Uncle Mike beamed. "Aw, Lois love, it'll be great to see you regularly." His hand lifted from her shoulder and pointed at her. "It's a date. Sunday lunch. Every week. My place."
Lois smiled. "Thanks, Uncle Mike. It was lovely to see you."
"We'll catch up properly, tomorrow."
She nodded, gave him a kiss, and walked out of the nursing home - and for the first time, it didn't feel like she was running away.
Part 4
Lois stared numbly at the endless assortment of male underwear. How could there be so many variations on what surely had to be a standard article of clothing?
And that was before she even got to size.
Or colour.
She'd already chosen two sweatsuits - one green, one blue - for her dad. They had been easy. She'd bought clothing for him before ... birthday presents, Christmas presents ... enough to know his size and have some idea of his taste.
But even as she'd been looking at the sweatsuits, she hadn't been able to completely dismiss another idea from her mind.
A ridiculous idea.
An unrelenting idea.
She'd been heading determinedly to the checkout. She had been. Then she'd noticed the rows of boxers and briefs and hadn't been able to stop herself from looking.
There was no harm in looking, right?
As she stared at the jumble of choices, the idea continued to bubble away with exasperating insistency.
It was a stupid idea that deserved to be swept away without consideration.
And yet ...
She'd given Mr Kent food.
And chocolate ... although she'd made a pact with herself not to think about that.
He had one pair of shorts. She remembered this morning when she'd looked into the cell and caught him washing his shorts. Had he put them on again while they were still wet?
That would not be comfortable.
It didn't have to be extravagant.
A pair of briefs, a tee shirt, a pair of shorts. That was all that would be required.
The temperature had been quite mild in the cell when she'd been in there ... at least, she hadn't noticed that it was particularly cold.
She could always get a sweater later ... when winter was more established.
The briefs came in packets of two.
She had *never* bought male briefs before.
What size?
30?
40?
Somewhere in between?
A young man - probably in his early twenties - walked into the aisle and began perusing the rows of briefs. Would he think she was ogling the half-naked male bodies on the packaging?
Lois snatched at a packet of size 34-36 - one pair blue, one pair red - hid it under her dad's sweat pants, and scurried away.
A tee shirt. That should be easier.
She found a long row of plain tee shirts and picked one from the rack. It was navy blue and looked about right for his size. She checked the label. Large.
That would do.
Shorts.
She found a pair of black shorts that looked like lopped-off cargo pants. She held them up and tried to visualise Mr Kent's hips. These should fit.
Maybe.
If they were too small, she could return them to the store.
If they were too big, she could buy him a belt.
Feeling satisfied - if not with her purchases, then at least with having overcome her indecision - Lois went to the checkout. On her way through the department store, she noticed a box of cute stress balls. They were shaped like rounded dogs - with a squished-in bulldog face that was so ugly Lois had to chuckle.
On impulse, she picked one up and decided she would buy it for her dad. She was sure they would have things like this for him to use when he went to the therapy sessions, but maybe the dog could make his room a little cheerier. Perhaps he could squeeze it with his good hand.
As Lois waited at the checkout, she realised exactly how much she dreaded the cashier asking about the clothes.
Surely, other women bought male clothes. Surely, wives bought male underwear.
But she wasn't wearing a ring.
If the cashier said anything, Lois would say they were for her brother.
Did sisters buy their brothers' underwear? She gulped. Probably not.
It was her turn to be served before she'd come up with an adequate excuse.
The young cashier giggled.
Lois felt herself begin to blush.
"Awww, that doggy is so darned cute," the girl said.
Lois forced a nervous smile.
"I love dogs," the cashier continued. She processed all the articles of clothing while telling Lois about the dog she'd owned as a child. She kept the stress ball until last. "I'm going to have to get one of these."
Lois smiled again and paid.
Then, she gathered up her bags and escaped from the store.
That hadn't been too hard.
||_||
He stared glumly at the ham and cheese sandwich.
He should be grateful.
He *was* grateful.
Just a few days ago, a ham and cheese sandwich would have been beyond his dreams.
But *she* hadn't given it to him.
She hadn't given him breakfast either.
He didn't mind that.
He was in no position to ask for food - let alone dictate who gave it to him - but since she had put the note in the prison last night telling him that she was fine, he hadn't seen her.
That was OK.
What scared him ... petrified him ... depressed him ... was the possibility that she was gone. Forever.
They were still feeding him.
If she had left, perhaps her legacy would be that he would receive food. Given enough water to drink and still have some for washing. Not be bashed with the poison rods.
The soap and toothpaste she had given him would last a few weeks. Perhaps longer if he used them sparingly.
Food ... water .... That was more than he would have dared to hope for just a few days ago.
But now ...
Now he felt as if the most precious thing in his life had been ripped away.
*Had* her nightmare been about him?
Had contact with him freaked her out completely?
He'd tried so hard not to scare her.
He was being stupid. Allowing himself to mope over something so completely out of his control was stupid.
Perhaps it was her day off.
She probably hadn't given him another thought.
She was probably off with her friends, her family, her husband, her children, having a great time and not expending one thought on the alien she was paid to keep locked away.
He had no rights.
Certainly, he had no say in who pushed the food through the door of the prison.
Perhaps she would be back tomorrow.
He finished his sandwich and swilled it down with the water from the bottle.
Then - because he needed something to keep his mind from descending into a dark slush - he spread out the strips of newspaper that he'd previously tidied and began putting them together like a jigsaw puzzle.
It was something to do.
But it didn't dislodge the beautiful woman from his thoughts.
Nor did it soothe the ache in his heart.
||_||
Lois stared at the little pile of clothes on her desk.
Buying them - she'd now discovered - had been the easy bit.
She had returned to the compound and held the rod as Shadbolt had pushed the bag containing the sandwich into the cell.
If he wondered at her sudden desire to avoid any contact with the prisoner, he hadn't voiced his questions.
The details of the way forward were becoming clearer in her mind.
All of her interaction with Mr Kent would happen during the eight hours of her shift ... when they were alone. Whenever someone else was here, she would be the aloof, professional boss.
But that left her with two problems.
She could easily hide her contact with Mr Kent. Much more difficult would be hiding the results of that contact.
Shadbolt and Longford couldn't see into the cell unless they opened the door. Fortunately, their concerns about the possible dangers posed by the alien meant that they were unlikely to linger when the door was open.
However, when pushing the food or washing bowl into the cell, they would check the prisoner. And some changes were going to be obvious.
If she gave him the clothes, should she ask him to change back into the tattered shorts whenever Shadbolt or Longford opened the door to deliver his breakfast or lunch?
It had been less than a week but already, Lois had already begun to notice changes in his physique. He wasn't so gaunt. His skin was smoother. His lips were no longer crusty and dry. He walked with more energy. His shoulders were straighter.
He was clean.
Those changes couldn't be concealed.
However, food and water were just the beginning of the ever-growing list of ideas that were flourishing like daisies in her mind.
Things to make the cell seem less like a prison - a mattress, a pillow, blankets, a chair, a small table.
Things to bridge the yawning chasm between him and the rest of the world - newspapers, a clock, a calendar, perhaps even a radio.
Things to give him back a small scrap of self-worth - a haircut, socks and shoes, the means to shave if he wished to, scissors so he could cut his nails instead of having to bite them off.
If she implemented those changes very gradually, perhaps Shadbolt and Longford would accept them without threatening a mutiny. After what had happened with Moyne, she couldn't risk them running to Scardino claiming she was putting their lives at unnecessary risk.
The second problem was deciding what level of interaction was appropriate between her and Mr Kent.
Giving him chocolate had been a mistake.
Her impulsive action now seemed overly ... intimate.
She wouldn't do it again.
Except ... she couldn't push away the lingering feeling of how much she had enjoyed witnessing his enjoyment.
He had suffered so much. He had been abused and neglected to the degree that she couldn't comprehend how he hadn't died. Not only was he alive, but he had shown a remarkable ability to recover. And it wasn't just physical - his body was no longer marked with any mementos of Moyne's brutality - but in every other way.
In fact, she was in awe of his emotional resilience.
The thing that shocked her most was that he seemed to have accepted *her* without prejudice. He hadn't assumed she was another despot who had come to inflict further pain and suffering.
When he looked at her, it wasn't with hatred but with cautious curiosity.
And, startlingly quickly, he seemed to have come to trust her.
Was it really trust? Or was trust easy when, realistically, he didn't have anything to lose? How could he show a lack of trust?
Refuse to eat the food that had been supplied?
That was possible but, in the circumstances, highly impractical.
Refuse to approach the door in fear of what might lurk behind it?
Again, possible, but it would hurt him the most.
He seemed to have accepted that the reason for putting his food and water near the door was not about luring him forward but about limiting his exposure to the rods.
He had stopped turning away whenever the door opened.
Was he being deliberately non-threatening and seemingly trustworthy because he wanted her to trust him? Because he had a plan? Either to kill her - as Moyne had suggested - or to somehow lead, or be involved in, a coup aimed at world dominion?
She didn't believe that.
The epiphany rocketed through her, wringing the breath from her lungs.
She didn't believe that his intentions were for evil.
She didn't.
She just didn't.
Her gut said he wouldn't hurt her.
Her gut said he wasn't a threat.
Her gut said he had done nothing wrong.
And this time ... this time ... she *would* listen.
Lois released a long groan of frustration.
What now?
She couldn't go to Scardino and demand justice on Mr Kent's behalf.
If she did, she would be shipped off to another assignment so fast she wouldn't have the time to push a final cup of tea into the cell.
That brought another pressing consideration into this chaotic mess.
She couldn't stay here forever.
Eventually, she would feel strong enough to end her sabbatical and return to the field.
What would happen to Mr Kent then?
For his sake, she had to be circumspect in her association with him, because when she moved on, he would still be the supposedly evil alien whom they believed had killed two men.
Perhaps that would be the time - knowing that she was leaving - for her to confront the higher-ups and demand justice.
With a sigh of exasperation, Lois stood from her chair and looked at the clock on the back wall. It was nearly three o'clock. Shadbolt had gone home ... and Longford wouldn't be here for another seven hours.
She was alone with Mr Kent.
On her desk - next to the small pile of clothes - was today's edition of the Daily Planet. She'd bought it this morning but had chosen to give him nothing except the sandwich and a bottle of water when she and Shadbolt had unlocked the cell door earlier.
She looked through the window.
Mr Kent was sitting - listlessly - against the back wall. He'd meticulously arranged the torn strips of newspaper back together.
He'd done it without much enthusiasm, though.
Why had he done it?
Surely, his proclivity for neatness didn't extend to -
Lois groaned as comprehension sparked in her brain. He was bored.
Of all the things he had suffered under Trask, boredom had probably been the least of them.
Now that he wasn't fighting hunger, or thirst, or injuries, or exposure to the rod, time hung heavily.
What was he going to do?
For that matter, Lois wasn't sure how she intended to fill the next seven hours.
But she could start with giving him the newspaper ... and a notepad and pen.
The pen would enable him to do the crossword puzzle in the paper if he so desired. It would allow him to write ... draw ... it would open up possibilities to occupy his time.
Lois picked up the pen and paused.
Last time, she had given him a crayon - because a crayon couldn't be used as a weapon.
A pen could be used to stab ... but ... he wouldn't do it.
She was sure he wouldn't do it.
And she was tired of jumping at every possible shadow.
She picked up the Daily Planet and the notepad, lingered for a moment as she looked at the rods, and then continued down the stairs without one.
She unlocked the cell door.
She pushed it open.
She crouched low and looked around the doorjamb.
He hadn't moved from the back wall, but he was looking directly at her.
Lois put the newspaper on the floor, and added the pen and the notebook.
She lifted her head, and her gaze scooted across the yards of concrete that separated them and locked on him.
She stood. She waited, watching him, her hands on the doorjamb, one foot just inside the cell, the other in the staffroom.
Mr Kent didn't move for what seemed like a long time.
Then, his hand flattened against the wall, and he rose slowly to his feet.
He made no move towards her.
What would he do if she stepped into the cell?
Lois shuffled back and leant against the open door. She ran her hand down the edge of it. As she had expected, there was neither a lock nor a handle on his side of the door. If she stepped in, she would have to leave the door open.
She definitely couldn't risk it closing behind her.
She couldn't go in ... the rods were upstairs in her office.
She would be defenceless.
But he wouldn't hurt her.
She was sure he wouldn't hurt her.
Her mouth had gone dry.
Her heart was racing.
She raised her hand in farewell and retreated into the staffroom.
She closed the door, locked it, and hurried up the stairs, noting that the pain in her ankle had diminished to an occasional twinge.
In her office, she went to the window.
Mr Kent had picked up the things she had left at the door and was returning to his place against the wall.
He carefully put the newspaper on the floor, sat down, rested the notepad against his raised thigh, and began to write.
Above him, Lois watched.
A minute later, he stood, took the pen and notepad to the door, and left them on the floor. Then he returned to the wall, sat down, and picked up the newspaper.
Lois descended the stairs, unlocked the cell door, and opened it. She gathered the pen and paper, and looked up at Mr Kent.
He was watching her, as she knew he would be.
She wrested her eyes from him and looked at the top sheet of the notepad. It read:
'Thank you for everything you have done for me.'
The word 'everything' was underlined twice.
His handwriting was neat and flowing.
She could almost imagine his voice ... saying those words.
Thank you for *everything* you have done for me.
Would his voice be gentle? Deep? Melodious? Somehow, she couldn't imagine it being harsh or cold.
Would he look at her with those expressive brown eyes as he said the words?
Why didn't he speak?
Had Trask and Moyne done something to ensure that Mr Kent would never speak again? To guarantee that he could never tell of their atrocities?
Lois stared at Mr Kent, wondering so many things.
Was he hoping she would respond to his note? After the years of not being able to communicate, did he shrink from it? Or welcome it?
She put the pen to the paper and wrote:
'Keep the pen and notepad.'
It was formal and cautious. It allowed for the possibility of further communication, but without assuming he would want to.
Lois put them on the floor, waved to him, waited for the response she knew would come, and then shut and locked the door.
Back in her office, the pile of clothes seemed like an affront to her indecision. She turned away from it and watched Mr Kent instead.
He had retrieved the notepad and pen and was back in his place, reading the paper. The pad and pen were on the floor next to him.
Did he understand the need to take this slowly?
Was he - just as she was - hesitant about what to say? What to admit? What to ask?
Lois checked the time. It was twenty past three.
What was she going to do in the hours that stretched ahead?
She hadn't come prepared at all.
Now she understood why Trask had filled his office with books and crossword puzzles.
Her glance fell to the boxes shoved in a rather haphazard pile in the corner. Two of the boxes held Trask's possessions, and the other three held his notes and research.
Should she try to read the notes again? Should she search for any information that might give her answers to her many questions?
She turned to Mr Kent.
And then back to the boxes.
Reading Trask's notes seemed like an act of treachery.
She knew that they contained inaccuracies. She suspected that some of his reports were blatant lies.
If she wanted information about Mr Kent, shouldn't she ask *him*?
In doing that, she risked being given the opposite - yet possibly equally unbalanced - view of what had happened.
But ... she trusted Mr Kent more than she trusted Trask.
She hadn't spoken one word to Mr Kent. She had exchanged only a few notes. Yet her gut said he was more trustworthy than Trask.
If she wanted information, she would ask Mr Kent.
Should she simply write out a list of questions and put them in his cell? How would he respond if she did that?
Would he answer her openly? Or would it overwhelm him?
There was another possibility ...
A possibility that played around her mind like a wilful child.
A possibility that she knew she should reject without further thought.
And she had rejected it. Repeatedly. And - like a child's swing - it kept coming back.
The harder she pushed it away, the more forcefully it came back.
She could go into the cell.
She could open the door.
Walk in.
Walk right up to him.
And say, "Hello, Mr Kent."
How would he react?
She was sure that he wouldn't hurt her.
She was *almost* sure that he wouldn't try to escape.
But, beyond that, she couldn't settle on the most likely scenario.
Would he speak?
Would he cower into the corner?
Would he try to gesture to her?
The notepad and pen were in his cell. If he didn't seem able to respond verbally, she could put them in his hand and suggest that he write something.
Would he be scared of her?
She knew her heart would be pounding almost to the point of exploding in her chest.
Who would be the most apprehensive?
Him?
Or her?
It might just be dead even.
Should she do it?
When?
Perhaps more notes first?
But what?
Should she tell him something?
Or ask him something?
The notepad still lay next to him.
Was there a reason why he hadn't written anything else?
Was it just that he didn't know what to say either?
Lois took another notepad from the desk drawer and wrote two words:
'Tea'
'Coffee'
Next to each of the words, she drew a little box.
Then, underneath, she wrote:
'Milk'
'Sugar'
And two more accompanying boxes.
Then she paused.
Was this too much like he was the patron in a restaurant? Or was this just making simple adjustments that would cost her nothing and might mean a lot to him?
She'd do it. If only because then she wouldn't have to think of something else to write.
She ripped the paper from the pad, hurried down the stairs, opened the door, took half a step over the threshold, and bent low to put the paper on the concrete.
From nowhere, an idea rolled over her like a breaking wave.
It rekindled a spark of youthful vitality that she'd thought had gone forever.
And engulfed her with playfulness ... frivolity.
It was powerfully persuasive ... and Lois found that she didn't want to resist.
She lifted her hand, palm towards Mr Kent, in a gesture that she hoped he would take as, 'Be back in a minute,' and went into the staffroom. She shut the door, but didn't bother locking it.
She put the piece of paper on the table and quickly folded it into a paper airplane.
This was ridiculous.
But, ridiculous or not, she suddenly couldn't stop grinning like a cheeky schoolkid.
She hadn't felt this alive since the last time she and Linda had laughed together.
Lois straightened her face and pushed the door open.
Mr Kent was still sitting, but he'd removed the newspaper from his lap and had picked up the pen and notepad.
Lois lifted her right arm - loaded with the paper plane - paused long enough that a sudden missile invading his cell wouldn't startle him, and then thrust the plane forward.
It glided, dived, and landed about three feet short of where Mr Kent was sitting. He stared at it - his eyebrows lost in the tangle of his hair. He needed a few seconds to recover, and Lois had to work to keep from bursting into giggles. Finally, he looked from the airplane to her. He pointed at it with a long forefinger, and Lois nodded.
Mr Kent rose from the concrete and took two slow steps towards the paper plane. After he'd picked it up, he retreated to the wall, unfolded it, and read it.
He picked up the pen and wrote more than the expected couple of checks. Then he slipped the pen into his pocket and faced her, poised like a spear thrower.
He lobbed the plane forward. It glided in a perfect arc and executed a smooth landing at her feet.
Lois looked up to him and gave a slight grin of surprise and delight.
She picked up the plane and unfolded it.
He hadn't checked her little squares, but he had written:
'Either. Tea - milk, no sugar. Coffee - milk, 2 sugars. Thank you.'
She took two steps into the staffroom, picked up the pen from the table, and wrote:
'I'm having coffee. Suit you?'
She quickly refolded the creases and moved into the cell.
Mr Kent hadn't moved.
She energetically launched the paper jet, hoping to match his effort. It barely lifted above head height and then suddenly nosedived with a spectacular lack of grace. It came to rest on the concrete, its front portion crumbled like a concertina.
It had split the distance between them.
What now?
Lois looked at Mr Kent.
He looked at her.
Did she move further into the cell?
Or did he move towards the door?
Neither.
He backed away ... into the far corner of the room.
Then he slid down the wall and sat.
Lois's legs felt like hardened concrete. Her heart was pulsating in her eardrums. Her lungs couldn't seem to get enough oxygen.
Did she walk into the cell?
Or did she walk away?
If she walked away, the message would be clear: I don't trust you.
If she walked forward, she would be putting herself into a perilously vulnerable situation.
A situation so vulnerable that death was a possibility.
Deller and Bortolotto had died horrible deaths in this cell.
But she believed that the man who had killed them wasn't here.
'Trust your gut, Lane.'
Linda's voice echoed through her mind.
Lois pushed the door all the way open and took half a dozen shaky steps forward. She kept her eyes on Mr Kent. He didn't move. She picked up the plane, hurled it towards him, and then backed steadily towards the door, fighting the impulse to turn and run.
He didn't move until she had reached the haven of the doorway.
Then he stood, picked up the plane, and read her message.
He turned over the paper and wrote a few words.
He refolded it, carefully straightening the damaged cockpit, and launched it.
Again, it landed within inches of her feet.
He was good at this!
Lois picked it up. His message read:
'Perfectly. Thank you.'
Her pounding heart needed a reprieve. She dropped the plane to the ground and hurried into the staffroom. Once the door was shut, she leant against it, her head flopped back. Every muscle in her body was strained to rigid tightness.
She'd been into the cell - and walked out unharmed.
He had done nothing more threatening than lob a paper airplane in her direction.
Lois brewed the coffee, poured his, added two sugars, stirred, and put it just inside the cell. Mr Kent waved his appreciation.
She locked the door and went slowly up the stairs with her coffee.
Things had changed.
In just a few minutes, things had changed. They had communicated ... but so much more than that had happened. He understood her caution ... her lack of trust. He *expected* it ... and that ripped a little hole in her heart.
Why hadn't he spoken?
*Could* he speak? She had third-hand information through Shadbolt that Mr Kent had spoken in the early days. Was that true? What if he couldn't speak? He could read and write. He looked human. But what if his particular kind of alien was mute?
Or had Trask and Moyne done something unthinkable?
She hadn't spoken either.
Was he wondering about that?
Lois slumped into her chair and sipped at her coffee as her mind spun itself into a dizzying hodgepodge of questions that had no answers.
||_||
Mr Kent spent the afternoon hours reading the newspaper.
Lois spent the afternoon hours reading one of Trask's murder mysteries. It didn't seem right to do one of the crosswords from his books, but reading a book seemed less intrusive.
She had chosen the one that looked least dreary, but it wasn't able to hold her interest for longer than a few minutes at a time. For reasons that she decided not to examine too closely, watching a man read a newspaper was more riveting than the story in the pages of Trask's novel.
Tomorrow, she would come prepared.
She'd *thought* she had come prepared today. She glared at the little pile of clothes as they sat in silent condemnation.
Why was she so undecided?
Perhaps she could give him the tee shirt and the shorts but keep the underwear. Would that seem less personal?
She unlocked the closet, shoved the clothes into the shelf under the television, and shut the door with a sharp bang.
A few minutes later, Mr Kent rose from the floor and began to run. For the next half an hour - while he ran, and did push ups, and sit ups, and stretches - Lois managed to read not one word of the book.
It was five-thirty five when he finished. There was just enough time for him to wash up before supper. Lois hesitated over whether she should write him another note.
Eventually, she decided to.
She wrote:
'I will be in the staffroom until supper arrives in half an hour. You will have privacy.'
She stared at the note. Was it the height of gullibility to alert him to the fact that he wasn't going to be watched? No - she had warned him that she would be in the staffroom, which closed off any possibility of escape.
Pointedly ignoring the pile of clothes, Lois checked that the camera *wasn't* on, went to the staffroom, and filled the bowl with hot water.
She placed it in the cell, put the note next to it, and lingered just long enough to meet his eyes and acknowledge him with a slight wave of her hand.
Lois locked the door and slumped onto a chair as regret rolled over her. This would have been the perfect time to give him the clothes. But she couldn't do it now ... if she went back up to her office, she would be breaking her word to him. He would probably never know, but it seemed important that if she promised him something, she didn't renege.
And if she tried to give him the clothes, there was always the chance that she would open the door to the cell and catch him in a compromising position.
She tidied the staffroom - wiped down the table and drainer, washed the few cups that had been left there, and waited for their supper to arrive.
At six o'clock, she exited through the external door, locked it, and went to the sidewalk to wait for Uncle Mike's delivery boy.
He arrived half a minute later, and she returned with the two meals.
Removing the lid revealed roast beef, roasted potatoes, broccoli, carrots, and beans - all covered in thick gravy.
Lois reached into the tray and picked out a fork *and* a knife. A small part of her reared up in protest at the thought of giving an accused killer a knife, but she refused to be swayed.
He needed a knife to cut the beef.
He needed a knife ... and he would have a knife.
She unlocked the door and pushed it open a few inches. She peeped in and saw the empty bowl next to the doorway. Good - he'd finished.
Lois placed the meal on the concrete with the knife and fork. There was a note there. She picked it up, took the washing bowl, and glanced up to Mr Kent. He was sitting against the back wall.
She read what he had written.
'Thank you for giving me privacy. I hope your injuries are recovering well.'
Fighting down the lump that had suddenly flared into her throat, Lois gave him a small wave and moved back into the staffroom.
She shut the door, locked it, and picked up the other container.
As she climbed the stairs, Lois made a decision.
If he returned the knife and fork after he'd eaten, she would get them out of the cell, and then she would go in.
She would walk into the cell - without a rod - and she would speak to Mr Kent. Face to face.
