Hero by Paul Butler

brings me back to the night Simon came to me, smelling of whisky, an all-too-familiar scent now. I remember how I strapped and fastened the armour of self-sacrifice upon myself. Who was I vowing to save all those years ago? Whose burden—that of Simon or that of Mr. Smith—was I taking on? I used to believe that it was the same burden. I had no way of knowing my husband would turn against his companions.
    I can help a drunken man. I can put him to bed, soothe his nightmares, withstand his rages, but this feeling of being torn is more than I ever bargained for. The heroism I envisaged has become ugly and lopsided because it requires me to shut out the world I had set out to help. It requires me to help my husband turn enemy to himself. And here before me is Elsa—my twin whose passion for peace and healing grew in the same fiery womb—who hopes and expects me to act for Mr. Smith. And I know she is right. I know that in protecting my husband from his own rage, I am merely helping him to betray his kind. A flame leaps and scorches the inside of my brain as I think of the battle that will inevitably arise between Simon and me when I broach the subject. It is nothing compared with the volcano that will erupt when I give him the news from Dr. Hopkins. It will be Lucy all over again. Rarely could the genesis of a child have been greeted with such anguish. But I have time, a month or two anyway, and I must take each battle as it comes.
    The look I am giving Elsa, I suspect, is defeated, helpless, but assenting, as I detect a familiar figure weaving through the tables towards us, a rag doll with bright orange hair under her arm.
    â€œDarling!” I exclaim, turning to embrace her, taking in the scent of soap and young flesh. The doll-less arm reaches across my waist and grips. “Where is Daddy?”
    â€œParking the car. He dropped me off first.”
    There is something knowing, almost world-weary, about her tone when she talks of her father, a dull weight of inevitability in the short phrases she chooses to voice. I steal a glance over the table at Elsa, whose head is tipped to the side. Her expression shows an inscrutable blend of concern and interest.
    â€œWhat happened at the doctor’s?”
    She draws back from me and stares into my face for an answer. I’m momentarily unnerved.
    â€œNothing, dear. Just a checkup.”
    â€œWhat does he need to check?”
    â€œOh …pulse, temperature, that sort of thing.”
    She seems to weigh the answer, her eyes wandering around my face.
    â€œAnd was it all normal?”
    I take the hand that has fallen from my waist.
    â€œYes, completely normal.”
    She is motionless for a while. Then she asks, “Daddy never goes to the doctor, does he?”

CHAPTER 13
    Elsa
    H aving scuttled on ahead, Lucy stops at the bakery shop window. She gazes through the glass while absent-mindedly gnawing at a strand of her rag doll’s hair. A freak similarity between the colour of the string hanging from her lips and the locks of my own late husband, Jack, makes the sight irksome and I wonder how long I can take it before I start haranguing her about hygiene and growing up. For the moment I restrain myself as I nearly always do. At least she’s a little more like a child, now that’s she’s away from Mr. Jenson.
    I can’t help but wonder what they are talking about— husband and wife—now they are alone in the dim little restaurant. Mrs. Jenson couldn’t have failed to notice the smell of spirit on his breath, or the glassy look in his eye, both acquired, apparently, while parking his car. I sensed real fear from his wife earlier when I pressed her regarding Mr. Smith’s situation, which I may well have misinterpreted from the hundred or so words I exchanged with him. This only occurred to me as I was leaving the Beehive with Lucy. I went through my conversation with Mr. Smith and realized he hadn’t once