“If Henri won’t be back until later and I’m free all day, it seems silly to rush and anyway I want you to savour and enjoy every moment with you.”
“Where’s Helen?” Rachel asked without thinking about the moment.
“Probably out at the new house, shagging the builder again.” This time his mouth took control of her tongue and his fingers played her into a frenzy. “Silly bitch thinks I don’t know, but then that’s what makes it so exciting. Tell you the truth it was the thought of them pumping and bumping around the building site that got me so worked up this morning and I thought… what the hell.”
“What the hell indeed…” Rachel said as she pulled herself away from Patrick and slinked over to the bed. “…now are you going to keep talking about her or fuck me?”
They’d spent the entire day in bed and by three o’clock both were exhausted and ready to sleep, when they heard the rear door open and the familiar voice call out.
“Rachel? Are you there… I’m back. I’ve brought a friend with me for tea… found them just outside of town. Rachel?”
“Bloody hell it’s Henri. Where did you leave your clothes… please don’t tell me the kitchen and who the hell is with him?” Rachel jumped from the bed. “Stay put, the floorboards up here are like a minefield. If you go running all over them we might as well just run downstairs naked and tell him we’ve been shagging each other senseless all day.”
“Well I can’t stay here, I think even Henri might notice a naked man in his bed don’t you?”
“I’ll go down and distract him… I’ll tell him I’ve had a lazy day and have just had a bath… after all its nearly true. Then I’ll keep them in the kitchen so you can leave by the restaurant’s main door. Just watch the bell and don’t bother locking it, just leave it ajar and I’ll sort it later. Call me… promise.”
“I promise.” Patrick said sincerely, as he watched Rachel throw on the damp silk robe and followed her bottom as it wiggled its way across the room and out through the door.
At the bottom of the stairs, after carefully avoiding stepping on any wooden mines, she stopped and listened to see where Henri was. The strange giggle and playful laughter told her he was still in the kitchen and thankful that most of the hard work had been done for her, was just about to burst into the room when common sense took over and she tentatively poked her head around the kitchen’s door jamb and saw who the friend was that Henri had brought back but it wasn’t tea he was giving her.
“I thought you were going to distract them whilst I snuck out of the front door?” Patrick said, as he was caught unawares by Rachel’s sudden reappearance in the bedroom just as he was pulling on his second cashmere sock.
“I was but I think they’re distracted enough without me helping them.”
“Ahh, the old dog has brought a bone home with him, has he?” Patrick said with a sly wink and a salacious smile.
Rachel dropped out of the damp gown and started to get dressed.
“The problem with you Patrick is that you don’t know as much as you think you do.” She said hurriedly pulling on some slacks and a jumper. “Come on, I’m coming with you.”
“What you’re just going to leave Henri to get on with things are you?
“I am. Just like you left Helen to discuss her plans and projections with your builder… although… and brace yourself for this… it wasn’t Bob the Builder she’s been shagging. It would appear she’s had foreplay for her hors d’oeuvres, a Toulouse sausage for her main course and right now she’s licking the cream off her banana desert.”
~~~~~
“So how’s life been since you moved in with Dr Monroe, Donald?” Mr Winston, the consultant neurologist asked, as he leant back in the comfort of his large leather chair. It had been an extravagance of sorts but he’d decided some time ago that if he was to stay working in the National Health Service, the old hard chair that he’d been provided with for his office would have to go. He spent too much time there talking to patients and their families, to put up with the constant backache and the sore behind that his previous chair had given him.
“Good, apart from I still don’t remember anything from before I walked into the Black Isle Hotel?”
“You’ve had no flashbacks at all… nothing?” He’d never come across such a case that had been so quite black and white. Usually his patients remembered the odd bit here and there, an experience that tweaked a part of the brain, which then made them remember some small crumb that might forge a trail to something more startling… but with Donald it had been a total wipe out of his life’s trials and tribulations right up to the point where he’d walked in through the door of the hotel and had bumped into Martha Monroe.
As he studiously added further notes to Donald’s already bulging file, Mr Winston was already formulating the type of scientific paper and case review that he might submit for publication to the Journal of Neurology.
“No nothing… except…”
“Except what Donald?” The consultant said with anticipation looking up from his paperwork. “You must tell me everything… no matter how inconsequential you think it might be.” The hint of a breakthrough urged the doctor to sit forward on the edge of his new chair.
“Well it seems like nothing now, but the day after I went to stay at the Monroe’s I was out walking down by the old quay when an argument broke out amongst a group of local fishermen and I froze.” Donald explained as clearly as he could. He felt embarrassed to talk about the incident, which had done little to boost his confidence or convince him that he’d taken the right decision in moving in with Martha and her father.
“Froze?” The consultant asked quizzically.
“It was like I’d been paralysed. I wanted to move but I couldn’t… I don’t know why but there was something terribly menacing about the way they were shouting and arguing that just filled me with a numbing dread.”
“So what did you do?”
“I turned round and walked away.”
After considering what Donald had just told him, the doctor searched through his file and pulled out the photographs, which they’d taken on the morning he’d been brought into the hospital. Shuffling the snaps across his desk, he selected the two, which showed the extent of his injuries in most detail and slipped them across the desk.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen these Donald but we took them when you were first brought into the hospital. I’d like you to look at them and tell me what you think.”
Donald picked up the two photographs and cast a cautious eye over them. Whatever had happened to him had been dramatic but neither of the pictures jogged his memory.
“Sorry, no. But if I had to guess, I’d say I’d been hit by a car or come a poor second in a bareknuckle fight.” Donald said, as he shivered at the thought of what might have caused his bloody and bruised appearance.
“Well we thought the injuries were more in keeping with you being involved in a fight but no ordinary fight. You look like you’ve been beaten by a number of people, not just one and we also found evidence that you’d been kicked repeatedly in the head and around the rest of your body by someone who’d never read the Marquis of Queensbury Rules.” The consultant had a sudden thought. “Do you understand what I mean by the Marquis of Queensbury, Donald?”
“Of course. He invented boxing didn’t he?” Donald announced calmly, as if he’d never had a problem remembering anything. The doctor put the anomaly of Donald’s memory to one side and turned his attention back to the photographs.
“When you look at the photographs Donald, does that feeling of dread, which you’ve just described to me, grip you like it did before?”
“No. I don’t feel anything, except that I must have been very lucky… something tells me that I should have died after such a beating… if you and police are correct and it was indeed a beating and not a car accident.”
The appointment had been scheduled for an hour but the doctor had a free afternoon and his patient’s revelation
and subsequent succinct appraisal of his condition had given the neurology consultant some food for thought. So as he watched Donald leave his office and disappear down the corridor in search of the toilets and the coffee machine, he lifted the receiver and asked his secretary to try and contact Inspector Dalkeith.
He’d been surprised that there had been no improvement in his patient’s memory and disappointed that photographs hadn’t sparked a flicker of recognition but in the end they only served to reinforce the conclusions that his medical team had reached prior to the man’s discharge… perhaps they had done everything they could and maybe… just maybe his memory had been permanently erased by the trauma.
The annoying buzzing sound disturbed his thoughts and like one of Pavlov’s dogs made him automatically stretch out his arm and pick up the telephone… if there was to be any further progress then he was convinced it would only happen if his patient faced his attackers and heard their voices.
“I’ve just spoken with Inspector Dalkeith.” He said, as Donald took a tentative sip of the boiling coffee. “It would appear they are no further forward with your case than they were when you were first admitted here. He says that they’ve repeatedly checked every unsolved incident within a one hundred and fifty mile radius of Inverness, and each and every time they’ve drawn a complete blank.”
“What about further afield?”
“There’s no point. The morphology of the wounds indicated that whatever happened took place within a six to eight hour window of you turning up at the hotel and since there was no abandoned car or bus service running near the area…”
“I must have been attacked somewhere near the hotel?” Donald finished the doctor’s summation of the evidence.
“Exactly and the nearest town to the hotel is Cromarty… where you saw the fishermen. Now, I’ve explained this to the inspector and he says he’ll look into the possibility but it would help if there was more for the police to go on… no matter how small or insignificant.”
“Nothing except the ivy.” Donald replied after briefly considering the question. It wasn’t much but it was something.
“The ivy?” The doctor repeated inquisitively, before Donald could explain himself further.
“Yes, it had forced its way between the boards on the shed, causing them to warp and that had been letting in the rain and wind.” Donald said as if he were in a trance.
“Tell me, why was the ivy important?” Mr Winston felt a frisson of excitement. It wasn’t much but he knew from experience that anything was better than nothing… even the Bible started with a single word.
“I’d been clearing Dr Monroe’s garden, ready for the new plants when I stumbled across the old wooden shed. Everyone had forgotten about it and I’d not seen it before owing to the thick blanket covering of ivy. It was as though nature had been trying to camouflage it, to hide it or what it contained from the outside world. But the ivy had been too enthusiastic and it had pushed its tendrils and stems between the boards, allowing the rain to sneak inside and ruin everything.”
“And was it the shed or the ivy that tweaked something inside your head?” Dr Winston found it hard to conceal the heightened expectation in his voice.
“The ivy, I think… you see I’d just grabbed the first handful to pull off the outside boards, when something… a voice, inside of my head told me to stop. It wasn’t much but at the time the sensation was real enough. Then after that first flash, I just lost track of time and I stood and stared at the mass of green and yellow leaves because I knew I must have seen them before. I even went and asked Mrs Henderson if she knew of anywhere local that had ivy-covered walls. Now, apart from reinforcing her view that I’m some halfwit, she was adamant that there’s nothing like that around the town… apparently Dr Monroe’s garden was the only jungle in Cromarty.”
Donald caught the 23 bus service back from Inverness and after alighting outside the post office walked down the cobbled slipway that ran alongside the house, to the beach and the rear entrance to the Monroe’s garden.
After his visit to the hospital, he’d been buoyed by Mr Winston’s reaction to his seemingly minor revelation and so was keen to avoid anyone in the house and go straight into the garden to see if he could catalyse any further reaction from the as yet untouched and overgrown part of the garden where the ivy was still more prevalent than anything cultivated.
At the gate, which he’d repaired as best as he could, he hesitated and stood for a moment to watch the seals that had pulled themselves clear of the water and were lounging around on the sand for what was becoming their regular daily siesta. Their numbers had steadily grown from the three that he’d seen on that first occasion, to a larger group of ten or more. In their own way, Donald thought each one looked peaceful and content with their lot and as he placed his hand on the gate, he fervently wished that the same could be said for his life. Why he wondered, did everyone assume that he wanted to remember… what was so important about his past that it couldn’t remain just that… his past.
He was sure that the seals couldn’t remember what they did last week and they didn’t seem mind. They took life one day at a time and lived for the moment. There was a lot to be said, he mused, for thinking of nothing but eating, sleeping and procreating.
“My mother used to say ‘I’ll give you a penny for them’, but I guess with inflation and everything else, the least you’d take now would be a pound.” Martha’s sudden interruption made Donald spin round like a naughty puppy that had just made a mess on the floor.
“I don’t think the doctor would agree with your valuation. He’d probably tell you that any memories I have wouldn’t be worth even a… penny.” Donald stopped talking and kicked a pebble down the beach. “Do you know I was going to say a ‘plug nickel’ but stopped because I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it before and didn’t know if it was important or just something I’d read or seen on TV.”
He left the seals to their silent sunbathing and joined Martha in the garden. He’d made a mental note to try and get nearer to the mammals, so that he could watch them more closely… apart from Martha he didn’t have any friends… maybe he’d never had any, it was impossible to tell… but he knew he’d like to gain the trust of the seals and if that was as near to friendship as he could get, then that would be good enough for now.
“It’s an American expression. Here you can write it down in this.” Martha handed Donald the small notebook. “I bought it yesterday but you’d gone this morning before I had a chance to give it to you. Father says that in a case like yours you should write down everything that you remember or sketch any images that might pop into your head and then let others decide if they’re important or not. He thinks that if you only remember what you think matters, you might miss something vital.” Martha cautiously sat down on the rusty old swing, which Donald had cleared of the thick brambles, and gently pushed herself back and forth. It had been a present for her eighth birthday, although she’d never been sure if her mother had bought it more for her own pleasure than that of her young daughter’s.
“Do you know I used to play on this swing with my mother? We used to have such fun pushing each other backwards and forwards… I can remember one time, we were laughing and giggling so much that father came out of the house to see if we were alright… he told mother that such joviality was unbecoming of a mother and the wife of the doctor. Do you know what mother said, ‘Fiddle sticks and pumpkins, don’t be such a stick in the mud William’. That was the first time I’d heard my mother say anything that might sound disrespectful to father and do you know what he did?” Martha asked rhetorically but without much thought for Donald.
“No, what?” Donald replied diplomatically.
“He took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves and pushed her so high that she had to beg him to stop and then he did the same for me… it was probably the best day of my life. I saw father, for the first time, as the kind man that he is… not the sour crusty old goat that he likes peop
le to think he is.”
“That’s a nice memory to have Martha. I’m surprised you let the swing get into such a state.”
“After mother died, I didn’t see the point anymore and anyway I had to grow up very quickly for father, otherwise he’d have just gone to pieces and mother wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Donald walked round behind the swing and gently pushed Martha forward and backwards. Each time his hands touched her back, a ripple of excitement pulsed through her body.
“It’s a good idea… the book.” Donald whispered in her ear, as she leant back on the seat. “I’ll thank him when I see him for thinking about me and thank you for the present, it’s a very kind thought. When I’ve filled it and have written my ‘forgotten autobiography’, I’ll dedicate it to you.” He caught hold of the ropes and brought the swing to a stop. “You know it’s funny but Mr Winston told me something similar to what your father said about the small incidents and how they might be important. I told him that the ivy climbing all over the shed rang a small bell and he thought that might be a breakthrough but I wasn’t convinced… that’s why I came straight back here… I was desperate to hear that bell again.”
“You will but probably when you’re least expecting it.” Martha continued her own gently toing and froing then suddenly put her foot down and stopped suddenly. “The ivy?” She asked. “Was it like the ivy growing up a wall or was it rambling, unkempt all over the ground?”
“It was only a flash of a picture but it looked like a waterfall of ivy… do you think it could have been something like the side of a building?”
“Either that or a garden wall and that’s why you felt what you did stood here. But without more to go on it doesn’t get you much further, does it?”
“Not really.” Donald walked idly round the swing and watched Martha’s gentle swaying like a hypnotist’s watch. “Anyway, enough of my problems, how was work?”
Stranger at the Wedding Page 14