The One Man to Heal Her

She wondered what the doctor would make of her pathetic behaviour. Probably assume she was a street kid, although would a street kid be wearing clean clothes?

‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’

The question focussed Alex’s mind.

‘I’m bleeding.’

She whispered the words, and heard the huskiness of fear and shame in them—saw the doctor’s look of shock—wondered what the doctor would think …

‘I’m Dr Isobel Armitage,’ the woman said gently. ‘Come with me and I’ll see what I can do to help you.’

She took Alex’s hand, pressed her fingers reassuringly, and led her to a cubicle, pausing only to draw the curtains around it.

The male nurse who’d offered assistance earlier eased through the gap in the curtains. The doctor must have felt Alex cringe and try to hide behind her because she turned and hugged her tightly, asking the nurse to leave them.

‘She wouldn’t talk to me earlier,’ he complained, but the woman called Isobel just shooed him away.

‘Are you feeling well enough to tell me who you are? Answer a few questions?’

Alex nodded, and somehow managed to supply her name, Alexandra Hudson, and age, sixteen, but when she came to an address the courage that had shored her up to actually get to the hospital deserted her and she burst into tears.

Once again the doctor held her while she cried, then poked her head outside the door to ask some unseen person to bring in tea with plenty of sugar.

‘A hot drink will do you good,’ Isobel said, passing the box of tissues to Alex before wrapping a blood-pressure cuff around her arm. Isobel talked as she worked, making notes on a chart that still had no address on it.

The talking helped so by the time the tea arrived the tears had stopped, although the doctor—Isobel—waited until Alex finished her tea before asking quietly, ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Alex lifted her head, knowing she had to be looking at Isobel as she spoke although cringingly aware of how rough she must look with a tear-streaked face and tangled hair, her clothes thrown on any old how.

Deep breath!

You can do this!

And she did—or she began …

‘It was Mr Spencer—Dad’s friend. He—he …’

‘He raped you?’

Alex nodded.

‘I need to examine you,’ Isobel told her.

The words were gentle but Alex could see the woman’s anger flashing in her eyes. How much of this kind of thing—of men’s violence towards woman—had she seen in her job?

‘Did you tell your parents?’

Alex knew the question was the obvious one and the doctor had to ask it, but—

The pain of their reaction speared through her yet again, but she had to tell—to explain …

The words came tumbling out in a shivery kind of whisper, forced past the hurt—the rejection …

‘They called me a liar and a slut and told me I was no longer their daughter. They’re religious, you see. Mr Spencer, he preaches in the church sometimes and I told Mum weeks ago that he kept touching me and she sent me to my room for talking filth.’

Now she was crying again—tears rolling down her cheeks—like a big sook.

She had no idea what the doctor was thinking until she took both of Alex’s hands in hers, gently squeezed her fingers once again, and said quietly, ‘We should report it to the police.’

Alex nodded. She’d already thought about this and knew the doctor was right, although the woman looked very surprised by her agreement.

‘There’s other kids there, at the church, younger than me,’ she explained, ‘and he touches them too. He shouldn’t be allowed—someone has to stop him.’

‘You’re something special,’ Isobel said, smiling at Alex, ‘but there’s your family to consider as well. There’ll be publicity, a court case—how will they handle it?’

Alex shrugged.

‘They’ve kicked me out, what more can they do to me?’

And something in her determination must have come through in the words—the hint of the growing strength that she knew lay beneath her unhappiness—because Isobel reached around her and gave her another a warm hug.

‘We’ll look after you,’ she promised. ‘And I’ll stand by you all through it. But first …’

She stopped, obviously thinking of the next step.

‘I have to phone someone from the police. A woman called Marcie Clarke. She’s kind and understanding and has done this kind of police business before,’ Isobel told Alex. ‘When she gets here we can examine you and take samples.’

‘Samples?’

The word fluttered from Alex’s lips and Isobel frowned.

‘It hasn’t just happened? You’ve been home?’

‘I had to go home,’ Alex told her, the experience coming back to her in all its horror. ‘I had to clean myself up and scrub away what that man had done to me, but it was two days ago and there’s still blood and I don’t know what to do.’

She broke down completely, crying giving way to desolate sobs, then the doctor’s arms were around her again, comforting and soothing, shushing and promising that everything would be all right.

Three hours later, the rape reported, Alex comforted by the information that a torn hymen could bleed for a couple of days, and Marcie in charge of what little, probably useless, evidence Isobel had managed to retrieve, the kind doctor who’d got her through the ordeal disappeared to take a phone call.

Alex was exhausted, too tired to even care about what would happen next—where she’d find a bed, how she’d live. Did Heritage Port have places for homeless teenagers?

It was all too much, so she curled up on the narrow bed in the cubicle and fell asleep.

At some time someone must have come in and put a light cover over her because when Isobel woke her gently, she was clutching it tightly around her body like the ultimate security blanket.

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ Isobel asked, handing Alex another cup of tea and a healthy-looking muffin.

Alex shook her head.