Playing With Fire

She turned the lock and switched off the light before very slowly and very quietly opening the door. She hadn’t a clue how much time she’d wasted, but hopefully enough that Aidan would have drifted off again. Putting her eye to the crack, she saw a soft glow spilling from the bedroom, indicating that the bedside lamp was still on. Trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible, she strained to hear the smallest noise. After a long minute of silence, she decided it was safe to venture out.

Heading in the opposite direction from the bedroom, she crept along to the sitting room. Entering, she pushed the door carefully to behind her and used the ambient light coming in through the window to pick her way across the room to switch on a lamp. Mindful of making too much noise, she started looking for the remote before turning on the TV so she could mute the sound.

Could she find the damn thing in the half-light? Could she hell. It wasn’t on the coffee table. Or the sofa. Nowhere on either of the armchairs. Or the TV stand.

Muttering to it to show itself, she conducted a quick search of the bookcase. No luck there either. Straightening, she turned towards the sofa again, only to stop short at the sight of the door, now wide open and showing Aidan – very much awake and dressed in jeans and jersey – leaning against the jamb.

Arms crossed over his chest, he watched her. ‘How long have these nightmares been going on?’

Flustered, she deflected the question with one of her own. ‘What do you think you’re doing, sneaking around in the dark?’

Calmly, he unfolded one arm and reached to flick on the overhead light so that the room was suddenly as bright as day, leaving her squinting. ‘How long, Annabel?’ he persisted softly.

Shrugging, she muttered something non-committal and turned to continue her search for the remote, making it clear she didn’t want to talk about it.

From the corner of her eye she saw him straighten from the doorway and come into the room. ‘Are they always that bad?’

That bad? Mostly they were worse. ‘They’re just dreams,’ she sighed.

‘Dreams about the attack, that much was obvious from your shouts. I remember you had a couple when you came to stay with me from the hospital.’

Admitting defeat in her hunt for the remote, she flopped down on the sofa. If Aidan wasn’t going to take her hints, she’d have to state the obvious for him. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

He came to sit beside her, reached out and tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear. She was relieved to see him nod. ‘As long as you’re talking to someone.’

Aware of something hard sticking into her behind, Annabel shifted. Reaching under the cushion she found the remote. Typical.

Aiming it at the TV, she was ready to hit the on button when Aidan said, ‘Annabel?’

She glanced at him to find he was looking at her expectantly.

‘Are you?’ he prompted.

She blinked at him. ‘Am I what?’

He let out a slow, audible breath. ‘Are you talking about the dreams with your counsellor, or therapist, or whoever it is you’ve been seeing?’

She gave a short laugh. Therapist? Counsellor? What was he on about? Was he sleep-talking? ‘I’m not seeing a counsellor.’

His brow furrowed as though that troubled him somehow. ‘Maybe you should think about going again?’

‘Again?’ She felt her own brows join the party. ‘I’ve never seen anyone like that in my life.’

Now he gave her an incredulous stare. ‘You didn’t take up the offer of Victim Support?’

‘What?’

‘What do you mean, “What?”?’ Those pale-grey eyes continued to stare. ‘The support service the police spoke about referring you to. At the hospital. After the attack.’

Oh, that. She recalled someone getting in contact after she’d agreed to follow it up as a means to get Aidan to stop harping on it. To say the man could be single-minded about things was an understatement. ‘They did? I don’t really re–’

‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Because I do. Very clearly,’ he said stubbornly, proving her point about him not being able to leave things alone. ‘I was there with you.’

That was true. For all his annoying ways, he’d been the one by her bedside almost constantly, the one who’d taken her in and cared for her when she’d had nobody else. But did that give him the right to be as overbearing as hell now? ‘I didn’t follow it up because I don’t need that sort of help.’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Are you sure about that?’

What was that supposed to mean? ‘Of course I am. That type of thing isn’t meant for someone like me.’ She was affronted by the mere suggestion.

‘Someone like you?’ he pursued, his expression a mixture of confusion and doggedness.

‘It’s for, you know … real victims.’ She sprang up from the sofa, eager to get away from his irritating questions. ‘Do you want a coffee? I’m going to make one.’

Of course her escape attempt was thwarted. ‘Annabel, you were a real victim,’ Aidan insisted, right on her tail. ‘Of a serious physical assault.’

‘Physical being the operative word.’ She turned on the light as she entered her small galley kitchen. She went straight to the kettle and flicked the switch with one hand as she waved her injured arm in his direction. ‘And I’m having the treatment for that that I need. I start physio next week.’

As she opened the cupboard in front of her to take out mugs, she heard him let out another breath. This one shorter, less patient than the one a minute ago.

What was his problem? If anyone had the right to be getting shirty with this midnight interrogation, surely it was her.

‘You know you’re dealing with issues here that run deeper than merely physical,’ he said. ‘Stop pretending otherwise.’

She put the mugs down on the worktop and closed the cupboard. ‘I’m not pretending anything. I’m getting on with my life just fine.’ She opened the cutlery drawer and took out a teaspoon before pushing it shut again. ‘That psychobabble stuff is for victim-y victims – people who can’t cope.’

‘Is that right? So tell me, Ms I-Don’t-Need-Help, have you always had to sleep with the lights on, or is that a recent thing?’

Oh – she froze as she picked up the jar of coffee – she didn’t like that tone at all.

She turned to face him. ‘I don’t know, Mr Stick-My-Nose-In-Where-It’s-Not-Wanted, do you always invite yourself to stay places and then go fiddling with things that aren’t yours?’

He looked at her with the strangest expression, as though he couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing. And then he shook his head. ‘I’ve never met anyone so intent on making life as hard as possible for themselves!’ he said, the exasperation in his tone stabbing into a raw nerve.

She slammed the coffee jar back down. ‘You know what?’ She pointed the spoon in his face. ‘This is such shit. You don’t get to walk back into my life and judge me.’

His hand closed around hers and, with gentle but firm pressure, lowered it between them. ‘This isn’t judgement, Annabel,’ he said, his voice striving to convey patience that was at odds with the frustration in his gaze. ‘It’s concern.’

She knew that was probably supposed to make her feel better, but in reality it made things worse. It brought home how little experience she had of handling somebody else’s emotions. She was used to thinking and acting only for herself. That was why trying to get involved with him was a mistake. She didn’t have the first clue how to do relationships.

Both his gaze and his voice softened. ‘If we’re to make this work, you’re going to have to allow me to care about you, a mhuirnín.’

The Gaelic endearment rolled off his tongue like a verbal caress. Sweetheart, he’d told her it meant. But it was the rest of the sentence that thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. She had the feeling this man could turn her inside out if she let him, leaving exposed the hidden parts she’d been keeping safe and secure from harm since childhood. Parts that, if broken, couldn’t simply be reset and healed like her bones. While Tony Maplin wasn’t able to hurt her any more except in her dreams, she suspected that Aidan Flynn could inflict a different kind of suffering. Deeper and more damaging. How was she supposed to let him close and safeguard herself all at the same time?

Maybe she shouldn’t even be trying. ‘You’re the one who insisted on barging back into my life,’ she grumbled, pulling her hand from his. ‘If you don’t like what you’ve found, you know what you can do.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. And I won’t let you push me away. I’ve only just got you back. I’m not going anywhere.’

He sounded as sure and confident as ever, and that really grated because she knew it wasn’t the truth. He was going somewhere; that’s what had scared her off him in the first place. She called bullshit on the barefaced lie. ‘That’s not true, is it? You’re going back to Ireland.’