. Gingerly fingering the bruise. ‘The dog needs help. There’s steak in my fridge. Fetch it.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Just fetch it,’ he snapped and closed his eyes. ‘If you run round in the middle of the night with pokers, you face the consequences. Get the steak.’
‘I can’t leave you,’ she said miserably, and he opened one eye and looked at her. Flinching.
‘Turn the torch around,’ he said, and she realised that just possibly she was blinding him as well as hitting him.
‘Sorry.’ She swivelled the light so it was shining harmlessly into the bush.
‘No, onto you.’
He reached out, grabbed the flashlight and turned it onto her face. Then he surveyed her while she thought ouch, having a flashlight in her eyes hurt.
‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he said.
‘I’m not scared.’ But then the dog howled again and she jumped. Okay, maybe she was.
‘You can’t afford to be,’ he said, and she could tell by the strain in his voice that he was hurting. ‘Because the dog needs help. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s standing on the beach howling. You were heading down with a poker. I, on the other hand, intend to try steak. I believe my method is more humane. It might take me a few moments to stop seeing stars, however, so you fetch it.’
‘Are you really seeing stars?’
‘Yes.’ Then he relented. ‘It’s night. There are stars. Yes, I’m dizzy, but I’ll get over it. I won’t die while you’re away, but I do need a minute to stop things spinning. My door’s open. Kitchen’s at the back. Steak’s in the paper parcel in the fridge. Chop it into bite sized pieces. I’ll lie here and count stars till you come back. Real ones.’
‘I can’t leave you. I need to call for help.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘I’ve had worse bumps than this and lived. Just do what I ask like a good girl and give me space to recover.’
‘You lost consciousness. I can’t …’
‘If I did it was momentary and I don’t need anyone to hold my hand,’ he snapped. ‘Neither do you. You’re wasting time, woman. Go.’
* * *
She went. Feeling dreadful.
She tracked the path with her torch, trying to run. She couldn’t. The path was a mass of tree roots. If Gabe had been running he must know the path by heart.
She didn’t have the right shoes for running either.
She didn’t have the right shoes at all, she thought. She was wearing Gucci loafers. They worked beautifully for wandering the Botanic Gardens in Sydney after a Sunday morning latte. They didn’t work so well here.
She wanted so much to be back in her lovely apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. Back in her beautifully contained life, her wonderful job, her friends, the lovely parties, the coffee haunts, control.
Jon’s fabulous apartment. A job in a lovely office right next to Jon’s. A career that paid … extraordinarily. A career with Jon. Friends she shared with Jon. Coffee haunts where people greeted Jon before they greeted her.
Jon’s life. Or half of Jon’s life. She’d thought she had the perfect life and it had been based on a lie.
What to do when your world crumbled?
Run. She’d run to here.
‘Don’t think about it.’ She said it to herself as a mantra, over and over, as she headed up the track as fast as she could in her stupid shoes. There’d been enough self-pity. This was her new life. Wandering around in the dark, coshing her landlord, looking for steak for the Hound of the Baskervilles?
It was her new life until tomorrow, she thought miserably. Tomorrow Gabe would ask her to leave.
Another city might be more sensible than moving back to Sydney. But it was probably time she faced the fact that moving to the coast had been a romantic notion, a dignified way she could explain her escape to friends.
‘I can’t stand the rat race any longer. I can deal with my clients through the Internet and the occasional city visit. I see myself in a lovely little house overlooking the sea, just me and my work and time to think.’
Her friends—Jon’s friends—thought she