17. Ripley
CHAPTER 17
RIPLEY
STREET SPIRIT (FADE OUT) – RADIOHEAD
Ten Years Earlier
I don’t remember much about my mother. Even the memory of her scent is vague—a generic, floral fingerprint, but I couldn’t say what perfume she wore or her preferred bouquet for Valentine’s day.
Over time, those details faded. Whether by choice or design, it’s hard to say. Eight-year-old Ripley wanted to lock her pain in a box and bury it at the bottom of the ocean. To do that, she scrubbed her memories too.
I tried painting Mum once. My uncle never kept photos of his sister around. All my parents’ belongings were either sold or put into storage after I moved, so I had to use nothing but memory alone.
Reaching for the image of my mother, I found an empty cavern instead. I’m not sure I could even tell you the colour of her eyes. Brown? Green? Blue? Grey? Whatever hue, they still turned to mulch beneath the ground she was buried in.
But I do remember one thing.
A few months before Dad’s heart attack, I had to have my tonsils removed. I was always getting throat infections, spending whole months living off ice cream. My dad kept the freezer well-stocked.
When I woke up in hospital after the surgery, Mum was there. Curled up in the bed next to me, her body lined up against mine, that nameless flowery scent wrapped all around me. I remember how safe I felt. How loved.
She never let me go through the scary stuff alone. Splinters stuck in fingers. Grazed knees. Failed spellings tests. Dad’s funeral. Mum was always there. Until the day she didn’t come home.
I have no one left now.
Not for the hard stuff.
A tickle in my nostrils rouses me. The scent of hospital-grade bleach is an unpleasant stench. It sneaks into my awareness and pulls me from the hazy shroud of my mother’s perfume, still floating in my mind.
“Come on. You’ve been discharged.”
“No! I’m not leaving her.”
“Who is she to you, Raine? What’s going on here?”
“I care about her! Back off.”
An incredulous scoff. “You know what she’s done! This is where she belongs.”
“I don’t give a fuck about this feud between you two. It has nothing to do with me. I’m not leaving her.”
This time, there’s an irritated groan.
“She’ll break your heart then walk all over the broken pieces. Don’t come crawling back to me the moment she does. I’m not gonna be the one to fix it.”
Imposing footsteps thump away. Each whack of the heavy soles on what sounds like tile or linoleum is a thunderclap. I want to cover my ears, but moving doesn’t seem like a possibility. Not even my eyelids will lift.
“Your friend’s an asshole.”
Huh. Rae.
“Yeah,” Raine responds tiredly. “That he is.”
“You can go. I’ve got her.”
“No, I want to be here.”
“At least sit down. You look half-dead.”
Chair legs scrape across the floor. Plastic cushions creak. I think I hear Rae sigh. They don’t talk, their silence allowing me to hear the sounds of the medical wing. I’m certain that’s where I am. It’s a tiny corner of the institute.
I don’t know how long it is before Rae speaks again.
“The guards track those bastards down?”
“I don’t know.” Raine sounds so exhausted, his voice raspier than usual. “I’m not sure what wild goose chase Ripley sent them on.”
“We’ll hear soon enough. I hope they’re all transferred or sent to prison.”
“That seem likely to you?”
Rae definitely sighs this time. “Nothing does anymore.”
Lapsing back into silence, it’s a long time before I hear Raine’s rough voice again. It’s thick with emotion now.
“I let her down.”
“Come on,” Rae sympathises. “That isn’t true.”
“I was passed out while that lunatic carved her up like a piece of meat. Ripley needed me. I’m fucking useless.”
“Ripley would never admit to needing anyone, even if it meant life or death. She doesn’t let anyone get close.”
“What about you?” Raine asks.
Her pained chuckle hurts my soul. “Not for a lack of trying. I think she needs a friend. But after a year of back and forth, she still holds me at arm’s length.”
“I thought you were her friend.”
“I’m not sure she has any of those. That would give her too much to lose.”
Their murmurs are interrupted by a door creaking open. Shoes squeak across the floor, and from the swish of hospital scrubs, I’d guess it’s a member of staff.
“Alright. Time to go.”
“We’re staying,” Raine replies firmly.
I hear Rae hum in agreement.
“She’s on strong pain medication. The blood transfusion will go on for a few more hours. Go get cleaned up.”
“But—”
“Go on. Scram.”
At the sounds of their reluctant retreat, I feel the warmth embrace me again, darkness creeping back in. With whatever magical drugs they’re pumping into me, I can’t say that I even want to wake up.
I float on a pharmaceutical cloud until the tug of someone pulling a needle from my arm drags me back to the surface. This time, the soft warmth of drugs has faded, pain exploding from every cell in my body.
My entire body pulses in time with each fresh wave of agony. Ribs burning, fingers aching, nose stuffy and sore. Excruciating pain emanates from my entire left arm. I’m convinced it’s on fire.
“Here she is, Warden. We’re easing her off the pain medication.”
What sounds like dress shoes tap closer.
“What have you done this time, Miss Bennet?” There’s a weary sigh. “Alright, lead him in.”
A door clicks then more footsteps approach. I must still be high. I’m imagining talking, dismembered legs hovering around my bedside with no bodies attached to them. Until another voice forces me to discard that hairbrained theory.
“Christ.”
“Jonathan,” Davis greets politely. “I hope we didn’t disturb you. How was the helicopter ride?”
“Fine. I was in a board meeting when you called. What’s the situation?”
“Your niece will recover with time. She took a severe beating.”
“Obviously,” he quips. “Unprovoked?”
“Unclear. Though as far as Miss Bennet is concerned, she would not struggle to provoke someone. It’s unlikely this was a motiveless attack.”
“Sounds about right.”
Yeah, definitely high. There isn’t a chance in hell that my uncle is here having a nice little chat with the goddamn warden. I haven’t seen Uncle Jonathan in years. He wouldn’t trouble himself.
“This role was supposed to keep her safe from further trouble.” Jonathan’s voice is matter-of-fact. “That was the agreement when her transfer was arranged.”
“Indeed it was.”
“Then what’s the issue here? Was my donation not sufficient?”
“Your niece has proven to be a difficult beast to tame. She steps beyond the bounds of her role on a daily basis. We can’t risk our operations with such a loose cannon anymore.”
Another longer, wearier sigh comes from my uncle. “These are precarious times for all of us.”
“Then you understand our predicament.”
“Of course, Abbott. I’ll deal with my niece. I’d appreciate your discretion in removing the threat against her while I do so.”
“On this occasion,” Davis agrees. “Any further conflict or disruption, and I’m afraid not even your investment in the corporation will keep her safe.”
“Naturally. You have a business to run.”
My uncle’s voice drips with detachment as he casually discusses my fate. Not even a moment’s hesitation before so quickly washing his hands of me all in the name of fucking business.
Betrayal is a silent knife in the gut, tearing past intestines and kidneys to reach something deeper. Something that was broken to begin with, but I hadn’t wanted to admit that sad reality.
He isn’t my family.
He doesn’t love me.
Maybe he never did.
I think I hear a shoulder being clapped before a set of footsteps fade away. Someone sits down close by. Tapping loudly on a phone screen, their breathing is even. Calm. I know it’s him. He isn’t leaving.
There’s no avoiding this shitty conversation. With a lot of willpower, I wrench my eyes open. I have to blink rapidly to get the cubicle to settle. I am indeed in Harrowdean’s small but functional medical wing. Curtains are drawn to offer my bay some privacy.
With white sheets pulled up to my chin, my right arm is resting on a pillow off to the side, a thin rubber tube leading into the crook of my elbow. I watch the dark, gloopy droplets of borrowed blood feed into me.
Thick swathes of bandages are twined around my other arm from elbow to wrist. Lower still, each finger has been splinted with black Velcro, holding the throbbing digits in place.
“Ripley.”
Jonathan has what my mum called a business meeting voice on the rare occasion that she mentioned her baby brother. I remember that detail clearly. It’s one of the first things I noticed when I was forced down to London as a kid.
He’s ten years younger, now in his mid-forties, but he wears his age with well-pampered youthfulness. His dark-brown hair is an expensive dye job that covers the silver wisps he was developing when I last saw him.
With smooth, tanned skin, a well-trimmed beard and clear eyes that both captivate and terrify, it’s no wonder he’s a formidable opponent in the boardroom. Capable of negotiating even the trickiest of business deals or investments.
Elbows braced on his knees, his broad shoulders strain against his perfectly fitted, pinstripe suit. It probably costs more than the yearly salary of his multiple personal assistants. He has a whole walk-in wardrobe full of designer clothes.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak out.
He casts an eye over me. “Perhaps you’d like to answer that question. What am I doing here, Ripley?”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“When I get a phone call saying my niece has been half-beaten to death and sliced up by some punk, I’m forced to find out what she’s gotten herself into.”
Wincing, I try to sit up to see him better. He doesn’t bother to help or offer to fluff my pillow. The needle feeding into my arm tugs, forcing me to give up and slump back on the lumpy mattress.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” he echoes coolly.
“This idiot has it out for me. Thought I knew where his friend got shipped off to. People assume I know stuff… for obvious reasons.”
Jonathan exhales through his nose. “The whole point of this role was to offer you protection. Do you have any idea what strings I had to pull to sort this safe haven for you?”
Safe haven?
For a man who’s used his intelligence to amass a multimillion-pound fortune, he can be so fucking obtuse. Harrowdean isn’t safe for anyone—patient, stooge or otherwise.
“You asked to be transferred from Priory Lane,” he continues smoothly. “I made all the arrangements and ensured you’d have a comfortable life here. Perks included.”
In my exhausted state, I can’t hold my tongue.
“Do you think it’s comfortable to be management’s bitch?”
“You asked for this position!”
“I asked to be saved! Not sacrificed!”
Folding his arms, he leans back in the chair. “And what about the sacrifices I’ve made for you?”
My eyes prickle with furious tears. I’ve dealt with too much today to hold them back or plaster on a brave face. My mum isn’t tucked into this hospital bed with me, holding me tight. In fact, no one is.
I’m alone.
Eternally.
Years of frustration and pain come rushing out. All the times I’ve wanted to scream and rave at him, but have managed to hold it back with a shoestring of control. I hate the pathetic tremble in my voice.
“The only thing you sacrificed was another dusty, unused room in your mansion. You never wanted to get stuck with me. If we had any other living family, you soon would’ve shirked the responsibility.”
He shakes his head. “You’re so ungrateful.”
“Tell me what I should be grateful for, then. The missed birthdays? Weeks left in the care of your staff? Being stuffed with medication? Or packed off to the first place you could find to keep your batshit-crazy niece quiet?”
“I’ve taken care of you for all these years.”
“No. You’ve tolerated me. Sometimes even that was too much to expect. I’m another business transaction to you like everything else in your life.”
I wonder if I see a flicker of regret. Or even sadness. But his clear grey eyes don’t reveal any such weakness, and the perfect poker face he’s used on me for my entire life never once falters.
I wish I cared as little as he does. I’ve spent a year trying to emulate that same business-minded detachment. And where has it got me? To this goddamn hospital bed.
“I don’t know why Mum left me in your care. Perhaps she thought the day she wouldn’t be around anymore would never come. You were nothing more than a last resort to her.”
Not even a flinch. It’s like my words bounce right off him and roll back into the ocean without pulling him under. He straightens his cuffs before sweeping his gaze around the clinical room.
“Do you even care?” I feel more tears spill over.
“About what?” He sighs.
“Me!”
Jonathan clicks his tongue. “I care about the investment you’ve squandered by getting into pointless fights with your peers. Your place here is hanging by a thread.”
“And it would be so inconvenient if I wasn’t quiet and off your radar, right? Do you even want me to go home?”
His lips purse. Not even a nod. He can’t muster the smallest amount of energy it would take to make me feel the slightest bit better. Is it any wonder that I’ve turned out like this? I learned from the best.
My cheeks sting with the lash of salty tears over deep bruises and swelling. But it still doesn’t compare to the pain writhing in my chest, right about where my heart should be. Where nothing but a black hole resides.
“You’ve tied my hands, Ripley. There is nothing more I can do for you.”
“What does that mean?”
Jonathan shrugs. “I can’t risk myself any further.”
“We’re supposed to be family.” My vision blurs with torrential tears.
He spares me another detached glance.
“Why couldn’t you have been normal?”
His words are the final kick in the gut. Years of abandonment slam down on me. The unwanted niece who became the disastrous situation. That’s all he sees me as. That’s all I will ever be.
“Next time you find yourself in a mess, don’t call my office. I can’t help you anymore. I suggest you tread very carefully from here on out.”
My hospital gown soaked from fierce sobs, I watch him stand up. Jonathan brushes off his tailored suit and turns away without another glance.
Tears gather in a pool at the base of my throat as I watch him walk away. My last remaining relative abandons me without any pomp or circumstance. It’s a quiet retreat. The pinnacle of his slow withdrawal from my life—as limited as his presence has been.
And once again, I’m left alone.
It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to completely fall apart without holding anything back. I’ve done everything in my power to hold that inevitable, cataclysmic breakdown at bay.
Hundreds of long, scrubbing showers. Hours spent on the treadmill. Countless splattered canvases. Brawls. Threats. Mask after mask, slotting my bravado in place. Avoiding friendship and intimacy at all costs. These things kept me safe.
Safe from caring.
Safe from getting hurt.
Safe from being abandoned again.
Hurting other people, supplying them with the means to hurt themselves, it’s all allowed me to maintain a cobbled-together image of self-control. Broken shards duct taped together in a haphazard puzzle.
I hate the words that sneak out.
“Please come back,” I whisper brokenly.
But he doesn’t.
Nor does the person I always wished he’d be. The illusion I’ve clung to. Now both versions are gone. All that’s left is an empty hospital room and the steady drip of someone else’s blood feeding into me.
Not even the sound of the partition curtain scraping back halts my sobbing. It’s peeled aside to reveal the unlikeliest of alabaster faces studying me. The midnight-blue in his eyes has returned to the surface.
Circling the bed, seeming as uncertain to his presence in my room as I am, Xander sinks into the vacated chair. He doesn’t utter a word. But my dry blood still staining his polo shirt is telling enough.
He hasn’t left me once.
Just remained tucked out of sight.
Face blank, his gaze slides down to my splinted fingers. The same ones he snapped back into place like he’s been doing it since before he could talk. His eyes remain there.
It shouldn’t be funny. None of this is. But the despairing laughter comes anyway. All I have left in the world is the man who hates me more than life itself. The iceman with his secret obsession.
“Go!” I shriek.
But he doesn’t.
So I fall apart some more.
What feels like hours later, I stare back up at the popcorn ceiling. There’s nothing left inside me. Not even defeat. My swollen, gritty eyes screw shut, too painful to hold open for a second longer. Oblivion is beckoning.
I must imagine it before I drop off.
But I swear, Xander takes my hand and squeezes.