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He held out his hand, and I took it; he placed his other over the clasped palms and squeezed. “I would like to replace the items. Perhaps I could call on your again?”
Again, that old-fashioned speech, and I believed he was sincere. I coloured a little. “Perhaps,” I replied.
He bowed again and grinned. I opened my door and paused. “Thank you, again,” I said, then stepped inside and closed the door.
I leaned against it, my heart pounding in my chest. Then I laughed. What an evening! And what a super guy!
CHAPTERTHREE
The following morning,I opened my door to collect the milk and found a white shoe box. Initially, I frowned, a little confused, and then I laughed. I picked up the box and opened it. Sure enough, sitting on white tissue paper were a pair of black high-heeled shoes. They looked way more expensive than my broken pair. I grabbed the milk bottle and heading back inside.
After placing the box on the kitchen unit, I tried on the shoes. They were a perfect fit and wearing my bobbly old dressing gown and pink PJ’s, I paraded around the flat in them. They were a dream to wear. Under the tissue paper, I found two pairs of silk stockings. I opened one packet and let the material slip through my fingers.
“Expensive,” I whispered to myself.
The one thing that concerned me was the lack of a name or address. I had no way to thank Andrew Stowley. No idea where he lived or worked, only the pub he had been in. Then, I guessed, if he’d wanted me to contact him, he would have left some details.
I decided on a bath and to then get ready for the day. I was sure that Patty would knock on my door at some point. I doubted her telephone would work, she never paid the bills, so I couldn’t call her and explain my absence.
Sure enough, an hour later there was a knock on the door and a dishevelled and very hung over Patty stumbled in. She stunk of stale booze and weed. It was then I noticed the tears in her clothes.
“What on earth happened to you?” I said, suddenly noticing the tears streaking down her cheeks.
“I don’t know,” she stuttered. “But I hurt, down below.”
I ushered her into the bathroom and ordered her to strip, finding her covered in bruises.
“We need to call the police,” I said.
Patty shook her head. I sighed. It was the early 1980s, the police hadn’t woken up to the fact that a woman could get drunk or high and for that not be a reason for an assault. Patty had clearly been assaulted.
“Let’s go to the hospital.” I said.
Whether we’d get any more sympathy there was another issue, but if she hurt, she needed a doctor. I encouraged her to slip into some loose trousers and placed a thin T-shirt over her head. I hadn’t noticed she was barefoot until that moment and found some large slippers that would fit. Together, we headed off to the local hospital.
Four hours of waiting and she was finally seen. I wasn’t allowed to accompany her, but paced up and down a corridor until a doctor came and found me.
“I’m afraid your friend has suffered some trauma. We’d like to keep her in for a day or two.” Of course, he didn’t elaborate on the trauma, but he never seemed to meet my eyes, either.
“Can I see her?” I asked.
He nodded and gave me instructions on where I’d find her.
Patty lay with her eyes closed in a hospital bed in a mixed ward of about ten people. My heart sank when I gently sat beside her, and she cried. A mixed ward really wasn’t the place for her.
“They said I’ve been raped. I don’t remember a thing,” she said.
“Perhaps that’s not a bad thing?” I replied, not really knowing how to respond other than with honesty.
She nodded, and a tear tracked down her cheek. “One minute I was dancing, the next, I woke up outside behind the house in the alley. I think someone drugged me.”
“Have they taken bloods for testing?” I asked.
She raised her hand to show some bruising. I guessed that meant they had.
“What now?” I asked, gently.
“I don’t know. They want to just monitor me for a day or two, but they didn’t say what for. There’s that disease, that Aids thing. Do you think they’re worried about that?”
