Always There - a dark romantic story by WTSman

"Good Things Come In Small Packages", they say. George - himself
a very large human being - agreed with that: Marie, his team
leader in the cafe he worked at, was tiny, but she was a bundle
of energy and a natural born leader. She was beautiful too and
ought to have a perfect life. But before long George realised
that Marie was living in a domestic hell. What can a shy guy do?

PLEASE NOTE: There are references to rape and violence - and its
consequences - in this story. Site etiquette stipulates that you
should be warned, and I agree with that. The author abhors abuse
and violence, especially sexual violence.
__________________________________

"You're always there for me!"

Marie, 150 cm in height, or an inch shy of five feet if you like
it that way, needed something on a high shelf and couldn't reach
it. It was the busiest time of the evening and, although she was
deputy branch manager and team leader, she was never too grand to
work as hard everyone else. But tall she was not. George - her
latest recruit - was. Very tall. At a full 200 cm - or 6' 7", he
towered over all his co-workers and positively dwarfed Marie. But
he was a gentle and very considerate person and he had a knack of
'being there' whenever Marie or their co-workers needed to reach
for anything.

"You're welcome," George replied, accompanied by his sweet, shy
smile. He handed Marie the stuff she needed and returned to his
tasks at the coffee brewer.

He was only shy in a personal setting, Marie had noticed. Towards
customers he was open and friendly - cheerful and even jocular
when that was warranted, patient and polite when that was
required. But the moment he was with people that he would be
seeing on a regular basis he was guarded and reserved. Marie knew
a bit about his background from interviewing him for the job, but
since then she had learned preciously little more. That intrigued
her; she usually knew a lot about her staff - the whole
atmosphere was friendly and people generally opened up.

The little she knew from the interview was interesting enough.
George was a postgraduate student studying for a master's degree
in chemical engineering. She had asked him if he had any
experience at working in a cafe. He had replied with a sweet
apologetic smile that he hadn't, but was used to advanced
machinery and following complex recipes in a laboratory and this
couldn't be harder. That had turned out to be a fair and accurate
assessment, not a boast; and after a few hours of instruction he
could handle all the processes better than anyone else.

She also knew some aspects of his family background. Spurred on
by some unfortunate reports from the international cafe chain's
anonymous test-customers, Marie had been ordered to ensure her
staff was versed in at least English and preferably other major
languages, so she had asked him about his English fluency. She
remembered the conversation vividly.

"How is your English?" she asked.

"My English? Eh, totally fluent," he replied. "I'm bilingual. I'm
half English. My name ought to give that away."

"Of course - George," Marie agreed. The usual spelling in Danish
would be 'Georg' and the pronunciation completely different. "And
come to think of it, there aren't all that many of the surname
Rhodes in the local phone book," she added sheepishly.

George smiled; Marie was enchanted. "No, there's only Mum and
me," he agreed.

"Your father doesn't live here?" Marie asked. Not a strictly
professional question, but she readily admitted to the sin of
curiosity.

"Dad died many years ago," George said. "So Mum decided to move
back to Denmark."

"Oh, so you were born and raised in England?" Marie asked. This
question could be allowed - 'to find out about his fluency,' she
argued with herself.

"Yes," George replied. "Mum was an au-pair, if you can call it
that when there is actually not a pair. Or nanny, perhaps. Dad
was widowed with four children. My half brothers are about the
same age as Mum, but my sisters were only 7 and 10 when Mum was
hired."

"Oh!" Marie said. She was a sucker for romances and it sounded
totally romantic. "And she stayed?"

George smiled. "She was hired for a year, but they all loved her
and Dad married her at the end of that. Less than a year later I
was born."

Marie nearly cooed with delight. "And your half-siblings were
fine with that?"

"Absolutely," George replied with conviction. "I have always felt
loved," he added. There was a calm serenity about him. Marie
envied him the feeling.

"And yet you and your mother left?" she hazarded. She was way
outside what she needed to know professionally, but she was eager
to hear more.

"When Dad died, things were difficult for Mum," George said. "She
had gone to London straight out of high school and had no further
education. My brothers were well established, but my sisters were
still at university and Mum had no income to support them - or
herself and me, for that matter. So she decided to sell the
London house - the only big asset from my dad's estate - and put
the money in trust for my siblings. Then we returned here."

"Gosh," Marie said. "That must have been hard!"

"It was," George agreed. "I missed my friends and my siblings
terribly. My sisters in particular, even though they were no
longer living at home."

"How old were you?" Marie asked.

"Thirteen," George replied. "Not the best age to lose a parent
and have your whole world turned upside down," he added wryly.

"I can imagine," Marie said mechanically, although truth be told,
she couldn't. She suddenly remembered that this was supposed to
be a job interview and hastened back to the language issue. "I
guess your English would be pretty darn perfect then." She more
stated than asked. George just nodded.

Marie asked some more practical - and relevant - questions, but
once again her mind strayed. "What about Danish? I can hear you
speak it perfectly now, I mean, but back then?"

"It was OK," George said, slightly put out by the question. "Mum
always spoke Danish to me and we visited my grandparents
frequently, so it wasn't too hard to learn when we got here."
That answer was not truthful. He had actually struggled. These
were bad memories he wanted to suppress; his new Danish class
mates had been a bunch of unruly brats and merciless in their
teasing, but it was long ago now.

Marie pulled herself together. "Any other languages?" she asked.
"The company is keen on having multi-lingual staff at branches
this close to the major tourist centres."

"Oh, I see," George said. He had felt a little uncomfortable
about the personal questions, but was keen to get a job to
supplement his meagre stipend. Now he thought it had been about
language skills all the time and feared that the pretty, dark
elfin girl interviewing him must think him a terrible gossip.

That was very far from the truth, but the fear - combined with
his shyness - and on Marie's side her embarrassment at having
asked too many and too personal questions meant that they didn't
discuss anything personal in the following months.

George declared that he could converse in German, had enough
French and Spanish 'to get by' and that while he didn't exactly
speak Swedish, he understood it well enough and knew where to put
in different words to make his Danish intelligible to Swedes.

Marie was impressed. He fit the profile she was after perfectly.
He was asked to try his hand at the machinery and two hours later
he was hired.

____________________


A couple of months had passed. After hiring George, the last in a
group of new people, Marie got rid of some of the worst scatter
brains on staff. The cafe was doing very well, both during the
day time when Simon, the manager, was running it, and during
evenings and weekends when it became Marie's responsibility.
Another report from anonymous test-customers, compiled during a
major conference and involving a lot of foreigners, had praised
the cafe's 'outstanding international atmosphere' - a far cry
from the previous, damning report. Simon told Marie that the
chain's main office had accompanied the report with a letter in
which they praised the management for 'the care and
professionalism with which they had tackled the previous
critique' and stated that this 'exemplary turn-around' would be
mentioned in the internal worldwide newsletter. Simon, who was
honest and fair to a fault, had thanked the main office and
underlined Marie's role in recruiting new staff for the important
evening and weekend segments. He adored Marie in a paternal way.
In as much as he was easily old enough to be Marie's father, his
interest in her was purely platonic. He was gay and harboured no
sexual feelings about his deputy.

George did, which embarrassed him, but one cannot control ones
feelings, can one? He knew it would come to nothing. He knew
Marie was in a long term relationship with somebody called Peter.
Peter sometimes called during Marie's shifts - the other girls
were tittering that he was a jealous type. George just thought
they were being catty; Marie was smart and considerate and clever
and beautiful; in short: perfect. George was sure that Peter -
the lucky bastard - would have to be equally perfect.

And yet Marie always seemed tense when Peter had called. 'Surely
I must be imagining things,' George thought. 'It's probably just
because I fancy the girl myself.'

But no. George was not imagining things; Peter was abusive and
violent, manic in his suspicions and his baseless jealousy. He
controlled Marie completely. Controlled her by terror. Sex had
nothing to do with love or affection; it was rather a case of a
nightly rape. What makes an intelligent, resourceful and
independent minded girl like Marie put up with an abusive
partner? Why don't women simply leave? Or throw the bastard out?
It was Marie's apartment, after all.

Marie had tried. She had asked him to leave once when she was so
battered and bruised she couldn't go to work for 3 days. Peter
had left - long enough to buy flowers, a giant box of her
favourite chocolates and pretty bracelet. He returned, contrite
and remorseful, pleading that he had been under stress and
begging her for another chance.

He could be very charming at will. So the fool girl gave him that
chance and took him back in. Three days later he knocked her to
the floor and raped her again because she had mentioned the same
male staff member twice.

The abuse continued, but it was not constant, so Marie kidded
herself into believing that things were improving - until the
next episode. And she always found reasons to excuse Peter's
behaviour. That he was under stress, that she was not looking
after his needs, that she was being careless and giving him cause
to be jealous. She censored herself. She spoke very little about
her work and hardly ever about male colleagues, fellow students
or friends. She mentioned Simon - Simon was gay and thus 'safe'.
But Peter was a homophobe so Marie never admitted her very deep
affection, and she had to endure, and pretend to agree with,
Peter's bigoted outburst against 'the little poof'.

She never mentioned George. She simply didn't trust herself to be
neutral about her half-English recruit. Not only was he her best
worker - and the real cause of the recent turn-around; his
sweetness and helpfulness was a source of almost daily joy and
comfort, but she was sure Peter would go ballistic if she
mentioned anything like that.

For a few months her situation was tolerable, if you can call it
that. Then an ominous change to the worse started. Peter was
working as an instructor at a fitness centre. It brought in very
little; Marie was essentially the bread winner - working nights
and weekends at the cafe and studying for a business degree at
University during the week days. Peter did nothing to supplement
his meagre income; the work at the gym was only part time, but he
spent nearly all his free time there too, working out. He was
impatient with his physical development and started using illicit
drugs, steroids in particular. Their effect on his already
mercuric temper was frightening. He would hit Marie at the
slightest imagined provocation and in the end she fled. But Peter
guessed she was at her friend Helen's apartment, stalked the
place for hours and when Helen left for work, she was an
unofficial deputy to Marie, Peter kicked in the door and dragged
Marie home literally by the hair. That nigh he raped her in every
orifice and systematically beat her, bruising every square inch
of her body. No, actually, he didn't touch her hands and face -
he was careful not to leave marks on Marie that could be seen
when she was dressed.

When she crawled in to work a few days later Marie refused to
tell Helen what had happened. She refused to report it to the
police and claimed again and again that she had moved back in
with Peter voluntarily.

George, who had seen her limp and look beaten up, overheard part
of the conversation. When Marie went home - Helen essentially
sent her home - George asked Helen what was going on and Helen
confided her suspicions to him.

Aghast, George stewed for a day or two but then decided he had to
do something. He waited until the next time he had a shift
together with Marie. It was a Thursday towards the end of the
month and fairly quiet so only they and Helen were at work. Helen
was at the counter while George and Marie were going through
stock in the store room at the back. They worked so well
together; there was an almost telepathic report between them so
they hardly had to speak about the work. George finally spoke his
mind. Or perhaps more accurately, spoke his heart. "Marie," he
said quietly. "There are men who don't beat their partners."

Marie looked shocked. She couldn't keep eye contact and she was
mumbling something about 'being all right'.

"We both know you're not," George said - still quietly, but in a
tone of voice that left no room for argument. "If you want it to
end I'll be there for you."

Marie started weeping. "You're always there for me here, but this
you can't help me with. He has said he will never let me go."

"Marie, it has to stop!" George pleaded. "Why do you let him
treat you this way?"

In between the sobs, Marie started telling. She was from a broken
home and had experienced loss and neglect and deceit from an
early age. She didn't know her biological father and had no
contact with her mother any more. When she met Peter at the
fitness centre where he was her instructor for a while, she was
lavished with attention and was taken in completely. When things
were not perfect - and, even early on, Peter's true nature
unveiled itself - she was convinced it was due to her own
failings and she was adamant that she would not run away from
every conflict, like her mother had done. She wanted this to
work.

George was a good listener and Marie was really opening up.
George was fervently praying that business would remain slow so
Helen could manage on her own. But just when Marie got to tell
about when things had started going badly, there was a sudden
influx of 8-10 rowdy guests and the moment was lost.

The next evening George and Helen swapped notes. "I think he is a
sadist and closet paedophile which is why he picked someone so
small," Helen said.

"How big is the bloke?" George asked.

"Not very, actually," Helen said. "Not much taller than me.
Compared to Marie he is a giant of course, but you would dwarf
him."

"I dwarf most people," George said with a small smile.

"True, you are a very big human being," Helen smiled back, "but
hey! The world is a better place for having Gentle Giants in it!"

"Gentle Giants?" George asked puzzled.

"Yup. That's what Marie calls you," Helen replied. "You are her
Gentle Giant."

"I could be hers all right," George said - mostly to himself, but
Helen heard him. "If only she wanted me," he added in an even
lower voice.

Helen pressed a piece of paper into George's hand. "This is her
mobile number," she whispered. "I hope you can make her want you.
God knows any sane girl would!" She blushed profusely; she hadn't
meant to admit to her own affection for George. Luckily, Helen
thought, George didn't seem to catch the meaning. He was nodding,
deep in thought.

"George!" Helen said. He looked up. "Beware of Peter. I think he
is on steroids."

____________________


The Anext day George called Elaine, the youngest of his older
sisters. Of all his siblings, George was closest to Elaine, not
just in age. She was hugely fond of her little brother. She was
only just 9 when he was born and getting a new mother and a much
desired little brother had been a dream come true - or perhaps a
bit like waking up after the long nightmare of losing her mother
and finding that life was good after all.

"George!" she exclaimed in delight. "How is my Baby Brother?" She
always called him that. When he was younger it had annoyed him,
but he had come to realise it was a term of profound endearment.

"Not good Elaine," he replied - his tone of voice alone made her
sit up and take notice. "I am in trouble. Deep trouble."

"What's happened?" Elaine asked - aware that this was not going
to be just another of their rare but cosy chats on Skype.

"I've met this girl," George started.

"That's great!" Elaine exclaimed. She knew George had arrived too
late in Denmark to really integrate and he'd never had a serious
relationship.

"It could be great, but right now it’s catastrophic," he said -
still tonelessly.

"Is it Elaine the doting big sister, or Elaine the clinical
psychologist you want to talk to?" Elaine asked. Her voice was
very serious now.

"Both," George replied. "Oh God, I wish you were here."

The desperation in George's voice brought tears to Elaine's eyes.
She had been distraught when George and her stepmother left
England after her father's death, but she knew it was for her
sake. Without it, she would never have been able to afford
university. But the emotional cost was enormous. Not having her
little brother near by was a source of constant pain. Even now
she missed him terribly and knowing he was desperate for her help
made her equally desperate. "Tell me all there is to tell in any
random order," she said. "Save the bad bits for last if that
helps, but tell me all."

George managed to tell all more or less chronologically. Elaine
only had a few questions. "When did you fall in love with her?"
she asked. George hadn't said he was in love, but he didn't
protest either.

"At once," he admitted. "I guess it was love at first sight. When
I found out she had a boyfriend I backed off. Mentally, I mean. I
hadn't said anything to her. But I hosed down my own dreams and
fantasies."

"But you didn't stop loving her," Elaine hazarded.

"Of course not," George replied. "I never will."

"That's good," Elaine said. "She will need that - once she is
through. But it is going to be difficult to get her there."

"Do I stand a chance?" George asked. "And should I wish for that,
or is she some weirdo if she puts up with the abuse?"

"Yes and yes and no," Elaine said, "You stand a very good chance
- I say so and mean it, even if am biased because you are my Baby
Brother. And she sounds wonderful and you are in love with her,
so you should wish for it. And no, she is no weirdo. But she is
deeply damaged, psychologically. It is very difficult to
understand what goes on in the mind of a woman who lets herself
be abused the way your Marie is being abused. And thus it is
very, very difficult to devise a strategy to help her out. Women
in her situation have been known to cut off all contact with
friends and family who wanted them to leave the abusive man - or
simply just pointed out that things were bad. Are there any
parents around?"

"No," George said. "She never knew her father and her mother
neglected her." He recounted what Marie had told him.

"Well, it sounds like she has no one who cares for her - apart
from you and her friend, the colleague you mentioned. Helen was
it?" Elaine said.

"Helen, yes," George replied. "She’s still trying."

"Well George, I would be lying if I said it was going to be easy
- or that a positive outcome was guaranteed," Elaine started.
George grunted agreement.

"But hang in there," Elaine continued. "You should 'be there' for
her and get ready to take it to the next level when you sense she
is ready for that. You have to play by ear, and you have to
expect setbacks. Keep talking to the friend too. Oh, and one more
thing: Watch out for the present boyfriend. A psychopath on
steroids is a dangerous adversary."

George thanked her. Elaine was right that she couldn't do very
much for him, but just being able to tell her about it had helped
and he was grateful. "Not at all," Elaine said. "You can call
anytime, day or night. Remember that. And give Mor my love - say
that Paul and I are planning to come over soon."

She had used 'Mor' - the Danish term for 'Mum'. Unlike her older
siblings she had actually made an effort to learn some Danish and
still understood a lot. George was comforted by that little word.
As he told Marie during the interview, he had always felt loved.
Elaine played a huge part in that.

____________________


It took a long time for George to work up the courage to 'take it
to the next level' and call - so he just kept 'being there' for
Marie It was some weeks later - when he noticed discolouration on
her neck and throat that looked suspiciously like strangulation
marks - that he decided to act. Helen had told him about Peter's
unusual working hours, and George rang the next morning in the
hope that Marie was alone and able to talk.

She picked it up immediately. "It's Marie."

"Next time he might kill you," George said without preamble.

"What do you mean?" Marie said. She knew instantly who it was and
was petrified because Peter could actually be home any moment.

"The marks on your throat and neck," George said. "The ones you
had tried to cover with makeup."

"Oh those," Marie said, trying to laugh it away. "That was just,
eh, um, me being, you know, clumsy. Yes, clumsy. Ha ha."

"The only thing that's clumsy is the lie, Marie," George said.
"We both know that."

There was a long silence. Then George spoke again. "He's a
psychopath. You need help to get away from him, Marie. And I want
to help you. I want nothing from you; I just want you to be safe.
I want to protect you."

"It is really sweet of you George," Marie said, "but I can't!"
She realised that Peter was in the room. He must have come in
completely silently. She was numb with fear - 'how much has he
heard,' she wondered. She had to make up something quick. "We
simply don't do that. Anyway, I gotta go now. Bye." She hung up,
blocking off George's confused last comment, and switched the
phone off before he could call back.

She looked up, pretending she only now discovered Peter. She made
a gesture of impatience with the phone. Peter looked inscrutable.
She never knew what he was thinking, or when he was going to
explode. George had called him a psychopath. Maybe he was. The
silence was oppressive; she was about to say something when Peter
spoke. "Who - was - that?"

Innocent and not unreasonable words, but the way he spoke them
made her even more fearful. She forced herself to stay calm. "Oh,
that was George from work," she said as off-handed as she could.
'Don't act guilty, or he will hurt you. Make it sound innocent,'
she thought.

"What did he want?" Peter asked. Again quite a reasonable
question, but it was said in a way that almost made her wet
herself. 'Please God, I gotta make up something!' she thought.

"He, um, wanted me to hire his girlfriend," Marie improvised.
That should both deflect jealousy and explain why she had said he
was sweet. "Very cute; I got a long list of her qualities," she
continued, attempting to sound scornful. "But as I told him, I
can't; we don't do that." 'Phew - that fitted all Peter might
have heard!' she thought.

"Don't do what?" Peter asked. Marie's 'danger index' dipped.
Perhaps the diversion was working.

"Hire partners," she said. "It’s against company policy. Focus
should be on costumers and the company, not personal matters."
She was talking herself warm now. True, there was such a policy.
It was never enforced; the number of couples was huge, especially
amongst the evening and weekend staff. The day staff was much
older and almost exclusively female. But her staff was young and
mixed and amorous. That is always the case when young people work
together. She hoped Peter would not think of that. She rarely
spoke about her work to him now - it was too dangerous - and she
hoped the lie would pass.

"Do you mean you wouldn't hire me?" Peter asked. The jolt came
out of the blue, but she sensed extreme danger now. If she said
"yes", everything in the explanation she had just built would
collapse. If she said "no", God knows how Peter would react. He
might consider it a slight. He might beat her.

She chose a dangerous middle ground. It was two-step deflection
and to pull it off, there had to be a pause between the too
parts. He would be upset; she prayed he wouldn't go straight to
violence.

"Don't be daft Peter!" she said with as much mirth as she could
manage. "I wouldn't be hiring you!"

He looked stung - she feared she had over-done it. But although
she could see his fists tighten, he spoke. "And why not?" he
asked harshly.

"I only hire staff for menial tasks," she said. "A deputy branch
manager doesn't hire managerial staff!"

He was too dim to get it. "What do you mean?" he asked. But the
edge was off his voice and the 'danger index' once more left the
red zone.

"If you were joining the company it would be as a branch or
regional manager," she said with as much conviction in her voice
as she was able to mobilise. "The likes of me would have no say
in that!"

"Oh!" Peter looked mollified. "Do you think I should go for it?"
he asked.

Marie finally felt she was on safe ground. "You know, I've been
thinking about that." She tried to look pensive. "I don't think
you're being appreciated where you are now."

He grunted agreement. This was a pet-gripe of his. "I'm sure
you'd be really good at it," she continued. "Only, I am not
certain that you'd like the business in the long run. One has to
deal with so many idiots."

"Like the twit who wanted you to hire his girlfriend just now?"
Peter asked.

"Exactly," Marie said. "They have to have your number so they can
call in sick and cancel shifts and so on." That was a lie. No one
did. But it covered for George having her private number.

Peter nodded. The lie was accepted, but she still wanted to ward
off potential jealousy. 'I wonder how George got my number. It
has to be Helen,' Marie thought.

"And then they call you constantly about their personal
problems," she continued her gripe. "You wouldn't really have the
patience for that, would you?" She smiled the coyest smile she
could muster.

It worked. The danger passed. The nightly rape was almost gentle
compared to what she had been subjected to recently. Mercifully
Peter came quickly and fell asleep.

Marie was lying awake in the dark. She was thinking of George and
what he had said. 'I want to protect you.' The thought alone
warmed her.

____________________


The warmth stayed with her. Every time she was working together
with George she felt warm and safe. Every time she was yelled at
or humiliated or beaten or raped by Peter she remembered George's
words - ''There are men who don't beat their partners,' 'I want
to help you,' 'I want nothing from you,' 'I just want you to be
safe', 'I want to protect you.'

George's words provided her with a mental cocoon, a shell against
Peter that enabled her to endure the violence without really
feeling it. But it was dangerous - Peter sensed that shell even
if he didn't understand it and it made him furious. Like the true
sadist he was, he fed on her pain - and now she wasn't showing
it, not responding with the fear he craved.

The crunch came because she gave her secret away. Unwittingly.
One Saturday morning she was being beaten for not having washed
his sweaty gym clothes immediately after she got home the night
before. Next he raped her - first vaginally, then - because she
hated that more than anything - anally. The pain was intense and
the cocoon was dissolving. In her anguish she called out the
secret name, her secret talisman. "George!" she wailed.

Peter was a psychopath, but he was no idiot. He understood
immediately what Marie hadn't even realised herself yet. She was
in love with someone else. His slimy dick wilted - he struggled
to get it out of her anus. He was sweating and shaking. The
control was broken.

Marie got up from the vile bed and got dressed. She looked at
Peter completely without passion - no fear, no hatred, nothing.
Her voice when she spoke was without emotion. "When I get home
from work you will have moved out. I will never see you again."
She walked out of the apartment.

Peter's paralysis lasted several minutes, but then his mind,
damaged by the steroids, started firing. 'If I can't have her, no
one else shall!' was the thought that went through his reptile
brain. He got dressed, grabbed a knife from the kitchen and set
off for the cafe.

If Peter had been paralysed, Marie was a "walking wounded". Helen
reacted with abject shock and horror when she saw her friend. "I
gotta get you to the hospital," she said at once when she saw the
state Marie was in. George nodded in anguish. "Go! I'll run the
cafe."

Helen dragged Marie out the back entrance; Helen's small car was
parked in the courtyard, down half a flight of metal stairs. They
were only just outside the door when a lurking shadow rushed
towards them. Peter, with the face like a mask, raised his right
hand and drove the long knife into Marie's chest close to the
heart. He withdrew it and Marie sank noiselessly down on the
platform.

George heard Helen's piercing scream and rushed out. The scene
that met him was out of a horror movie. Peter was repeatedly
stabbing at Helen's hands - the only barrier between the knife
and Marie's already lifeless body.

Peter withdrew the knife from Helen's hand, kicked her violently
to the side and lifted his arm high to deliver the final blow to
Marie's chest.

It never came. George tried to take the knife from Peter but
failed and suddenly found himself the target of Peter's attack,
receiving cuts in several places. He had never in his life laid
hands on another human being, but now he closed both his huge
hands around Peter's arm and broke it like a stick. The knife
fell out of Peter's hand. George then lifted Peter up - mainly by
the broken limb, causing white hot pain - and bodily threw him
down the stairway to the basement. The banister got in the way.
First Peter's groin, and then his forehead, hit the metal. He was
out cold.

George sank down next to Marie. She wasn't moving, but blood was
still flowing out of the wound in her chest and he knew she must
be alive; dead people do not bleed. He put his big hand over the
wound and yelled for help. A very young colleague, alerted by
Helen's scream and George's yell came rushing out. "Get hold of
ambulances and the police quick," George said. "Peter tried to
kill Marie."

"Who is Peter?" the colleague asked.

"Don't ask questions. Don't waste time. Call 1-1-2 NOW," George
yelled. "Or Marie WILL DIE." The shaken colleague finally
complied.

A police patrol happened to be in the vicinity and arrived within
2 minutes. The ambulances were going to take much longer, and the
senior officer - highly experienced in knife injuries - judged
that they could not afford to wait. He ordered his young
colleague to stay on the scene, got George and Marie in the back
of the patrol car and drove off at maximum speed, radioing for an
escort and asking to have the emergency room on standby for a
critically injured stabbing victim.

When they arrived at the emergency entrance of the hospital on
screeching tires, they were met by a team of trauma experts ready
to take over. George handed over the small bundle that was Marie
and sank down on a chair to begin an endless vigil.

Around him things were happening. Two ambulances arrived with
Helen and Peter; the latter hand-cuffed to a policeman. George
didn't take any notice. He was just waiting. Waiting to hear if
he had been too late or not.

____________________


"My God," the police officer said when he was taken into the room
in the intensive care unit. "She looks like a tiny, broken
porcelain doll." There were tears forming in his eyes and his
voice was shaking. After 20 years on the beat he was still
affected by mindless violence - especially when someone who
looked like a childwas involved. And Marie was smaller than his
daughters.
"Not quite broken," the tired surgeon said in a gentle voice.
"But it was touch and go. You and the big lad saved her. If he
hadn't put his fingers in the wound to staunch the bleeding and
if you hadn't decided that there was no time to wait for the
ambulance, she would have been dead. We used over 4 litres of
blood."

"Where is the lad?" the police officer asked.

"He is being fixed up himself," Dr. Hansen, the surgeon, said.
"He got some cuts to his hands and thigh from the jerk's knife,
but it's nothing major - the ER nurses are handling it."

"A bit late isn't it?" the police officer said puzzled. Marie had
been in the operating theatre for near on three hours.

"Yes," Dr. Hansen said wryly. "No one knew he was injured. That
he had blood all over could hardly surprise and he never said a
thing; he was just waiting for news of the girl. One of our
secretaries noticed he was still dripping blood and had him seen
by a doctor."

"What about the other girl?"

"Oh, she was in a bad state," Dr. Hansen replied. "The
lacerations to her hands were very severe. We staunched the
bleeding and had her airlifted to the University Hospital. I have
a colleague there who is an expert on micro surgery. If anyone
can save the use of her hands it's him."

"And the jerk himself?" the police officer asked.

"We set his broken arm - it was a very clean break so that was
easy - and bandaged the head-wound. Next we gave him a very
strong painkiller - morphine, actually. He should feel nothing,"
Dr. Hansen said. "Then he was taken away by your colleagues to a
holding cell at the police station."

"Morphine? For a broken arm and a small knock on the head?" the
police officer asked outraged.

"No," Dr. Hansen said. "For the other pain." He broke eye
contact, looking down.

"What are we talking about?" the police officer asked. He sensed
this was going to be off the record.

"The ambulance driver said he believed the assailant had received
a very severe blow to his groin, but he wouldn't let anyone look
at it," Dr. Hansen said. "I am hoping the morphine will dull the
pain so much that he sleeps right through the night and that the
damage will then turn out to be irreparable. I confidently expect
to see him again tomorrow; he will insist, but I am sure the red
tape will add another hour or two." He was looking straight at
the police officer again now. "And I am sure we will have to
conclude that his testicles cannot be saved."

There was a brief silence. "When we saw the bruises on that
girl's body and the injuries to her vagina and rectum, we were
ready to castrate him on the spot." The hatred in Dr. Hansen's
voice was almost palpable.

The police officer nodded slowly. Remand prisoners always make a
noise. Adding an hour or two before this swine was allowed to see
a doctor was not a problem; he would ensure everyone at the
station knew that.

As he was about to leave, the door opened and a nurse escorted a
limping George in. Both his hands were bandaged and there was a
gash in his bloodied trousers showing a bandage on the thigh.

"Will she live?" George asked.

"Yes," Dr. Hansen said. "She'll live, but it will be a while
before she can thank you. We're keeping her in a light coma to
counter the shock."

"I'll wait," George said.

The nurse eyed Dr. Hansen who nodded imperceptibly. She went and
got a chair for George and when she had placed it close to the
bed, she guided George into it. She was a smallish girl herself
and she could barely reach George's shoulders. The motion was
strangely gentle, almost a hug.

Throughout the day, evening and night, the ICU nurses brought the
silent giant food and drink and helped him up when he needed to
go to the toilet. His presence was highly irregular, but they all
shielded him. His eyes hardly ever left the small, broken
porcelain doll in the middle of the big high-tech bed. Her body
was covered in bruises of all colours. The most recent ones
darkened as he kept his vigil; a stark contrast to the small
areas of unblemished skin that were pale, almost alabaster white.
But she was breathing soundly in her deep, deep sleep and her
body made good use of the blood and other liquids slowly piped
into her veins from the bags that the nurses replaced at regular
intervals. She would live.

The drugs that kept Marie in coma wore off during Sunday morning
and around noon she was briefly awake. "George," she whispered -
speech was difficult, her mouth was dry.

A nurse offered her water. "Hush love, he is right here," she
said. She helped George to stand so Marie could see him. The look
in Marie's face when she recognized him was one the nurse knew
she would never forget - even as the image became blurred from
her tears.

"It’s over Marie," George said. "He will never hurt you again. I
will protect you."

"You are always there for me," Marie whispered.

The pain overwhelmed her and the doctor added a strong dose of
morphine to the IV line, causing the pain - and Marie's
consciousness - to go away. "OK, young man," the doctor said,
firmly but gently. "She will sleep again for a long time now.
It's time you got the dressings on your wounds changed and went
home to sleep. We'll look after your girl for now."

Docilely George agreed and let himself be led away.

____________________


Morphine had also made Peter sleep. When he woke up Sunday
midmorning in a cell he was in agony, but too confused to figure
out where the worst pain came from. His head was throbbing - both
from the aftermath of the drug-induced stupor and, mainly, from
when he banged his temple on the banister. His broken right arm
was acutely painful too. It was set fine, but none too gently.
From that double onslaught of pain, he barely noticed the dull
ache from his groin. He was loud and unruly and a general
nuisance to the guards at the remand centre and they avoided him
as much as they could.

By lunch time Peter was no longer in any doubt - the worst pain
was his groin. Being radically right-handed but with absolutely
no use of his right hand, he found it difficult to inspect the
damage. There is also very little privacy in a remand centre; the
holding cells are essentially cages. But when he - with
considerable difficulty and many embarrassing spills - voided his
bladder and saw specks of blood in the urine, he yelled for help
and yelled so loud and so long that he finally, after having been
'seen to' by a clueless GP on call, was taken back to the
hospital.

At the hospital, he was met by the same team of doctors, nurses
and anaesthetists that had treated his victims yesterday. "What
seems to be the matter?" Dr. Hansen asked. "Is that arm troubling
you?" He pulled a bit on Peter's hand making him almost scream
with pain.

"No, it's not that," Peter gasped.
"Oh, the head then," Dr. Hansen said. "Well, you must expect it
to throb for a few days. It was a bad knock."

"No, it's my groin," Peter whispered.

"Say again?" Dr. Hansen said, pretending he couldn't hear it.

Peter, acutely embarrassed by the close presence of a very large
nurse, repeated it slightly louder.

"Oh, your groin!" Dr. Hansen said loudly. "I didn't know you were
injured there too. Let's have a look."

"I can't undo my trousers myself," Peter said under his breath.

"Not to worry," Dr. Hansen said cheerfully. "Nurse will help
you."

To Peter's mortification, the large nurse undid his trousers,
pulled them and his yellow stained briefs down, exposing his
purple-black, swollen scrotum. The motion was not gentle and
caused another white-hot shot of pain.

"Oh dear," Dr. Hansen said when he saw Peter's sexual organs.
"We'd better call an urologist at once!"'

On cue, the urologist entered the surgery. "Oh dear," he also
exclaimed. "Have this patient anesthetised at once. I have to
assess the damage."

"I'll leave it to you then," Dr. Hansen said with a wink and
left. His shift was finally over.

"We will perform a bilateral orchiectomy, due to blunt trauma to
the groin, followed by the insertion of prosthetic testes of
similar sizes," the urologist said when Peter had been
anesthetised and an incision in the groin had unveiled the ruin.

The junior nurse nodded and dictated the diagnosis and treatment
in the recording system while the urologist and senior nurse
worked. At the end she switched off the recording system. "Can't
he just go on HRT when he's out of jail?" she asked.

"No," the urologists said with satisfaction. "I deliberately
performed the 'unkind cut' known from the treatment of prostate
cancer. He will never have any sexual use of his penis again; no
amount of Viagra will ever make him erect. Besides, we're not
going to tell him that his balls are gone. By the time he's in an
ordinary prison he will have forgotten about his sexual urges. He
will hurt no more little girls if he ever gets out."

There was general satisfaction in the room. In a sense they had
helped the patient. Not in a way that could ever be talked about
openly, but the last exchanges weren't recorded anyway. The only
part of the records that might cause even the tiniest suspicion
was the fact that the urologist had brought the prosthetic
testicles with him from the start. But no one ever inquired.

Because Peter was in surgery when the 24 hours permitted under
Danish law before you have to go before a judge was up, the court
made a decision in his absence. The publicly appointed defence
attorney did not oppose that Peter was remanded in custody
awaiting trail. Given the nature of the alleged crimes, multiple
attempted murders and extreme sexual violence, Peter was referred
to a comprehensive psychiatric evaluation at a corrective
services facility.

He was transferred there while still partly unconscious from the
surgery. When he woke up he noticed at once that the pain from
his groin had diminished significantly. Over the next couple of
days both his head and his groin ceased troubling him. After two
weeks the bruising faded and everything both looked normal and
had stopped being tender to the touch. He was too preoccupied
with his broken arm and his precarious legal situation to reflect
on the fact that he had no erections. He couldn't masturbate in a
satisfying way with his left hand anyway, so he didn't try.

By the time the cast came off his right arm he no longer cared.
He suffered heat flashes, loss of muscle mass and weight gain. He
believed all that to be caused by the lack of steroids, which -
unlike ordinary in prisons - was not available clandestinely at
the psychiatric facility and he didn't mention it to anyone.

With no more testosterone or steroids in his blood to poison his
mind, he became calm and reflective. The conversations he had
with the psychiatrists went exceptionally well. He was deemed
suited for an ordinary custodial sentence, persuaded to offer no
contest to the charges - which bought him a substantial discount
on the sentence, partly because it spared Marie the pain of a
trail - and was sentenced to 8 years in a medium security
facility. The state would look after him; he had no more
responsibilities or worries.

____________________


But for Peter's victims Marie, Helen and George, getting on with
their lives again was painful and difficult. While the two young
women were in the care of hospitals for the time being, George
had to face the outside world at once. Not without help, though.
"How are you going to get home?" the ER nurse who changed the
dressings on his wounds asked when she had finished treating
George. She had mercifully been able to restrict it to an
ordinary if large sticky plaster on his right hand that had the
least severe cuts.

"No idea," George admitted. "My jacket with my wallet and phone
is still in the staff wardrobe at work."

The nurse eyed the logo on his shirt. "I know that cafe - nice
place, by the way. But it is a long way away. There is no way you
can walk that far with that." She was pointing to his injured
thigh. "Besides, it is too cold without a jacket."

"I know," George replied.

"Is there anyone you can call?" she asked.

"My mum," George said hesitantly. His mother had no car, but she
could still help him. "If I can borrow a phone," he added,
remembering that his was unavailable.

"You can use mine," the nurse said. "I have it in my locker and
you can't use it in here so let's meet outside."

George limped out the door past the banished smokers - a mix of
patients and hospital staff in their white uniforms. He had never
smoked in his life and found it incomprehensible that anyone
working in health care could be that stupid. His father had been
a smoker; it killed him.

The nurse came out of a staff entrance and handed him her phone.
"It's unlocked," she said. "Just press the number and then the
green button."

George nodded. Holding the miniscule phone with his injured and
heavily bandaged left hand while pressing the number buttons with
his large stiff fingers on the right was difficult. Too
difficult. The nurse took the phone out of his hand. "What's your
mother's number?" she asked. George told her and she quickly
established the connection.

"Mette Rhodes," a female voice said. Mette is a common Danish
name - but virtually unpronounceable in English ("Meh-de" comes
close). George remembered his father once saying with a laugh
that his difficulties with Mette's name had made him say "my
love" instead - with explosive effect. His mother on the other
hand claimed she had refused to marry him until he was able to
say her full name - Mette Sørensen - correctly. "Or I wouldn't
know who it was you thought you'd taken as your wife, would I?"

But all that was far from George's mind now. There was a strange
background noise and a moment later a jingle and a loudspeaker
noise. George instantly recognised it as an announcement in a
train. His hopes fell. The station mentioned was very far away.

"Mum, its George," he started. "I am at the hospital - I've
injured my hands and need help to get home."

"Sweetheart, how terrible," his mother said. "How bad is it? Was
it at work or at the lab?"

"Neither," George replied. "Well, at work, but outside. Someone
tried to kill our team leader with a knife. I got cut when I took
the knife from him."

"George, that's awful!" his mother exclaimed. "How is your team
leader?" George hadn't told his mother about Marie. Mainly
because he thought she would go off the deep end if he mentioned
any affection for a girl.

"She will live," George said. "If only just. Her friend who
struggled with the assailant first got worse cuts than me. I
don't know how she is doing; she was air-lifted to another
hospital."

"When did this happen?" his shaken mother asked.

"Yesterday morning - we had just opened," George replied.

"Yesterday morning?" his mother asked in confusion. "Where have
you been since then? Why haven't you rung me earlier?"

"I've been at Marie's bedside ever since. I wanted to be sure she
lived," George said. "You can't use a phone from an intensive
care unit, and besides my phone is in my jacket at work - along
with my wallet."

There were a lot of questions Mette Rhodes would have liked to
ask - the 'team leader' was suddenly 'Marie' and spending a 24
hour vigil at the hospital sounded like a serious case of 'like',
but she focused on the immediate. "I thought it was a strange
number. Whose phone is this?" she asked.

"It belongs to the nurse who changed the dressings on my wounds,"
George said. "She is very kind - they all are." The nurse beamed.
She had a son herself not much younger than George. Though quite
a bit smaller.

"That's good," George's mother said. "But listen, I've been to
visit Grandma. I've just gotten on the train; I won't be home for
another 4 hours."

"Oh," George said. "Well, that can't be helped. I'll try to work
something else out. It's just that I have no money on me..." he
trailed off, then took a deep breath. "Don't worry; I'll work
something out," he said, pressed the red button and handed the
phone back to the nurse.

"Isn't there anyone else you can call?" she asked in concern.
"Friends, colleagues, family?"

"I haven't got all that many friends," George replied shaking his
head. "My closest friends are the two colleagues who are in
hospital. My siblings all live in England." He was quiet for a
while, racking his brain for options. "My supervisor at Uni's
wquite nice, but I can't for the life of me remember his phone
number - it's programmed on my mobile phone..." he trailed off.

The nurse was aghast. Here was this gentle, wonderful, heroic boy
- and he had no friends to speak of. She was all fired up.
"Listen, the bastard who tried to kill your friend, maimed your
other friend and injured you badly is being pampered and
chauffeur driven. There is no way in hell I'm going to let you
who saved those two girls - and him from becoming a murderer -
walk 10 miles in the cold. I have no cash on me, only plastic.
But I'll go see if someone can lend me enough money for a taxi
for you. And if not I'll see if I can get half an hour off and
drive you myself!" She eyed him. "Although I think it will be a
tight fit in my small car." Her voice firmed up again. "Stay
here!"

When she returned she had an even better solution. Dr. Hansen's
shift had just ended and he eagerly volunteered to take George
home via the cafe.

George sank into the deep leather seat in Dr. Hansen's large
Volvo with a grunt that turned into a contented sigh. "I wonder
if I'll be able to get out of your car again," he said with a
small smile.

"Yes, it is quite comfortable," Dr. Hansen agreed. "And that
thigh of yours must be very painful."

"It's OK," George said. "It's not nearly as bad as what Marie and
Helen were subjected to."

"Helen, was that the other girl?" Dr. Hansen asked. George
nodded. Dr. Hansen had talked to his colleague at the University
Hospital. The news was as good as could be hoped for and he told
George so.

They were quiet for a while. "Listen," Dr. Hansen said. "I
couldn't help notice your affection for Marie. Is she your
girlfriend?" He actually meant to say 'lover', but thought that
would be too blunt.

"No," George said, shaking his head. "I wish she was. She was
living with the guy who tried to kill her."

"So I gather, but from what he was raving and ranting about we
got the impression that she had left him," Dr. Hansen said. "That
she had expressed a preference for someone else..."

"Oh," George said.

"It's all up to you, really," Dr. Hansen said gently. "But you
have to be careful with her for a while. She is what we call a
one-one."

"One-one?" George asked.

"Yes, one millimetre closer to the heart, or one minute later
coming here - and she would have been dead. With time she will be
right as rain, but she can't lift anything heavy, work out, do
housework, cleaning, vacuuming, that kind of thing, for a while.
And she can't you know, withstand any other strenuous exercise."

George still didn't get it.

"I have not doubt that she loves you," Dr. Hansen started, "or
that you love her back." George nodded slowly. No point denying
that he loved Marie. And no point in denying that he hoped Marie
loved him too.

"But what I'm trying to say is this," the good doctor continued,
"You can't make physical love to her for a while."

Comprehension dawned. George blushed, and then protested. "She
won't be ready for that for a long time!" he said. "Her body will
heal much faster than her mind."

"Exactly," Dr. Hansen agreed. A sharp analysis, that, and one
that boded well for his patient. He felt an enormous affection
for this large, gentle young man. He mentally labelled George a
'Gentle Giant' - just like Marie had. And like the nurse, he was
distressed George's private life was so devoid of close friends
and family that he could find himself stranded, penniless, in
insufficient, ripped and bloody clothes and without means of
communication or transport. It just didn't seem natural or fair.

____________________


They arrived at the cafe. Dr. Hansen helped George out of the car
and in through the main entrance, like they were ordinary
customers. Simon was there - the frantic junior staff had called
him yesterday when their team leader, her deputy and their most
experienced colleague had been whisked away in ambulances and
police vehicles. With almost palpable relief Simon rushed over to
George. "Oh my God boy, what happened?" He wanted to grab and
shake George's hands, but Dr. Hansen stopped him.

"Be careful; George's hands are very bad," he said.

Simon pulled back as if he had burned himself. "Of course. I’m
sorry. I didn't think."

He turned to George. "Please, sit down. Have a cup of coffee." He
yelled at the girl manning the coffee brewer. "A cup of coffee,
no two, quick!"

"George won't stay long. He needs to get home and rest. And get
some clean clothes," Dr. Hansen said.

Simon only now discovered the state of George's clothes -
including the gash in the trousers. The uniform was black so the
crusted blood wasn't all that visible but it still showed from
being stiff. Simon blanched. "God, I'm sorry. Of course not. But
I have to know. How is Marie?"

Again Dr. Hansen replied on George's behalf. "She will live -
thanks to George, but it will be months before she's back at
work."

Simon was close to crying with relief. Forget about stereotyping
gay people; Simon's emotions were always close to the surface and
his love for Marie was absolute. "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter
one bit. As long as she is safe. What about Helen?"

"She's OK we hear," Dr. Hansen replied. "In time she may regain
the full use of her hands."

"May? In time?" Simon gasped. "That's a catastrophe. The girl is
enrolled at the conservatory as a concert pianist. She's a rising
star; she has won gold medals!"

"She may get to play music again," Dr. Hansen said heavily, "but
not at that level. I doubt it. Two of her fingers were nearly
severed. It is a miracle she still has them - and will be able to
use them."

They drank their coffee. The customers who were supposed to have
had it didn't notice; everyone were staring and listening to the
story. One of George's colleagues retrieved his jacket from the
wardrobe. She put it around his shoulders with something
approaching a caress. Tim, the young guy who had called 1-1-2,
came over. "I'm sorry I was so slow on the uptake yesterday," he
said.

"That's OK Tim," George replied. "You were in shock. I’m sorry I
yelled at you."

"I'm not if it saved Marie," Tim said.

Dr. Hansen did some thinking. 'It is only his shyness that keeps
him from noticing how well liked he is, from finding out how many
friends he could have. Tim looks up to him. That girl couldn't
keep her hands off him, and half my younger nurses would have
gone out with him if given half a chance!'

Back in the car he put it into words. "That's just the nicest set
of colleagues you have there, isn't it?" he said. "Almost like a
family."

George nodded. "That's Marie's doing. She makes us feel
appreciated. We talk about everything."

"You don't, do you?" Dr. Hansen asked pointedly.

"No, perhaps I don't," George admitted. "I get shy."

Dr. Hansen smiled. "The time's past for that, don't you think?"

George just nodded again. They arrived at his kollegium - student
accommodation with shared kitchens in a desolate high-rise
building - and Dr. Hansen once more helped George get out.

"Thank you for driving me home," George started. "But thank you
most of all for saving Marie."

"I couldn't have done that without you," Dr. Hansen said.
"Besides, I only helped heal her body. It is up to you to help
her heal her mind."

"I'll try," George said.

"I know you will," Dr. Hansen replied. "I'm counting on you.
Don't let me down. And don't be shy." He got back into his car
and drove off.

____________________


George lived on the sixth floor. Normally he would use the stairs
for the exercise but he didn't feel up to that today and went to
use the lift. It was already at the ground floor and the door
opened at once when he pushed the button. But it was filled with
refuse, mainly crates of empty beer bottles on a rickety trolley,
and try as he may; with his injured hands George was unable to
pull it out. When he started to feel moisture under the bandages
on his left hand, he gave up and struggled up the endless stairs
to the sixth floor.

He had to stop several times, nearly fainting from the pain in
his thigh. When he got to his floor he groaned. The kitchen and
communal area was an absolute pig-sty. There had obviously been a
party last night and no one had bothered cleaning up. He felt
like yelling. He felt like hitting somebody. He did neither, of
course, and just shuffled down to his own door at the end of the
corridor. He would be OK for food. He kept a small fridge in his
own room; the communal one was too disgusting despite George's
frequent solitary clean up sessions. Besides, if you put anything
of use in it the other students would steal it. They called it
'borrow', not 'steal', but nothing was ever replaced. He also had
a microwave oven so he could heat up ready made food. He was a
reasonable cook, but the kitchen was just revolting so he rarely
made things from scratch.

He rested for a while, and then decided that more than anything
he needed a shower. With the state his hands were in that was
going to be difficult and he knew he shouldn't get them wet. Or
the thigh. He shuffled back to the kitchen and - miraculously -
found a few clean plastic bags. He had some tape in his room, and
after a gruelling effort he was undressed, the wound on his thigh
was covered with plastic that was taped in place and he had
plastic bags over his hands. The left one he had been able to
seal with tape; his left hand was too damaged to do likewise with
the bag over his right hand and he just hoped it would be OK.

The warm water was a near-religious experience. He thanked his
stars that this rat-hole of a dwelling at least had its own
bathroom, or he would never have lived there. But it wasn't easy
going. He kept dropping the soap. It was hard to retrieve it -
partly because of his injuries, and partly because he was so big
and the shower cubicle so small. The pain from the wounds was
acute and he regretted shampooing his hair when he had to try and
rinse it. Eventually he managed.

Drying himself was not much easier, his right hand was now
screaming agony and he abandoned all thoughts of shaving. He lay
down shivering on the bed. With a final effort he pulled the
covers over himself and fell asleep at once.

He had no idea how long he had been sleeping; it felt like
minutes, but in reality it was hours. His phone ringing woke him
up; it was his mother.

"George, where are you? Did you manage to get home?"

"Yes, I did. One of the doctors drove me home. He even stopped at
the cafe so I could get my things," George replied, trying to
wake up.

"That was decent of him. I was so worried for you," she said.

"Yeah, no they are all very decent," George started, but trailed
off.

"And what now?" his mother asked.

Good question. "I don't know," George said. "I've just had a
shower. It nearly killed me. Then I had a snooze."

There was something in his voice that told Mette her son was at
the end of his tether. "You stay right where you are and I'll
come out to you. If I run I can just make the bus, and I had
better; it is Sunday afternoon so there aren't all that many
busses."

Gratefully, George accepted. Moments later he was asleep again.

It was nearly 6 PM when Mette Rhodes arrived at her son's
kollegium. By then the lift had been cleared so she was spared
the stairs, but the mess in the communal area on George's floor
was still unbelievable. Mette shuddered as she hastened down to
George's door.

It took some knocking to wake him, but eventually a faint "One
moment!" was heard and a long while later, the door was opened
slightly. When George saw it was his mother, he opened the door
further to admit her and stepped backwards. Mette was just about
to ask him what took him so long, but the large bandages on his
left hand and thigh and the plaster on his right hand answered
the question for her. He was dressed only in briefs, getting
those on was what had taken him so long, and he looked grey and
drawn.

She stared at him in disbelief. "Is that how this country treats
its heroes?" she asked rhetorically. He was about to protest, but
she held up a hand. "Anyone who throws himself between a
knife-wielding assassin and his victims is a hero, end of story.
And YOU are in no fit state to look after yourself. You are
coming home to stay with me until those wounds have healed."

"What about John?" George muttered. John was Mette's on-again,
off-again boyfriend. A labourer she had met when he worked on the
grounds of the retirement home where she was employed. He had
strong opinions - mainly negative - about just about everything,
including students and academics whom he especially detested.
George, respectful of everyone, tried to avoid the man for the
sake of his mother.

"What about him?" Mette asked.

"Well, he doesn't seem to like me," George faltered.

"I don't think that's true. He does dislike your profession, but
he may see you in a different light after this," Mette said.
"Besides, it is irrelevant what he thinks. You are my child and
you need my help and you are bloody well going to get it!" She
was barely half the size of her son, but shrill as a jay and he
knew better than to argue. Not that he wanted to; truth be told
he had no idea how he would get through the next days or weeks
until his hands had recovered. Not that he was complaining about
his lot; he never complained. But even when you're long past
being a 'child' there can be situations where it is more than
nice to have a parent take over for you.

"Thanks Mum," he said. There was not much life in his voice, but
Mette recognized the genuine gratitude none the less.

She found some clothes for George and helped him get dressed.
Then she packed more clothes and toiletries in a small suitcase
she had brought along. "You'll have to tell me which books and
stuff you need for your studies," she said. "Not that you are
going anywhere the first few days, but you can study from home."

"I'll be going over to the hospital Mum," he said. There was no
defiance in his voice, but Mette recognised an iron-will behind
the quiet statement.

Their eyes met. "She's that important to you?" she asked.

"Yes," George simply replied.

"Then we'll work that out too," Mette said.

The packing was quickly completed; George didn't have all that
many things and the room was in impeccable order. When they were
leaving, he tried to take the suitcase. "Stop it!" Mette said in
exasperation. "You are not fit to carry anything, so don't try!"
She put the pack with his books on her back and picked up the
suitcase and his notebook bag. "You can press the button on the
lift," she said. "That’s as much as I'll let you do!"

There were no busses for the next hour and a half and Mette
worried that George's strength would flag completely so she
called for a taxi. Back in Mette's apartment, George was quickly
'installed' in his old room. It had the obvious advantage of
having a bed that was long enough for him; the standard issue at
the kollegium was actually too short. Almost as soon as Mette had
made the bed, George undressed, got in it and fell asleep.

____________________


With regards to John, George and Mette were both right. He rang
that evening wanting to come over so spend the night but Mette
declined. "It will have to be at your place for the next little
while; I have George staying," she said.

That, as predicted, wasn't popular. When stripping the
expletives, John's reaction could be boiled down to "Why?" so
Mette explained what had happened and outlined the extent of
George's injuries which more than accounted for the necessity of
having him looked after for the time being.

A mollified and chastened John instantly backed down. "That was
bloody brave of him! Even if he has the hots for the girl it
requires balls to throw yourself at a bloke with a knife like he
did."

Mette agreed. "He is very quiet about the girl; he hasn't
mentioned her before. Apparently she was in a relationship and it
was the boyfriend who knifed her."

"Boyfriend my ass," John spat. He was appalled; his working class
ethics affronted. And he had personal experience in the area; he
had spent a month in jail for bashing up his daughter's
'boyfriend' after he had beaten her. "Worth it," he'd say when he
told people about it. "Besides, the bastard spent longer in a
dentist's chair than I did in prison!"

Mette knew the story and had expected this reaction. She had
hoped that Joh would warm to George; her hopes were more than
met. "How's he going to get 'round with two injured hands and a
plastered up thigh with a knife wound in it?" he asked. "He
usually rides his bike to work and school doesn't he?"

"He does," Mette confirmed. She was pleased John referred to
George's university as 'school'. That had a ring of acceptance to
it.

"Well, that's out of the question for a while - and don't let him
try; those kinds of wounds need time to knit," John said - having
been a manual labourer all his life he knew about injuries.

Mette chuckled and recounted the story about fighting over who
should carry the suitcase, adding just a touch of exasperation
for effect.

It worked.

"Now, don't be hard on him!" John protested "He's a good boy and
used to fending for himself!"

Mette accepted the rebuke - sounding chastised, but inwardly
leaping with joy. This was going well. A moment later it was
going even better. "The boy has a driver's license, hasn't he?"
John asked.

"Yes he does," Mette replied puzzled. "Why?"

"Well, tell him he can use my car until his leg is ready for
cycling again," John said. "I get picked up by the staff truck
every morning anyway, so I don't really need it."

"Now that is really sweet of you," Mette said in delight. She
made up her mind. "Oh, and John? George is asleep and I doubt he
will wake up from anything..."

She let that hang in the air. John was no fool. "I could bring
the car over tonight -"

"You could," Mette said.

"- and have the lads pick me up from your place tomorrow; it's
not much out of the way for them." John added.

"That's convenient," Mette said. "Why don't you do that?"

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," John said.

23 minutes later they were naked in bed. Mette's late husband -
George's father - had been an English academic with a Public
School and university background; John was a Danish manual
labourer who had left school after 9th grade so they could hardly
be more different, but they had three things in common: Both were
called John; Mette had thought she saw the hand of fate in that.
Both were substantially older than Mette; something that turned
her on. And both were hung like a horse and knew how to use it.
Mette came four times that night, having to bite John's shoulder
(something that turned him on) several times to avoid screaming
down the house and waking up George who was sleeping on the other
side of a thin partitioning wall.

____________________


Labourers start early and Mette's shift at the nursing home was
an early one too so they were up before six AM on Monday morning.
They were very quiet to avoid waking up George, but George had
gone to bed so early that he woke up naturally around that time.
He got up - a bit of a struggle - and went to the toilet. He
heard quiet voices in the kitchen and peered in. He was surprised
to see John there, but even more surprised by what happened next.
"George my boy! Come in and sit down," John said when he saw
George. He leapt out of his chair and guided the limping George
over. "Sit down," he said again and offered George the chair he
had been sitting in. "I'll get you a cup of coffee."

"Thank you," George said - surprised and pleased. Not that he
cared much for coffee in the morning, or from standard
drip-filter coffee at all; he had fairly exacting coffee
standards after having worked in the cafe for so long, but John's
attitude floored him.

"Not at all," John said. "I know how cuts like that sting while
they knit. And it is always worse in the morning."

George smiled wryly. "At least it is a comfort that it is
supposed to get better during the day."

"Yeah," John grinned, "but it will drive you bonkers for a
while."

Mette had come over and hugged George from behind. "How did you
sleep sweetheart?" she asked.

"Like a log Mum," George said. "I remember nothing. Oh, and it
was bliss sleeping in a bed that was actually long enough for me
for a change!"

John had been out in the corridor to get his car keys from his
jacket. "I thought it would be best if you spared that leg as
much as possible. Riding your bike is right out and even walking
to and from busses will be a strain. So you can have my car for
the time being. I know you can't go to work or to school until
your hands are better, but your girl will be happy that you are
able to visit frequently - and not killing yourself trying to get
there."

He handed the keys to George who took them in a daze. "Thanks
John," he said startled. "I really appreciate it."

"That's OK my boy," John said. "Your mother and I are really
proud of what you did. And listen; I've said some pretty stupid
things in the past about people who go to school longer than I
did. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have done that."

He held out his hand. George grabbed it. He couldn't squeeze it,
and even the light hand shake hurt, but it was worth it. The
tears in his mother's eyes were priceless. "Thanks John," George
said again. "I really appreciate it. And I'm sure unpleasant
things have been said in the other direction too. Arrogance is
never good."

There was a slightly embarrassed pause. Then a honk was heard
outside. "Crickey; the lads are here!" John exclaimed. He kissed
Mette hastily and rushed off.

George looked as his mother. "John's a good man Mum," he said
quietly.

"Uh huh," Mette said with a sniffle, trying to blink the tears
away. "He is."

She got her son some breakfast, urging him to remain seated. And
then it was time for her to leave too. "I'll be home early
today," she said. "I'll do some shopping on the way home, but I
should be back before 3."

"OK," George said. "I'll be home by then too I hope."

"Now, don't overdo things. What are your plans?" Mette asked.

"Not sure. I think I will sleep a little longer, and then I will
visit Marie, but she may not be awake for very long. Now that I
have John's car, I thought of driving in to the University
Hospital to see Helen."

"Helen?" Mette inquired. "Who's Helen?"

"Marie's friend who struggled to save her," George said. "Her
hands were cut to pieces. She nearly lost two fingers."

Mette shuddered. "Will she be OK?"

"We don't know," George said. "The kind doctor that drove me home
yesterday only knew that she hasn't lost the fingers and that she
may get to use her hands again in time. But she is - was - a
pianist."

Mette shuddered again and shook her head. "Some men..." she
muttered and left for work.

George returned to bed and slept the morning away.

____________________


The visit to Marie was uneventful - she was indeed asleep and the
nurse told George they would expect her to sleep most of the time
for the next several days. George had bought some flowers, but
they were not permitted in the intensive care unit. George leant
over and gently kissed Marie on the lips before leaving. Her eyes
fluttered but she didn't wake up. "See you love," George
whispered and straightened up, glad of the nurse's steadying
hand.

"Don't worry; she'll be fine," the nurse said, "but you'll have
to make someone else happy with those flowers - we don't expect
Marie to be out of intensive care for another week."

So George decided to drive in to see Helen. He was not a very
experienced driver and he hated driving in the capital. Parking
at the University Hospital was a nightmare and he had to walk for
a long stretch to get to the central information office at the
main entrance. There he was told where to find Helen - which
involved another endless walk in the labyrinthine buildings of
the huge hospital complex. But eventually he found Helen in a
shared orthopaedic ward. There were four beds; two with elderly
ladies, one vacant and one - furthest in - with Helen. George's
arrival - a large, limping man with bandaged hands and a very
auspicious bunch of dark red roses were commented upon by the
elderly ladies who were positively cooing. Helen looked up and
cried out "George!" and started sobbing.

Helen's left hand was in roughly the same state as George's; her
right hand was even more heavily wrapped and she was essentially
helpless. But she put her bandaged hands around George's neck
when he leaned over to give her the flowers and pulled him in for
a wet kiss that took George completely by surprise. It made him
overbalance so he ended nearly in Helen's bed. He let go of the
flowers so he had his right hand free; only his attempt at
steadying himself became a grope of Helen's large, firm breast
through the flimsy hospital pyjamas. Helen moaned and shot her
tongue into George's mouth, then squeezed his arm with her left
elbow to encourage him.

George was in this highly compromising position when Helen's
mother and a nurse entered the ward. There was a loud, theatrical
clearing of a throat right next to the hapless George. His
struggle to straighten up must have looked like a further breast
grope and his face was red with embarrassment when he finally
managed to get back up. "Mum! This is George who saved me on
Saturday," Helen said enthusiastically.

"Is it indeed?" Helen's mother said, sizing the giant up and
noticing his bandaged hands. "And he's come to see you despite
his own injuries!"

"And brought such pretty flowers," the nurse said. "I'll go and
get a vase for them; it cannot be easy with bandaged hands."

There was an awkward silence after the nurse had left.

"I, um, I, just, um, wanted to see how Helen was doing," George
stammered.

"Of course you did!" Helen's mother said. "And I'm really sorry
we barged in on you like that." She winked at her daughter, who
beamed back at her with a coy little smile.

"And how long have you known each other?" Helen's mother
inquired. The emphasis on the word 'known' was not lost on
George. He looked appealingly at Helen, hoping for her to clear
up the misunderstanding, but it didn't happen.

In the end he felt he had to answer and mumbled, "Oh, we've been,
you know, colleagues, for quite a while now. We have a, you know,
a common friend and..."

"Yes, that is often how people meet, isn't it? At work or through
mutual friends!" Helen's mother sighed.

At that moment, the nurse came back. The flowers were indeed very
pretty and they were arranged to their best advantage in a tall
metal vase. "Look, aren't they just beautiful?" she said and was
met with loud approval form the elderly ladies and Helen's
mother.

"Oh George, they are gorgeous!" Helen said, and there were tears
in her eyes.

"That's all right," George said lamely. "I wanted to cheer you up
a little."

"You are just so sweet!" Helen exclaimed. "Isn't he Mum?"

"Indeed," Helen's mother said. "And what do you do Mr., Mr.?"

"Rhodes," George said, "George Rhodes." Unthinkingly he offered
his right hand, something he regretted seconds later when Helen's
mother shook it enthusiastically.

"Christina Roepsdorph," she said, "What do you do Mr. Rhodes, or
may I call you George?"

The bewildered George nodded. "I am studying for a Master's
degree in Chemical Engineering Mrs. Roepsdorph," he said
politely.

"Are you indeed?" Mrs. Roepsdorph said, looking impressed. "He's
quite a catch, isn't he?" she said directed to her daughter.
"Handsome, bright, chivalrous and romantic!"

Helen nodded vigorously. "No one has ever given me long-stemmed
red roses before," she said. She looked the happiest George had
ever seen her, despite her appalling injuries.

"Won't you sit down George?" Mrs. Roepsdorph asked, indicating
the sole visitor's chair.

George wanted to flee - the whole situation was surreal; he
feared that if he didn't get out soon he would end up engaged to
Helen. "Thank you, no," he replied. "The injury in my leg makes
getting down and up very painful."

"I think George was stabbed in the leg too by Peter," Helen
explained.

"Yes?" Mrs. Roepsdorph said. "That boyfriend of Marie's has
caused us much grief - only recently he kicked in Helen's door,
you know," she said to George. "And now he has cut up Helen's
hands so bad that she may never play again and injured you as
well. Why two perfectly innocent people should be maimed in a
lover's tiff is beyond me!"

George was shocked to the core. Describing physical violence,
rape and attempted murder by a psychopath as a 'lovers' tiff' was
beyond the pale. As always he was polite and willing to see both
sides of an argument, and naturally Mrs. Roepsdorph would
primarily be concerned with Helen. But Marie was completely
innocent. And Helen and he were only injured because they had
willingly come to Marie's rescue.

"Well, we couldn't just stand by and let her be murdered," George
objected. "If Helen hadn't fought him until I could disarm him,
Marie would have been dead."

"Well, I hope she is grateful!" Mrs. Roepsdorph exclaimed.

"I am sure she will be when she wakes up for real," George
replied quietly. "She is in intensive care still and has only
been awake for a few moments at a time."

"Well, enough of Marie and her lover," Mrs. Roepsdorph said
dismissively. "When Helen is out of hospital, her father and I
would be delighted to have you and Helen over for dinner."

"That is most kind," George said - outwardly polite, inwardly
horrified. "It will be a while before either of us can hold a
knife and a fork, but I shall look forward to it."

Mrs. Roepsdorph talked on for ever in a fairly one-sided
conversation with Helen, who was answering her mother with
monosyllabic words. She was mainly looking happily and lovingly
at George and the flowers.

George started to panic; he simply had to get out of this. He
turned to Helen. "I am parked on a short term spot literally
miles from here, so I really do have to make my way back. The
nurse needed to attend to you and I am sure you and your mother
have things you need to talk about. But I'm glad the flowers
brought you joy." That was true, he was glad that Helen liked the
flowers but he was cursing himself that they had led to this
comedy of misconceptions.

Helen looked disappointed. "Can I have another kiss before you
go?" she asked.

"Don't worry; I shan't look!" Mrs. Roepsdorph tittered and
pointedly turned around to have her back to the bed. She winked
at George.

'Well, OK, that won't kill me,' George thought and leaned in to
kiss Helen. Again she put her arms around George to pull him in,
but this time George was prepared and his right hand found the
mattress, not Helen's breast when he steadied himself. "Take
care," he said when he stood up. Helen was panting and her eyes
were glazed over. She nodded.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Roepsdorph," George said. "It was a pleasure
making your acquaintance. I hope you will forgive me for not
shaking hands again; I need to be able to drive."

If there was a slight hint of sarcasm in that, Mrs. Roepsdorph
didn't notice. She let out some polite blether while George
limped out of the room. He was less than ten feet up the corridor
when he heard her intone "Helen, he is perfect. Such exquisite
manners! He is so much nicer than that conceited fellow Tristan.
Why didn't you tell me you had dumped him and found George
instead?"

George fled into a lift and was mercifully spared having to hear
any more.

____________________


He limped back to John's car and headed out of town. First he was
delayed by road works, then he was caught in the rush hour and
the motorway traffic was moving at a snail's pace. At two or
three exits before the one he needed to get to his mother's
place, it came to a complete standstill. It was the exit to his
university and he decided to use it and go see if his supervisor,
Thomas, was still there. He was and looked up when George limped
in.

"Good God George, what happened?" Thomas gasped.

"I was knifed on Saturday," George said, sinking down into a
chair with a grunt.

"Where?" Thomas asked. He wasn't used to this kind of thing, and
George was the last person he would have expected to get into a
brawl.

"Just outside work," George replied. "Someone tried to kill my
team leader."

"What? Why?" the shocked supervisor asked.

"Her boyfriend. Because she wanted to leave him," George replied
with similar economy of words.

"Oh," Thomas said. He was not all that much older than George -
George was his first graduate student. "For you?" He asked
hesitantly.

"So it would seem," George said quietly. "At least that's what
the doctors who treated him heard him say."

"What happened to him?" Thomas asked.

"I broke his arm to get the knife from him," George replied.
"Then I threw him down a stairwell. I think he banged his head."

Thomas was staring at George like he had two heads. "What about
the girl?"

"She is still in intensive care," George said. "But they say she
will live. And her friend who was with her is recovering at
Riget;" - he used the popular nick-name for the University
Hospital - "I've just been to see her. The bastard nearly cut her
fingers off when she intervened. She was going to be a concert
pianist." He trailed off.

"Poor thing," Thomas said.

"Yeah, poor thing." George agreed. "And it seems she has a bit of
a crush on me."

"Oh!" Thomas said. "A bit of a mess, all up?"

"You can say that," George agreed. His phone rang. With
difficulty he got it out of his pocket, opened and activated. It
was his mother.

"George where are you?" Mette asked in concern. "I thought you
would be home by now."

"I intended to Mum," George said, "but the traffic back from town
was murder. So I stopped by at Uni to tell Thomas I won't be in
the lab for a little while."

"Wise," Mette said. "Will you be home for dinner?"

"Yes please Mum," George replied. "I'll take the back-roads and
avoid traffic. It should be OK." He ended the call.

Thomas lifted an eyebrow. "I'm staying with my mum," George said.
"I can't do much with these;" - he waved with his hands - "even
driving a car is difficult."

"I didn't know you have a car," Thomas mused.

"I don't - it belongs to Mum's boyfriend," George said. "He's
never had the time of day for me - or academics in general -
before, but since this episode, I can do no wrong."

"Well, the car is handy," Thomas observed.

"Yeah, it is," George said. "And besides, Mum's so happy that
John and I have made peace."

Not for the first time Thomas reflected on the gentle nature of
his graduate student. George was always thinking about others. As
part of his graduate enrolment he had to do some undergraduate
teaching. Thomas had just seen the evaluation forms from the
previous semester. The students loved George. But Thomas also
noticed that George kept mostly to himself. He was never there
for the 'Friday bar' or other social activities. Sure, Thomas
knew George worked Friday nights, but the beer-and-chips 'bar'
usually started mid-afternoon.

"Tell me what happened," Thomas said.

"It's kind of complicated and goes back a while," George said
evasively.

"That's OK George," Thomas said. "I've got time. Pernillle's up
visiting her parents so I'm a grass widower this week."

Thomas' wife was from Norway. George had only met Pernille a few
times; she was very nice - quite a bit like Helen, actually.
Pretty: Fairly tall, Nordic blond and, well, busty. She was
intelligent and extrovert. He thought about Helen for a moment.
He realised that if he had wanted to, he could have been engaged,
or at least in a committed relationship by now. He had no doubt
Helen's feelings were genuine. He shook his head. The small, dark
haired elfin girl with the pale skin and the big brown eyes was
the girl for him.

He looked up and saw that Thomas was looking at him curiously.
"Sorry," George said. "I phased out for a moment."

"If you don't want to talk about it then that's OK," Thomas said,
worried that he had intruded on George's personal affairs.

"No, no, that's fine," George said. "Actually it would be nice to
tell someone."

So he did. Thomas didn't say much; apart from the occasional
"Yes" or "No" to indicate that he followed the narrative; most of
the sounds he made were gasps. But when George got to his
troubles getting home from the hospital, Thomas spoke up. "Why
didn't you call me you dork?" he said. The word was meant as a
term of endearment, and George certainly took it that way.

"I thought of that too - you're always so kind," George said with
his sweet, shy smile. "But I didn't have your number memorised;
it's in my phone which was in my jacket at work."

"I'm in the phone book," Thomas said teasingly.

"Yes, I'm sure," George said in the same light tone. "Along with
seven pages of the other blokes named Thomas Petersen. I don't
know where you live, and besides, you try to use a phone book or
a computer with my hands!"

They both grinned. "So how did you get hone?" Thomas asked.

George told him about the helpful nurse and Dr. Hansen and the
kollegium and his mother coming to the rescue and John's
unexpected change of attitude and the car.

Thomas nodded in approval. "Well I'm glad other people were able
to help you, and I'm glad you knew you could have rung me. Please
do if you need any help for anything while you recover."

"Thanks Thomas, I appreciate it," George said.

"And I appreciate you coming here and telling me," Thomas said.
"I'll ask Professor Thorud if he can get Lizza to do your
tutorials for the next couple of weeks."

Professor Thorud was the leader of their research group and Lizza
was his graduate student. She was almost as tall as George, large
in all dimensions and very clever.

"Thanks," George said again. "I'll make up for it later."

"Don't worry about that," Thomas said. "You did plenty of
tutoring last semester and with the kind of feedback you got,
there will be no problems with the course requirements."

"Oh!" George said startled and pleased. "Well, that's nice. But I
really need the income too - I can't work at the cafe for God
knows how long, and I still have to pay for the room at the
kollegium even if I'm staying with my Mum at the moment."

"We're not going to let you starve," Thomas said with emphasis.
"Besides, I would think you're working enough hours at that cafe
that you are entitled to sick-pay, wouldn't you?"

"I honestly don't know," George replied. He had never expected to
be paid without doing anything, and he was seemingly unaware that
he represented a value to the company and that Simon would be
eager to have him back. "Marie will need sick-pay more than me;
she has no other sources of income and with Peter in jail, she
has to pay the rent on the apartment alone."

"Well, it's not like he's a loss, is he?" Thomas said. "And he
can't have been bringing in a hill of beans - as a part-time
fitness instructor with a drug habit."

"True," George nodded.

"Besides," Thomas said - looking straight at George, "Marie
doesn't have to live in that apartment alone when she gets out of
hospital, does she?"

George made an expressive movement with is arms. He was unwilling
to attribute too much to the fact, never expecting things to go
his way, but Marie's anguished call for him and the way she had
looked at him when she was briefly conscious yesterday was his
most treasured memory. He nodded again.

"Better get home and have some food and rest," Thomas said,
"before your mother starts worrying again. Keep in touch and
don't worry about a thing. And if there is anything we can do for
you, please call."

"Thank you," George said. He got out of the chair with another
grunt and limped down the corridor and out to the car-park.

____________________


"Hi George," his mother called from kitchen when she heard him
open the front door. "Dinner's on the table."

"Thanks Mum," George said, shrugged out of his jacket with
difficulty and went to the bathroom to wash his hands.

"And just exactly how were you planning on doing that?" came
Mette's slightly teasing voice from the doorway.

George looked up sheepishly. "No. Good point. One cannot wash one
hand, can one?"

Mette came over and washed his right hand without getting the
sticky plaster wet. "Indeed," she laughed. "But I knew you were
going to try. You've always had astonishing hygiene habits. When
you were a little boy you would cry if you hands were dirty."

George smiled and limped out to the kitchen. "I've made soup,"
Mette said. "Good autumn food and easy to eat with one hand."

"Thanks Mum," George said happily. Mette's soups were great and
he ate hungrily, realising he hadn't had anything to eat since
early in the morning.

"So how did it go?" Mette asked. She meant the visit to the
hospital and George knew that.

"Marie was asleep," George said. "So I only stayed for a few
moments. And she couldn't have the flowers I brought; they are
not permitted in the intensive care unit."

"I suppose not," Mette said. "So Marie doesn't know you've been
there?"

"Oh, I think the nurses will tell her when she is awake," George
said, "besides..."

He trailed off and blushed.

"Besides?" Mette prompted.

"Well, when I kissed her goodbye she stirred, like she sensed I
was there," George said very quietly.

Mette looked at her son. "I'm sure she did sweetheart," she said.
"Unconscious people have been known to sense love."

They were silent for a while. A good silence, not an embarrassed
one.

"So, what did you do with the flowers?" Mette asked idly.

"I, eh, gave them to Helen," George said.

"Good thinking," Mette said. "Good they didn't come to waste.
Were they nice?"

"I thought they were," George said evasively. "They were, um,
long-stemmed red roses."

"Very romantic," Mette said lightly. "I hope Helen didn't get the
wrong idea, or..." She stopped when she saw her son's stricken
face. "Did she?"

"I think maybe she did - and her mother certainly did," George
blurted out. He proceeded to tell his mother everything -
including the accidental but highly embarrassing breast-grope.
They could laugh at that, but otherwise they were serious.

"I thought she would speak up when her mother assumed we were
lovers," George said in anguish.

"Honey, it’s the other way around," Mette said gently. "Really.
She must have expected that you would correct the mistake - and
when you didn't, she must have thought it wasn't a mistake at
all."

"Oh God!" George said and hid his head in his large bandaged
hands. "And she looked so happy."

"Oh George! This could be awkward," Mette said. "Let me be the
Devil's Advocate: From the sounds of it fair Helen is in love
with you. And you show up at her sickbed a long way away - at the
cost of considerable and obvious pain to you, let yourself be
tongue-kissed, grope her breast and give her long stemmed red
roses. Frankly, the poor child must have thought the only reason
you didn't slip an engagement ring on her finger was because her
hands were heavily bandaged."

George was positively squirming. Mette's analysis was exactly
like his own. "What am I to do?" he asked.

Mette smiled wryly. "When children ask their parents about
problems with their love-life they are usually teenagers, or even
younger, and the problems correspondingly less complicated. We
are talking adults here. And Helen is in a serious life-crisis;
her hands are maimed which will almost certainly force a career
change. She must be ultra fragile. You gotta tread carefully, or
she will be crushed."

"Could I just do nothing?" George asked. "I mean, for a while?"

Mette vigorously shook her head. "Not an option," she said. "As
you overheard Helen's mother saying, there is a boyfriend,
although he is not to the complete liking of either of them. But
he's there. If Helen thinks she has landed you - and frankly, how
could she think otherwise? - she will rid herself of the other
one, and when she eventually finds out that you are not in love
with her after all, her world will collapse. So no, you can't
just string her along"

Mette looked down. Then she took a deep breath, looked up again
and added tonelessly "I should know."

"Did something like that happen to you Mum?" George asked
startled.

"No George," Mette replied. "I caused it."

George stared gapingly at his mother. "You did? Where? When?"

"In London," Mette said. "I was 19 when I came to London. So was
Henry. He fell headlong for me. I thought he was cute in an
English Public Schoolboy way; very immature compared to the
average Danish high school boy, I tell you. But it was quite
sweet, and I basked in his attention."

"But you were not in love with him?" George asked - imagining how
his oldest half-brother must have felt.

"No, I wasn't. I fell for your, his, father almost immediately,"
Mette said. "But I guess I strung Henry along - he was nice and
fun and I saw no harm in flirting a bit."

"And?" George prompted.

"Well, Henry thought it was serious," Mette said. "He had a
girlfriend whom he dumped quite brutally, and I think he bragged
to his mates that he was going to bag the blond Danish nanny."

"But you married his father instead." George said. He shuddered
at the thought of the humiliation that must have felt like.

"Exactly. He was crushed," Mette said. "He had an almighty row
with your father. He wasn't there for the wedding; he was going
to start university anyway so he enrolled in some pre-uni summer
school and subsequently spent all his vacations at the college or
with friends."

"I never knew that," George said. He had never found it strange
that he saw his oldest half-brother - more than twenty years his
senior - so rarely. He had never noticed the coolness of the
relations between Henry and his dad.

"No, it wasn't talked about," Mette agreed.

"I always thought I was loved by them all," George said, and his
voice was pained. He suddenly thought his primary source of
happiness was a lie.

"Oh, but you were and are," Mette said. "The girls and Brian
adored you. And it is not like Henry didn't like you, he just
didn't know you very well."

George nodded. His mother sounded sincere; the cloud lifted a
little. "Did Henry and Dad ever reconcile?" he asked.

"Kind of," Mette said. "At least we were invited for Henry's and
Phoebe's wedding. Incidentally Phoebe is the girl he had dumped
because he thought he would get me."

"I don't know her very well either," George said, meaning Phoebe,
his sister-in-law.

"Not surprising," Mette said. "She hated my guts. As far as I
know, she still does."

"But it was Henry that dumped her, not you!" George protested.
"And they did get back together again."

"Yes," Mette sighed. "But she feels - and I guess in a way that
she is right - that if I had told Henry off from the beginning,
then the whole thing wouldn't have happened. Besides, don't
expect matters of the heart to be logical or fair."

George was quiet for a while. "I can see I will have to talk to
Helen, and soon," he said. "Only I hope that Mrs. Roepsdorph and
the band of old biddies are not there when I tell her that I
don't love her. Besides..."

"Besides?" Mette asked gently.

"I am not sure that I don't. Or rather, I'm not sure that I
couldn't." George sighed a deep sigh. "That made me sound like a
cad. I love and adore Marie. I want to be with her for ever. But
I don't even know if she is going to live. If she died..." His
anguished voice trailed off. The thought was too hurtful to say
out loud.

Mette put a hand gently on his large bandaged one. "You can't
string Helen along as a backup for the eventuality that Marie
dies. And besides, Marie is not going to die."

"Thanks Mum," George said. "I'll go and talk to Helen again
soon."

Mette sent him off to bed immediately after dinner. His aching
body was tired, but he couldn't fall asleep for a long time and
when he finally did sleep, he was plagued by recurring nightmares
about Marie dying and Helen turning into a replica of Mrs.
Roepsdorph the second George had put a ring on her maimed hand.

____________________


Luckily Tuesday was an improvement on Monday. Marie was awake
when George came at mid-day. They talked a little bit - mainly
George relaying greetings and well-wishes from Simon and the
colleagues - until Marie tired. "Will you kiss me goodbye again?"
Marie asked, in a strange echo of Helen's similar request the day
before, when George was getting up to leave. "Like you did
yesterday?" she added

"Yes!" George said startled. "I didn't know you were awake then."

"I wasn't quite," Marie replied. "But when the nurse told me
you'd been there, I thought that maybe the kiss wasn't something
I'd dreamt after all so I asked - and she confirmed that you had
kissed me."

The kiss was short and sweet, but it did include a quick
exploration with tongues. Despite his injuries, George was almost
floating out of the ward. He felt fortified and drove straight to
the University Hospital to clear up the misunderstanding with
Helen.

It went well. The first thing he noticed was the presence of a
second, even bigger, bunch of red roses next to Helen's bed.
Also, one of the old ladies was gone and the other asleep, so the
conversation was private. "Hi George," Helen said happily when
she saw him. "I didn't expect you back so soon!"

"I had to come again," George said. "I think there was the
possibility that you, and certainly your mother, got the wrong
idea yesterday."

Helen's face fell. She nodded; it was obvious she understood what
George meant. "I was kind of surprised," Helen said. Her voice
was more resigned than bitter. "But it was a nice dream while it
lasted..." She trailed off.

"I am so sorry," George said. "The last thing I wanted was to
cause you pain. In another world, under another set of
circumstances, it wouldn't have been the wrong idea, only..."

"Only you love Marie," Helen completed the sentence for him. "I
know that. And I appreciate you come and tell me face to face."

"It's not the kind of thing you write or say over the phone," a
horrified George protested

"You'd be surprised," Helen said. "But no, you wouldn't do that.
Besides," she added in a lighter tone of voice, "your flowers
have had a positive effect on my love-life. When Tristan saw them
last night he got very attentive. He brought the other bunch of
roses this morning and he said he would be back to see me when he
has completed his lessons this afternoon. I'll be OK."

"Thanks," George said. His right hand touched her bandaged one.

"'S OK," Helen repeated. George turned to leave, but she called
him back. "George?" He nodded. "You are a much better kisser."
There was an appealing look in her eyes.

George leant in and kissed her - a toe-curling deep kiss. When
his hand roamed her breast it was not an accident.

Eventually the kiss ended. "Goodbye George," Helen said. There
was a sense of finality in the words and tears in her eyes.
"Thank you."

This time George did leave.

____________________


During the following week Marie slept less and George's visits
got longer and longer. They were talking about all those personal
things they had never broached previously. Only Peter wasn't
mentioned. On the next Friday Marie was moved to an ordinary ward
and was now allowed to use her mobile phone which received a
whopping fifty text messages when it was switched on. She was
busy replying to them when George walked in. He was a little
later than on the previous days; when the ICU nurses told him
Marie had been moved, he had rushed out and bought a bunch of red
roses that outdid both his initial and Tristan's bouquets. They
were gorgeous and Marie nearly swooned. George was rewarded with
a kiss so wonderful that it caused a painful erection. There was
obviously no groping of breasts though. They were not yet at a
point in their relationship when such things could happen, and
besides, Marie's chest was still bandaged.

"So you're texting," George said when he sat down, for once more
troubled by a throbbing erection than the wound in his thigh.

"Yes," Marie said. "There were scores of them. And when I tell
people what has happened, I get even more."

"Don't overdo it, or you may tire out," George said.

"I think the phone will tire out first," Marie laughed. "The
battery is fairly low and I don't have the charger."

"I could go and get it for you," George offered.

"Would you?" Marie said. "That is so sweet of you."

"Not a problem," George said. "Is there anything else you would
like me to get from the apartment?"

"I'd like to have some of my books," Marie said, "and a few
toiletries." She mentioned them.

"Sure," George said. "I'll go over this afternoon."

"If you can get my handbag out of the cabinet there, I'll get you
the keys," Marie said. "Do you know where my apartment it is by
the way?"

"No I don't," George replied - inwardly pleased that Marie was
referring to it as her apartment.

She mentioned the address which he noted down along with the
requests for books and toiletries.

"I may also have to get you to find some clothes for me for when
I eventually go home," Marie said. "I am told my shirt and bra
were cut off of me in the emergency room and my trousers were
soaked in blood. Only my sneakers are OK."

"I'll take care of that when the day comes," George promised. "Is
there anything else I can do?"

"You could water the pot-plants," Marie replied, "if they are
still alive. Mercifully I don't have any pets. Oh, and could you
empty the letter box? It's the green key."

"Sure," George said. Marie thought he sounded happy to be allowed
to help her, and she was not wrong.

"You're always there for me," she said.

"I want to be!" he replied and kissed her again.

____________________


When George left Marie's ward that afternoon he drove straight to
her apartment. The air was stale, but he remedied that by opening
all the windows when he watered the pot-plants. His left hand was
now at the sticky-plaster stage too and his mobility improved.
Finding the stuff Marie had asked for was not difficult. On
impulse he decided to also bring Marie her ultra light MacBook.
There was no wireless network for patients at the local hospital
yet, but he could see that Marie had a USB dongle from a telco
and presumably she would be able to go on-line with that.

The apartment was reasonably tidy - as he had expected. Only the
bedroom looked like a war zone. There were some disagreeable
looking stains on the crumbled bedding and something had seeped
through into the mattress. George shuddered. He had to do
something about that before Marie was discharged. He decided then
and there that he should purge the apartment of all traces of
Peter - clothes and personal papers and so on. Perhaps he could
deposit things with Peter's lawyer or family if he had any. At
any rate, they shouldn't be here. Changing the locks would be a
good idea too; not that he expected Peter to be out of jail for a
very long time, but there shouldn't be keys to Marie's apartment
floating around. OK, the door at the street level could not be
changed, but the ones for the front and back doors and the letter
box could and should.

There was also the question of name signs. Peter's name was on
the label next to the intercom, on the directory of tenants just
inside from the street and again on the front door of the
apartment. He would see the janitor about that if one could be
found. Getting Peter's official address changed in the
authorities' registers - and that of the public mail-service -
would be less trivial; once more Peter's lawyer should be asked.

There were a number of items in the letter box; most of it was
unsolicited junk and there were a few letters for Peter, but
there were also both personal letters and what looked like
utility bills addressed to Marie. He packed them with the other
stuff he was going to bring over.

He spotted the janitor sweeping the courtyard and went down to
talk to him. He was an elderly man, slightly hard of hearing, but
very friendly. He was aghast to hear about Marie and promised
readily to remove Peter's name from the intercom, the directory
and the door. He told George that he usually used a lock-smith
half a block away and that the letter box and front and back
doors in principle could have the same key. "If you say I sent
you - I'm called Esbern - then they'll do it on the spot," he
said. He eyed George's hands. "I'll help you take out the
cylinders if you like, and I can watch over the apartment while
you're having them rekeyed."

"I don't want to put you out," George started.

"Nonsense my lad," the janitor said. "I was going to have a cup
of coffee now anyway - I bring it in a thermo flask. And sitting
indoors would be nice; it is not so warm today."

"Oh, so you don't live here?" George asked.

"No," the janitor said. "These days most apartment blocks don't
have their own resident caretaker any more. I work at half a
dozen different buildings."

"I was lucky to meet you then," George said. "I'll be as quick as
I can."

"Don't worry about that," the elderly man said. He retrieved a
tool bag from his bicycle, followed George up to Marie's
apartment and in a few minutes he had dismounted the lock
cylinders."

The locksmiths were friendly and indeed willing to do the
rekeying at once. "How many keys do you want?" they asked George.

After only a moment's hesitation he said "Three please, and I'd
like you to cut two copies of this one." He took the key for the
street door off Marie's key ring. 'Possibly I should have asked
her about this first,' George thought, 'but there will be no harm
done - if she doesn't want me to have the keys then she'll just
have two spare sets.'

George returned to the apartment not half an hour later. Esbern
refitted the lock cylinders and they tried the keys. "All set,"
he said. "I'll remove the bloke's name from the directory and the
door at once; I have to print out a fresh label for the intercom,
but I'll see to that in a day or two."

"That's fine," George replied. "Marie won't be out of hospital
for quite a while."

"Will you be looking after her when she is discharged?" the old
man asked candidly. "I mean, should I put your name up instead?"

George smiled and slowly shook his head. "No, we have no such
arrangement. Yet."

He was starting to assert himself. As Dr. Hansen had said, the
time to be shy had passed.

____________________


George wanted to bring the stuff to Marie is quickly as possible.
First though he went to the cafe and talked to Simon about
sick-pay. As Thomas had predicted, both Marie and George worked
enough hours to be entitled to receive it, as did Helen. Simon
had already made the necessary arrangements. "Don't worry," he
said. "You'll get your pay as usual. And take what time you need
before returning."

George nodded. He could feel that his leg was far from healed,
and while his hands were much improved he still had large pieces
of sticky plaster on both of them. Upholding the required
standards in hygiene would be impossible until his hands were
well enough to withstand frequent scrubbing. But Simon was
honestly not in a hurry for them to start again, as long as he
could keep them. He had been ecstatic to hear that Marie was out
of intensive care. George urged him to visit her. "You think she
would like that?" he asked.

"And how!" George said. "She adores you. And Helen would like a
visit too, I'm sure. She has been discharged but is at home with
her parents; she is completely helpless at the moment." He told
Simon where to find both of the girls and drove home for dinner.

John was there when he got home. Both John and Mette
unaccountably had moist hair despite it being a dry, if cool and
blusterous day. They also looked slightly goofy and George
assumed - correctly - that they had taken advantage of getting
off work early and finding the apartment empty. 'Good for them,'
he thought. 'I wish I was as lucky.'

George told about Marie's progress and what he had been doing at
her apartment over dinner. "Good thinking with the keys," John
said. "When Britta was beaten up by the scumbag Lars, he had let
himself into her apartment."

"I feared something similar," George said. "An even though I'm
sure Peter will be locked up for a long time, someone else could
get hold of his keys."

"Have you been back with Marie's things yet?" Mette asked her
son.

"No, not yet," George replied. "I wanted to catch Simon at the
cafe first to ask about sick-pay. It turns out all three of us
are entitled to that and Simon had already made the arrangements.
So at least Marie will have some source of income while she is in
hospital."

"That's good," John said. 'Good thinking by the lad once more,'
John thought. He had to admit that not all academics were equally
hopeless at real life matters. He was not usually good at
admitting when he'd been wrong, but with Mette responding
enthusiastically to his new-found appreciation of George it was a
win-win situation. Recently the relationship had been cooling,
but for the last weeks they had rediscovered the spark.

Mette nodded agreement. "Are you going over tonight?" she asked.

"I thought I would - if you don't need the car," George replied,
the latter directed at John.

"No, that's fine," Johns said. "Your mother and I will just have
a cosy evening at home."

John had used the untranslatable quintessential Danish term
'hygge' - one meaning of which is 'cosy'. It is also used as a
polite euphemism for sex. The exchange of looks and the faint
giggle was not lost on George. 'Time for round two when I'm out
the door,' he thought. It was.

____________________


Marie was still awake when George came to visit again. She was
happy to get her stuff. George had found all the books and
toiletries she had asked for and she thought it was cool to be
able to get back on-line with her computer. And the brief worry
she had when presented with the pile of bills was dispelled by
astonished gratitude when George could tell her that Simon would
still be paying her while she was sick. She hadn't expected that
either.

But despite Marie's happy mood, George was a little apprehensive
about the other things he had to report - would she take it well,
or would she think he was being pushy? By way of opening, he put
the three sets of keys on Marie's bed. She looked at them without
comprehension. "I seem to have both more keys and fewer keys,"
she said.

"You do," George agreed. "With the help of Esbern your friendly
janitor - who sends his fondest greetings, by the way - I've had
the locks rekeyed. You now have the same key for the doors and
the letter box. Thus fewer keys - the one for the street door is
unchanged."

Marie was slowly nodding. "I thought it would be a comfort to
know that you controlled who has the keys," George said very
gently.

Marie shuddered and nodded again. "Not that he will be out on the
streets any time soon, but he could have friends..." George
trailed off.

"Thank you," Marie whispered. "Yes, this is a comfort."

"And one set of keys can quickly be no sets of keys, so I made
sure you had spares," George said, still not quite getting to the
core issue.

"Thus more," Marie said slowly. She smiled. "One set for me, one
spare set - and one set for you perhaps?"

"Yes," George said happily. "That was my thought, subject to your
approval. In that way I can look after the apartment while you're
here."

Marie nodded again. She was too fragile to think very far ahead,
too fragile to think through all the implications of a new
relationship. And yet it was immensely comforting to have George
around. More than comforting actually - much more; she'd had more
kisses from George over the last two weeks than from Peter during
the entire time they'd been together. Not to mention the quality
of said kisses, "Yes," she said. "I would very much like you to
have the keys for the apartment."

George smiled that smile that always made her feel all soft and
warm and fluffy. "Thank you," he said simply. "There are a few
more things I need to do about your apartment before you can come
home."

Marie looked puzzled. "Oh, I think clearing out the fridge might
be a good idea," he said evasively.

Marie could sense he was dissembling, but didn't probe further.

A young girl came round the ward with a trolley offering cold or
warm drinks. Marie and George both got tea and sat quietly
drinking it for a while. Without really thinking about it, they
were holding hands. The silence was warm and companionable.

"There is one more thing," George said when he'd finished the tea
and decided it was time to go. "Do you think you could possibly
bear the thought of meeting my mother? She hasn't said anything
but I am certain she is dying to meet you."

Marie looked startled; in all the time she'd been living with
Peter he had never taken the initiative for her to see any of his
family. George misinterpreted that startled look as fear or
distrust and started to back-track nervously. "You don't have to;
I haven't said anything - nor has she, I'm, sorry..."

"I'd like to meet your mother George," Marie said with a firm
voice. "Anytime." 'I'm pretty darn certain if the roles were
reversed, I would be walking on eggs until I had met the girl my
son maimed himself to save,' Marie thought.

"Tomorrow?" George asked. "I don't think she is working this
weekend."

"Happily," Marie said.

"Thanks," George said. "And now I must let you sleep. Sweet
dreams." He tucked her in and kissed her. She responded by
sending her tongue into his mouth.

"I love you," she whispered as George floated out of the room. It
was too quiet for him to hear, though.

____________________


John and Mette were in bed - sleeping - when George came home and
he only got to suggest the visit over breakfast. John was going
out to help his daughter and son-in-law with some work on their
house and would be picked up shortly. "Don't you want your car
then?" George asked.

"Nope!" John replied with relish as he got up to leave. "I'm
going to work myself to the ground for Britta and Frank all day
and they are rewarding me with dinner. One of them will simply
have to stay sober enough to drive me home; I don't want to
forego a beer or three during the work and sharing a bottle of
wine with one of them for dinner!"

George smiled. He hardly ever drank, but he recognized John's
desire to have a worry-free evening. And it made the planned
expedition easier.

"Are you coming back here?" Mette asked.

"I could," John smiled, "but I may not be up to much after food
or drink."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," Mette said with a glint in her eyes. "You
always rise to the challenge..." She kissed him goodbye.

George smiled. His mother seemed so happy with John which pleased
him. "Will you come over to the hospital to meet Marie then Mum?"
he asked.

"Yes darling I will," Mette replied, "if you're sure she's OK
with that."

"She is," George replied. "When I asked her she said 'anytime'
and she was fine with that being today."

"OK then," Mette said. "I'll hit the shower." She was already
worrying about what to wear.

Is it ever easy to present your new love to your mother? Is it
ever easy to be introduced to your son's new love? Is it ever
easy to meet your boyfriend's mother for the first time?
Presumably the answers are three times 'no' even at the best of
times. With the circumstances surrounding Marie and George and
given George's (and Mette's) past it could have made for anxious
times. But it didn't.

Well, they were all nervous. This was the first girl George had
ever so much as mentioned to his mother, and while Marie was
perfect in all respects in his mind, he did worry what his mother
would think. A conflict between the two would be disastrous for
his entire existence. Mette was equally nervous about meeting
Marie because she was aware how much she meant to George. And
Marie was suddenly nervous and worried that Mette would find her
unworthy for George. She also felt she wasn't presenting herself
to her best advantage in a drab hospital pyjamas and what could
only be described as a 'tragic hair day'. It didn't help that she
had no idea when George and his mother would get there.

Mercifully the ward was quiet for the weekend so the duty nurse
decided that one of the carers should help Marie with her first
proper bath and hair wash. It felt like being reborn - the carer,
a large woman, strong as an ox but gentle and patient, washed the
little porcelain doll, dried her with infinite care, put her in
clean pyjamas, dried and combed her short dark hair and put her
back in the freshly made bed. Marie dozed off - despite the carer
doing all the work, the whole process had tired her out. When she
woke up she saw George and a woman in her mid forties of much the
same colouring as George looking at her. She recognised the love
in George's eyes. It had always been there but now she knew what
it meant. She smiled at him and then looked closer at the woman.
She seemed to be of ordinary height, but like everyone she was
dwarfed by George. Size aside, there could be no doubt it was his
mother. Not only the colouring was the same; they shared many
facial similarities and the woman's eyes were of the exact same
greyish-blue hue as George's.

But what startled Marie was not the similarity in the colour of
the eyes. It was the similarity in their expression. She had,
irrationally perhaps, feared rejection or hostility. She had
hoped for acceptance. She had expected curiosity and perhaps some
guarded reservation. But she was completely unprepared for what
she saw: There was the very same gentle love in the gaze that met
her. Marie blinked and her eyes welled up with tears.

A moment later she was embraced. "Marie, I cannot tell you have
happy I am that you survived," the woman said. "You mean the
world to George - and thus the world to me. I couldn't bear the
thought that he'd lost you just when he'd found you."

Mette gently cradled Marie in her arms and let her cry. "Thank
you," Marie whispered. She sniffled. "Can I know your name?"

They both giggled. "Of course, I'm sorry, I should have
introduced myself. I am Mette Rhodes, George's mother."

"Oh, I like your priorities Mette. I needed your hug more than
knowing your name," Marie said with a sparkle in her still moist
eyes.

Mette, already taken in by the elfin girl, melted completely.
"You'll have plenty of hugs from me," she said. "Perhaps not as
bone-crushing as George's, but many just the same."

"We gotta go easy on the bone-crushing for quite a while anyway,"
George said. It was clear from his voice and face alike how happy
he was.

Mette sat down on the edge of Marie's bed and held her hand.
George gingerly lowered himself into the guest chair. For a
little while they were just looking and smiling at each other,
silent but completely at ease. Then Mette started asking Marie
about herself - her background, her studies and so on. To Marie's
joy, the conversation flowed like they had known each other for
years.

"I haven't seen her for a very long time," Marie said in reply to
a question about her mother. "We kind of lost touch completely
when I'd finished high school. She wasn't much of a mother to me
anyway." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, Mette
thought, although Marie tried to sound neutral.

"Well, you have me now," Mette said. "I've been looking forward
to getting a daughter this way. My step daughters - you know
George has four half-siblings in England?" Marie nodded - "well,
they were my girls from 7 and 10, but I don't see them very often
now. And my step sons' partners are my own age. So I was waiting
for George to give me a new daughter. Like everything else he
does, he's done a perfect job on that score too." George and
Marie both blushed.

They talked on for a while, but it was obvious that Marie's
strength was flagging. Blood transfusions notwithstanding, she
was still anaemic and would need many more weeks to recuperate,
the first several of which would have to be closely monitored at
the hospital. Mette, with a mother's tactfulness, kissed Marie
goodbye and said to George that she would go find a toilet.

When they were alone, Marie reached out for George to embrace
her. "Thank for bringing your mother over. She was lovely to me."

George kissed her gently. "How couldn't she be? You are lovely -
it's all your own work, Marie. All your own work. See you
tomorrow."

A few moments after George had left, Vera - the large carer who
had bathed Marie - came in to say goodbye now that her shift had
ended. "Did it go well?" she asked - Marie had confided in her
that she would be meeting Mette.

"Yes," Marie said and then started crying.

"Whatever is the matter girl?" Vera said, holding her hand.

"It's just, it's just," Marie sniffled and tried again. "It's
just that I am not used to being loved."

____________________


"George, she is wonderful!" Mette said when they met up on the
way down to John's car.

"She is, isn't she?" George said.

"No wonder you fell for her. It must have painful to know she was
with someone else and intolerable to know he abused her," Mette
said.

George just nodded, looking down.

"You could have told me about her," Mette said. "I mean, it's not
so nice struggling with that kind do thing alone."

George smiled. "I wasn't. I talked to Elaine."

"You did?" Mette said in delight. "That's good. Are you in touch
with her frequently?"

"Not really. More like from time to time," George said. "But when
I call her we yak for hours."

"That must be costly!" Mette exclaimed.

"No," George said. "I use Skype Out. It costs about 1 £ per
hour."

"Per hour?" Mette asked in amazement.

"Yeah, to her landline," George said. "It's like ten times that
to her mobile, so I don't do that."

"Does she know about, you know, what's happened?" Mette asked.

"No, she doesn't," George replied sadly. "She and Paul have been
attending an international conference in the US somewhere. Paul
was on the organising committee, so they were going to be there
for a long time."

Paul, Elaine's husband, was a clinical psychologist like Elaine
and an international authority in the area, so they travelled a
lot.

"When will they be back?" Mette asked.

"Today, actually," George said. "I was planning on calling her
tomorrow. She will want to know. She actually warned me about
Peter. She said that 'psychopaths on steroids' were dangerous."

"She was not wrong there," Mette said with a shudder. "But I
doubt she will be pleased to know that."

"Hardly," George agreed. He drove on in a strange direction for
home.

"Where are we going?" Mette asked.

"To Marie's apartment," George replied. "There is something I
want to show you and ask you about. I need your specialist
knowledge."

"OK," his mother said, slightly puzzled.

They met the janitor, busy sweeping the pavement outside the
building. "Hi Esbern," George said.

"Oh hullo," he replied. "Are you back to see to the apartment?"

"Indeed," George replied. He introduced Mette. "This is my
mother, Mette."

"Esbern," the elderly man said and shook the proffered with a
polite nod. "I'm glad your boy is looking after little Marie. Her
previous boyfriend was the scum of the earth,"

"So I gather," Mette said. "How anyone could bring himself to
hurt that little girl is beyond me."

"Well, I helped young George change the locks," Esbern said with
satisfaction, "and I've removed the bastard's name from all the
signs now."

"Thanks!" George said and let himself and his mother in.

Mette noticed how neat and tidy the apartment was. "What was it
you wanted to show me?" she asked.

"Something in the bedroom," George said and opened the door. "The
stains on the bedding and the mattress. Can I do anything about
them?"

Mette investigated. She was used to such and worse at the nursing
home, but obviously not something left to set for two weeks.
"Well, the bedding is of very good quality and both could and
should be salvaged. You can just run a full-cycle wash at maximum
temperature, a good old-fashioned 'boil wash' in fact, that
should do it. Does she have a washing machine herself or is there
a communal laundry in the building?"

"There're both a washing machine and a drier in the bathroom,"
George replied.

"Good," Mette said. "In that case we can set it going with the
highest temperature and the longest program, and even theses
stains should come out."

"What about the duvet?" George asked.

"It's too big for a normal washing machine, and you also need a
large drier to fluff it up afterwards. I would take it to a dry
cleaner's." Mette said. "Is there one near by?"

"I think we passed one a block back," George said.

"Yes, we did - I remember it now," Mette said. "We should take it
down right away before they close. It is Saturday after all."

She methodically stripped the bed. "Both duvets and the pillows
could do with a clean," she said. "But they are good quality too
so they are worth it."

"What can be done about the mattress?" George asked.

"Not much," Mette replied. "At the nursing home we always use a
plastic cover over the mattresses. You can try bleach, but it
would be pretty difficult to do a good job by now. You cannot
soak it, or the springs will rust. And the odour might actually
get worse. We can try, but if it is too bad then Marie will have
to get new mattresses."

George nodded. He would have to talk to Marie about it. They took
the sheets and covers out to washing machine in the bathroom.
"Yuck," Mette exclaimed. "There's a load in it already. That must
be choice by now."

"What do we do?" George asked.

"Simple. Wash it again," Mette said, added detergent and started
a quick program.

They walked down to the dry cleaners and handed in the duvets and
pillows. "You can pick them up again on Wednesday," the
proprietor, a friendly man of middle-eastern origin, said in
accented but serviceable Danish. "They should be good-as-new."

They paid and thanked him and walked back. On the way they
stopped at a supermarket and bought cleaning aids and some large
black plastic bags. They also bought stuff for lunch. Up in the
apartment, they started with clearing out the fridge. Like
everywhere else in the apartment it had been nice and clean two
weeks ago, but most of the then fresh stuff had naturally gone
off. Half an hour later it was sparkling clean and all tainted
foodstuffs had been discarded.

While George carried bags down to the bin, Mette made lunch. "It
is a nice apartment," she said over lunch in the kitchen.

"Yes," George agreed. He was hoping to get to share it with
Marie. He wasn't quite sure how to bring that about though.

As if she could read his mind, Mette spoke "Just be there for her
when she comes home from hospital and see how things evolve. You
may find she'll never want you to leave."

George nodded gratefully. "I should have told you about her
earlier," he said. He had felt a little guilty when he admitted
he had confided in Elaine and not in his mum.

"That's OK sweetheart." Mette said. "There wasn't all that much
to tell until two weeks ago was there?"

"True," George said, smiling that sweet little smile that sent
most women's hearts fluttering.

'And he doesn't even know it,' Mette thought wryly. 'Though after
the episode with that other poor girl, he may discover it.'

They finished their lunch and started, without even having talked
about, to purge the apartment systematically for every trace of
Peter. "Well, the clothes are easy to tell apart!" Mette said
with a grin. The washing machine had finished and they put its
contents - Peter's gym clothes that had triggered the final
assault - in the drier and started the long high-temperature wash
of the bedding which Mette had left to soak in a plastic tub
while they did the other tasks. "I'll be surprised if they don't
come out perfectly clean," she said. "It is really top-quality."

George and Mette obviously had no idea what furniture and kitchen
gear was Marie's and what belonged to Peter. Personal papers
seemed to be stored in different places according to 'owner' so
Peter's were easily sorted and packed. They thought it unlikely
any of the books were Peter's. There could be DVDs and CDs
belonging to him of course, but only Marie would know and asking
her about that would have to wait - and George was adamant he
wanted to minimise the number of times he asked Marie about
Peter. He found Peter's passport, birth certificate and a few
other important documents in a drawer and decided to get in touch
with Peter's lawyer first thing Monday morning.

While they waited for the washing machine to finish, they did a
thorough general cleaning up the apartment and then had a cup of
tea with a cake from the local baker. "Thanks Mum," George said
as they were getting the now spotlessly clean bed linen out of
the washing machine and transferred to the drier. "I couldn't
have managed alone."

"That's fine sweetheart," Mette said with warmth. "I am only
happy to help you. And Marie."

____________________


When George visited Marie on the Sunday, he brought 'a kiss from
my mother' which made Marie very happy. George didn't tell Marie
about the visit to the apartment or indeed talk about Peter, but
Marie brought him up herself. "When I walked out that Saturday
morning I told Peter I wanted him to be gone when I got back. I
still want that."

"Rest assured he will be," George said. "He's not going anywhere
for a long time."

"His stuff will be at the apartment, and he gets mail there too,"
Marie said.

"Don't worry," George replied. "I'll talk to his lawyer about
it."

"I don't know that he has one," Marie objected

"He does," George replied. "If you try to murder someone then the
court will appoint a lawyer to defend you. I'll find out who that
is and ask him what he wants done about Peter's stuff and how to
get mail and so on redirected."

Marie thanked George absentmindedly. "There'll be a trial I
suppose," she said.

"Yes, that's unavoidable," George said gently and reached for her
hand. "But don't worry. I'll be there."

"You're always there for me," Marie said - still shaken by the
thought of the trail.

"I want to be," George said gently and kissed her. "Always."

____________________


The call to Elaine on Sunday was brief. Elaine's and Paul's
flight had been delayed so they had only been home for a few
hours and Elaine was both tired and jet-lagged. She listened to
George's tale completely aghast. "I know I warned you about him,
but I hadn't expected him to resort to attempted murder!" she
said. "Will Marie truly be OK?"

"The doctors say she will," George said. "At least physically.
She'll have fewer scars than either Helen or me."

"On the outside," Elaine observed.

"On the outside, yeah," George concurred. "Working on the mental
scarring will take much longer."

"Be patient," Elaine said. "She sounds like she's worth fighting
for."

"Mor said something similar after she had been to see her at the
hospital," George said.

"A wise boy heeds what his sister and mother agree on," Elaine
said airily.

"Indeed," George said with a happy chuckle. "And now I should let
you sleep so you can be fresh to stay awake all night."

"Pest!" Elaine said, but in a loving voice, and rang off.

____________________


George rang the police on Monday. After a lot of red tape he got
to talk to the senior officer who had been instrumental in saving
Marie's life. He was very friendly - delighted to hear Marie was
doing so well, thrilled that George was looking after her and
efficient at finding out which lawyer had been appointed to
represent Peter. "We have to interview Marie of course," the
officer said. "And you and that other girl. We've waited until
Marie was out of intensive care and you and the other girl were
over the worst. But she should expect a visit this coming week,
and you and the other girl will be called in for questioning."

George mumbled some agreement and hung up. He didn't mind telling
the police what he'd seen and done, but he worried for Marie -
and for Helen. He cleared his thoughts and called the lawyer. He
explained who he was and his errand to a secretary and was put
through. The lawyer was very formal and very stiff. "I cannot
provide any information about my client to a third party -
particularly not to someone who is a party in the case," he said.

"It has nothing to do with the case," George said quietly. "I am
a friend of Marie's. I want her apartment to be rid of all signs
of the man who tried to murder her before she is discharged from
hospital. I could put the lot in the bins in the courtyard for
the garbage collectors to take away, or I could dump it at your
office. Or we can be civil about it and you tell me where your
client wants it. I don't know the man from Adam; if he has family
then perhaps they will look after his possessions while he is in
prison."

"Always provided he does go to prison," the lawyer bristled. Most
ordinary people are scared of lawyers or at least diffident. This
quiet young man - whose testimony would condemn his client - was
very respectful, but there was an iron will behind the soft
voice. And he was obviously not going to back off, the lawyer
thought.

The reply fully confirmed that thought. "True," George said. "He
may be deemed insane and sent to a loony-bin permanently, but to
Marie that makes no odds. Even if he's not locked up, he will not
be allowed in her apartment again. Ever. So what's it to be? The
rubbish heap, your office, or somewhere that your client
decides?"

"My client is undergoing a psychiatric evaluation and cannot be
contacted," the lawyer said, trying a new avenue.

"Of course," George said. "But you could tell me if he as any
family."

"As I told you already, I cannot provide any information about my
client to a third party," the lawyer replied.

"Whatever," George said. "Have them ring me if they exist. Here
is my number," and he mentioned it,

"I'll see what I can do," the lawyer said. "It may take a while."

"Your problem," George said. "If I am not told what your client
wants by tomorrow I will dump his possessions in the garbage bins
here with the exception of his official personal documents which
you will find in your letter box. Good day to you."

Two hours later George had a call from a man who presented
himself as Søren Christensen. "I am the brother of Peter
Christensen," he said. "I understand from my brother's lawyer
that Marie Jensen is keen to get rid of my brother's stuff?"

"Yes, that's about right," George said. "Marie is still in
hospital. We don't want her to come home to her apartment while
your brother's belongings are still there."

"I can understand that," the man said. "And that is just about
the sum total of what I understand. Is it true he tried to kill
the girl?"

"Yes," George said. "I wrestled the knife out of his hands after
he had stabbed her once. He meant to kill."

"Jesus," the man said. "What came over him?"

"I don't know," George said. "He had been extremely violent
towards her for months. Some people think he was on steroids. You
didn't notice changes in him?"

"We hardly ever saw each other. And I have only met Marie once
when I helped Peter move in with her." the man replied

"Oh, so you could identify what furniture was your brother's?"
George asked.

"Easily," the main replied. "He had just split up with another
girl at the time and didn't have much. Besides his clothes, all
he brought was a double bed, a microwave oven and a block of
fancy kitchen knives. Oh, and a small flat-panel TV with built-in
DVD player."

"OK," George said. "I know where all of those things are - along
with clothes and personal papers. Would you be able to look after
this stuff while your brother's in prison?"

"I guess I could," came the reply. "From the sounds of it, that
could be a very long time, but I don't suppose Marie is keen to
look after it. I mean, she could keep the bed until Peter comes
out, perhaps?"

"Considering what she was subjected to in that bed, I doubt it,"
George said. He was only referring to the last episode, the
stains of which he had seen. He didn't know about the systematic
rapes.

"Oh, of course not," the man said. "When can we arrange for me to
take the stuff away?"

"Any time," George said. "The sooner, the better. I don't think
Marie will be discharged soon, but I have a lot to do - and my
hands and leg are still not 100% OK."

"How about at eight tonight?" the man asked.

"Excellent," George said. "I'll meet you at Marie's apartment."

Mette and John were not all that keen to hear about the
arrangement. "This Søren fellow could be fine - he most likely
is, or he could be just like his brother," John said. "I don't
want you to be there alone."

"I agree," Mette said. "We'll go all three of us."

George hadn't even considered the possibility that Søren
Christensen wasn't OK. He found it unlikely that anything could
happen, but he was pleased with the offer of assistance
nevertheless. Peter's brother would need help with carrying the
bed down to a vehicle so having John around was handy.

They went over at half past seven and John and George spent the
waiting time taking the bed frame apart while Mette got the
bedding out of the drier.

Peter's brother pressed the button of the intercom at the dot of
eight and George buzzed him in. A minute later there was a knock
on the door and George opened. The meeting was very civil and
slightly embarrassed. "Søren," the man said and offered his hand.

George shook it. "George," he replied. "And this is my mother
Mette and my stepfather John." He used the Danish term 'papfar'
which is a modern, informal word for 'stepfather' and unlike the
old term, completely free of negative connotations. Both Mette
and John looked startled but pleased.

Søren noticed the sticky plaster on George's hands and his limp
as they walked towards the bedroom. "I can see what you mean
about not being 100% yet. Is that my brother's work too?" he
asked.

"It is," George replied. "He was not in a state to give up the
knife quietly. But I'll be OK."

"You must think very badly of us," the man said with pain in his
voice.

"Not at all," George replied. "Marie suffered no abuse from your
hands and if you can help me reducing the reminders of your
brother then you are helping her in the recovery. And with
regards to me, well, your brother suffered worse when I disarmed
him."

"Oh," Søren said. "Well, I don't suppose one can be gentle about
that kind of thing."

They entered the bedroom. "We've taken the frame apart." John
said. "All the bolts and nuts are in this plastic bag. I'll help
you carry the pieces down. But let's take the mattresses first."

"Thank you," Søren said. "You are most kind."

George wanted to pick up the slats but John stopped him. "Don't
be daft boy. You have to spare those hands and your leg. Søren
and I are perfectly capable of doing it."

"OK," George said and helped his mother lining up the bags of
Peter's clothes in the tiny hall.

Søren and John were efficient so the bed and clothes were carried
down quickly. The small TV from the bedroom went next and then
they entered the kitchen. "Here's the microwave oven. And you
mentioned a block of kitchen knives," George said. "Are those the
ones?"

"Yes," Søren replied. "Definitely. I gave Peter those knives as a
gift when he took up cooking. We hoped he was going to train as a
chef, but it never happened. There used to be one more knife in
the block though?"

"I'm afraid that is not available," George said quietly. "I think
the police kept it as evidence."

"Jesus!" Søren said when comprehension dawned. "He used that
knife?"

George nodded. "I think that must be the one. I only saw it for a
few seconds, but it was a long Zwilling knife like the others"

"It is a miracle she survived then," Søren said. "Such knives can
be deadly."

George nodded. "Yeah, it nearly was. But only nearly."

Søren shook hands once more and drove off. John was on the phone
to someone, so George asked his mother for help to find clothes
for Marie to wear home, explaining that all she had was a pair of
sneakers. That took a little while until Mette was satisfied.
When they'd found a suitable bag, George asked about the bedding.
"How did it go?"

"They came out spotless," Mette said with satisfaction. "No
lingering stains, odours or fraying of the fabric."

"That's a mercy," George said. "Although at present, I haven't
exactly helped Marie all that much. I mean, she has clean
bedding, but no bed!"

"That's what you think," John, who had rejoined them, said. "I've
just talked to Britta. She has a double bed from when she was
living with Lars. They keep it in the basement; it's not being
used. Frank needed a special mattress for his back or something,
so they have another bed now. You can have the old one if you
like. The mattresses are fine she says. The frame could do with a
fresh coat of paint, but so could the bedroom."

"That's fantastic!" George said in gratitude. "That's really
sweet of you."

John smiled. "That's OK. Oh, and by the way: Lars was very tall,
so the bed is extra long. That could come in handy..."

George blushed and was about to speak, but John pre-empted him.
He put a hand on George's shoulder. "But not before she is ready
for it. Give her time, OK?"

"Yes John," George said quietly. "All the time she needs."

They arranged to go pick up the bed from Britta and Frank the
next evening. Mette and John both got off work early so they went
to the apartment first and emptied the bedroom completely,
covered the floor boards with paper and painted the ceiling and
walls. Mette washed, dried and ironed the curtains. They were
plain, unbleached curtain cloth and she had bought some pale blue
fabric to trim them with. The bed frame was indeed slightly
scratched in places, but they took it - and the two matching bed
side tables - down into the courtyard, sanded them down and
primed them. Over the next couple of evenings they were painted
and the carved pattern was given a contrasting colour matching
the curtain trimming to perfection. "Very nice!" Mette said with
satisfaction when they had assembled it all on the Friday. "Very
nice indeed. I like it, and I'm sure Marie will too. There is
nothing here to remind her of the old bedroom."

"Thanks Mum, thanks John," George said. "I'm sure Marie will love
it."

____________________


So the Friday ended well. It hadn't started that way. George had
- unwisely it turned out - decided he wanted to try his leg so he
rode his bicycle out to visit Marie. It went OK for the first
couple of kilometres, but when he got to a long hill he realized
it was too soon; much too soon, for that kind of strain. He was
drawn and pale from the pain when he finally arrived. Marie
worried about him and felt guilty and responsible for his
injuries. George tried to comfort her, but in the middle of that
two uniformed policemen turned up to take her statement and could
not be persuaded that the timing was bad. They had at first
agreed that Marie could have a friend present, but when they
learned who George was he was unceremoniously shooed out, being a
witness in the case himself.

They were, to put it mildly, clumsy and very far from tactful.
Their questioning about Marie's possible provocation of Peter
triggered all the mechanisms Marie had used during her time with
Peter, making up excuses for him. She was crying fit to break
anyone's heart - and George's especially. He could hear her
through the closed door, so he summonsed the head nurse who got
hold of the doctor in charge and the policemen were bodily
ejected from the ward by two bulky porters. Calm, but with
white-hot fury, the doctor - none other than Dr. Hansen -
telephoned the police station and complained. The duty officer
had the good grace to apologize, but the damage had been done.
Marie was inconsolable. Dr. Hansen ordered the injection of a
sedative, had her put on a suicide watch and sent the completely
distraught George home.

But the work on Marie's bedroom that evening was therapeutic and
when he phoned Marie's ward later that evening he was told she
was much better. When he turned up at the ward on Saturday
morning Marie, fragile but collected, started to apologize.
"Apologize at your peril!" George snapped. "Those two assholes
yesterday are not fit for anything but parking infringements and
lost property duty. It was Peter who beat you, raped you and
tried to murder you, not the other way around. It was NOT your
fault. ANY of it. Don't let a couple of misogynist Neanderthals
persuade you otherwise."

The head-nurse who had walked in at the end of George's tirade
spoke up. "I agree entirely with Mr. Rhodes," she said. "And so
does the doctor. I heard him say something very similar to the
police yesterday. They had complained that the two coppers were
thrown out. He replied that they should count themselves lucky he
had not let Mr. Rhodes do it, or they might have been thrown out
the window."

"No, that's not my style," George replied dead-pan. "I throw
people down stairs."

Marie could smile behind the tears. "Yeah, right," she said but
the nurse interjected.

"No, it's true. He does. He did!"

Marie was staring agape. "He did what?"

"He threw the bastard who tried to kill you down the stairs after
breaking his arm and taking the knife from him," the nurse said -
and there was an admiration in her voice not wholly suitable to
her profession, given the injuries said action had caused.

Marie was gaping even more. "That sounds pretty dramatic. What
happened to him?"

"Apart from the arm which was already broken, I think he bumped
his head pretty badly," George said. There was no detectable
remorse in his voice either.

The nurse leaned in and whispered in Marie's ear. George saw her
eyes go wide in shock and then the expression was replaced by one
of relief or even closure. "But don't tell anyone, or he may be
in trouble," the nurse whispered last - the only thing George
heard. Marie nodded vigorously and very deliberately changed the
subject every time George tried to find out what the nurse had
said.

George left without knowing, but happy all the same as Marie
seemed much better. He had so very nearly told her about the
bedroom, but wanted it to be a surprise.

That George was full of surprises was slowly dawning on Marie.
She could hardly believe that George, her Gentle Giant, had so
ruthlessly dealt with Peter. Nor did she find the nurse's
assertion all together credible so when Dr. Hansen came to see
her before ending his shift she decided to spring it on him. Dr.
Hansen had just declared that he was satisfied with her progress
and attributed it to 'the splendid young fellow' when Marie asked
"Dr. Hansen, is it really true Peter lost his balls?"

Dr. Hansen looked guarded. "What makes you ask that?"

"Don't worry," Marie said. "I promised nurse I will never tell
anyone, but is it true?"

"Yes," Dr. Hansen said. "He bumped his groin on the banister on
the rails to the basement, and he didn't tell anyone on the day.
When he was brought in the next day we had no choice but removing
them - castrating him."

Marie was staring opened mouthed.

"He doesn't know it," Dr. Hansen added. "But he has raped and
beaten for the last time. Now, do you understand why we can't
talk about it?"

Marie nodded slowly. "As I said, I will never tell anyone - not
even George, OK?"

"Good girl." Dr. Hansen said and went home.

____________________


On Monday a very senior police officer and a young policewoman
came to the ward and requested permission to interview Marie in
the presence of a nurse so that her mental health could be
monitored. It went well. Marie cried, but not excessively and a
full record of Peter's abuse was taken. She had no memory of the
assault itself; the loss of blood pressure from the stab wound
had rendered her unconscious in seconds.

Over the next several weeks both Marie and George improved
markedly. During the next week George no longer needed the sticky
plaster on his hands and resumed work and university. By the end
of the following week, he could ride his bike without pain
although he still felt discomfort when working out too hard. But
he had returned the car to John and moved back to his kollegium.

Marie meanwhile had recovered to the point where she was up
sitting in a chair reading or walking around a little during the
day and Dr. Hansen decided she could be discharged 'provided
someone would be there look after her'. He said that on the
Thursday while George was visiting. Before Marie could even think
of what to reply, George spoke. "Not a problem Dr. Hansen, I will
take her home and stay with her for as long as she needs me."

"Excellent," Dr. Hansen said. "Come in tomorrow for the ward
round and I will discharge her to your care. You will be given a
direct number to the ward. You can phone us at anytime for
advice, and if anything feels wrong then you go straight to the
emergency ward. OK?"

"Yes Dr, Hansen," George replied. "I'll borrow my stepfather's
car and drive her home." Marie just gulped.

"You should find some clothes for Marie to wear," the nurse said.

"Oh, Mum already helped with that," George replied. "I'll bring a
bag of stuff tomorrow."

"Fine," the nurse said. Marie just gaped.

"See you tomorrow," George said cheerfully when he kissed Marie
goodbye. She mumbled some automatic reply, but she was still just
staring at him.

Ward round on a Friday is usually around mid-day so George showed
up with the bag of clothes at 11 am. Marie excused herself to the
bathroom and returned in her day clothes for the first time in
ages a little while later. "Your mother has excellent taste," she
said. “She picked some of my favourite clothes.”

"I'm glad to hear that sweetheart," George said kissing her, "and
happy to see you in something other than hospital pyjamas for
once!"

Marie smiled. "Are you really going to stay with me?" she asked.

"Yup," George replied. "For as long as you want me. Hopefully
that will be forever."

He couldn't believe his own forwardness and hoped it didn't put
off Marie.

It didn't. "I would like that," she said, and let herself be
kissed again. He was still very gentle with her and careful not
to squeeze her chest, but the kiss was nevertheless more intense
than anything she'd had before and his probing tongue more
insistent. She felt herself go wet and started to panic. But at
that moment the ward round reached Marie's room and she and
George separated hastily.

Dr. Hansen asked Marie how she was feeling and then discharged
her, dictating the instructions to the record keeper that Marie
or George could call the ward directly at any time. He ended off
with a stern warning, shared between both of them, that Marie was
to abstain from 'all strenuous physical activity' for the next
several months and that she was not to resume work for at least
the first month. He then sent them on their way. He would have
liked to have kissed Marie. He didn't - he had a trail of staff
and medical students with him and needed to keep a professional
distance, but his head nurse who knew him very well noticed the
look in his eyes. "I'm so glad we saved that one," she whispered
to him as they watched George and Marie walk away. Their eyes
met; both sets were moist.

____________________


As they were driving out of the hospital car park, Marie turned
to look at George. "I never had any lunch," she observed.

"Nor did I," George said with a small smile. "But I know where to
get that."

"Where?" Marie asked.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," George teased.

Marie found out soon enough; George drove them to the cafe. "Do
you know, I've actually never been here as a guest," she said.

"Neither had I until Dr. Hansen drove me home from hospital,"
George said. "It was quite fun having coffee served!"

As George had hoped, Simon was at the cafe. The joy in his eyes
when Marie walked in on George's arm was beyond price. He wept
openly and had to have one of the staff take George's and Marie's
order. "I can't say how happy I am to have you back Marie," he
kept saying as he sat down with them.

"Well, you won't have her back here working for another month or
so," George said. "Dr. Hansen forbids it, but she may come over
with me some evenings just to get a feel for it again."

During lunch they talked about Helen. "She called me the other
day," Simon said. "Quite a feat; she did it herself. She is
getting intense physical therapy every day at a clinic somewhere.
Apparently her mother had insured her hands for some obscene
amount, so the insurance company is forking out the therapy in
the hope that they can avoid a major pay-out."

"I'm sure she would prefer for her hands to heal rather than
getting the money," George said.

"Oh, absolutely," Simon agreed. "But if she ends up invalided out
of her profession then it is a comfort to know that she will have
money to pay for retraining."

Marie looked pained. "I feel so guilty," she started.

"Yes," Simon said simply. "I knew you would, but that’s stupid
and you know it. You would have done the same for Helen." He
looked Marie straight in the eye and she had to blink first.

"Yes, I guess," she said. "But it still feels like such a
burden."

"That’s what violence does," Simon said. He was comfortable in
his skin and his scene was openly gay and safe. But he knew of
many homosexual men, whose semi-closeted lives meant they
frequented clandestine encounters, subjecting themselves to the
risks of disease and violence from homophobes.

They finished their lunch, which Simon refused to let them pay
for, and drove home to Marie's apartment. "What about the car?"
she asked as George parked it.

"I promised that we would visit my Mum and John this weekend,"
George said. "John will drive us home afterwards. Can you live
with that?"

"Happily," Marie said and meant it.

George could sense her nervousness as they approached the front
door. He saw her eyes flicker to the button on the intercom, look
puzzled and then peering at the directory of tenants inside.
"Peter's gone," she exclaimed.

"Yes," George smiled. "Thanks to Esbern."

"That's nice," Marie said. They took their time walking upstairs.
Once more Marie spotted the solitaire "Marie Jensen" on the door.
No signs of Peter. 'There will be plenty of signs of him inside,'
she thought, but put a brave face on and entered.

The apartment had its usual homely scent. It was not stale like
she had feared and when they entered the living room she could
see that all her pot plants had survived. "How frequently have
you been here?" she asked.

"Quite a bit," George admitted. "I wanted it to be clean and
fresh for you when you got home."

"You are such a sweetheart," she said and kissed him. They sat
down in the sofa and talked a little. He suggested a cup of tea
and they went to the kitchen. Marie was looking around idly and
then puzzled. 'There is something different about the microwave,'
she thought, but she didn't quite get it and said nothing. Nor
did she notice the missing knife-block.

When they had drunk the tea Marie decided to have a look through
her long neglected text books. She had been in contact with her
university supervisor during the last week, but not been up to
much studying. She needed to do two exams and a thesis to finish
her degree and knew she couldn't do it on time now. Even if she
postponed the thesis until the next semester, she would be hard
pressed to pass the exams. She had mentioned it to George who had
told her no to worry about it.

But she did and the troubled look on her face when she picked up
the book was not lost on him. "It's not the end of the world if
you finish half a year late, is it?" he'd asked.

"I suppose not," she replied. "But my student aid has already run
out and I am not exactly able to have more hours at the cafe for
a while, am I?"

"I wouldn't worry," George replied.

"But there is the rent to pay," she said.

"I wouldn't worry," George repeated. "You don't have to be here
alone."

"Nor do I want to be," she smiled warmly and let him kiss her.

Once more the kiss was wonderful and she felt her self go wet.
The panicky feeling returned and competed with the pleasure of
the kiss. Once more she was 'saved' by outside intervention when
George's phone rang. It was Mette who wanted to know 'how things
were going'. "Great Mum," George replied. "I got Marie home and
she would like to come over to visit during the weekend."

"How about tomorrow for dinner?" Mette asked.

George relayed the question to Marie, got a nod of approval and
said that to his mother.

"Excellent," Mette said. "Come at six."

George agreed and ended the call. He turned to Marie with a
smile. "Are you getting hungry? I could start dinner."

"I can help," Marie offered.

"Fine," George said. "But don't tire yourself out. It's fine if
you just come to the kitchen and talk to me."

"You are just wonderful to me," she said and kissed him, but she
didn't let the kiss linger.

George didn't mind or even notice and got on with dinner. He had
chosen something light and easy to cook. Marie prepared a salad,
but otherwise sat down and chatted with George. 'This is
wonderful,' she thought. 'And I could have it forever.' But then
the dark thoughts came. 'Only there is a price to pay in return
for a man's company,' she thought, 'and I don't know that I am
able to pay it.'

George didn't see her troubled frown - he had his back turned,
frying something on the stove. When he turned around with a "Ta
da! All's finished!" Marie had managed to get her face under
control and smiled back.

Dinner was nice, but soon after her strength started to flag.
George had done the dishes, refusing to let her do anything
except sit down and talk to him. "Time to get you to bed, or at
least in pyjamas," he said and shooed her out of the kitchen.

Marie went to get her night clothes and opened the door to the
bedroom. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw it. "George,
what happened here?" she gasped.

"You like?" he asked, coming up and cuddling her from behind.

"I love it," she said. "Where did that bed and the small tables
come from?"

"My stepfather's daughter," George replied. “When she and her
boyfriend - now husband - moved in together, this became surplus
to requirements. A coat of paint was needed, but John and I did
that.”

"And the walls and ceiling I can tell," Marie said in awe. "Not
to mention the curtains."

"Oh, that was Mum's idea," George said. "She thought the blue
trim matching that on the bed and tables would look nice."

"It does!" Marie said. "Oh thank you!"

George hadn't mentioned Peter, but the thought came to Marie.
"What happened to the other one?" she asked.

"Peter's brother took it away," George replied. "Along with all
Peter's other possessions - clothes, personal papers and so on."

"And the microwave oven," Marie said slowly, enlightenment
dawning. "I thought the microwave looked different."

"Yeah, that’s mine," George said with a grin. "Same brand, but
slightly different model. Oh, and the bedroom TV's gone too."

"I always hated that thing. TVs don't belong in bedrooms," Marie
said. George just nodded.

"How did you get hold of Peter's brother?" Marie suddenly said.
"I don't think I've met him more than once back when Peter moved
in, and I can't remember his name."

"He's called Søren," George said. "And he seemed quite decent. I
got hold of him through Peter's lawyer. Now, that one is not
decent, but I bullied him to put me in touch with Peter's family
or I would throw out all Peter's stuff or dump it at the lawyer's
chambers."

"I so can't see you bullying anyone," Marie said with a laugh.
"But then I can't see you throw people down stairs either."

"I don't make a habit of it," George said. "But when it comes to
you, my limits shift significantly."

"Thank you," Marie said. "I'm glad they do."

She got her stuff and went to the bathroom to change and get
ready for bed. George was reading when she returned to the living
room. She was nervous, he could tell, but he didn't know why, so
he read on.

Marie was nervous because she knew that sooner or later George
would go to bed too and she dreaded that. She fidgeted for a bit
until George looked up. "Right, time to put you to bed," he said
and followed her in to the bedroom. She got into the bed; it felt
wonderful and clean. George hadn't told about having duvets and
pillows professionally clean and refluffed, but she could tell
they felt different.

George knelt down and tucked her in like she was a little girl.
He then leaned in and kissed her. Almost reluctantly Marie
responded and opened her mouth for his tongue. Again her body
responded. She was panting and she could feel her pussy getting
wet, drenching her panties. This time there was nothing to stop
it. She panicked. "George," she cried. "I can't. I, I..." She
broke down, sobbing.

It took a little while for George to work out was she meant, but
then he did "Of course you can't," he agreed horrified that she
thought he was making demands of her. "I wouldn't dream of it."

He made a small laughing grunt and smiled that smile she so
adored. "What?" she asked.

"Well, actually, I will dream of it." He blushed slightly. "But
that's all I'll do. I'll be right in there on the couch." He
kissed her - gently and almost chaste this time, took the second
duvet and pillow and left the room.

Alone in the room Marie was both relieved and disappointed. But
first and last she was exhausted and fell asleep almost at once.

Her sleep was troubled. She had recurring nightmares and cried in
her sleep. George came in every time, shook her gently to break
the nightmare and held her hand until she slept again.

____________________


In the morning she felt reasonably rested and recuperated. She
felt guilty for having George sleeping on the couch, but he
seemed cheerful and OK. They had a late breakfast and then did a
little bit of shopping. Marie wasn't allowed to carry anything
and still she was pretty tired when they returned. "Have a rest
before we go see my Mum and John," George urged and Marie agreed.
George studied while she slept.

He woke her up with a cup of tea mid-afternoon and they got ready
to go out. Marie took great care getting dressed. "I do need a
haircut," she said, studying herself critically in the mirror.
She hadn't been in the hospital long enough to investigate using
the hair dresser there.

"To trim the ends, sure," George said," but I actually like it
with your hair a little longer."

"You are sweet," she said and kissed him - the panic of yesterday
forgotten.

Dinner with Mette and John was nice. Mette received her with a
big if gentle hug, and John was very sweet to her too. "Thank you
so much for what you did to my bedroom," Marie said.

"That's alright love," John said. "Couldn't have you sleeping on
the floor, could we?"

Mette just smiled, but she had noticed Marie said 'my' bedroom,
not 'the' bedroom and she didn't know what to make of that.

Talking flowed freely. John told Marie about his daughter, who
was the same age as Marie. He didn't mention Britta's run-in with
violent boyfriends, but he still managed to tell things that even
Mette didn't know.

After a couple of hours Marie was fading and John drove them
home. "Sleep tight," John said as they got out of the car. "Take
your time to get all better. If you push yourself too hard in the
beginning then you risk you never will."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Marie said. "Thank you for a
lovely evening and thank you for taking us home."

"That's OK," John said. They waved as he drove off.

"Right, time to get you to bed," George said cheerfully. "I'm not
quite up to it yet, or I would carry you up to the apartment."

"Would be nice," Marie said. She was still finding stairs hard
going. But she took George's proffered arm and managed OK.

The bed-time ritual was a repeat of the previous night. Marie got
ready for bed and George tucked her in with a very nice kiss that
left her panting and her panties moist. But just before panic set
in, he said "Good night, sleep tight," and left the bedroom. She
could hear him go to the bathroom and then rummage around for a
while in the living room, presumably setting up the couch to
sleep on it.

She fell asleep, but once more her sleep was interrupted by
nightmares. Although she could hardly have seen Peter attacking
her, her imagination made up the scene and played it in slow
motion, causing her to whimper and cry out. And every time it
happened George would come and touch her until the bad dream was
gone, then hold her hand until she slept again.

Over the next few weeks George would spend some time at Uni in
the mornings, come home to Marie to study and then have a couple
of hours at the cafe at night. In that way Marie wasn't left
alone for more than a few hours at the time. She would either
study or sleep while George was away. She also started doing some
gentle physical exercise - things like walking up and down the
stairs or venturing to the local shops a block or so away.

Physically she was getting steadily better and most of the time
her mental state was good during the day. But the nights were bad
and it started to affect her that she slept so poorly. It
affected George too. He was now coming to comfort her up to five
or six times during every night and one Friday night, or rather
early Saturday morning, after a strenuous day at Uni and work, he
fell asleep sitting on the floor holding Marie's hand. He was
more dead than alive when he woke up, sore in every joint and
muscle. He tried to hide it from Marie, but she noticed how
miserable he was and he confessed to having fallen asleep on the
floor.

She was aghast. "Poor darling," she said. "This won't work. You
look completely wrecked."

He made a resigned shrug that turned into a grimace from the
pain. She felt guilty all day and when she was getting ready for
bed that night, she finally made up her mind. "George. You cannot
function with broken sleep. Getting up so many times every night
or sleeping sitting on the floor will kill you. Please share the
bed with me."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Positive," she replied. She looked down. "Only we can't, you
know, do anything."

"I know," he smiled. "Dr. Hansen forbids it. I shan't try."

And so he went to get his bedding from the living room, got ready
for bed and lay down next to her. They weren't touching after the
good night kiss, but when she started whimpering in her sleep, he
pulled her in close so they were lying 'in spoons'. The bad dream
instantly stopped and she fell back into a deep healthy sleep. So
did George, although only after a while, and one part of him was
most reluctant to sleep.

Finally they were both sleeping soundly for a whole night. When
they woke up Sunday morning they were both more rested than they
had been for a long, long time. Marie woke up first. After a
brief panic from being locked in someone's arms, which only
lasted for a fraction of a second, she remembered where she was
and with whom and she felt safe and happy and loved. She rolled
over and kissed George gently.

"What a lovely way to wake up," he said sleepily and kissed her
back

"Mmmmm," Marie agreed and let herself be pulled close. That's
when she felt his erection and panicked. "I need the toilet," she
lied and got up hastily. Looking back she saw his grotesquely
tented pyjamas and shuddered.

Another morning she woke up with George's huge hand over her
breast and, unaccountably, her hand on top of his pressing it
close. Her nipple was erect. She panicked and rolled over which
brought her in contact with his impressive morning wood. With the
sound of a small frightened animal she fled the room. Bewildered,
George followed her out to the - locked - bathroom door. "Marie,
are you OK?" he asked.

"Fine," she lied. "I just really needed to go."

George wasn't convinced, but he just made a flippant "When you
gotta go you gotta go" remark and went to the kitchen to start
making breakfast.

____________________


A while later George came home to find Marie very distressed. She
had received two letters in the mail; one announcing that her
application to have her student aid stipend extended on medical
grounds had been denied and the other from the landlord's lawyers
announcing that the rent on the apartment would go up quite
steeply. She had very recently resumed working at the cafe, but
only a few hours a week. Simon - who was a total sweetheart -
kept her on the original pay, but it obviously meant she had to
start working more hours than before the attack to increase her
income, something that was utterly impossible. In between sobs
she explained all this to George. "I don't know how to pay the
rent."

He was, as usual, completely unperturbed. "Not to worry. I do. I
expected both the no to the extension and the rent increase, so
I've officially cancelled renting a room at the kollegium; I
haven't been there for ages anyway except to collect mail. And
Thomas has wrangled out that I get full pay for undergraduate
teaching now that I have met the quota required for my master's
course. We'll be fine."

"Oh George, you're always there for me," Marie sobbed.

"I want to be," George said and kissed her lightly.

So George officially moved in. Esbern, with satisfaction, added
George's name to the various signs.

Marie's health steadily improved and George, pleased with the
fact for several reasons, started making little overtures that
perhaps it was time to take their relationship to the next level.
It didn't go down well. Every time he even in the gentlest way
suggested sex Marie would panic. If he ran his hand over her
chest - even through her pyjamas or nightgown, she would go
completely rigid and if she felt his firm dick prodding when they
were lying in spoons, she would come out in a sweat. He knew it
wasn't that she found physical closeness unpleasant; she was
still largely dependent of his presence to be able to sleep, but
he couldn't get anywhere further. At least not when she was
awake. But in her sleep she would often move his hand up to her
breasts or scoot in close.

George understood nothing.

What stumped him more than anything was that Marie sometimes,
mostly in connection with the rare occasions where she had been
drinking alcohol, would try to initiate intimacy herself. She
would start by kissing him deeply - something they mercifully did
a lot, or George would have gone mad, and then she would run her
small hand over his always firm crotch. And inevitably she would
stop, run out of the bedroom crying and spend a lot of time in
the locked bathroom.

George felt very alone about it. Early on they had been invited
to afternoon coffee at Britta's and Frank's house. Marie had
thanked Britta profusely for the bed, adding what a bonus it was
that it was long enough for George and that the little bedside
tables fitted perfectly in their bedroom. Mette was there too -
she and John had picked up Marie and George in the car - and she
noticed quietly but with satisfaction that it was no longer
'Marie's bedroom' but 'George and Marie's bedroom' and that the
initial worry must have been unfounded.

And everyone else of course assumed that Marie and George were
living together.

Well, they were, but as brother and sister, not lovers. Oh, there
was plenty of love. George felt happy to be with Marie and he was
sure she felt the same. Besides, he had never lived with a lover
before and had sex on a regular basis, so it was not like he was
'worse off' in a crude sense. But this very important aspect was
missing, and he didn't know why. He had tried to talk to Marie
about it but she couldn't. Talking to someone crying through a
locked bathroom door doesn't really work, and he sensed very
quickly that she’d slip into something akin to a depression if he
brought it up later.

He would regularly relive himself under the shower - he felt he
had to, or he would burst from having Marie in his arms night
after night without anything happening. And otherwise he would be
patient and loving - and wait. They had their first Christmas
together; just the two of them, and it was magical. Sex was not
on the agenda (Marie had her period) and thus there was nothing
to diminish the deep sense of belonging together.

____________________


Between Christmas and the New Year an official letter arrived
explaining that Peter had agreed to plead no contest to a range
of charges, in effect making a trial unnecessary. Marie wept with
relief.

After the New Year, Helen returned to work. Her hands were badly
scarred but functioning quite well for most things. It was
obvious she would have to abandon her performing career though,
but she was considering taking up music pedagogy.

Helen was philosophical about George having moved in with Marie;
she had expected that and was ready to concede defeat. And Marie
was her best friend after all. When someone had asked her if she
didn't regret getting maimed - killing off her career as a
pianist, she had been scornful. "I saved my best friend's life -
it wasn't a conscious choice; there wasn't time for that, but if
there had been time I would still have chosen to do what I did."

She - almost - believed that herself. She was also aware that in
a country the size of Denmark there is really only at most one
pianist per generation that can make it big - get to play
concerts and record CDs and so on. The rest spend their lives
accompanying others, or teaching music to dubiously talented
youngsters, barely earning enough to make end's meet. She had
been paced on by her ambitious mother and a successive string of
even more ambitious teachers. She wasn't really sure that she had
the discipline to struggle on. Deep down, she would like to slack
off and in a weird way she welcomed the fact that fate had
intervened and made the choice for her. Deep down, she wanted a
boyfriend who wasn't another manically focused music student.
Deep down, she wanted to have children. Deepest down, she wanted
George. Or someone like George. Only, she had never met someone
like George apart from George himself. But she knew she couldn't
have him.

She was aware that Marie had been at death's door and
instinctively knew that her friend was unlikely to be able to
engage in sex for a while, but it had been months now and Marie
seemed completely on top of things again; she had resumed riding
her bike and so on. So one day at work Helen cracked a joke about
sex between Marie and George having to be a contortionist act
worthy of a circus. It wasn't said from malicious envy or
self-pity or anything like that. And the others had laughed, but
Marie's face had expressed anguished pain. Helen was shocked and
when she was alone with Marie in the staff room a little later,
she asked what was wrong. "We don't have sex," Marie whispered.
"I, I, I can't - I simply can't!" And she had burst out crying.

Helen's reaction was perhaps not what you would have liked from
the devoted self-less friend, but then, the world is full of real
people, not saints. Someone else coming out to the staff room had
precluded any immediate reaction and shortly after Helen's shift
had ended so she hadn't said anything to Marie. But she had gone
home and stewed. Her boyfriend Tristan, the conceited oboist from
the conservatory, had recently dumped her with the excuse that
she wasn't as dedicated to music anymore as he was. Feeble,
perhaps, but honest and indicative of his shallowness. And here
was Marie living with this gorgeous guy that all girls, Helen in
particular, wanted. And Marie didn't fuck him! It was a criminal
waste. It couldn't be allowed to pass. The bitterness was
all-consuming. Helen could still remember the feel of George's
hand on her breast. She ached for a repeat. She wanted him in the
worst way.

The next time they had a shift together, Helen asked George to
help do an inventory of the stock while Marie and Tim looked
after business. George unsuspectingly agreed, and they got on
with it. But when they were at the back of the store room Helen
cornered him. "You don't have to make do living with someone who
doesn't make love to you," she said bluntly. She pulled her shirt
off and undid her bra, unveiling her very nice pair of heavy
D-cup breast with large dark areolas. "You could have these every
day," she said, cupping her breasts invitingly with her hands.
George looked on in shock, unable to speak.

Helen took his silence as encouragement. "And I could have this,"
she said and let her hand run over George's crotch "in here!" she
was now rubbing the other hand over her own. She then got down on
her knees and tried to undo George's zip.

George finally snapped out of it. "NO Helen, NO!" he said. "Get
up! Get dressed. I don't want this. I love Marie and she loves
me!"

Demoralised, Helen grabbed her discarded clothes from the floor,
got up and ran out of the room crying - right past Marie who had
entered the room to get something.

George, already shocked, was shattered when he saw Marie and the
despairing look in her eyes. "She came on to me," he blurted out.
"I never encouraged her, I didn't want it!"

"I know," Marie said tonelessly. "I heard it. All of it."

George sighed with relief and opened his mouth to speak, but
Marie continued in the same toneless voice. "She is right you
know. You could have her. You could have sex with her every day.
And her breasts are twice as big as mine. At least."

George's reply was almost angry. "If you heard her, you also
heard my reply. I don't want Helen. I want you."

"But I can't," Marie started and then burst out crying.

A distraught and confused George took Marie in his arms and held
her while she cried.

"Just what is going on?" Tim said, coming in to the store room
some minutes later. "Helen came running out from here crying and
topless a while ago. She wouldn't say anything to me; she simply
got dressed and left. I could do with a little help; a film has
just finished at the cinema and people are swarming in."

"It's complicated," George said by way of reply, however
inadequate, to the first question. "I'll come and help you -
Marie is not quite up to it."

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Come and join us when
you're ready."

____________________


Marie came out five or six minutes later and helped George and
Tim with the post-cinema rush, but it was obvious to George that
she was very fragile. When they came home and got into bed he
felt her go rigid even though he wasn't erect when he snuggled in
close to her. In the morning she once more tried to initiate
something, but burst out crying and mentioned Helen again
indirectly. "You would be better off with her," she cried.

"No I wouldn't," George replied, gently but firmly. "I am with
the one I love." That stopped Marie's crying, but she was unhappy
for a long while and she brought Helen's 'offer' up several times
to George's despair.

After a couple of days Helen rang Marie, contrite and apologetic,
offering her resignation. Marie refused it. "I can't do without
you, duck," she said. "The place would fall apart." So would
Helen's finances, Marie knew. The insurance money had not been
paid out; the insurers were stalling over some technicality.

"But it will be so awkward," Helen protested.

"You can take that as a penance," Marie said lightly. "Besides,
Erica and Lisa have both said they would like to change to
weekend shifts. I could put you and Tim on for Monday through to
Thursday nights with Terkel to help on Thursdays. In that way you
and George and I would only work together Friday and Saturday
night where it is too busy to even think about stripping in the
store room."

"Ouch!" Helen said, partly stung, partly bemused.

"Deal?" Marie asked.

"Deal," Helen said. "Thank you. And listen?"

"Yes?" Marie inquired.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"I know you are sorry," Marie said. "And I know what came over
you."

____________________


So Marie made peace with Helen and to the outside observer all
was well, but at home the tension was building. George was by
nature a patient man, helped by the fact that he had never had a
steady girlfriend. Not that he was in any way a virgin; during
his high-school days his male class-mates - who had seen him in
the shower after Phys Ed - referred to him as 'the trunk'. An
adventurous girl of dubious virtue (but luckily disease free)
overheard that and decided to investigate. She got George's
virginity at the next school party. She made it abundantly clear
that it was a one night stand, she wasn't interested in a
relationship, but she spread the word amongst the female students
that George's nick-name was utterly well deserved. And so it
became a rite-of-passage for the other adventurous girls to 'ride
the trunk'. In consequence, George scored (or rather, was scored)
at every party - sometimes more than once, but none of those
girls wanted anything but his dick in their pussies once, and
George despaired.

The nicer girls who could have been interested were scared off by
his perceived shallow recklessness. That George studiously used
condoms every single time (after that surprise first encounter)
didn't change anything. When a nice girl he had been interested
in told him she was interested too, but she didn't want to be
'used-and-discarded like all the others', George called a halt to
the trunk riding. He decided he wouldn't fuck anybody until he'd
been on at least three dates. So he didn't fuck anybody. And
hadn't for years.

He wanted Marie. And he would wait - wait another year if he had
too. But he wanted Marie. So it wasn't for lack of patience, it
wasn't because of him that he decided he had to do something. It
was Marie. He could sense she was unhappy. He knew she didn't
mean it when she had said she would be OK if he got together with
Helen. The thought horrified him; Helen was nice enough but Marie
was the girl for him. Marie was the girl he loved. It was heaven
being with her every day, heaven having her in his arms every
night, but of course he wanted to go further than that. And he
was convinced Marie wanted that too, only something was stopping
her - and she was unable to tell him what it was. He still tried
to coax it out of her, but every time she would dissolve in tears
and would be miserable for days on end afterwards. In despair, he
called Elaine one evening when Marie was working and he was not.

"I need your help," he said without preamble - and Elaine knew
this was going to be one of the 'serious' talks.

"What with?" Elaine asked. The words were almost business-like,
but the tone was the one reserved for her Baby Brother.

"Marie," George replied. "My little elfin girl." There was an
ache in his voice.

"Mor tells me you're living together," Elaine said.

"We are, only it's not like it sounds," George said,

"As in?" Elaine inquired.

"As in, we're living like brother and sister," George said.

"Oh!" Elaine said. That surprised her. "Tell."

So George told her - all the way from the first nights in the
apartment. "When I told her that Dr. Hansen had banned strenuous
physical activity, including sex, for the first several months,
she was relaxed and she enjoyed the physical closeness. And me
too. Too much. I couldn't help getting hard - I mean she is
wonderful and I love her!" he pleaded.

"Of course you do; there would be something wrong if you didn't
react to having the girl of your dreams in your arms!" Elaine
agreed.

"Well, exactly, and besides, I am almost always, you know, hard
in the morning." George said. Elaine could almost hear him blush
and barely suppressed a giggle.

"Actually, there was a study done of ordinary men sleeping," she
said. "They were made to sleep in the nude and filmed with
infrared cameras. They had on average five erections during the
night, each lasting around half an hour. 'Morning Wood' is simply
if you happen to wake up during one of those."

"Well, exactly," George said. "Point is, sorry - pun not intended
- fact is that there's something going on that I don't
understand."

"As in?" Elaine prompted.

"Well, after those 'several months' had well and truly passed, I,
you know, wanted to go further," George said.

"Of course you did," Elaine agreed. "But?"

"But she would go completely rigid, so I backed off," George said
miserably.

'Of course you did, you gentleman you,' Elaine thought. What she
actually said was a simple "Quite."

"The strange thing is Marie has started things too from time to
time," George continued. "Like, you know, kissing me suggestively
and running a hand over my, you know, hardness. But she will
always stop it and start crying."

He trailed off, and then, in an almost pleading voice, he asked
"What's going on?"

Elaine was quiet for a while, thinking. "I truly don't know," she
eventually said. She had some ideas, but not knowing Marie at
all, she found it difficult to form an opinion. She voiced that
objection and then added "Listen, that friend of hers you
mentioned earlier on, do you think you could get her to talk to
Marie about it?"

"Helen? NO, that's out of the question," George said horrified
and told Elaine why.

"Ouch, no, that would be awkward," Elaine agreed. "Poor thing,"
she added. "Can't be easy."

George agreed with a grunt. He still had shameful flashbacks to
the episodes with Helen.

Elaine made up her mind. "I will have to talk to Marie myself to
find out then," she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

George was slightly put out by the tone. "This is not exactly
something most people would be comfortable discussing over the
phone with someone they didn't know at all - and in a foreign
language," he protested.

"I like the devastating honesty of your thoroughly scientific
analysis Baby Brother," Elaine said drily. "And I concur
completely. I will have to talk to her face to face."

"You mean like coming over?" George asked incredulously.

"Yes, that's what it means Mr. Logic," Elaine said teasingly.
"And it had better be while you are not there!"

George hastily and blushingly agreed. "When do you think..." he
started.

"On Friday," Elaine replied coolly. "Make sure she's home - and
you are not. Can it work?"

"Absolutely," George replied in astonishment. "She only has one
lecture on Friday mornings and then she meets with her
supervisor. She is usually home just after lunch. I get home just
before six, then we have a hasty bite, and then we both work
Friday night. It’s the busiest night of the week."

"Yeah, that would work," Elaine said.

"Wow! How, I mean..." George stuttered.

"Leave that to me," Elaine said.

"I know I can. Thanks Elaine. I love you, you know," he said.
They both knew he meant it.

"I know - and I love you too Baby Brother," Elaine replied. They
ended the call.

Elaine sat in deep thought after the call. For some reason she
felt almost grateful that George needed her this way. 'It doesn't
take a clinical psychologist to work out I have a guilt complex
about George,' she thought to herself. 'It would be so good for
him and me both if I was actually able to help him - them.'

____________________


Elaine found the address without too much difficulty. Her Danish
held, and besides, just about everyone could and would speak
English. There was an intercom at the street level, but just as
she was going to press the button a young woman came out of the
door with a small child in a stroller. Elaine held the door open
for them and received a hasty 'Tak!' - 'Thank you!' before the
woman rushed off towards the same bus stop Elaine had used. The
door hadn't quite closed so Elaine simply entered, went up two
flights of stairs and knocked on the door that said "Marie Jensen
& George Rhodes" in standard issue white plastic lettering. She
was slightly nervous. As a clinical psychologist she regularly
heard things that would affect even a stone, but she was usually
able to keep a professional distance between herself and the
patient. She wanted to force herself to see this girl that her
beloved little brother cared so much for as a patient, or it
would be too hard.

But when the door opened and she saw Marie her heart melted.
George had described her as 'elfin' - that was very apt. The
large, dark-brown soul-full eyes looked at her with curiosity and
with dawning understanding. "Hi Marie," Elaine said. "I'm Elaine
- George's sister. Can I come in?"

"Of course you can!" Marie replied startled. "What a lovely
surprise. You are ever so welcome. George won't be home for a
couple of hours. Does he know you're here?"

"He does," Elaine replied. She was relieved that Marie's English
was so good. She detected a slight accent, a bit like that of her
step-mother Mette, but the girl was very fluent. "And I know he
won't be home for a little while. He wanted me to talk to you."

"Oh!" Marie said. "Why?"

Elaine was not going to evade the question - in her profession
absolute honesty was paramount. "I'm a clinical psychologist,"
Elaine said. "There are some things George feels he can't help
you with and he asked me to talk to you about them."

Marie looked down. "What - kind - of things?" she asked slowly
although it was patently obvious from her body language that she
knew exactly what Elaine meant.

"Perhaps we could sit down?" Elaine suggested. She was still in
the tiny hall and while it was a very warm spring day, she had a
light jacket over her arm that she wanted to get rid of, plus a
small suitcase.

"Oh, sorry, of course," Marie said, slightly flustered. "Come on
in. Would you like something to drink? It will be something cold
or tea; sorry if I don't offer you coffee, but I get quite enough
of that at work." She smiled a sweet little smile.

Elaine laughed. "I quite understand; something cold would be
nice, actually."

"Elderflower cordial?" Marie asked.

"Sounds great," Elaine said and sat down while Marie went and got
the drinks in the kitchen. 'Saves her having to ask me to,'
Elaine thought. 'It will shortcut some of the rituals. I don't
want to give her time to put up the defences.'

Marie returned with two large glasses of a pale yellow liquid
with ice cubes. It was nice and cold and sweet without being
overly so. Elaine drank thirstily. But she remained silent.

"So?" Marie opened, as Elaine had hoped she would.

"So!" Elaine replied. "You love my brother. And my brother loves
you. I don't think there is any doubt about that, is there?"

"No!" Marie agreed readily. "I adore him and he treats me like a
princess. Only, I, I..." she trailed off.

'We're getting to the crunch quickly,' Elaine thought. 'Possibly
even too quickly, but here goes.'

"Only you are not able to take your love to a physical level, are
you?" Elaine said.

Marie just shook her head. She looked even smaller now.

"You want to but you can't, isn't that so?"

Marie nodded. Tears were now welling up in her eyes. Would she be
able to tell George's sister what she couldn't tell him, she
wondered. "I, I," she stopped again. She just couldn't take the
lead.

But Elaine could. "Marie, I pretty much know everything that has
happened to you - what George knows, he has told me. But only you
know what happens inside your head. Do you think you know what it
is that stops you from going where you want to go?"

Marie, crying openly, looked up. "Because you do want to, don't
you?" Elaine asked again.

Marie sobbed something almost inaudible. To Elaine it sounded
like she used the Danish word 'bange' - 'being afraid'.

"Hvad er det du er bange for?" – ‘What it is you are afraid of?’
Elaine asked in heavily accented but still understandable Danish.

Marie looked up startled. "Oh, I know a fair bit of Danish,"
Elaine said, "though not quite enough to have all of this
conversation." She smiled. "So what it is you are afraid of?" she
repeated, this time in English

"I'm so afraid he will hurt me," Marie sobbed.

"Hurt you?" Elaine asked. She hadn't expected that. She had
suspected that Marie perhaps feared George's feelings weren't
deep and long lasting, or that Marie herself had doubts. But hurt
her? Elaine was shocked and almost offended: It was the last
thing George would do! She knew better than to say that though.
Instead she asked gently "Why would he hurt you?"

"He's so, big," Marie said - she felt her face go warm.

"Big?" Elaine echoed without understanding. She had noticed
Marie's blush but didn't get it.

"His... you know, his... penis," Marie whispered. The blush had
now spread down to her neck. "I can feel it when we snuggle up
'in spoons'. He is, you know, enormous."

Elaine frowned. This was not what she had expected. "I have no
information on that," she said slowly. Her frown dissolved in a
mischievous grin. "The last time I saw him naked he was three."
Both women giggled.

"It is quite possible that George is well-endowed," Elaine
continued lightly. "My older brothers are, or so I am led to
believe. My sisters-in-law called it The Curse of the Rhodes Rods
at my hen's night, but they seemed remarkably complacent about
said curse." The giggling continued.

"Anyway," Elaine said, serious again, "the size is truly
irrelevant; no matter how big a man is, he will be tiny compared
to a baby's head."

"Oh, I know that," Marie, "it's not so much there I worry about."

Comprehension finally dawned and Elaine had an icy feeling of
dread that quickly changed to white-hot anger. She finally
understood what this elf, this tiny little girl, had been
subjected to. "You worry that George would force himself into
your anus?" Elaine asked. Marie nodded, too embarrassed to say
anything. "But why would he do that if it hurt you?" Elaine
asked.

The answer was rushed, mumbled, coming in a stream of tears and
hard to understand. "I thought all men wanted to do that, that I
had to," best summed it up.

'What a bastard she has been with; I would like to chop his balls
off,' Elaine thought - unaware that that little detail had
already been taken care of. 'She can't have had much experience,
and what she's had must have been crap.'

"Sweetheart, that is not true," Elaine said. "I have been
sexually active for, oh, like twenty years, and no man has ever
put his dick up in my bum - or even expressed more than a
fleeting interest. When I made it clear I didn't want that, they
stopped asking." That was not entirely true; one of Elaine's
boyfriends had been very persistent and in the end she had thrown
him out with the suggestion that he 'go and find a boyfriend
instead'. But she didn't mention that; assertiveness was not
something that would come to Marie easily. And besides, with
George she wouldn't need it. Elaine was certain her brother would
rather cut of his dick than hurt Marie with it.

The dam had burst and Marie could cry out her worries. "But what
about my, you know, my mouth? Peter nearly made me suffocate and
he wasn't all that big, at least not compared to what George
feels like!"

Elaine's hatred towards a person she didn't - and wouldn't ever -
know went up another notch. But professionally she was on firm
ground. "Don't confuse sexual violence with love-making," she
said. "Yes, most men like receiving oral sex. But deep-throating
is a porn-industry myth. The sensitive part of a man's penis is
the head, and the best way to stimulate him orally is with your
lips and tongue - the tip of your tongue. You can make him come
buckets from just licking, or without having more than the first
inch in your mouth. And besides, yes, men like oral sex - sure,
and it is fine alternative when vaginal sex is out, for instance
when you have you period - but there are so many other ways to
make a man feel good. And only psychopaths want to dominate and
inflict pain."

Elaine reached out and stroked Marie's chin, lifting her head to
establish eye contact. "Consider one more thing," she said. "You
have had George sleeping in your bed for about half a year,
right?" Marie nodded, realising that she was not embarrassed that
this woman knew that. "To make you feel safe right? And you have
felt his erection again and again, right?" Elaine added. Marie
nodded again.

"And yet he has never touched you, never forced himself upon
you?" Elaine demanded. Once more Marie confirmed with a nod.
Elaine smiled. "I thought so. Believe me honey, if he had wanted
to hurt you, if he had wanted to take you against your will, he
could have done that hundreds of times, couldn't he? He is more
than twice your size."

The crying intensified, but Elaine sensed it was from relief. She
was holding Marie in her arms now. There was no professional
distance anymore. The illusion that Marie was her 'patient' was
gone. Rather, this girl could, would, should! be her
sister-in-law and soon. Marie's crying slowly subsided. "You
know," Elaine said lightly. "From the sounds of it, my Baby
Brother is bloody well nearly a saint. It may turn out that your
biggest problem is to get him to do anything, as in persuading
him that you actually really want him."

Marie looked up aghast. She hadn't even contemplated that
complication. "What am I to do?" she asked.

"I am not in a position to tell you now to seduce my brother,"
Elaine said with a smile, "but I'm sure you can do it. Choose a
time when your natural lubrication is at its maximum. And don't
use perfume; your pheromones will help him understand you are
serious."

"Thank you," Marie whispered. "You are so sweet to me. It has
really helped talking."

"You're welcome," Elaine replied. "And listen, my brother needs
you just as much as you need him. I want him happy, and I know
you can make him happy. Do it soon."

____________________


When George came home from university, Marie and Elaine were
happily chatting while getting an early dinner ready. "Hi Baby
Bro," Elaine said - eliciting a giggle from Marie.

Elaine kissed her brother. "I must say you have the most superb
taste in women!" she said. That caused both George and Marie to
blush.

"No, honestly," Elaine said. "I know it is virtually impossible
for a man to find someone that his mother and sister approve of,
but you've done it George, you truly have."

She was looking on as George shyly kissed Marie. Marie's response
seemed genuinely affectionate. "Let's eat", Elaine said. "I know
the two of you have to go to work in an hour."

"Yeah, I am sorry. Friday is a busy day," Marie started.

"Don't worry," Elaine said. "I'll be fine."

"What are your plans?" George asked. "I mean, are you here
tomorrow too?"

"No, I'm going over to Mor tonight," Elaine said. "And then I
will fly on to Stockholm very early tomorrow. Paul is at a
conference there."

"A pity that, but it sounds great for you," George said. "It's a
lovely town; I've been there for a conference too; my supervisor
took me along." They sat down to eat.


They said goodbye to Elaine at the bus stop. George noticed the
close embrace the two women exchanged and felt happy that his
idea had apparently worked out so well. He was curious to know
what they had talked about. "What did you two work out?" he asked
Marie as they were retrieving their bikes from the shed in the
courtyard in preparation for going to work.

"That is for me to know - and you to find out," Marie said and
pulled him down for a kiss. They were both wheeling a bike and
wearing bike helmets and there was a full half meter - 20 inches
- difference in their height, so it was slightly awkward. But the
feel of Marie's soft lips against his made George weak in the
knees and when he felt her tongue worm into his mouth he forgot
about everything else.

Marie felt the wetness in her pussy and for the first time
welcomed it. Reluctantly she broke the kiss. "I love you, you
know," she said huskily. "I hope you'll never doubt that."

"Never!" George said, dizzy with happiness. "And I hope you know
I love you too."

"Oh yes", Marie said with emphasis. "I have known that for a long
time now."

____________________


Over the next week, Marie steadily built up the physical contact,
kissing and caressing George at every opportunity. On the pretext
that the weather was warming up, she went to bed just dressed in
panties so when George snuggled up to her, his hands came into
contact with bare skin, not a tee-shirt or a nightgown as he had
been used to. He hastily pulled away, but Marie caught his right
hand and pulled it back, placed it directly on her breast and
held it there. George gasped - and so did Marie. Her nipple
stiffened. Infinitely slowly, George started to play with it.
Marie nearly swooned and again she felt her vagina become wet. It
felt right. She was two days from mid-cycle and the scent from
her groin made George, if possible, even more erect.

Marie rolled around to face George. "Take your tee-shirt off
too," she whispered. "I want to feel your skin against mine."
George hastily complied and when they both had naked torsos,
Marie rolled back and pulled his hand back up to her breast. She
fell asleep that way.

George, in sensory overload, found it hard to fall asleep.
Whatever it was Elaine had said to Marie, it had certainly had an
interesting effect. The nipple on Marie's breast finally softened
as she was drifting off to deep sleep, but George's dick was
painfully hard.

He must have fallen asleep anyway; he was woken up by the alarm
clock - and Marie's kisses. "Wake up sleepy head," she said and
pressed herself closely into him. Bare breasts against bare chest
- George's erection returned with a vengeance. "Oh and good
morning!" Marie added coyly and ran her hand over his crotch.
George nearly came then and there. 'Something's going on!' he
thought.

That evening Marie had a shower before bed. George was standing
in underpants, cleaning his teeth when she came out of the shower
with just a towel around her hair. "Hello love, are you ready for
bed?" she said, putting her arms around him and mashing her soft
breasts against his lower back. She ran her hand down over his
abdomen and lightly over the bulge that was rapidly expanding.
"Parts of you seem very ready for bed," she laughed, let go of
him, cleaned her teeth and waltzed out of the bathroom with just
the towel around her hair.

George shook his head in disbelief and found emptying his bladder
more than a little difficult. Splashing his dick with cold water
didn't help. It just wouldn't go down, so he walked into the
bedroom with a massive tent in his underpants. He was met with a
very unladylike wolf-whistle and when he looked down he stopped
dead in his tracks. Marie was still completely naked. She was
lying on her back, not on her side as usual, and he could see her
pussy. Her sparse black pubic hair was neatly trimmed and he
could see that her opening was wet and swollen.

Her eyes were glazing over. She reached up for him and he got
onto the bed. She pulled his head down to hers and they started
kissing. They lost all sense of time, but after a gasp for air
George moved downwards, showering Marie's breasts with kisses. By
impulse, he ran his tongue over the scar tissue next to her left
breast which caused Marie to shudder and her vagina to release
even more lubricant.

The heavenly scent reached George's nostrils and guided him
further down. The butterfly kisses on her abdomen made her
giggle, but when he reached her pubic mound she went quiet. She
had never been kissed there. Would he find it repulsive? Would he
think she was ugly? Would he...? Her thoughts stopped. The long,
explorative lick up along her wet, swollen labia ended directly
on clit. She came. And he kept licking so she kept on coming and
coming. Her silence was replaced by little whimpers and then
drawn out screams of passion as she rode through the first orgasm
she'd ever had from someone else's love.

When she could take no more she pulled him upwards. Not that she
had the strength to actually move him, but he followed willingly
enough and they resumed kissing. She tasted herself on his face
and had to admit that it was not unpleasant. She could feel his
hardness against her leg - not against her groin; their
difference in height was just too big to allow their mouths and
genitals to meet at the same time. She rolled him over on his
back - or rather, she motioned him to do so and he docilely
complied. She got up on her knees, tugging at his underpants.
With difficulty she got them down far enough for his dick to
spring free.

She gasped. It was even bigger than she had expected. She put her
small hand around it - it wouldn't reach all the way - and moved
it upwards, pulling the foreskin up and brining a large drop of
clear liquid out on the tip of his dick. 'Precum', she believed
it was - clear and thin, not creamy and thick like the hateful
stuff Peter had forced into her again and again. She almost lost
her nerve, 'Don't think of Peter,' she chided herself. 'There is
no comparison.' She studied George's dick again. It was pulsing
with his heart-beat. It looked beautiful. She wanted it. 'There
is plenty of lubrication; it will not hurt!' she said to herself
and swung a leg over George.

The motion startled George. What she had been doing with her hand
was wonderful and he hadn't expected them to go any further yet.
Just getting to where they were now was a quantum leap. "Are you
sure?" he asked. She nodded. "Should I get a condom?" he asked.
He still had some that he'd bought months ago. She shook her
head. "But you're not on the pill," he said. He knew that. She
shook her head again.

He smiled. He knew her cycle and he was a scientist. Reproductive
biology was not his field and it was something he had only a
theoretical knowledge of from high school text books, but he had
no doubt that the 'plentiful and stringy mucus that signals
impending ovulation' was what he had been lapping up only minutes
before. "We will make a baby then," he said.

"That's the idea," Marie said and started lowering herself over
his dick.

"I don't think I can last very long," George said. "It's been so
long and I am so turned on."

"Doesn't matter," Marie said - and sounded like she meant it.
"You've already made me come. Now it's your turn."

Startled and pleased, George was momentarily distracted and so
Marie managed to get him all the way in. Contrary to popular
belief, the depth of the vagina is not fixed - when aroused, the
vagina elongates - and aroused she was, so to her positive
surprise Marie took all of George's dick in without any
discomfort. But it was a tight fit. She fell full in a way she
had never felt before - and George felt every nerve-ending on his
dick being stimulated. In consequence before Marie had moved down
the second time after lifting herself a couple of inches, George
exploded. The amount of ejaculate was enormous and most of it was
sent directly into her cervix and up into her womb.

Marie felt it. Not the ejaculation itself; rather the increased
lubrication. But the tightness of her vagina meant that George
didn't go soft and she kept on riding him. When George reached up
and played with her nipples she came again. She fell forwards
with a cry and cuddled in closely. George felt moisture on his
neck and new she was crying. He gently stroked her hair and
heaving shoulders and made small comforting noises, but he didn't
say anything.

After a while the heaving stopped and still later Marie's
breathing became very regular. George realised she had fallen
asleep. He pulled the covers over them and settled down. He
didn't think he could sleep this way, but it didn't matter. His
dick was still inside her; millions and millions of his sperm
were inside her too. With a bit of luck she would wake up
pregnant. The thought overwhelmed him. The whole situation
overwhelmed him. For the first time in a long as he could
remember, he wept.

He wept quietly, but it still woke up Marie. "What is it George?"
she whispered.

"Nothing," he replied with a sniffle. "Nothing, really. I am just
so happy."

"Me too," Marie said. She rolled off George. She felt a fleeting
regret when his dick slid out of her pussy. Even when flaccid it
was substantial. It had felt so good inside her. Like it belonged
there. 'But I can always have it back,’ she thought. The thought
was still with her when they snuggled up in spoons. "You are
always there for me," she mumbled. With a happy chuckle she fell
asleep.


THE END