The Laughing Man, Book Two: Goner

Chapter Six

Thomas did not come to see her later that night. Nor the next day. An I.V. bag was left inside the door every twelve hours, the assumption clear for her to administer her own therapy. Her experience had become boring, restless. And her phone call to Mr. J didn't afford her a chance to ask if she could come home. But Harley's strength was returning, enough to put aside the bed pan and use the bathroom instead. The mirror showed her weakness. Mr. J was right. Useless. Dark circles under her eyes, hair a mess. Her clothes hung a little looser, the signs of her I.V. diet. Purple bruises lined her neck from Thomas' hands, the center of her throat aching anytime she swallowed her water. And she smelled of infection, a sick body in her sick bed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, welcoming the sunlight that accompanied the afternoon of her fourth day in captivity, she peeled back the bandages of her wound, grimacing at the oozing puss that formed around the hole in her body. She was not disgusted by the sight, merely worried that it would set back her recovery time. Apparently Thomas did not put antibiotics into the I.V. solution. She would need to rectify that problem immediately if she wanted to return to the arms of her lover any time soon.

Slowly, relishing the aches, the pains, that coursed through her body, Harley walked out of the bedroom for the first time, dragging the I.V. cart behind her. A grand hallway, wood paneling floor to ceiling, greeted her. The scent of old smoke and memory drifted into her nostrils, a rich history. Paintings hung on the wall, beautiful yet simple. Stiffness from her underused muscles was to be expected as she glided down the hallway, trying to remember her way around a mansion that she had only visited a couple of times. The view from her window had shown her to be on the top floor and Thomas' bedroom had to be on the same floor, logically. She was determined to find it.

"Miss, can I help you?"

She turned, surprised. Off her game, not hearing the stealthy approach of the butler. "Good afternoon Geoffrey."

"Is there something you need, miss?" His voice conveyed the perfection of fortitude, British accent shining through, yet he held a sadness in his eyes, reminiscent of an orphan, right down to the small spot of dirt under his eye. She had never thought of Geoffrey as being vulnerable before.

"Yes, actually." Harley leaned against the wall. "My wound is infected. I need some antibiotics. I was just going to find Thomas to ask him for some."

"I'll take care of it, miss. If you take this right, you'll find yourself in the lounge. Why don't you stay there and rest while I find Master Thomas?"

Harley nodded her thanks and followed his directions to find the large, open lounge, same wood paneling. Display cases lined the walls, treasures that only the Elliot family could appreciate. Large leather couches, loveseats, chairs in the center of the room, most of them facing a fireplace. Brown, bland, but still warm. This was a place of family gathering, to take tea or discuss world events. Harley hated it instantly, imagining the cool distance between Thomas and his family. Above the fireplace, set on top a mantel was a large family portrait from Thomas' youth. His mother and father touching each one of his shoulders in a proper pose. Aristocratic. The child in the middle seemed unhappy, but perhaps her own skewed view put a different perspective on it.

She sat down on one of the couches, curling her legs under her sideways, the cart moving with her motions. The eyes of the parents in the painting seemed to follow her, judging, especially the mother. Nothing like her own, even though Harley never spoke to her anymore. Mostly because of the whole being a criminal thing, but also because her mother was too accepting. Too loving. Most children thrived on it. Harley resisted it at every turn, not wanting that closeness with family that others craved. It really made no sense to anyone, least of all to herself.