#nicholas

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I was hoping for Nicholas to show up and throw Braun Strowman out.

Love ⋆ For ⋆ Three

Marianne Faithfull with her son Nicholas at Heathrow Airport, London, UK, 22nd December 1967. (Photo by Evening Standard)⭐️

Various London bien pensants have been receiving wild letters from onetime Ukip backer Demetri Marchessini — the UK-based, Greek-born shipping tycoon even took out a newspaper advertisement the other day to attack radio presenter Libby Purves over her pro-gay sympathies.

Marchessini is author of the book Women In Trousers, in which he describes the practice of women wearing trousers as ‘behaviour that flies against common sense, and also flies against the normal human desire to please’.

One who has long been a recipient of Marchessini’s missives is outgoing National Theatre boss Sir Nicholas Hytner. He has only just realised they are genuine.

A friend tells me: ‘Until now, Nick was convinced they were comic spoofs sent to him by actor Rupert Everett.’

Febuwhump #5: “Let me see”

Context: Nicholas needs help for his shoulder injury

~~~

“Don’t look so scared, Doc,” Jefe said. “You probably saved Javier’s life back there. I appreciate that.”

Nicholas sat at the picnic bench at the edge of the park where they’d stopped, wishing he didn’t feel so surrounded by the three men standing around him. Even if they were ostensibly trying to help him.

Jefe moved behind him. “Déjeme ver,” he said, and the young man who’d been applying pressure to Nicholas’s shoulder carefully pulled back the cloth.

The night air felt cool against his damp shirt, and Nicholas uneasily wondered how much blood he’d lost.

“Looks like you were lucky, Doc. He winged you. In and out right next to each other. Tonio, get the kit.” As the driver trotted back to the van, Jefe went on, “My boys run into trouble now and then, so we’ve got what we need to take care of someone on the fly.”

“Um…” If he were seeing a patient in his own clinic, he wouldn’t patch up a gunshot wound and send the person on their way, no matter how superficial. “I think…it would be better if I went to the hospital?”

Jefe paused, then walked back around and sat down on the other end of the bench to face him. “Doc…the man who tried to kill you is dead. You don’t want to know details. But that alley is swarming with cops by now. You know as well as I do, when someone shows up at a hospital with a gunshot, it gets reported. Always. So it wouldn’t take much for the cops to connect the dots. A guy shot right around the corner from your clinic…”

“But I…I’d just tell them what happened.”

“You can, sure. Will they believe you? Are you sure you didn’t shoot that guy?”

“Me? Of course I didn’t!”

“I know that; you know that. But they’ll want to know why you were in that alley in the first place. Were you meeting the guy for something? Buying? Selling? You’re a doctor; you can get the good drugs.”

“They wouldn’t—” he said with dawning dread.

“I’ve dealt with cops for a long time, Doc. Honest or not, they tend to figure out a scenario that makes sense to them, and then they look for the evidence to back it up. So that’s why I say we need to fix you up here.”

This was such a bad idea. “I…I really don’t think…”

“Doc.” Jefe didn’t raise his voice, but Nicholas flinched at the steely note of command. “We’ll take care of it. I always take care of my people.”

My people. Was Jefe counting him in that group?

He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer.

Febuwhump #4: Nightmares

Context: Nicholas, after his ill-advised rescue attempt

~~~

He awoke to a rumbling vibration, instantly recognizable, but impossible. It couldn’t be. He had to be mistaken, or dreaming. How on earth would he have ended up face down in Jefe’s van again? He began to put his hands against the floor, intending to push himself up.

A spasm of pain gripped him, fiery heat and pressure radiating from his right shoulder, and he cried out through clenched teeth. The vehicle bumped over uneven road, and even that felt familiar.

“Hey, it’s OK. Don’t move, man.” Someone was applying pressure to his shoulder, a young man with a hint of a Spanish inflection coloring his voice. “You’re hurt, OK? You want to stay still until we get somewhere safe.”

Safe for who? He was afraid to ask. Memories coalesced underneath the pain…the alley, the kid, the guy with the gun, explosions, falling. He had a sinking feeling that he’d just found out what it was like to be shot. 0/10, would not recommend.

Did one feel pain this intense in nightmares? He couldn’t recall it happening before. Was he actually dying in the alley and having vivid hallucinations of rescue? But why would he hallucinate Jefe’s van? An ambulance would have been much more welcome.

If he’d been shot…the anatomy charts presented themselves in his mind’s eye. He was alive, so the bullet hadn’t nicked an artery. Gingerly, he brushed his thumb against his fingers. The nerves must be intact. For anything else, he’d have to check range of motion, and that would have to wait.

The van slowed down and stopped, idling just long enough for someone to get in. The door slammed closed and the van set off again.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s awake. OK, I think.”

Nicholas swallowed hard as he recognized Jefe’s voice. He was not OK, not unless he was going to wake up very soon.

Febuwhump #2: Failed Rescue Attempt

Context: Nicholas from Selection Process, sometime after his encounter with Jefe

~~~

A dull thud echoed down the empty street. Only a few steps away from his car, Nicholas looked around uncertainly. Words tumbled over each other from the alley ahead, Spanish syllables too fast for him to translate with his limited knowledge. Hesitantly, he approached the alley and looked around the corner.

The wan light at the end of the narrow street silhouetted two figures. A skinny kid in a hoodie had his hands up, pleading, while a larger man in a jacket loomed over him. Suddenly the larger man’s hand shot out, grabbed the kid by the throat, and slammed him against the wall.

The crack of head hitting brick sent a surge of energy through Nicholas. He leapt into the alley without a thought, unable to stand there and watch someone give a kid a concussion.

He charged the aggressor, using his body to knock the man away from his would-be victim. It worked, but that was the extent of Nicholas’s plan. He tried to grab the man’s jacket, with half an idea about throwing him to the ground.

The man jerked out of his grip, thrust a hand into a pocket, and pulled out a gun.

Time stretched and narrowed. The barrel rose toward him in slow motion. Nicholas had never carried a weapon, not even pepper spray. First, do no harm. He made a desperate grab for the gun, shoving it aside just as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The shot’s deafening blast was beyond anything he’d ever encountered or expected. He stumbled back and fell to the ground, clutching his ears.

The other man recovered and raised the gun again. Nicholas watched in frozen dread. He’d been stupid, incredibly stupid, and now he was going to die for his reckless attempt at heroics.

The man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Nicholas turned and scrambled desperately for the alley entrance as the man furiously racked the slide. The corner, he just had to get round the corner; surely someone would be there, someone would be investigating the noise. A piece of trash slid away under his foot and he started to fall.

The searing impact on his right shoulder knocked him the rest of the way down. The last thing he remembered was his chin striking the pavement.