Free Cold Shoulder by Lynda La Plante

wad of notes fall out from under her skirt. Her expression was angry and when he asked about the money she had told him to mind his own business; it was just her savings. Jake was sure she had a police record, he could tell by her face: that hardness. She must be as tough as any man to have taken such a crack and still be able to walk around.
    Rosie started to make some chicken soup, even though it was eighty degrees outside. She was feeling a bit wobbly and had almost eaten the entire pot before taking a small bowl in to Lorraine. She had been awake for quite a while, but kept her eyes closed, wincing as Rosie collapsed onto the bed. Her head ached, a sharp nagging pain that pressed into her eyes.
    ‘Soup,’ barked Rosie, holding up the bowl and a large spoon. Lorraine smiled. It was the last thing she would have thought of asking for on a warm clammy evening but when she tasted the first spoonful, it hit the right spot — as her mother always used to say. She took the spoon from Rosie, and fed herself, dunking the fresh white bread into the remains, and finally wiping the bowl clean.
    ‘I’d offer you some more but I made a pig of myself,’ Rosie admitted as she took away the bowl.
    Lorraine snuggled down. ‘I’m full and it tasted so good… and I don’t mind you sleeping with me — you’ll never fit on that sofa out there.’
    Rosie laughed. ‘Well, thank you very much! I thought I’d take the cushions off and put them on the floor. I’d kick you out, but Jake said you should watch it, you know, not roll about or bang your head. I’ll manage out on the sofa — but only for one night.’
    Lorraine listened to the plodding feet moving around. Her hand had slipped up her panties to feel the money, afraid that maybe Jake had mentioned it to Rosie. It was still there, and it acted as a comforter. She had more than three hundred dollars, enough to get away from Rosie.
    The bedroom floor shook as Rosie reappeared with some hot chocolate, slipped the mug onto the bedside table, turned on the night light, and straightened the duvet. It was the caring that did it, simply being tucked in like when she was a little girl, that made Lorraine’s heart ache.
    ‘Rosie… you still there?’ Lorraine whispered.
    ‘Yep, hovering like a hot-air balloon. Don’t forget to take your antibiotics.’
    Rosie watched Lorraine slowly raise herself on her elbow, her face twisted. ‘You want an aspirin?’
    Lorraine nodded, and Rosie fetched two tablets and held the mug of hot chocolate to her lips. Lorraine felt the thick sweet liquid slip down her throat.
    ‘I’ll be right outside if you need me.’
    Lorraine flushed. ‘Rosie, I, er… well, I guess I do want my life back and if it means going to those meetings, well, then we’ll go together.’
    Rosie nodded. ‘I should fuckin’ hope so. G’night, sleep tight. Tomorrow you’re back on the sofa.’
    Lorraine gave a soft laugh, and nestled down. She hadn’t heard the sound of her own laugh for so long that it warmed her now, and made her feel good, as did the soft duvet and big, squashy pillows. Nearly four months, she calculated, and she had not had one drink. Could she — did she really
want
to stay on the wagon? The money was a hard lump in her panties. She eased it out and tucked it under the pillow, keeping her hand on it, feeling drowsy, wondering vaguely why the driving licence had a different picture from the guy who had picked her up. The car was probably stolen, she told herself, the wallet must have belonged to its real owner. She sighed deeply as she recalled the incident. The claw hammer kept in the glove compartment. Very convenient. The position he had forced her into on his lap, the reclining angle of the seat… as if he had done it before? Jake had said she was lucky to be alive, another fraction of an inch higher and he would have cracked her skull open. If she hadn’t bitten his neck she’d be dead. She knew she had marked him — the bite was deep.