ain’t robbed it, if that’s what you think.’
‘I don’t think that.’
‘It’s me money I saved to come here. I told you I was going to give you some.’
Franny shook her head, going across to the other side of the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She opened a packet of dark chocolate biscuits, offering one to Chloe-Jane who proceeded to take several, much to Franny’s amusement.
‘Listen, Chloe, why don’t you keep the money? You’ll need it when you move on.’
Chloe-Jane bristled. She wanted to yell at Franny that that was the point. She didn’t want to move on. She wanted to stay, because aside from the fact she liked it with Franny, she had nowhere else to go. With a sad smile, Chloe replied, ‘Well until then; take it, it’ll make me feel better.’
Franny looked doubtful. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am!’
‘Okay, what I’ll do is, I’ll put it up here in this tin, and for any reason you want it back just take it. No questions asked. Deal?’
‘Deal, and I’ll give you eighty pound a week from now on. I don’t want to leech off anyone.’
‘Well I appreciate that, Chloe. Thank you.’
‘It’s no problem. No problem at all.’
It was getting dark as Chloe-Jane walked along Brewer Street, watching as the passing men ogled at her and the women gave her a look of scorn. She wore a low-cut pink top with nothing underneath, erect nipples obvious under the clinging material. Her tiny white miniskirt skimmed the bottom of her buttocks, and her high patent yellow shoes gave a swagger to her walk.
‘Fancy a drink, darlin’?’ A large, sweaty passing workman hollered out to her from his van.
‘Not with you, mate, I’d rather stick me head down the khazi and drink from there!’
The van sped off beeping its horn, leaving Chloe to cross the road at the junction of Brewer and Glasshouse Street.
Hanging out on the corner, a car pulled up. A man in his late fifties rolled down the window. His voice was low and Chloe could hear a Northern accent.
‘You doing business, love?’
Chloe nodded, quickly looking around before getting in.
‘Just fucking sew it back on. I don’t care how you fucking do it, but there ain’t no way I’m ending up like frigging Anne Boleyn.’ Alfie grimaced at the hospital doctor as he clutched his wrapped bloody hand to his body.
‘She had eleven fingers, not nine, and it was her head that was cut off, not her hand.’ Chloe-Jane smirked at her uncle as she chewed on the constantly present piece of gum.
‘I’ll chop your bleedin’ head off if you don’t shut it,’ Alfie growled at his niece. Why the hell Franny had brought her along, fuck only knew and it pissed him off no end.
‘Alfie, there’s no need for that.’ Franny spoke, not unkindly.
‘Me hand’s fucking been chopped off and she wants to give me a fucking history lesson, do me a favour!’
‘One finger isn’t exactly your whole hand, Alf.’
‘No? Well it fucking feels like it, you should try it someday. And look at the state of me boat, do I look like a person who’s just sat watching telly all day?’
Franny stared at Alfie, taking in his cut and bruised face. When she’d got his phone call asking her to come and see him, she’d been surprised and secretly pleased, thinking his male pride would have made it difficult for him to phone so soon. She’d been about to tease him about it but there’d been something in his voice which had stopped her. So instead she’d just listened, hearing the edge of urgency and panic in his voice. When he’d told her he was in the hospital, her stomach had tightened and she’d rushed to see him, bringing a complaining Chloe-Jane, who’d been very mysterious as to where she’d been, with her.
When Franny had opened the blue faded hospital curtain, she’d been shocked at the sight of his battered appearance.
She’d arrived in casualty full of sympathy but when she’d asked him questions about what had happened, Alfie had been rude and evasive, and Franny’s warmth had turned to what Alfie always called her bitch stance.
‘Perhaps a bit of sympathy would be nice. Ain’t too much to ask for.’
‘Well when you start behaving decently and answer my questions, maybe I’ll give you some.’
‘Has anybody told you you’ve missed your vocation? You should’ve been the Old Bill, do you go around giving everyone the third degree?’
‘No, only you when you’re being childish.’
Even through the pain, Alfie managed to stare at Franny incredulously, not quite believing what he was hearing. He’d called her assuming she’d be distraught with worry and concern, he’d even half suspected that she’d come to her senses, apologise and stop the stupid point she was trying to prove with Chloe-Jane. Sympathy. A little bit of TLC. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for? A man wanting a bit of care from his woman. It should be a given; man provides for woman. In return, woman cares for the man and tends to his every need. That’s the way it was. Should be. And that’d been the case since the beginning of time and it would always be – unless the woman on your arm went by the name of Franny flipping Doyle. It was just his luck. Just Alfie’s fucking luck to fall in love with an independent, man-hating, beautiful, fiery woman. On top of which, he now had only fucking nine fingers to his name.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to sew it back on?’ It was Franny who spoke to the doctor, voice full of concern, which only added to Alfie’s annoyance. She was able to air her concern and flicker her eyelashes at the handsome casualty doctor, but not for him.
‘I’m not sure, it really depends on the replantation team.’
‘Fucking hell, what am I? A frigging hydrangea? This ain’t Gardener’s World you know, mate.’
‘Ignore him, he often gets like this when he doesn’t get his own way.’ Franny smiled as she talked to the doctor who gave Franny a sympathetic look in return, making Alfie seethe even more.
Alfie decided he wouldn’t stand for this anymore and sprang up from the hospital trolley, ignoring the pain which was only slightly helped by the injection of painkillers he’d been given earlier. He grabbed the man by his good hand, pushing past Chloe-Jane who stood back trying to make eyes at the doctor, who was by now too busy trying to stop Alfie attacking him to notice.
‘Alfie! Alfie, get off him!’ Franny’s voice was pitched high as she shouted at Alf, pulling on the back of his bloodstained sweater.
‘Maybe I can help.’ A deep voice sounded
