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I look away. Shuffle my feet.
She swallows, blinking. “You might have to tie me down.”
“I know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A DIY store provides most of what I need. Plastic sheeting. Tape. Rope. Vinyl gloves. A marker pen. And if by some chance Romano’s having me watched, it will appear very much as though I’m planning to follow his orders.
What would look less in line with his instructions is the large cut of pork belly I buy in a supermarket. But I load it into the bag concealed under cloths, towels, kitchen roll and cleaning materials.
A high-street pharmacy supplies paracetamol, dressings and rubbing alcohol, and a suture kit with needles.
“Sutures sir? You have medical training?”
“I’m going hiking. I’ll be a long way off the beaten track. Just taking precautions.”
“That’s fine, sir.” She pops the pack in a bag.
“I’d like a scalpel too.”
The store assistant eyes me oddly, reaching for her phone. “Since you’re not on the approved list, sir, I’ll have to call my manager to clear that.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll just take what’s there.”
Back on the street, in case I’m being watched, from inside or out, I make a show of tossing back a couple of the pills.
In any case, it won’t hurt to clear my headache.
The motel is cheap and unremarkable. At the reception office, in jeans, tee-shirt and sneakers, Katya hooks her arm into mine…
Just an average couple…
… and I pay cash.
In the cabin, “Paracetamol is okay for afterwards,” she quavers, “but can I have a drink first?”
My stomach roils, but I keep my voice level. “There’s whiskey in the mini-bar. But you're pregnant. It’s probably not good for…”
She snaps back. “Being flooded with stress hormones because Momma’s just had unanaesthetised surgery won’t do the baby a fucking lot of good either, will it?”
I opt for a diplomatic silence. Instead, “Here…” I tip the contents of two of the mini-bottles into a glass. “… We'll give it twenty minutes for the alcohol to work. No more. Otherwise, you'll be dwelling on it. And that won’t help either.”
Screwing up her face, she swigs a mouthful. “You know how to do it?”
“Try not to think about it. I’ve dealt with wounds before. Sometimes, it goes with the job description. Using doctors isn’t always sensible. Drink the whiskey. I’ll be as quick and clean as I can.” I nod for the bathroom. “Go have a bath. Get yourself as clean as possible. Try to relax if you can.”
She pins me with her eye. “And a warm soak will soften the skin?”
“That too. Don’t use anything perfumed in your bath. Wrap yourself with a towel when you come out.” Pallid, she gulps back the rest of the drink, then vanishes.
With Katya safely in the bathroom, the sound of water running, I consider the options.
Bedroom? On the bed…
Most comfortable for her, but with too much risk of blood where it can’t be cleaned up.
Bathroom?
