Someone Else's Wound

by Christine Collinson

When Jimmy lurches through the door, the cut on his jaw is fresh. I wince at the ruddy blood, drip-dripping onto the hearth rug. It disappears at once, but only ‘cause the rug is red too. 

“I swear, next time,” he mutters. He drops his cap on a chair, cursing to himself. “Fetch us a rag, Beth.”

“Here, let me.” I try and dab at the ooze, try to gently turn his cheek towards the lantern light.

He jerks away. “I don’t need yer fussing.” Snatching the cloth, Jimmy moves to the wash-jug. I wait, know that it’s best to let him. That pang, again, of only being truly wanted after dark.

I stand quietly, weighing the tension of his body. He carries his anger like an iron bar across the shoulders. “They’ve took against us big time,” he says. “You shouldn’t be wi’ me, Frank reckons. Flamin’ idiot.” 

As he chucks the spent rag on the drainer, I spot the stains that won’t wash out and swallow despair. “Oh, Jimmy.” I touch his arm, sense latent ripples. The tension is not draining as easily as the blood.

He looks at me and his eyes are charged, green, swimming in marble-glass. Where the rage lurks, still. “I’ll bet everythin’, Beth. Frank wants yer for ‘imself. Always has.”

“I don’t want … him,” I say, unease festering in my belly. Frank, like the others, is a Bengal Tiger and that’s the end of it. I know it; everyone in the neighborhood knows it.

“We’ve ‘ad enough of ‘em,” Jimmy spits.

This is what it is to be an Angel. I move closer, try to cut through. He shifts his stance and looks to me. “But you’re mine always, Beth.” Jimmy kisses my forehead, then holds me close. I smell raw sweat beneath his shirt.

As I place my hands on his heavy belt, I make the questioning glance. “Ah, not now, darlin’.”

Moving apart, I feel stickiness on my fingers. It takes me a few breaths to see. His buckle, shining with redness in the low light. I raise my palms and stare at the smeared blood. Someone else’s wound. “Jimmy?” My voice wavers against fear.

“He was askin’ for it.”

My bones, crumbling, will no longer hold me up. I can scarce speak; am not sure I even want to. But of course, it’s there, unseen, like a snake coiled in a dark hole. “Who got hurt, Jimmy?”

“Frank, that’s fuckin’ who,” he snarls, ripping out the belt and hurling it to the wall. 

I don’t want to know more.

“And if he didn’t bloody well make it, it’s no loss.”

Jimmy’s ragged breathing loads the air. I daren’t look at the crumpled belt, but I see the dints in the wall where it struck.

“I’m goin’ out.”

It’ll be the George & Dragon. It always is. Perhaps six-too-many beers will unfurl him where all else has failed. My words, my touch, my crushed spirit.

When the room is quiet again, I wildly consider running. I could go to the other side of town, or another town. A place where I could start over, shed the Angel Meadow’s skin once and for all.

I could just disappear like the blood stains on the rug, but somehow, I know that I won’t. I’ll carry Jimmy’s secret. Yet another festering secret.

And until the day that I know, I’ll keep telling myself that Frank is alive. That he didn’t lie face down in the street, his wounds drip-dripping into the gutter as Jimmy walked away.

This is what it is to be one of us, so I won’t ask. 

I won’t ever ask for more.

About the author

Christine Collinson is a prize-winning historical fiction author. Her debut flash collection, A Pillow of White Roses, was published in 2023 and in the same year she won Aspects of History magazine’s Short Story Award. She was recently shortlisted for the 2024 WestWord Past Times Prize. Find her on Bluesky and X @collinson26. 

About the illustration

The photograph is "Angel Meadow 3". In the collection of Manchester Libraries, U.K. Further information unavailable.