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Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.


Thank-you to my reviewers once again.


Chapter.6.



A month had passed, if not more...



The sun shone brightly but it was moreover stark than the warming beams of a late, hazy summer. Its cutting rays only served to compound the crispness of the cold air. The clear-cut flawless blue skies expanded over a Manhattan that gloried in the clean air feel of late March. Ones breath created jets of steam so that the crowded, bustling streets looked more akin to the smoky skyline of an industrial-period London for all the white vapour. But there was something most satisfying in that. It was invigorating; everything was pure and cool and with the first few buds of green appearing on the empty branches of the trees that lined the pavements of the concrete structures, it felt as if new life were abound and the city, like all Metropolises in the Northern Hemisphere, was thankful to be approaching warmer times. Winter always seems that much more drab in those parts than in the countryside, where at least something of its beauty can be appreciated.


But as Ororo gazed up into the skies, shielding and squinting her big, almond eyes into small slits in order to ward off the worst of the sun’s glare, she hankered for the sun that she had known in Cairo. Indubitably, it was the same warming orb, but to one used to Saharan temperatures and more, it was a pale substitute. Although, having said that, she had developed something of a predilection for the cooler climate and this present melancholy had more to do with homesickness and loneliness perhaps, rather than feeling that she was out of place here or out of synch with Winter. She huddled now, on a bench at the edge of Central Park. Sitting with her hands tucked alternately into each sleeve of her thick, black duffle coat, like some kind of makeshift muff, she observed the passers by, assessing which would be ripe for the picking. All the while trying to keep any word that started with a capital L, or any which may have ventured into the further tricky minefield of Lo---whether it be the four letter or five letter variation as either word was just as troubling---from the front of her mind. Not only was this current pursuit necessary to her survival but also a welcome distraction. She hadn’t had too much luck in it lately in all truth, and she feared that she may have been loosing the knack. But the last two runs had been fairly fruitful and so her confidence in her almost instinctive ability to steal (an instinct born of living in a constant environment of a struggle to survive), had returned. So now she sat and at a chance, her next target passed the bench, completely oblivious.


Ororo waited for what seemed to her a fairly long time, but was only around twenty seconds before she started her move. Her keen eyes focused, as they always did, on her target; the fawn coloured fleece worn by the early thirty-something, trend seeking yuppie with the fashionably spiked hair, cross-the-shoulder-and-chest-bag, expensive mobile and wallet no doubt placed somewhere entirely inappropriate. Heading towards him, she quickened her pace; intending a swift ‘search and lift’ operation. And, indeed so it took place. She brushed past him with the minimum of fuss; all the time keeping her eye on those around her, or moreover those in front and to he sides, as well as her immediate target, although that may have proved to be her most prudent mistake. Her nimble hand delved undetected into the back of his insecure satchel and sure enough, a hefty brown leather wallet was all at once procured and stowed safely in her cavernous front pocket, as they are apt to be on duffel coats. Or so she thought...Ororo had only made it a few yards down the road from her victim, a small increase in step being sufficient, when she felt a strong hand grip her upper arm and pull her to a most definite stop.


If it had been Mr-thirty-something-yuppie, then no qualms; she had to give it to him that he was not nearly as gullible as she had thought him to be. But when she turned around to see that the owner of the rather painful grip was none other than own of New York’s very own finest---then the panic set in.


“Right Miss, if you’d care to come with me.” The pug dog looking officer intoned in a quite tired manner, as if he’d said it near to a thousand times on this day alone. “And---.” He added tersely as he felt her trying to pull away, “don’ even think about tryin’ to run lady.”


But Ororo tried once more to pull away from the portly man, tugging so vigorously as to attract the momentary attention of the really quite disinterested passers by. But that only irritated the as of now restrained officer, and without verbal warning he whipped his cuffs from his belt and clapped them around Ororo’s slender wrists. He was so swift in fact that she didn’t have the chance to perform her usual escape manoeuvre in such circumstances, normally executed at the moment the officer grabbed for the metal restraints, leaving only one inept hand t hold the crafty thief. There were not the oft heard words which accompany arrests; he simply started to shove her forwards through the mass of people, towards the edge of the pavement where his squad car was at once ready and waiting.


This was the position Ororo had been fatally dreading ever since landing on these shores; falling into the hands of the authorities. And she could only be angry at herself at the end of the day, for she had let obvious distractions cloud her usual through checking and deft attention, namely, it would have also been a good idea to check behind her!


As the officer, placed his free hand on her head and guided her safely into the car she knew, with a terminal foreboding that she was going to be in it--- and deep.


* * *


The cell was cramped, unbelievably so. Several of the inmates were clearly elsewhere on whatever narcotics were their particular fancy and the others, (which made the number of detained women, including Ororo, up to at least fourteen in a space no more than ten foot by twelve) were agitated to the point that the slightest thing would set them off into a violent outburst. For nearly three hours now the women chatted, provoked and sniped amongst themselves, minor scuffles and skirmishes breaking out from time to time that threatened to become something more.


Ororo sat in the corner, on the edge of the thin wooden seating that was suspended from either end by two somewhat rusted chains. But she most definitely did not cower; she much too proud for that, but she feared no matter how inconspicuous she attempted to be that, like on the occasions that she had found herself incarcerated in Cairo, she would attract attention. Her ‘exotic’ appearance dictated it. And it was not long before the most burly and vocal of the prisoners commented on it.


They started by grouping in the far corner, four or five of them who clearly knew each other, convened after a short bitch fight with one of the frailer, drug-addled occupants of the cell, leaving young girl with a severely bloodied nose. Of course, the guarding officers took no notice of the incident; what happened to their detainees whilst they were on remand didn’t matter to them all that much. As they conversed they kept on looking over their shoulders at the young black woman with the oddly natural white hair. Ororo’s stomach did a minor flip when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the large, greatly tattooed woman, whom seemed to be the ring leader, stride over to her. She stood at Ororo’s side without a word, her thick arms folded over her large protruding belly, menacingly. The ‘co-conspirators’ weren’t far behind her, waiting for their ring-leader to make her move. And after no more than a minute of silent imposition, she did just that. Unfolding her immense arms, the woman, Carla Elliot, reached down and lifted into her stubby fingers a lock of Ororo’s ‘unusual’, long hair. Letting it fall slowly from her short digits she asked, “Is this real?”


Ororo said nothing, staring blankly straight ahead of her, although after she had let the silent seconds of her non-answer tick by she knew that was a mistake; it would have been better to answer her shortly and promptly. The reticence appeared insolent and therefore an invitation for unnecessary conflict.


“What’s wrong?” Carla snarled, to the sniggers of her cronies, “You deaf or somethin’?” After she spoke, she turned to look at her supporters over her broad shoulder with a knowing look, which prolonged their spiteful laughter.



So Ororo determined to answer her. In short yet low, clipped tones, she replied, “No, I heard you perfectly.” It was an answer, but an answer that could only provoke the bristling hostility.


Picking up on the distinct foreignness of her accent, Carla decided to milk it in the most infantile way possible. “What’s the matter, you no speaka de English?” She shouted the words close to Ororo’s ear, sending small, puerile jets of spit through her hair as she did so. The women behind her, and some of the others who were fearful of her too, howled with laughter.


Ororo simply sucked her teeth in order to hold her tongue. The obvious stupidity of the comment gnawed at her, given she’d just spoken to her in perfect English, but she didn’t want to cause any more trouble than was necessary; she was in enough as it was. As soon as the officials in the station discovered she had no legal papers, there could only be one conclusion. She’d spend the rest of her time in America in captivity until she was deported as an illegal immigrant.


“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you bitch!” The bully hollered at her, but just before she made the vicious lunge that was sure to come, Lt. Kelly Smith happened to be passing by the cell.


Not wanting to get into a physical altercation with this vile woman (though if she had of, Ororo knew she would have licked the floor with her), instead she went over to the vertical iron bars, grabbing at them, she shouted to the police woman, “Hey!” At first she didn’t stop, so another shout was called for, “HEY!” The Lieutenant stopped then, in that lingering way that suggested that you’d just put them out. Casually, the mocha skinned officer turned, and slowly walked over to the cell. Eyeing Ororo like she was a piece of dirt from her shoe, she went in front of the ‘cage’ and stood, hands indignantly placed on hips, staring negligently at the white-haired Kenyan woman.


Ororo swallowed but tried not the make the gesture obvious. Then, with only the weight of popular myth behind her, asked, “I am entitled to one telephone call, yes?”


“Yes.” The Lt replied almost begrudgingly.


“Then I’d like to make it---now if possible.”


* * *


Logan got off his motorbike outside the station, looking up at the blackened façade and absently cracking his knuckles on each hand. Then, plucking out the half finished cigar from his mouth he threw it to the floor and ground out its life with the heel of his boot. Maybe it was a risk pulling up at a police station without a helmet on, but he’d never really been one to care for petty rules like, say, the law. He ran briskly up the dozen or so stone steps that led up to the blue painted double doors of the entrance. Just as he got to the threshold he stopped again, running the palm of his right and over the stubble of his cheeks and chin. When he’d got the phone call earlier, disrupting a particularly vigorous work out on the clapped-out bunch bag in his living room, the voice on the other end was one he feared he’d never hear again. But for all the complication this ‘reunion’, as it were, might cause, he was willing to give it a go. If only it was to bail her out of trouble, then it was the least he could do. Just to see her one last time, it would be enough.


*


“Munroe!” Ororo looked up at the iron bars to see that it was the officer she’d spoken to previously that was calling her. “Munroe!” Her nasal voice hollered again, ringing in the ears of the cells occupants.


“Yes?” Clamouring from the bench, Ororo rushed over to the door, wrapping her hands around the bars and peering out at her jailor with a wide eyed hope.


Lt. Smith said nothing; she only looked down at Ororo condescendingly from beneath her stiff rimmed cap, its jutting form casting a deep dark shadow over the top half of her face. She just stood there, her expression blank save for the brief look of smugness that made itself known on the odd occasion. If there was any pleasure she could get out of this job, it was certainly the feeling of power she had over these women; a sensation that was more often than not its own reward. It wasn’t a sadistic person who came into a job like this but more often than not that is exactly what it would make of them. She raised her hand up, bending her fingers forwards and running the long fingernail of her thumb underneath the fingernail of her middle finger, in a pointless effort to emphasis her position; to make her sweat that little bit longer. Then letting her hand fall back down to her side, she pulled her head up a little, turning her face at a slight angle. “Your husbands just posted your bail.”


Ororo was, it’s safe to say, a little taken-a-back. “My wha---.” But she trailed off, suddenly realising that that sentence would be best left unsaid. Stepping back from the door as Smith put the key in the lock with a resounding, grinding and clunking noise, Ororo folded her arms about her like she was cold. Her dark, mocha eyes held a far off look as she thought about the fact that he’d actually come hear to get her. For a while there, she had to admit she’d wondered if he would. Although she had become loath to rely on him, her last few weeks of ‘independence’ being a case in point, she’d desperately wanted him to come to her now but judging on the abrupt phone call, it seemed destined that he wouldn’t. When she had asked him to help her, he’d grumbled something that she didn’t quite catch and then said he’d try and get down there, but he didn’t sound all that convincing. So based on the perhaps, seven or so other words he’d muttered during their short conversation, she wasn’t all that hopeful. But it appeared that her cynicism was misguided.


“Come on.” Smith barked gruffly as she caught hold of Ororo’s left arm and more-or-less yanked her from the cell. Sliding her hand down from its grip at the top, she got a strong hold of the middle of her forearm as she took her cuffs from her belt and slapped one end around Ororo’s bared wrist and then attached the other end to her own. Then she proceeded to guide her down the corridor, not before locking the other inmates safely back in.


As they made their way down the strip-lighted corridor, prisoner and jailor, Carla Elliot rushed to the black bars, grasping at them and pushing her face up against them. Shouting through there gaps, the violent woman screeched quite psychotically, “I ever see you again bitch! I’ll fuckin’ do you---ya here!”


Ororo paid no mind, she didn’t feel the inclination to look round at the woman; in fact she couldn’t help but smirk a little. Just like all the greatest bullies, her biggest threats were spoken once Ororo was out of the cell. She’d met her kind before and doubtless would many times again. They no longer bothered her. It wasn’t long before the solid iron door at the far end of the corridor had been opened and they were headed into the main area of the station.


* * *


“Hey buddy!” Logan stopped half-way down the steps and seen as he had his right hand gripped around Ororo’s arm, she found it necessary to stop also. Turning just enough to look at the Officer that had granted bail, he gave him a dark stare, waiting for him to issue the derogatory comment that was sure to follow.


“What?”


“I’d keep a closer eye on yer Missus from now on---we can’t have respectfully ‘married’ women goin’ out thievin’ now can we?” As he cast a sly smile down at the pair, he chewed on the stick of gum in his mouth constantly, emphasising his smugness before he turned around, thumbs tucked into the belt loops of his dark trousers. Pushing his way shoulder first through the swing-hinged double doors, he didn’t bother to look back as Logan kept up the dark look, even as the doors clattered gradually shut.


“Come on.” He muttered; low and monotone, then continued down the steps; Ororo more-or-less being pulled behind him. There maintained an uneasy silence between the pair as they stopped at Logan’s bike. Ororo stood and waited, pulling her coat tightly around her in the face of the bitterly cold night, watching as he took a helmet from its safety straps on the back of the bike. “Here.” He handed her the black helmet with two red stripes along each side, without really looking at her. “Put it on.” He ordered as he swung his long leg over the seat, kicking the safety stand as it came round on the other side.


Ororo didn’t move, she merely studied the object in her hand before looking up at him; sat ready and waiting for her to get on the back of the bike. Running a finger along the direction of one of the stripes on the helmet she finally decided to ask him the question that was swimming around in her mind and hand been fro the last twenty minutes. “Why did you tell them that I was your wife?” She watched her finger as it slowly came to the end of the stripe before shifting her gaze up to him, though as he was now sat on the bike he had his back faced to her, so she was addressing her question to the back of his head.


He reached down and twisted the key in the ignition as he simultaneously twisted the handle, making the bike roar into life. He cast her a quick look over his shoulder, noting for the hundredth time since he’d clapped eyes on her again, just how unconscionably beautiful she in fact was. “Look, I know ain’t even supposed ta be in this country, I’m not that fuckin’ stupid that I couldn’t work that out.” He turned to her again, “If I said we were married, at least they couldn’t pull ya up on it, that’s all. Now get on the bike.”


It was simple and logical enough. In all honesty she knew that was the reason but she just wanted to hear him say it. But the mere fact that he’d gone to that much trouble heartened her to some degree. And now that he was here for her, she realised just how much she’d missed him...


Just as she was about to place the helmet over her loose silvery locks, a thought hit her. “Where’s yours?”


“Where’s my what?” He replied, becoming a little impatient and eager to get going.


“This?” She said, gesticulating towards the crash helmet.


“I don’t wear one---just put it on and get on the bike.”


A small smile crept onto her lips and she shook her head slightly. ‘Rebel-without-a-cause’, that is what he fancied himself as she thought bemusedly. But there was no real harm in it. It was just one of the many little things that she loved about him. And so she placed the helmet on and swung over onto the back of the bike. It had been a long time since she’d been on one of these things, but the fact that Logan was driving it made her feel safe. Hitching her legs around his body, she clasped them tightly as she gripped with her arms around his waist, locking them together at his stomach.

Feeling that she was safely on the bike, Logan revved the engine a couple more times before leaning it to the side, pulling his boots up to the feet rests and then set off. Roaring down the more-or-less empty street, the ferocious sound echoing of the tall, granite buildings all around.


* * *


They got into the flat and Logan threw his keys into he bowl full of pennies on the table as he usually did. He flicked on the light switch; the bare bulb spluttering into life with a series of irritating flickers before illuminating the room completely. It was just as dank as she remembered it to be but oddly enough, it felt comfortable...it almost felt like home.


It was one o’clock in the morning and with the day she’d had, all Ororo wanted to do now was sleep. She was absolutely shattered; mentally and physically and the last thing she wanted was another frank and deep discussion with Logan. They hadn’t seen each other for quite a while, so it was perhaps natural to assume they’d want to talk about how things had turned out. The last time they’d spoken hadn’t exactly brought things to a resounding conclusion. But neither said anything as Ororo sat down in the chair closest to the metal door that led onto the roof, pulling off her thick coat and Logan went, without explanation into the bedroom. She could here rustling about coming from that room but was far too tired to think about what he was doing. Her eyelids were becoming heavy with fatigue after such a trying day and all she wanted to do right now was sleep. Her head began to loll to the side, coming to a gradual rest on the high side of the chair. It was only when Logan came back into the room again that she quickly forced herself out of her creeping slumber. Jerking herself up so that she was sat straight, her eyes, which still felt as if they’d been lined with lead, flicked over to him as he came further into the room. He stopped close to her chair and if she hadn’t been watching him carefully, she would have thought herself mistaken. But to Ororo, it did appear that he was looking down at her almost...tenderly. So much so that she was coaxed into a small smile. But suddenly, she felt awkward about the gesture after everything that had happened and the absence between the two. There was nothing for it but to cover it up with another reason.


“Thank-you.” She offered demurely. Logan’s brow furrowed a little and he bore a confused smile just at the corners of his lips. With a slight shake of his head, he was about to dismiss the great favour he’d done her as nothing special, but she cut in before he could. “Thank-you for what you did---it meant a lot to me that you did that.”


He gave another small shake of his head again, “You asked me darlin’,” he shrugged, “What was I supposed to do? Leave ya there to rot?” The darkly humoured tone of his reply made her chuckle and it hit her that over the time they’d been together (after a fashion), it was that sense of something a bit softer under the painfully hard exterior that had made her love him in the first place. It became clear that even from the earliest days, she’d seen something in him that indicated that he had not always been the man he was now. That sudden realisation seemed quiet sad to her and it must have shown on her face.


“What’s wrong?”


This time she smiled and she did it wholeheartedly. “Nothing.” She shook her head and a lock of thick white hair fell into her face. To her inward surprise, Logan reached down and brushed it back, letting his hand stay on her cheek a fraction of a second longer than it needed to. It may not have been long, but to Ororo, it felt like much more and the feelings were stirred.


“Yer tired.” He stated quite categorically as he leant back from her, straightening up his back. Then he seemed to want to look anywhere but at her. “You should get some sleep. We’ll figure something out about this mess with the police tomorrow, O.K?”


She didn’t nod nor did she reply. Standing up from the chair, brushing at that lock of hair, she fixed her eyes on him and stepped closer. At first it seemed as if she were going to walk past him and go directly to the bedroom. Logan turned slowly, following her trajectory from where he stood. But as she got to the other side, she turned to face him. They did nothing at first; Logan unsure of what was going on and Ororo trying to reconcile herself to the fact that this is what she really wanted.


After what seemed to both to be an age, Ororo leisurely raised her right arm. Logan watched it coming upwards, concentrating intensely as her hand came up to around his chest level. At first it was closed; the long dark caramel fingers folded inwards, but with a beautifully slow kind of grace, she unfurled her hand to him, like a flower bud opening to the life giving rays of the sun. Her light palm was now offered to him and everything that came with it and everything that that suggested.


Placing his large, rough and calloused hand into hers, it had taken him not more than a flash to make the decision. He wrapped his much larger hand around hers and she led them into his bedroom. Truly, at this moment in time, there was no need for words...


-TBC-





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