Stranger at the Wedding

by Jack G. Hills

  “Maybe, the gardening was his way of subconsciously accepting or rebelling against his former life?”

  “Maybe, but as we know from past experience and former guests, finding out the truth isn’t always the answer… the mind is a little like Pandora’s box, once you’ve lifted the lid there’s no going back.”

  ~~~~~

  Patrick had waited for Rachel in the pub just round the corner from the Municipal Buildings in Truro and by the time she walked into the lounge bar he was already on his sixth Jack Daniels on the rocks.

  “Christ the coroner took his time, didn’t he?” Patrick remonstrated polishing off the last of his Tennessee bourbon. “What do you want to drink?” He asked without considering her feelings and what she’d just been through.

  In the end they’d only spent the one day in Scotland at the Black Isle Hotel, although their private ‘meeting’ about future potential business had taken almost three hours. In the end, when they’d emerged from the private room, even the stoical concierge had felt sorry for the woman who had looked somewhat flushed and a little dishevelled.

  “Looks as though she’s been given a hard time by Mr Fitzgerald… if you know what I mean?” He whispered knowingly to Martha, as the two visitors had walked across the reception.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Martha replied with an innocence born of a child’s view on life. “I think she probably got everything she wanted and I know she was happy with the result because when I passed the room about an hour ago, I heard her shout out YES, YES, YES! Now that must mean Mr Fitzgerald didn’t have it all his own way.”

  But if the trip had sent Rachel’s senses reeling with delight, then the letter that had been waiting for her upon their return had proved to be orgasmic in every sense. Inside was the confirmation that she’d been waiting for about the date of the inquest into Tom’s apparent death… a death which if confirmed would release her from the shackles of red tape and allow her to pursue the plans for her future.

  “Something long and strong, just like my men.” Rachel effortlessly threw the double entendre out. The insinuation was obvious but the rich strong bourbon had nulled Patrick’s senses sufficiently for his brain not to react.

  “Hey!” He shouted out to the young bartender. “Yes you, I’ll have another JD on the rocks and the lady will have a double topped with coke.” Patrick sat down and waited for Rachel to tell him her news. “Well?”

  “Well. To cut a long story short, Mr Tom Cox is now officially dead. The coroner believed the letters… oh he said he would have preferred to have heard from the man Ricardo, who escorted Tom back to the hotel that night before making his decision but understood that as a student, on a temporary visa it had been impossible to trace him. I should have the death certificate next week, which means…” Patrick handed Rachel her drink. And clinked it against his own.

  “Which means it’s your round.”

  ~~~~~

  “Where’s Patrick gone, did you say?” Henri asked, as he rubbed more of the sun block onto Helen’s naked back. His fingers massaged the white cream right down her spine until it formed a little pool in the dimple just above her bare cheeks and the valley of temptation than ran between them. Slowly, like he was kneading dough, he caressed each cheek then ran his fingers back up her spine until he could feel her shoulder blades slide and slip under the pressure he applied.

  “Ooh… just there, that’s the spot. God that feels good.”

  Henri held the tube of cream high above her back and watched as the sun block dripped in slow motion onto her brown, unblemished skin, before he gently applied his fingers to the task once more.

  The swimming pool had been Patrick’s last minute idea but the design and everything else had been Helen’s, from the colour of the tiles to bar in the pool. The inspiration for which she’d seen at the hotel in Cancun, where they’d spent the entire week after their cruise, sat up to their waists in the warm water sipping Margaritas and soaking up the sun.

  “He’s gone somewhere on business, he did tell me Henri, but I guess I wasn’t paying too much attention. I haven’t really forgiven him yet for getting back so late from his jaunt up to Scotland with Rachel…” Helen turned her head backwards, as Henri knelt between her legs and continued to massage the cream into her back. It had gone passed the point of being useful as a protection against the sun, now it was just about the pleasurable sensation they were both experiencing. “…it was Rachel I felt sorry for… safety check on the helicopter my ass, he probably just lost track of time talking shop.” She said, just as Henri’s fingers and hands found their way around each of her cheeks in a circular opposing motion.

  “So he won’t be back anytime soon I guess?” Henri said with his eyes fixed on Helen’s perfectly bronzed figure. Laying on the sunbed beside the azure coloured pool, he thought she looked like some Greek goddess… or maybe even Helen of Troy herself. He didn’t know whether her face could launch a thousand ships but her ass was certainly floating his own particular boat.

  “No that bit I do remember… he told me not to wait up but to go to bed.” Helen in one slick motion slid onto her back and clasped her legs tightly around Henri’s waist. “So why don’t we do just that.”

  ~~~~~

  They’d had diner in Truro, at a little Italian place just round the corner from the cathedral and had finally left around eleven.

  “So did Helen suspect anything after we returned from Scotland?” Rachel asked, as they drove out of the city under the cover of a moonless night.

  “God no. I got the girl on reception to call her and explain that the mechanic had found a problem and he needed to carry out a full check. Martha I think her name is… she’s sweet but not particularly bright. I only gave her the job because of her father.”

  “I think you’re being a little harsh, when we spoke I thought she was very sweet… it was her boyfriend who brought the sandwiches up to the hotel… you know the one you were so rude to?” Rachel said staring out into the blackness of the surrounding countryside, where only the light to break the night’s dark grip came from the odd isolated farmhouse.

  She remembered the girl because of the conversation they’d had and the promise she’d made about the photograph. Obviously she’d made the offer more out of pity for the girl rather than with any real intention of following it through and until Patrick had just mentioned her name she’d put the whole incident right out of her head.

  “That’s the girl, and he was a strange chap… the boyfriend. I think it must be the isolation, either that or they all marry each other’s cousins.” Patrick smirked.

  “Have you slept with her… this Martha?” Rachel added spitefully, as if it would be the most natural thing in the world.

  “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.” Patrick had actually been stunned by the suggestion, mainly because he never mixed business with that sort of pleasure… obviously he mixed his various pleasures… but that was different.

  Rachel though wasn’t about to let Patrick off that easily… maybe it was envy at the thought of two people really loving each other or maybe the corner’s verdict had been more cathartic than she’d ever imagined it could be, but whatever the cause she pushed Patrick a little harder.

  “Do you ever think about me when you’re with Helen… you know, when you’re in bed with her, do you ever think about me?” Rachel waited for a reply. She didn’t know why she’d asked the question because the answer would make no difference to the way she felt, as there were many times she’d thought about Henri and even Tom to some extent, just at the moment that Patrick exploded inside her. But when she didn’t get a reply… not even a blatant lie, she stole a sideways glance at Patrick.

  “What’s wrong?” She asked, as the headlights from the vehicle behind flooded the car’s interior to reveal the sheer look of panic that had crossed Patrick’s face.

  “Bloody police that’s what’s fucking wrong. He’s been on my tail for the last mile or so.” Patrick glanced back
in his mirror and then ahead, as if he was searching for something. “When I get down this next road and before he catches up with me I want you to jump into the driver’s seat, whilst I get out and have a piss… but don’t climb out just slide across.”

  “But why?” Rachel asked, without realising she was about to pervert the course of justice.

  “You had the one JD and coke that’s why, whereas I… I had six or seven whilst I waited for you and then that whole bottle of red because you weren’t drinking…” It sounded more like an accusation than an explanation and the truth suddenly hit her like a brick that had been dropped from a great height.

  “So what are you saying? …Your drinking and then driving whilst completely pissed is all my fault? Is that it? Or maybe it’s the coroner’s fault for taking so long to come to his decision… perhaps you’d like to blame the waiter who kept pouring you more wine… which you just had to drink.” The sarcasm didn’t help but it made her feel better and slightly superior.

  “Sorry it’s just… look if I get banned I won’t be able to fly the helicopter and then the insurance will skyrocket, I’ll have to find a driver and…”

  “Down there!” Helen said in a commanding way that made Patrick instantly obey. “Pull down there and then floor the accelerator, if the car follows you pull over and jump out, then leave the rest to me… but make dam sure that when they see you, your dicks hanging out and there’s a smile of relief on your face.

  Helen lowered the driver’s window, as the flashing headlights screeched to a halt behind the vehicle. Looking her most demure, she waited for the uniform to appear so she could start her act of contrition, which she’d been mentally rehearsing, as Patrick had pulled the car to a crunching halt. But in place of a uniformed policeman appearing in her driver’s mirror, the passenger door was suddenly and violently yanked open. The bald head and muscled body, which followed looked nothing like the traffic policeman she’d been expecting to see and the surprised look on the man’s bulldog-like face told Rachel that he was as shocked to see her, as she was to see him.

  “Where is he?” He barked out gruffly in a manner that was meant to intimidate and usually succeeded beyond all his expectations. “Fitzgerald where is he?” He added menacingly, glancing into the rear of the car.

  “Nobby… is that you? Christ what the hell are you doing sneaking up on people in the dead of the night like that… I nearly pissed my pants back there.” Patrick’s voice complained from somewhere out in the darkness, as he recognised the dark threatening voice.

  “Mr Dickens would like a word.” The man said, as he walked off into the night leaving Rachel alone without any word of explanation. Nobby? Dickens? She’d never heard Patrick mention either man before and whilst her initial relief at not being stopped by the police was still making her take a series of short, sharp breaths, another feeling… one of dread, started to creep over her. She leant across and pulled the passenger door shut, then locked the car.

  It was a small gesture but one that gave her some comfort, until the blinding headlights behind suddenly reversed backwards at speed, turned in one seamless movement and were replaced with two hastily retreating red dots.

  Scared witless by Patrick’s sudden disappearance, Rachel sat and waited for any sign of his return but the only noise she could hear was the gentle purring of the car’s engine and the only thing she could see was the unrelenting darkness. Her imagination ran riot with the possibility of his abduction, possibly his murder and then the unthinkable occurred to her, perhaps it had all been some rouse to have her kidnaped or murdered… With some trepidation and fear, she groped around the unfamiliar, black dashboard searching for the car’s light switch until finally and with a suddenness that took her by surprise, the countryside around the car was lit up like a football stadium under floodlights.

  She hadn’t know what to expect but as she spun her head around, like a demented meerkat searching for danger, the only sign of life was the two bright, reflective dots of the fox’s eyes, as it crossed the road away in the distance. Startled by the suddenness of the new daybreak, the small vixen scuttled off into the wood at the side of the track, leaving Rachel alone and deserted by every living soul. Lowering the window slightly, she shouted out Patrick’s name but received only the screech of an owl by way of reply.

  “Marvellous!” She said added more loudly, “Now what the hell do I do?”

  It seemed a reasonable question to ask but even the sage-like owl could offer nothing further by way of a wise reply.

  ~~~~~

  The first few days at the Ambleside Clinic had been rather an anti-climax for Donald, who had passed the time in relative solitude and reflection. He’d given Dr Woodrow his answer the following day and had confirmed that he wanted whatever help they could offer him. He wanted to know who he really was… not for himself but for Martha. She deserved to know everything about him and he didn’t want any secrets to come back and destroy whatever they might build together.

  For his part Dr Woodrow hadn’t known what to expect but had decided after talking with Donald, not to start any treatment for a couple of days… that way if Donald got cold feet it would mean that no harm had been done and only a small amount of time wasted… but it would be worth it.

  “So when do I start my treatment doctor.” He’d asked, on the third day.

  “This is all part of your treatment… or as we like to call it, your recovery.”

  “Recovery?” Donald was a little surprised at the word. He hadn’t known what to expect but whatever it was he couldn’t stop thinking about it as a treatment. During the moments of self-reflection, as he’d strolled around the gardens and grounds, he’d concocted all manner of invasive treatments from brain operations to pills and potions but now he was being told he just had to recover… from what?

  “All your scans tell the same story Donald. There is nothing physically wrong with you… well nothing that we can see anyway. There’s no swelling of the brain, no abnormal growths and no haemorrhaging. Operating will serve no purpose whatsoever, it will achieve nothing and tell us nothing.”

  “So what can you do for me?” Donald said disconsolately, as he looked out of the French Windows onto the terrace and the lawn beyond.

  “We can try other less conventional methods, such as hypnotherapy, acupuncture and electrical stimulation.” Donald wheeled around quickly.

  “You want to electrocute me?” He asked plainly and with a pained expression that made Dr Woodrow wonder if he’d been subjected to such a treatment at some time in the past or maybe someone close to him had been given a similar course of treatment. But what he had in mind was not the old fashioned, almost barbaric solution of strapping the patient to a table and then fixing electrodes to their skull so that a high voltage could be sent through their brains.

  “No definitely not… neither do we want to lobotomise you or fill you full of drugs. I like to think we’ve made some progress in the past sixty or seventy years but as I’ve said to you before, where the brain is concerned, our knowledge and expertise is still lacking far behind such disciplines as Oncology and Cardiology. In my view, any invasive treatment ought to be the last resort, not the first. You see operating on the brain is a little like a trying to remove a cherry from the centre of a large blob of jelly without damaging the jelly… it’s impossible. Anyway, in your case we wouldn’t remove anything. If… and I stress it’s only if at this stage… if we try the electrotherapy then it will mean inserting very small electrodes precisely into your brain and then applying a small electrical charge… I like to think of it as jump starting your car when the battery’s flat… I’ll try and stimulate your memory, that’s all. It’s nothing to be concerned over.” But Dr Woodrow saw that his explanation appeared to have fallen on deaf ears.

  “Ah that’s Samantha, she’s also a guest here at Ambleside.” Dr Woodrow said, as he looked out of the window and realised what had momentarily distracted Donald. “You’ll meet her later, when I forma
lly introduce you to all our other guests.”

  “Does she have the same problem as I have?” Donald asked quite innocently.

  “Well I can’t discuss her case with you… just as I wouldn’t talk to her about why you’ve come to Ambleside but suffice it to say that like you she’s lost at the moment but unlike you she can see some of the way back, unfortunately it’s a little jumbled up and doesn’t make sense.” Dr Woodrow place his hand on Donald’s shoulder. “Your case is quite special Donald and very intriguing. But do you know what really fascinates me… how you came to be at the Black Isle Hotel in the first place?”

  In the few days he’d been at the clinic and without having been formerly introduced, Donald had found his fellow guests to be a mixed bunch of misfits and daydreamers. Some he’d thought seemed quite insane, whilst others who seemed sane, didn’t appear to be on the same planet as the rest of the guests, although as Dr Woodrow had said to him the morning after he’d arrived, in reply to Donald’s question about the clinic…

  “What’s normal Donald? Here at Ambleside there is no normal, no ‘one size’ fits all. Your problems are all unique… that is why you have chosen to come here. Conventional treatments stop at the gates. Why else do you think we have such security? ....”

  It had been a tongue-in-cheek remark, which had left Donald a little bewildered and only served to compound his incomprehension, as Dr Woodrow had been clear from the off that he was free to leave whenever he wanted… but in reality he’d found the gates were always locked and the barbed wire always looked razor sharp. Then each and every time he’d asked any member of staff why there was so much security… they’d all simply clamed up and changed the subject or on the one occasion that Donald had pressed one of them for an answer, the nurse in his well practise manner had merely told him to speak to Dr Woodrow.