‘All right, Doug. We’ll sit here and have a quiet evening.’
‘I don’t like it here now. But we’ll make it more like a home. Come on, I want to get my pictures and books out.’
She had to do as he asked, and he never let her get far from him. They carried books, pictures, the spike of slate, and even the detested monkey back to the living room. But he couldn’t be bothered to put up the pictures and stack the books. They remained in great untidy heaps on her floor.
As a doctor she realised that his mood swings were getting more rapid. She would have to be more careful. The thing to do was agree with everything he said and hope... and hope that Ross had read her message right. But what would Ross do? She stood, closed the curtains then walked to a seat.
Doug watched her, carefully noting every movement. When she apparently relaxed in her chair he too relaxed.
Now he was mumbling to himself. What on earth was wrong with him? Desperately, to stop herself screaming, she tried to force herself to be a doctor assessing his symptoms. Forget she was alone with him. Imagine they were in hospital, she was taking a history. Whatever it was, it was progressive. She doubted it was psychological in origin. She felt that this was a physiological state.
And it was getting worse. She thought he was getting dangerously unstable. It was no good sitting calmly... agreeing with everything he said, doing whatever he wanted. He was quite likely to take offence at some imaginary slight and attack her again. She didn’t want to be hit again, but he was much stronger than she. If she was to fight back she’d only have one chance.
Surreptitiously she looked round. There was nothing she could use as a weapon. Yes, there was! There was the spike of slate that would make a really vicious cosh. She shuddered. Why should she have to think this way? She was a doctor, not a criminal.
Was there anything she could throw through the window? She remembered a lecture she had once attended, on self-defence. The lecturer had told them that a really loud scream was quite a deterrent. It didn’t seem much.
There was a slight scraping sound, from somewhere near the window. She looked and saw the curtain billow.
Then she remembered, she had left the window slightly open. She needed to distract Doug.
Speaking loudly, she said, ‘Just how long are you planning on keeping me here, Doug? We can’t stay here for ever, you know. People will wonder where I am.’
It had the desired effect. He paid no attention to his surroundings, but concentrated solely on her. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said angrily. ‘None of this would have happened if you’d been reasonable. Carrying on with that Ross fellow when you knew you had to marry me.’
‘Nothing I ever said or did gave you the right to think that. I just felt sorry for you. You need medical aid, Doug, there’s something wrong with you.’
‘I am not mad! Don’t say that or I’ll hit you again, really hard this time.’ He was out of his chair now, moving towards her. Then there was a sudden thump as the sash window was pushed up. The curtains parted and Ross climbed in between them.
‘Done your windows, miss,’ he said. ‘That’ll be the usual price please.’ She realised he’d used the window cleaner’s ladder to get up to her window. It was just the kind of bright idea he would come up with. It must have been the release of tension, but she felt safe now. She laughed, and it was the wrong thing to do.
Doug thought she was laughing at him. ‘You tricked me,’ he screamed. ‘I’ll get you for that!’ But he didn’t leap at her, he made for Ross.
Ross must have been expecting something of the kind.
From his pocket he pulled a canister. But as he moved forward he tripped over one of the piles of books Doug had left on the floor. He fell, and the canister rolled out of his hand under the table. Doug grabbed the spike of slate and raised it over his head, and Lyn knew that it was heavy enough to brain Ross. Desperately she lunged forward and hacked at Doug’s shin with her slipper-clad foot. Doug wasn’t expecting the sudden attack. He too slipped sideways, crashing over another pile of books. By now Ross had retrieved the canister. He knelt up, aimed it at Doug’s face and pressed. There was a hiss, then the smell of the spray. Doug screamed, clutched his face with both hands, and collapsed, choking and sobbing.
For a moment Ross watched him warily, then climbed to his feet and came over to Lyn. He put his arms round her, pulled her close. ‘Are you all right? Has he hurt you at all?’
She pressed her head into his chest. ‘No. He slapped me once, but it was nothing much. Oh, Ross, he went mad! I thought he was going to kill me.’
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘I’m here now and it’s all right.’
She wanted so much to stay here, so close to him. He was warm and he was solid, there was the movement of his chest against hers and the reassuring smell of him, half cologne, half male warmth.
But she was still a doctor. ‘What did you do to Doug?’ she asked. ‘What did you spray him with?’
‘It’s a form of CS gas. It’s nasty stuff but it’s not long-term dangerous. I called in at the hospital and borrowed it from Jock MacGregor, Head of Security. Incidentally, I must phone him. He said that if I didn’t, in half an hour he’d ring the police.’
Reality was creeping in now, there were decisions to make and things they had to do. The first decision was what to do with Doug. ‘Do we have to involve the police?’ she asked.
‘How d’you feel? Are you sure he hasn’t hurt you? Or harmed anyone else?’
‘I’m certain.’
‘Then we’ll see if we can deal with it ourselves. First I’ve got to phone Jock and thank him then I’ll see if I can call in a favour. Doug should be all right, but d’you want to irrigate his eyes? It might help.’
Ross seemed to have taken complete control, for which she was glad. She fetched a bowl, filled it with water and bathed Doug’s eyes. He allowed her to help him to his feet and sit him in a chair. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him, and he was as pliable as a doll. But she noticed that Ross kept an eye on him.
Ross made two quick calls then nodded at her. ‘We’re in luck. Malcolm Saville is a pal of mine, a neurosurgeon at a sister hospital to Everton Heights. He’ll admit Doug at once, and see what can be done for him. It’s likely that Doug’s condition is physical in origin. If so Malcolm will deal with it. But if it’s psychological then we’ll have to send him somewhere else. Malcolm says that if there’s any paperwork, and details of treatment that Doug might have had abroad, then he’d like to see it. I take it that Doug hasn’t seen a doctor in this country?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s just back from Borneo. If you keep an eye on him I’ll see what I can find.’ She didn’t like rummaging through Doug’s things, but she knew it was necessary. In the end she found what she was looking for, stuffed in an inside pocket of the great rucksack he had brought in with him: a crumpled letter from an Australian doctor who had treated Doug in Borneo. It was intended for the doctor—any doctor—Doug should have seen the day he arrived home. It described the injuries Doug had sustained in his fall, the treatment given, and then the doctor’s growing belief that there was something else wrong. The doctor had had neither the knowledge nor the equipment to deal with it.
‘There’s a letter from a doctor in Borneo,’ she said, passing it to Ross. ‘It looks like he was the only doctor, working in one of these little bush hospitals. He did the best he could for Doug, but he knew it wasn’t enough.’
Ross scanned the letter, nodded. ‘You’re right. Let’s get this man somewhere where he might be cured.’
‘I’m going to email that Australian doctor,’ Lyn said. ‘I’m impressed by what he’s done. What he’s worked out largely by guesswork.’
‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’ Ross grinned and winked at her. ‘Send him a photograph of yourself and he’ll think it all worthwhile.’
‘Come on, you! Be serious. Oh!’ She looked down. ‘I’m still in my dressing gown.
Give me a minute, I’ll dress.’
‘I was wondering if you’d notice. Go on, get dressed, Doug and I will be all right.’
Doug’s quietness was causing her to worry. What could be wrong with him? They needed expert advice.
When she was dressed they each took one of Doug’s arms and half carried him downstairs. He allowed himself to be guided, and strapped into the front seat of the Land Rover, without the slightest objection.
Ross’s friend Malcolm Saville was a surprise. About Ross’s age, he was a short square man with vast shoulders and hair cut so short that it appeared as little more than a shadow. ‘This thug is quite a competent neurosurgeon,’ Ross told her. ‘But don’t say I said so or he might get vain and think of growing his hair.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Lyn,’ Malcolm said courteously to her. ‘If you ever think of forming more than a distant friendship with this man, please consult me first. I can tell you stories of his behaviour that will curl your hair. Struck off? He should never have been struck on. I wouldn’t enlist him in the St John Ambulance Brigade.’
She giggled. She liked him at once.
They made their way to a side ward. Doug was now completely quiescent, saying nothing and following where he was led. Lyn noticed Malcolm watching him, and suspected that those shrewd brown eyes were missing little.
‘I’ll examine my patient now,’ Malcolm said, ‘then I’ll get a nurse to give him a sedative and put him to bed. You two can drink coffee in my room till I’ve finished and then I’ll take a history from you, Lyn. Were there any medical details that you could find?’
Ross handed him the letter. ‘Ah,’ said Malcolm after a quick scan, ‘now this is interesting.’
In Malcolm’s room there were so many of the textbooks that Lyn recognised. She wandered round, picking them up, opening them, glancing and then replacing them. She couldn’t settle.
Ross recognised and respected her mood.
‘Too much has happened,’ he told her. ‘You’re hyper, not sure what to do next. You can’t rest.’
‘I don’t need a doctor to tell me that,’ she snapped back, and then caught him smiling at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at, anyone would think...’
For a moment she heard herself and then had to laugh. ‘All right, I know the state I’m in. It’s just that—’
‘To a certain extent you’re in a state of shock,’ he told her. ‘In a few minutes it’ll hit you. You’ll be so tired you’ll fall asleep in that chair. But not yet. You need to talk to Malcolm first. Now, have some coffee.’
Fortunately it wasn’t long before Malcolm returned. ‘An interesting case, an interesting man,’ he said, ‘and before you ask I’m not going to say a thing until I’ve done more tests. First thing in the morning we’ll give him an MRI scan. I suspect that will tell us plenty.’
Lyn nodded. A magnetic resonance imaging scan could show if there was any damage inside the skull, or anything pressing on the brain.
‘There is one point,’ Malcolm went on. ‘Who’s the next of kin?’ He looked at Lyn.
‘He never knew his father and his mother abandoned him when he was four,’ she said flatly. ‘His only brother is dead and as far as he knows he has no relations at all in the world.’
‘I see. I find that entirely believable.’
He took a large pad from a drawer and unscrewed his fountain pen. ‘Now, Lyn, I want you to tell me all about his behaviour when you first knew him, and then exactly how he has behaved over the past few days. Ross, would you—?’
‘Please, I want Ross to stay,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m feeling a little unsteady.’
‘All right,’ Malcolm said after a pause. ‘But, Ross, you keep quiet. Now, when exactly did you first meet?’
Taking the history was a long process. Some of it was painful, for Malcolm needed to know something of her relationship with Doug when she was still engaged to his brother. And then, when he questioned her about the time since Doug had arrived on her doorstep, she felt a great anger at herself. What had happened was so obvious! She was hoping to be a neurosurgeon herself; why hadn’t she spotted the signs of illness? She said this to Malcolm and he sighed.
‘Seeing the obvious is very difficult when you’re close to the subject,’ he said. ‘That’s why you should never try to be doctor to your own family. Now, that’s all I need for now. When I get any news I’ll give you a ring. It should be some time tomorrow.’
Ross spoke for the first time for a while. ‘We’re grateful to you, Malcolm. If ever you need—’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll ask,’ Malcolm said cheerfully. Then, indicating Ross, he added, ‘Don’t forget, Lyn. Keep this man at a distance!’
‘I’ll try,’ she said, ‘but do you know he climbed through my living room window tonight?’
She was fine until she was sitting in his Land Rover. Then it hit her. With a little moan she slumped against him.
Instantly his arm was round her. ‘I know,’ he said softly, ‘it all seems too much and you can’t cope and you didn’t want this anyway. We’re going straight back to your flat and you’re going to bed.’
She managed to peek at her watch. It was only ten o’clock! ‘I was taking you out for a meal,’ she said unsteadily. ‘We were going to that wine bar and—’
‘Blood sugar!’ he shouted. ‘Lyn, what have you had to eat since we met at lunchtime?’
That was easy. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘No wonder you’re feeling down. We’ll have to feed you. Now where...?’
‘Please, I don’t want to go to a restaurant,’ she said. ‘I’m not dressed for it, I look a mess and I just don’t want to face more people.’
‘You don’t look a mess to me. But I didn’t intend to take you anywhere. I don’t even intend to cook for you, though I could. We’ll get a take-away.’
‘A take-away,’ she said wonderingly, as if it were some strange new brilliant idea. ‘I never thought of a take-away.’
They were nearly back at the flat when he stopped outside a brilliantly illuminated shop front, garish with red, blue and yellow neon. He was back within two minutes, and on the seat between them he put a warm, good-smelling brown paper parcel. Her stomach growled in anticipation and they both laughed.
When they got back to the flat she didn’t want to go back into the living room. He sensed this, led her straight to the kitchen, and sat her at the table. Anyone would think he lived here, she mused, as he seemed to find everything they needed: plates, mugs, cutlery, vinegar and sauce without any difficulty. He switched on the kettle.
‘The ultimate British comfort food,’ he said, opening the brown paper parcel with a flourish. ‘Fish, chips, and mushy peas.’ He opened her bread bin. ‘Butter your own bread.’
The smell was entrancing, and she realised that she was famished. ‘This looks good,’ she muttered, and reached for her fork. It was good too. They ate in silence, drank the tea that he made, and afterwards she felt so much better.
‘I needed that and it did me good.’ She sighed. ‘Now I can rejoin the human race.’
‘It was a good meal,’ he agreed. ‘I suspect that if I was to have my last ever meal it wouldn’t be steak or lobster but fish and chips. We’ll go there again. Now, I’ll clear away while you have a bath. You’ll feel even better.’
‘Ross! This is my flat and you’ve done everything so far. At least let me wash up!’
‘Doctor’s orders,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a stressful time, now you need to relax. I’ll see you to bed and then I’ll be off.’
‘You’re not going to stay?’
He heard the slight uncertainty in her voice. ‘I certainly am. I’ve slept on many couches in my time, why should yours be left out? Now off to your bath and leave me to my washing-up liquid.’
It seemed simplest to do what he said.
She enjoyed her bath and it did undo more knots in her still upset mind, but she didn’t stay in too long. She put on her dressing gow
n, took a great armful of bedding from her linen cupboard, and went to the living room.
‘I’m a very good housewife,’ he said. ‘I’ve tidied up a bit as well.’
She blinked. He had taken all the piles of books and moved them, presumably, back next door. The ornaments and pictures were gone too. Her living room was as she wanted it: peaceful, calming. She hadn’t been looking forward to having to move everything and guessed that he knew this.
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘Now this is a bit of a change from the last time we... spent some time together. This time you borrow my towels and spare toothbrush. But I haven’t a dressing gown that will come anywhere near you, so you’ll have to wrap a towel round you.’
He looked at the bundle of bedding she was carrying.
‘Don’t go to a lot of trouble,’ he said. ‘I can sleep anywhere; I’m used to the hard ground. Why not go to bed and leave me to it?’
‘I’m feeling better!’ she snapped. ‘Leave me to organise my own home and go and get a bath.’
‘Yes, miss,’ he said.
The minute he had left the room she started on her carefully thought out arrangements.
He came back into the room twenty-five minutes later.
He was dressed solely in a towel round his waist and she thrilled to see his still wet hair, the powerful muscles of chest and shoulder, the trim waist. ‘Lyn?’ he queried.
‘You said you didn’t mind a hard surface,’ she said, ‘so you can sleep on the carpet. We both will. It’s quite thick and so it’s quite comfortable.’
She rather enjoyed his expression of bewilderment. She had made a double bed on the floor, with pillows from her own bed and her own duvet. The room was in semi-darkness; she had lit five candles and lined them along the hearth. She had inherited a love of candlelight from her parents.
‘There are two glasses and an open bottle of red wine here,’ she went on. ‘I know it’s a wine you will like. So why don’t you take off that towel and come to bed? With me.’
She was lying in the bed, but as she spoke she leaned sideways and reached for the bottle. He knew then that she was naked, her arms, shoulders, and breasts showing in the flickering candlelight.
Second Lover Page 14