“I...I’d like to s-speak to the editor,” she said, the words suddenly clumsy and angular in her mouth again.
“I’ll put you through to his secretary,” replied the receptionist.
She listened to a few bars of a Mozart symphony, and then a woman said, “Editor’s office.”
“Hello-this-is-a-friend-of-Clark-Kent’s-can-I-speak-to-the-editor-please?”
Okay, Minnie Mouse on speed wasn’t exactly the impression she’d intended to make. She’d been rehearsing the line too much, evidently.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
Oh, boy. This woman didn’t know just what she was asking. She took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried again. “Hello. This is. A friend. Of Clark. Kent’s. May I speak. To the. Editor please.”
There. That was better. A triumph of clear and concise communication. Well, sort of.
“I’m afraid the editor is busy right now. Perhaps I could put you through to one of our junior writers?”
Lois could hear the condescension dripping from the woman’s voice. No doubt she thought she was dealing with a crank caller.
“No, I need the editor,” she insisted.
“I’m sorry, but he’s unavailable,” said the woman. Something in her snippy tone told Lois she was probably lying, but, on the other hand, Lois couldn’t blame the woman for shielding her boss from nutters and time-wasters.
She tightened her grip on the receiver. There was one sure-fire way of convincing this scary woman to let her talk to the editor, but she’d decided not to do that, hadn’t she? She’d wanted to remain anonymous.
Still...
“Look,” she said. “This is Lois Lane, and you can bet your bottom dollar that your boss won’t thank you one lousy cent for preventing me from talking to him,” she drawled, and then sucked in a sharp breath as the aftershock hit her. Where had that come from? The old Lois Lane had just made an abrupt, hit-and-run return and left her with wobbly knees and a thumping heart.
Wow. Although no doubt the secretary would now slam the phone down with indignation.
“Lois Lane?” asked the secretary. “The reporter?”
“Yes,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady and firm. “I used to work at the Planet.”
“Hold on,” snapped the secretary.
She could just imagine the conversation between secretary and boss – I’ve got some woman on the phone, claims she’s Lois Lane. Want me to get rid of her?
The line clicked. “Just putting you through,” said the secretary.
Oh, God. Her heart began racing, hammering loudly in her chest.
“Hi, can I help you?” asked a deep male voice.
She froze. Her pulse raced even faster, but the words wouldn’t come. Her mind went blank.
Think! Think, think, THINK!
“Hello?” said the editor.
Quick, before he cuts you off again! “I...Cla...ark asked me to call and let you know he’s n...not feeling well,” she said.
At last. She’d delivered the simple message she’d set out to convey roughly two lifetimes ago. “He won’t be in today,” she added, belatedly remembering the rest of her message.
“Oh,” replied Clark’s editor. “Well, thank you for letting me know. Will he be back tomorrow?”
“I expect so. It’s nothing serious.” She had no idea who knew he was an ex-addict, so she’d already decided that she’d keep the nature of his illness to herself.
“I see.” Was it her imagination, or did his editor sound annoyed with Clark? Surely taking just one day off sick wasn’t so bad? But before she could think of a polite way of saying that, he said, “Look, did you say your name was Lois Lane?”
Here it came. The questions. She gripped the receiver tightly. “Yes.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally talk to you, Lois,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Clark and Perry.”
Of course he had. No doubt between them they’d told him everything there was to know about her. “Thank you. I think.”
He laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, it was all good stuff. I hear you were one of our best reporters, way back when.”
“Well, I was,” she said. She’d always known she was good, and the old Lois hadn’t been ashamed to tell people exactly that. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
He laughed again. “Seems all that other stuff I heard about you was true as well. Look, you must drop by sometime so we can have a proper chat about the old times. Maybe bring Perry with you – the paper could run a retrospective. How about it?”
“I...I...” She clutched the receiver. “I’d like that.”
Why had she said that? On the face of it, it sounded like a nightmarish scenario – walking back into the Planet, running the gauntlet of staring faces, pretending as if nothing was any different. She couldn’t imagine anything much scarier.
Yet she’d accepted, and not just because it had been easier to say yes than to explain why she was saying no. A small part of her, the daring part, actually wanted to go back to the Planet and see what it was like now; get back amongst familiar things. It was, after all, a place she’d once loved to be.
“Great! Call my secretary and let her know when you’re free,” he replied. “In the meantime, tell Clark I hope he feels better real soon.”
Again, that note of irritation in his voice. Was this another problem of Clark’s – a poor relationship with his boss? She’d ask him about it when he was feeling better, perhaps. “I will. Thanks.”
She bid him goodbye and returned the receiver shakily to its cradle. Wow. She’d done it. She’d spoken to the Daily Planet – the editor, no less – and accepted an invitation to visit. Was there no end to her daring?
*******************
She tip-toed into Clark’s bedroom, feeling massively as if she was intruding on his privacy. He’d drawn the curtain, so it took her eyes a moment or two to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, she noted with approval that the room was like the rest of the apartment – hard surfaces softened by rugs and soft furnishings. A bit like the man himself - a core of inner strength wrapped up in a kind heart and a generous nature.
He was curled up on his side under the bedclothes, his hair tousled, his face pale and looking just a little naked without his glasses. She couldn’t get over the difference from the person she’d got to know over the past couple of months. Unlike the dependable, self-assured man who’d been her protector through so many gruelling therapy sessions, this Clark was vulnerable. He had flaws. He made mistakes. He had hang-ups and he got sick.
Amazingly, she had more in common with Clark Kent than she had ever imagined.
When he’d seemed so perfect and self-assured, she’d been just a little in awe of him. And then, when she’d learned that he was Superman, he’d seemed even more perfect. In fact, she’d considered herself fortunate to receive so much attention from such an important man, but his status had thrown into sharp relief even more so the differences between them: she was a floundering crazy woman, he was a confident superhero. Luckily, he was always very approachable and informal, so she never felt awkward around him, but nevertheless, she’d concluded that she could never look on him as more than a very friendly care worker.
Which had been difficult to accept, because she liked him. Liked him a lot. He’d become her friend – her only friend.
As she watched him, he huddled further into his bedclothes, hunching the coverlet higher up over his shoulders. Was he warm enough? George’s brief instructions – delivered laconically with a fatherly pat on her shoulder - had been to ensure the he was rested, that he was warm, and that he took in plenty of fluids. So perhaps she should hunt around for extra blankets in case he needed them.
She tip-toed back out of his bedroom, pleased that she’d found a task with which to make herself useful.
***************
Invulnerable men, it turned out, didn’t keep extra blankets. She supposed he never felt the cold. In fact, following that logic, she wondered why he bothered with bedclothes at all.
Well, a bare mattress wouldn’t make much of a decorating statement, would it? And he’d need blankets and stuff if any of his family came to visit. Although, come to think of it, he didn’t have any family, did he? He’d mentioned that he was an orphan. Still, it was a generously-proportioned double bed...
Duh. His girlfriends would need blankets, wouldn’t they?
She bit her lip – she’d heard a couple of comments on TV that implied he’d had a lot of girlfriends at one time. She hadn’t liked that; had chosen not to believe it. He just didn’t seem the type.
But on the other hand, he was a good-looking guy. Why shouldn’t he have girlfriends? Maybe not lots of one-night stands, but steady relationships – that was the Clark she knew. Steady.
She sighed, not wanting to imagine him with other women.
Instead, and just for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like being made love to by Clark Kent. He’d be a sensitive, gentle lover, she thought. None of your wham, bam, thank you, ma’am from him. He’d give as well as take. Wouldn’t force the pace unless he was certain his partner wanted to as well. Not that he wouldn’t be passionate – she could imagine him being pretty intense and emotional when he made love. Doubly so, now that she understood a little more of his complexities.
But who was she kidding? Clark Kent would never be interested in her, not when there must be any number of non-crazy women he could date.
And, actually, the thought of any kind of intimacy with a man was difficult for her. The acts of violence she’d seen in Brazzaville might well have put her off sex for life.
For a fateful second or two, she let her guard slip and the memories came flooding back. Vile atrocities performed in the name of black magic, rituals so horrifying she’d thought she might pass out from sheer terror. Once a hardened reporter who’d thought she could handle just about anything, she’d been turned into a quivering wreck by the violence she’d witnessed. She’d seen rape performed on adults and children of all ages and sexes. Thankfully she’d never been touched herself. Nevertheless, she’d lived in daily terror that she might be next; in fact, had been aware that she was being kept ‘clean’ for something extra special.
It had been her abject fear of that ‘something special’ which had finally silenced her. At first, she’d stopped speaking because she’d been so scared of what a single misplaced word might do to her chances of survival. She’d seen how unpredictable her captors were. Then, over time, she’d discovered that the silence was comforting. It helped keep her distance from her captors and the atrocities they performed; from the constant danger she was in.
She put her face in her hands and drew in a few deep, slow breaths. The memories needed to be controlled – these days she was able to recognise the signs before she was overwhelmed. The clinic had taught her some basic relaxation techniques, and she used those now to reclaim the upper hand. Control the memories, don’t let them control you – that was her motto.
A few minutes later she felt better and in need of something to do. Check on Clark, she decided. Make sure he was okay.
************
In his bedroom, she watched him turn restlessly in bed - he didn’t seem able to tolerate any position for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Surely he was just going to make himself sicker with all that thrashing around? Whatever, he certainly wasn’t getting the rest George had prescribed.
Perhaps a drink might settle him.
“Clark?” she whispered, and was a bit taken aback when he immediately turned towards her and opened his eyes.
“How...how are you feeling?” she asked.
He hunched up under the coverlet, pulling it tightly around his shoulders. “Don’t ever get addicted to anything,” he muttered. “It’s the pits.”
She nodded. “Can’t sleep?”
“Not a wink.” He grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry you’re seeing me like this. Last thing you need, I imagine.”
“Hey,” she murmured, sinking down onto the edge of his bed. “Everyone gets sick.”
“Except Superman,” he said. “He’s not supposed to get sick.”
“I can imagine,” she agreed. “Is...is that what your editor thinks?”
He grimaced again. “Let me guess - he wasn’t happy when you told him I wouldn’t be at work today?”
“Well, he did seem kind of unsympathetic,” she said. “Why is that?”
“l messed him around pretty bad when I was at my worst. He was actually pretty patient with me, kept me on the staff for far longer than he should have, but in the end he would have fired me if I hadn’t resigned first,” he explained. “So I can’t really blame him for his attitude now – he probably thinks I’ve started hitting on the kryptonite again.”
“But you haven’t!” she objected. “You should tell him.”
“I’d just sound like I was making excuses for myself,” he replied miserably.
“Well, I’ll tell him,” she said firmly. “The next time I speak to him.”
He smiled weakly. “Hey, listen to you,” he murmured. “Seems like there’s no stopping you now that you’ve broken your silence.”
“Yes, well, it turns out that wasn’t such a big deal after all,” she said. “I just needed the right reason.”
“So George was right?” he replied. “I should get sick more often?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” she said. “Look, can I get you a drink? Maybe it’ll help settle you.”
“Not unless it’s laced with a certain red-coloured rock,” he said. It was a poor attempt at humour, made all the worse by the half-hearted smile which looked more like a grimace. His hand tightened on the coverlet, his knuckles turning white from the effort.
She bit her bottom lip, a little embarrassed at the honesty of his admission and somewhat at a loss for a suitable reply. What did you say to an ex-addict who needed his fix but knew he couldn’t have it? There, there, here’s a band-aid – just plaster that over your craving and you’ll be fine?
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Just kidding.”
But he wasn’t, of course. “Is that what it’s like?” she asked. “Even after all this time, you still want it?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I just know it would stop me feeling like this.” He screwed his eyes shut as if in pain and she thought she heard him mutter, “Please make it stop,” under his breath.
She wished she knew what to do. Clark had always seemed to know what to do for her when she was distressed. He’d give her a hug, or play some stupid game of cards with her, or sometimes just let her talk until she’d emptied out all her emotions on him.
All she had to offer was a drink and he’d rejected that.
A bolder Lois would climb right onto the bed and give him a big hug. She wouldn’t worry about whether he’d welcome it or not, or whether she was overstepping some kind of intimacy threshold. She’d just get on with it. Today’s Lois, though, really wanted to hug him but just didn’t have the nerve.
Reluctantly, she stood up. “I’ll let you get some rest,” she murmured and made her way out of the room.
“Don’t.”
She heard his whisper just as she was stepping into the living room. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if he’d been addressing her or talking to himself. She turned around. “Clark?”
“Stay with me?” he asked huskily. “Please?”
Her heart did a little flip-flop. “Of course,” she replied, returning to her perch on the side of his bed. “I’m here.”
Feeling a surge of protectiveness towards him, she reached out hesitantly. A hug was still out of the question, but maybe she could stroke his face and soothe away some of the tension she could see there. But no, even that was probably too intrusive, too intimate a gesture. Instead she settled for placing her hand lightly over his where he clutched his coverlet. He could always move away if he didn’t welcome her touch.
At first he didn’t move at all. Then she felt his hand relax its grip.
And then her heart melted as his hand clasped hers.
He needed her. Clark Kent, the man she’d thought so self-contained and confident, needed her, Lois Lane. She wasn’t useless after all.
She squeezed his hand gently, reassuring him that she’d stay with him for however long he needed her to.
***************
All too soon, it seemed, he was restless again. In fact, when she reached out to touch his hand, which had earlier slipped from her grasp, she discovered he was icy cold and shivering.
”You’re freezing,” she murmured, more to herself than to Clark.
She’d thought he must at least be dozing, but again he surprised her by responding immediately. “Can’t...can’t seem to get warm,” he whispered, his eyes still closed. She saw him curl up into a ball under the bedclothes and hunch the blanket tight around his shoulders. “Don’t think I’ve ever felt so cold in my entire life.”
Oh, God, he was really sick. For a moment, panic set in again – she was out of her depth and she should never have taken on the responsibility of caring for him. He was going to die and it would be all her fault. She should call the clinic right now and get them to send an ambulance before it was too late.
Then he moved restlessly under the blankets and sense reasserted itself. He wasn’t going to die. He was just cold and miserable. What could she do to help him? There weren’t any extra blankets, so what did that leave?
Five minutes of searching around his apartment produced a winter coat, a leather jacket and assorted sweaters. She piled them all on top of him.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“Any better?” she asked.
“A little.”
She suspected he was just saying that to save her worrying about him; he didn’t seem that much better. “Would it help to talk a bit?” she suggested.
He grimaced. “At this point, I’ll try anything.”
“I wondered...what happened at the art gallery?” she asked. “I didn’t really understand earlier, when you were telling George.”
He nodded. “I heard the burglar alarm go off and flew over as Superman to investigate,” he explained. “When I got there, they’d already stripped most of the valuable stuff off the walls and were getting ready to pack up and leave. There were three of them.”
“So what did you do?”
“Gathered them up at superspeed and tied them together with those barriers made out of tape and metal stands.” He paused, closing his eyes in either recollection or pain; she wasn’t sure which. “But there was a fourth guy,” he continued. “He must have been in an adjacent room – I didn’t see him until I felt it.”
“Felt what?”
He grimaced again. “The best sensation in the entire world. Everything you ever wanted to feel, all at the same time. There’s nothing like it.”
She understood. “Your drug?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. He opened his eyes and looked directly at her, as if challenging her to make some sort of judgement on what he’d just admitted. And yes, she realised, he’d just effectively told her that he still enjoyed the effects of his drugs. That kicking his addiction hadn’t meant he’d stopped liking the high it gave him.
But she had no inclination to judge him. Instead, she reached out and clasped his hand in hers. He’d have to find someone else to pass judgement; she was here to provide comfort and understanding.
He squeezed her hand, and, in a stronger voice, continued, “It had been so long since my last hit, I was high instantly. Couldn’t think straight – could hardly see straight, it was so strong. I...I heard him taunting me, asking me if I liked it, did I want some more – that kind of thing.”
“And did you? Want some more, I mean?”
“Of course I did. Once an addict, always an addict – that’s what they say, isn’t it?” He hunched the blankets closer over himself, causing her precarious pile of clothes to dislodge.
Quickly, she stood up and rearranged them on top of him, then settled back on the edge of his bed.
“I tried to fight it,” he said. “Tried to ignore the cotton-wool in my head, but it was useless. If the police hadn’t arrived at that moment, the thieves would have gotten away with the entire collection while I grinned inanely from the sidelines.”
“But they didn’t?”
“No thanks to me. And I heard a report on the radio this morning that the most valuable painting is still missing. Don’t ask me how.” He screwed his face up miserably. “It can’t happen again, Lois. Somehow, I have to stop it from ever happening again.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said. It seemed a very inadequate thing to tell him, but it was the best she could offer. “Do you know what happened to the drugs the thieves had? Did the police take them?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I...I don’t remember much after the police arrived. That’s what happens when I’m high – I pretty much blank out everything. The first thing I recall clearly is waking up this morning and realising I was late for our walk in the park.”
No wonder he’d been so distracted when they’d gone out. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were sick,” she said.
He shrugged with one shoulder. “I’ve gotten a lot of practice at hiding it over the months. Not that I was hiding it as well as I thought I was, but still...” He sighed. “Anyway, I guess I should find out what happened to that kryptonite – the drugs,” he added for explanation. “Thanks for reminding me.”
She smiled, delighted that she’d been of help. “Are you feeling better? You don’t seem to be shivering any more.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Get some rest, then. Try to sleep. George said you needed to sleep.”
“He did, did he?” he said. “He’s not even a qualified medical practitioner, you know.”
“He knows more than you do, so pipe down,” she said, remembering George’s words at the clinic.
Clark chuckled softly. “Has he been coaching you? Okay, I’ll do my best.”
She watched him as his eyes closed and his breathing began to settle into a steadier rhythm. He seemed much more relaxed this time, and it wasn’t long before she was certain he was in a deep sleep.
*******************
