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CHAPTERSEVEN
Millie had done her best to patch him up before George left her flat. A plaster over the cut on his brow, which Sharon said really needed stitches. A wash of antiseptic over his other facial cuts and a pack of frozen peas, provided by Martha for him to hold on his swollen eye. He didn’t mention the pain in his ribs. He didn’t want Millie checking for other injuries. The more worried she became, the more likely she was to side with her flatmates and insist on calling the police. But she didn’t ask him any more questions. She seemed angry instead of concerned and, from her silence, George thought perhaps the weekend invitation might be withdrawn. So bruised and miserable, with stewed tea swilling in his aching stomach, he made his apologies and went home. By the time he got there, all he could do was crawl painfully into bed.
Friday morning, he woke unnaturally early. Sleep had been difficult. Bodily aches and pains and thoughts of Millie had made for a restless night. He stared up at the ceiling with his one good eye. Nothing for it but to get up. He needed a pee, and he supposed he ought to check for any sign of blood in his urine. He clearly remembered at least one boot thudding into his kidneys. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.
Relief in two senses came with no sign of haemoglobin in the toilet pan. Reassured he had no serious internal injuries; George turned the taps on and inspected his bruises in the mirror while the bath filled. He’d been lucky the second character had stopped the attack when he did.
He found some bath salts and read the label which said they could be used for strains and aches. ‘Can’t do any harm,’ he said to himself, watching the sugar-like crystals shower into the water and spread like a blue cloud. A quick swirl with his hand and he stepped in. The combination of heat and chemicals stung his flesh. ‘No pain, no gain,’ he muttered, and spread a flannel over his face. He sighed and, hoping for a cure, he slid down until the suds covered him to his neck.
The water was almost cold when the door rattled.
‘You going to be in there all bleeding day?’
George reared out of the bath. How long had he been there? Had he fallen asleep? He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, fumbling with his white, crimpled, too long in the water, fingertips. ‘Sorry, Dad. Nearly done.’
‘I’ll wait then. But get a bleeding move on.’
George flung another towel over his head to hide his face and unlocked the door.
‘You’re up early.’
‘Yes. Lots to do,’ George said, walking past his father.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Chas Halcyon turned. ‘More bleeding read….’ He stopped mid-sentence. George felt beady eyes on his back. His dad asked, ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what, Dad?’
‘The bloody bruising on your back.’
Chas pulled the towel off George’s head and, grabbing a shoulder, he spun his son around. ‘You’ve been done over.’ Eyes wide with astonishment, voice thick with threat, he asked, ‘Who did it?’
‘I don’t know Dad.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? Tell me who it was.’
The shouting brought his mum from her room, and, by her shocked expression, George guessed the bath had done nothing to improve his appearance.
‘Georgie, oh, my love. What happened?’
‘Just some kids, last night tried to mug me but then one of them recognised me and they scarpered before I got a proper look at them.’
‘I’ll have them for this,’ Chas rumbled. ‘Nobody does this…’ he waved his hand at George. ‘… to a son of mine.’
‘No Dad,’ George argued. ‘Please, leave it. I don’t want any trouble. They were just kids. If there’d only been one of them, there’d had been no damage–not to me at least.’
‘How many?’ Chas swung his bulk closer to George.
‘Three–four maybe. I can’t remember. But please leave it, Dad. They ran off before they did any serious damage –’
‘Serious? Have you seen the state of your back?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want retribution.’
‘That’s not your decision to make.’ Chas growled. ‘It’s my decision and I’ve made it.’ He turned away, stamping heavily into the bathroom and slamming the door so hard the house shook.
‘Jesus,’ George muttered, staring at the bathroom door. He didn’t want to imagine what his dad would do if he caught the kids.
Sally stepped close and tried to gather George into her arms. ‘Let’s get you back to bed, lovie. Are you in pain? Can I get you a pill or something?’
