Nora by Charles J Harwood

HE WANTED to fuck the righteousness out of her. He knew moments before she had left the room with his drinks trolley that she would be preparing supper for him. A fare not to be found in his fridge, she would rustle up something poignantly plain like always. Marmalade sandwiches no less and a mug of warm milk. Her deed remained unspoken. No taxi had pulled up outside his gates; no escort awaited him at the airport. The French Riviera complete with sun would have to do without him. To pique his despair, the night had brought rain. Smatters plagued his windows underlying what she’d taken from him. Vince’s palette grasped for anything to savour within her offering but orange peel and milk left a sour aftertaste. Her hands had taken everything out of him, but he would never beg her to stop. In the wake of her treatment, his legs had felt battered yet cleansed. Countless nurses had treated him since the crash. Only Nora seemed to mean it. She laughed at him, raged at him and despaired...

Vexation stung as she left the room. Somehow Vince still managed to have the last word, even when he didn’t. Vince still managed to prescribe his arrogance without his scotch, his silk sheets or even the use of his legs. She dropped his pillow at the foot of his bedroom door and added a blanket. She would aid his campaign in his refusal to sleep in his room. He could sleep on the floor and continue to be the Vince that scoffed at her. Towels and a bowel of warm water in arm, she descended the stairs. At this moment, she felt more nurse than ever. She relished the shield of her outfit and the rap of her shoes. His arrogance brought out the Nora within her and she sort of liked it. Vince appeared expectant as she entered the room. He had taken off his knee braces and put them in the corner. Nancy paused before depositing the bowel on the floor. She unrolled the towel over an adjacent, more capacious couch that enabled Vince to recline horizontally. He did so, using the crutches in thi...

Abrupt silence caused her eardrums to buzz. Henry’s hand froze in pre-wipe. Silence expired to a round of detonations more significant in weight. Henry’s hands proceeded to burrow into the cloth, his eyes not leaving hers. The menacing andante instilled a wish to be anywhere but here. But Henry did not appear phased, even when Spartan thuds flourished out into a crashing dissonance. Nancy didn’t like the complicit nuance of his level gaze. She didn’t like being couched into looking away and how this could be misconstrued by one who spent hours shaving the space above the box hedge. Naïve and easily-bossed Henry had latched onto her somehow. To what end, she couldn’t be sure. In a chill of unease, Nancy shifted away and retreated from the kitchen. She stepped through the threshold into an airspace rammed with thunderous booms. Nancy froze in place. The griffin-headed Newell post continued to gaze indifferent; the lights above Vince’s door continued to flicker from left to right. The ...

BREAKFAST at the Cheap Sleep saw Nancy swipe the screen of her slimline Samsung which vomited a string of texts. ‘Where R U?’ ‘Where the FK R U?’ ‘Call us, N 4 FKS sake!’ ‘Cop asking Qs about U.’ ‘Your job on the line.’ ‘Sheila going mad.’ ‘Ring us, you bloody mong!’ Alongside each text, mug shots appeared to pull faces intended or not. The gurning mouth of Sheila, the goggle eyes of Cora, the puckered sulk of Bex. Nancy’s own was little better: a premenstrual cob-on that passed for a smile. Nancy had an off button that did not change who she was. Mr. Cuban Heels approached the only nurse of the establishment to lower the ribbed sock of his right foot. ‘Dodgy ankle,’ he explained. ‘What is this couch potato to do to replace squash?’ Nancy suggested he put his Cubans to bed and drained her coffee. Just Call Me Stu wanted very much to be her patient but Nancy explained her books were full. Vince’s gates gave no sign anything was amiss as Nancy pointed her device. The gates complied....

In the foyer, mock candles switched to night mode. A shadow reared within. Nighttime always did this. Where did she now belong, but the limo on the night side of the train station? To her, Weaver’s Street represented a past she could no longer touch. The crash felt real and it was still happening somewhere in her head. Behind Vince’s desk, she noticed a walnut door bearing carvings which blended into a panelled wall. She reached for the doorknob and pushed the trolley before her. A flame-effect fire sent capering shadows around what appeared to be a drawing room. Vince’s crutches rested against the edge of a red couch in front. The upright axis of his head implied vigilance. She wheeled the trolley into the room and pulled level with the couch. Vince had changed into a grey sweatshirt and slacks. On him, even the baggiest attire creased at the right places. She surmised he had scaled the stairs to shower or perhaps used another washroom on the ground floor. Either way, she would re...

THE INSTANT Nancy’s eyes settled upon Henry’s china blue stare, Vince’s wheelchair morphed into a million needles. She prospected for words. A ball of anguish crippled her voice. A door crashed. Heat slithered via her collar to her neck, sending her cheeks a-tingle. Her tongue weighed a ton. Muffled clunks ensued. Another crash. Henry continued to scrutinize. The moment had gone on too long. Now was the time to raise the alarm. Instead, Henry’s eyes shifted to a spot above her head. Nonplussed or cogitation? Nancy couldn’t decipher. Time had shifted out of gear; the before and after had plummeted out of the rulebook. Nancy’s finger made a seismic track over the armrest of the chair. That’s when Henry’s eyes returned to hers. The foyer had fallen silent. Henry took the scent of grass with him and left the room. Instead of turning left towards Vince’s location, Henry made a right for the Edwardian door at the bottom of the gallery. His gait unhurried, implied a task awaited com...

She backed the chair up, pulling the door handle on doing so. Golf no longer interested her. The siege had ended and Vince may yet be triumphant. She toggled the stick of the wheelchair and the heel of Vince’s crutch came into view. The sight unsettled her. The foyer opened out. Vince had barely moved from the spot. Jitters plagued the muscles in his legs but his resolve would forbid him from falling. Nancy didn’t meet his gaze as she cruised the wheelchair though the doorframe; she wouldn’t offer him his chair. She paused, turning in time to see him shuffle towards the surveillance room. She put the chair in drive and made a right turn past the Newell post. The entryway adjacent to the meeting room led into a gallery. Sunlit casements on the right hurled cubist shapes upon the opposing wall. Doors and photos drifted past as the motor idled forwards. At the terminus, an Edwardian door made steady approach. Succulent plants on the other side promised an ideal retreat, a conservato...

Nora's Visit Nancy’s thumb gave a twitch and Vince’s wheelchair went flat-out; the footplates crashed against the architrave. Fury scorched her veins. She nudged the lever again. Vince’s desk tumbled into a blur. His roomy foyer gave her free reign. Vince’s shifting crutch made progress at her right, but not enough. Her knees bobbed on speeding past. Air lapped against her face as she veered towards the stairs to cut across the tiles. The lever nudged into reverse. Her rear wheels crashed against the access way door. A hundred bolts quaked. Vince’s form fell still. The head of his crutches vanished into the drapes of his shirt, pallid against his now burgundy complexion. His tone clipped her ears with economy. ‘You have no idea, Nora.’ Nancy’s fingers trembled over the lever. ‘Yes, I do, Mr. Jonas. More than you will ever know.’ Vince gaze remained resolute. He owned his self-denial and he could do what he liked with it. Nancy raised her fist for the door knob. ‘I could ...

Lime Tree Avenue had exhausted its supply of supercars for now. Nancy depressed the amber switch and spun in her seat. The shadows beneath his eyes had returned but without the irony. No muscle mobilized his face, no frown, no smirk. He simply watched her. Sweat speckled his sallow skin, his hair hugged his scalp. Nancy grew acutely aware of the table between them and feared it may be insufficient. But no. His crutches had become his shackles. He could not possibly scale this lofty plateau cut from marble. ‘You made it,’ she simply said. Below the tabletop, her fingers twirled. Vince did not appear out of breath. She had not heard the clack. How long had he been standing there? Why hadn’t he called out during her discourse with one of his callers? The answer came immediately: because her finger would have slammed the amber switch before he could make sense. Vince made a slow retreat, such an act not his style. The kitchen darkened as the sunlight plunged behind cloud. Waiting her ou...

SHEILA had been right about Aunt Millie but not in the way Nancy had expected. Millie didn’t seem to know the difference between rhetoric and an actual question. If Nancy moaned, ‘why is this road so busy?’ Millie would explain that the lights at the bottom of Leopold Road couldn’t filter the volume of rush hour traffic properly. If Nancy remarked that school holidays were too short, Mille would explain that school holidays amount to fifteen weeks a year which is quite a lot actually. Nancy is lucky not to be born in North Korea or Ghana. Millie spent half her waking hours picking up bits from the carpet despite vacuuming every morning. She kept to her word and provided a solid meal per day. Nancy didn’t meet Mark as arranged on account of the rain, but didn’t do so even when the sun filtered through her curtains. In a sneaky way, Nancy liked it. She liked the routine, the square meals the warmth, Millie’s squareness, Millie’s morality etched into her wind chimes and her kitsch wall p...

Nancy depressed the amber button which cut the call. Coffman’s snowy head remained on screen. Nancy screwed the cap of her flask and shoved it into her satchel bag. A steely plane brushed against her thigh. Nancy twirled round to see Vince’s wheelchair drifting from the door. Vince’s final salvo must have jolted the brakes and spurred the propelling force. Vexed, she seized the handles and pushed the wheelchair back in place. She surmised Vince not realising he had cleared the obstruction was making his way through the meeting room. Somewhere she could comprehend Vince’s rhythmic clack. Coffman’s snowy head remained on screen. Why doesn’t he buzz off? She grabbed her bag. On a final thought, she checked the brakes of Vince’s chair. The bar was lowered but this offered no assurance the barricade would hold if Vince fancied another go at the door. Nancy slid over the tabletop and took a route across the kitchen. Vince’s crutches clacked against the meeting room floor to her right. N...

Nancy's Oxfords JUST Call Me Stu commented that Nancy was the best dressed lodger the Cheap Sleep had ever seen. He asked what business had brought her here. Nancy thought he wanted to park his torso next to hers and told him she was a nurse. This piqued the interest of Mr. Cuban Heels. ‘What sort?’ he asked. ‘The serious sort,’ she replied, ‘the sort that adheres to a strict routine and puts up with no nonsense.’ Stu responded with a quizzical gaze. Nancy bit noisily into her toast which spurred a hearty chuckle. ‘I like you, Nora,’ he said. ‘I like you very much.’ What Mr. Cuban Heels didn’t get was that Nancy wasn’t joking. Nancy pulled up in front of Vince’s gates at nine prompt. She idled the Punto and pointed her device. To the command of Millie, the gates, clicked, the gates whirred. Stately elms drifted by on her right; rippling lawns receded to her left. Vince’s mighty chapel door loomed ahead. Nancy parked on a space normally occupied by a Lamborghini. Her P...