Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

Fresh blood trickled from her right nostril, one brilliant red drop against her skin. Bobby had a momentary flash from his dream of the night before: the eye. The red eye.

‘Hold the door for me, Bobby.’

Bobby held it wide. Ted carried Carol through the foyer and into the Garfield apartment.

At that same moment Liz Garfield was descending the iron steps leading from the Harwich stop of the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad to Main Street, where there was a taxi stand. She moved with the slow deliberation of a chronic invalid. A suitcase dangled from each hand. Mr Burton, proprietor of the newsstand kiosk, happened to be standing in his doorway and having a smoke. He watched Liz reach the bottom of the steps, turn back the veil of her little hat, and gingerly dab at her face with a bit of handkerchief. She winced at each touch. She was wearing makeup, a lot, but the makeup didn’t help. The makeup only drew attention to what had happened to her. The veil was better, even though it only covered

the upper part of her face, and now she lowered it again. She approached the first of three idling taxis, and the driver got out to help her with her bags.

Burton wondered who had given her the business. He hoped whoever it had been was currently getting his head massaged by big cops with hard hickories. A person who would do something like that to a woman deserved no better. A person who would do something like that to a woman had no business running around loose. That was Burton’s opinion.

Bobby thought Ted would put Carol on the couch, but he didn’t. There was one straight-backed chair in the living room and that was where he sat, holding her on his lap. He held her the way the Grant’s department store Santa Claus held the little kids who came up to him as he sat on his throne.

‘Where else are you hurt? Besides the shoulder?’

‘They hit me in the stomach. And on my side.’

‘Which side?’

‘The right one.’

Ted gently pulled her blouse up on that side. Bobby hissed in air over his lower lip when he saw the bruise which lay diagonally across her ribcage. He recognized the baseball-bat shape of it at once. He knew whose bat it had been: Harry Doolin’s, the pimply galoot who saw himself as Robin Hood in whatever stunted landscape passed for his imagination. He and Richie O’Meara and Willie Shearman had come upon her in the park and Harry had worked her over with his ball-bat while Richie and Willie held her. All three of them laughing and calling her the Gerber Baby. Maybe it had started as a joke and gotten out of hand. Wasn’t that pretty much what had happened in Lord of the Flies? Things had just gotten a little out of hand?

Ted touched Carol’s waist; his bunchy fingers spread and then slowly slid up her side. He did this with his head cocked, as if he were listening rather than touching. Maybe he was.

Carol gasped when he reached the bruise.

‘Hurt?’ Ted asked.

‘A little. Not as bad as my sh-shoulder. They broke my arm, didn’t they?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Ted replied.

‘I heard it pop. So did they. That’s when they ran.’

‘I’m sure you did hear it. Yes indeed.’

Tears were running down her cheeks and her face was still ashy, but Carol seemed calmer now. Ted held her blouse up against her armpit and looked at the bruise. He knows what that shape is just as well as I do, Bobby thought.

‘How many were there, Carol?’

Three, Bobby thought.

‘Th-three.’

‘Three boys?’

She nodded.

‘Three boys against one little girl. They must have been afraid of you. They must have thought you were a lion. Are you a lion, Carol?’

‘I wish I was,’ Carol said. She tried to smile. ‘I wish I could have roared and made them go away. They h-h- hurt me.’

‘I know they did. I know.’ His hand slid down her side and cupped the bat-bruise on her ribcage. ‘Breathe in.’