Stranger at the Wedding

by Jack G. Hills

  When Dr Woodrow had first explained who her new partner would be, she’d thought Donald had all the charisma of someone who’d been lobotomised at birth, but her initial reaction had mellowed and she’d thought that perhaps there was more to the man than his outward appearance alluded to… but now she was convinced that he was someone cloaked in mystery and dripping intrigue.

  Her vivid imagination went into overdrive. Her best guess was that Donald was some sort of criminal, probably a hit man for vicious drugs gang, who got on the wrong side of the drugs baron and had been taught a dangerous lesson… Her mind raced away, as it outpaced reality and all sense of reason. Perhaps, he’d been having some sordid affair and the jealous mad husband had discovered the pair in flagrante delicto.

  Suddenly she understood why Dr Woodrow had been so keen for her to pair up with Donald… she was going to help him unravel the mystery and maybe, just maybe their relationship would develop into something more permanent and loving, because in the end that’s all she really wanted from a man was undying fidelity and love.

  “Do you think it was wise pairing Donald with Samantha?” Dr Petrie asked the director of the clinic, as they watched the pair chatting excitedly from the safe distance of the rear terrace. The microphones, concealed within the frame of each bench had picked up their entire conversation.

  Of course it would be deleted, as per their own strict guidelines once it had been analysed and all the relevant information noted. But they’d both known from just by watching the pair that Samantha’s imagination would already be miles in front of the truth.

  “Oh I think she will be ideal for him.” Dr Woodrow replied with a glint in his eyes.

  “But we know her propensity for inventing stories and ensnaring men into her own sordid little world.”

  Dr Woodrow cast a sharp look of rebuke at his senior colleague.

  “What I mean is that since her accident she has the most over-active imagination of anyone I’ve ever met and we know how that can cause problems… it has in the past. Let’s not forget Frank Carter and then there was…” Petrie clammed up, as Dr Woodrow shot her a look that threatened instant dismissal from the clinic’s staff.

  “That had nothing to do with Samantha, you know it and the police knew it… even the coroner agreed it was an accident. Our only failing was not spotting the signs, that’s why we had the camera and microphone surveillance extended.” Dr Woodrow sounded defensive but conciliatory.

  “But we knew that the red coat was important to her… that it was the coat she was wearing when they had the crash and that she associated it with her injuries and her abandonment at the hands of her husband.”

  “So?”

  “So… shouldn’t we have told the police about her fixation with the garment…especially when the man was wearing a similar garment when he supposedly fell under the bus.” Dr Petrie explained exasperatedly. She’d wanted to explain some of the background to the police but had been stopped by Woodrow who had felt the reputation of the clinic might be harmed if there was even the slightest inference of malpractice. Their work, he’d told her, was far too important to be derailed by the undiagnosed suicidal tendencies of one pathetic soul.

  In light of all they’d learnt, Dr Woodrow had been adamant that now wasn’t the time to change tack. They’d made improvements to their treatments and surveillance procedures and whilst the patients were stilled allowed the freedom to roam as part of their recovery, the unguarded, taped conversations gave the staff a greater insight into their individual mental states.

  “Dr Petrie… Joan… look combined with Donald’s proposed hypnotherapy, Samantha’s vivid imagination might just stimulate his brain sufficiently to hit upon the one key that will begin to unravel his past memory.” Dr Woodrow explained with a more conciliatory tone.

  Partnership Therapy, as he’d termed his treatment, was his brainchild and it had already shown impressive results in the treatment of amnesiacs and trauma victims. But deep down, he knew that pairing Samantha with Donald had its associated risks. In many ways she was the equivalent of a hypodermic full of insulin, too little and it might not have an effect, too much and the patient would overdose and die.

  “What about Samantha? Wouldn’t we be better isolating her from the other patients until such time as we can be certain that all we are dealing with here is an over-active imagination and not some other deeply rooted and dangerous psychosis? We know she’ll be attracted to Donald or more accurately to his past, but is it really worth taking such risk?”

  Dr Petrie had always been more cautious about playing with their guest’s minds. She couldn’t deny the results that Partnership Therapy offered, but she’d always believed that hypnosis, under strict controlled conditions, was far less likely to cause any unforeseen side-effects than pairing two unknown personalities together and hoping for a positive outcome for one or both of them.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a close eye on them both, but I take on board your concerns, so let’s ensure that they are never left alone and if they ask to go into town, that’s ok so long as someone goes with them… preferably you.”

  With the burden of responsibility shifted nicely onto his colleague, Dr Woodrow watched the pair for another few moments and then went off to find the cup of tea that he’d been promising himself for the past hour.

  Dr Petrie’s fear and apprehension over partnering Samantha with Donald had seemed to have been mostly unwarranted, as over the following days and weeks, the couple met regularly and chatted incessantly… or rather Samantha dreamt up one new fanciful theory after another to explain the cause of his traumatic injuries, which had apparently blighted Donald’s life, whilst Donald patiently listened and mentally drifted back to the beach and the basking seals.

  Nothing that his new friend said made sense to him… he wasn’t even sure that his life had been ruined, but each time he’d tried to talk to Samantha about his time in Cromarty and how happy he’d been living at the Monroe’s, Samantha had cut him short and skilfully changed the subject.

  By the end of the fourth week, he’d just about reached the end of his tether and was thinking of informing Dr Woodrow that he was wasting everyone’s time, when he received his first letter from Martha. The postmark was dated the day after he’d arrived at Ambleside, but as Dr Woodrow had explained on his introduction… guests, if they chose to stay, had to abide by the rules, and rule one was that there would be no contact of any kind with anyone from their past for the first month… no visits and no certainly no letters.

  Martha’s letter immediately buoyed his flagging spirits and proved beyond doubt that his departure had nothing to do with her… as she’d written the letter and posted it only hours after he’d left Cromarty.

  In the library, Donald had been determined to read his correspondence in peace, but Samantha had been oblivious to everything except her explanation for his amnesia, which she thought was her most fantastic story to date… Donald had been the victim of an affair of the heart.

  His wife had caught him having an affair, after hiring an investigator to follow him and take lurid photographs of his various liaisons. Racked with jealousy and pain at her betrayal, she’d paid someone to teach Donald a lesson, but the beating had gone too far. The men had enjoyed their work with all the zeal of their profession and had left him for dead, rather than him merely rueing the last romp he’d had with the next door neighbour.

  Creeping away, at the library door Donald had taken a moment to check that Samantha hadn’t noticed his absence, but rather than being reassured by her ignorance, he’d been disturbed to see her to violently act out her latest fantasy on one of the sofa’s cushions.

  Leaving her to whatever madness had gripped her mind, Donald snuck out of the house by one of the rear exits and walked down to the bottom of the garden, where the grass merged seamlessly with the pebbly shore of the lake and a number of benches had been positioned to take advantage of the water’s peaceful reflectiveness.

  D
earest Donald,

  Father has told me it is pointless writing to you so soon, as the clinic won’t allow you to see the letter until you’ve been at the clinic for at least a month, but the thought of not been able to tell you how I felt was just too much for me to bear. Sometimes I think if we all communicated by letter, there’d be fewer problems in the world and less aggression. We’d all have so much more time to think about what it is we want to say rather than just flying off the handle and making a situation worse.

  I guess the problem is that the human soul is too prone to the vagaries of emotions, and the odd word spoken out of turn or context, might cause hurt and offence where none was meant. The same could be said of what father did in persuading you to go to the clinic at such short notice like that. You have to believe me when I tell you that his only motivation was for your recovery and my protection. Since mother died he has been so over-protective. I think it comes from the fact that he blames himself for not being there when she died. I’m sure he felt that he should have been able to do more, him being a doctor and all that, so now he channels all his energy into looking after me.

  But I had no idea what he was planning, otherwise I would have been there to help you make the decision rather than you being railroaded into it by father and Henderson… who by the way I sacked as soon as I returned home and found out it had been her insinuations about our relationship and what you might do to me that pushed father to call Dr Woodrow and arrange a place for you.

  Anyway we had a bit of a row after I told him that Henderson wouldn’t be coming back and that I’d explained the situation to the manager of the hotel. You see, I decided after finding you gone that I’d be better concentrating on looking after father and the house but just as importantly the garden.

  They were very kind and I got a very nice letter from Mr Fitzgerald thanking me for all my hard work and wishing me all the best in the future… I know he probably didn’t write it but the thought was there and it was a kind gesture.

  I walked down to the beach this morning and the seals were all out sunbathing. They look so funny rolling around as if they want to get an even, all-over tan. The numbers seem bigger than last year but that’s only my view and really I don’t want too many to come onto the beach or live in the Firth as the last time that happened one of the fishermen decided that they were eating too many fish and killed some of the pups, which I found the following morning after going out for an early morning walk along the beach. It was a horrible sight and I never want to see it again. Of course no one admitted it but the town and the police from Inverness knew who the culprit was, it was just that they couldn’t prove it and anyway I don’t think they were that bothered, so the whole episode just fizzled out. But it took days for the tide to clear away the bloody mess… you’d have hated it the waste and the cruelty.

  Donald stopped reading and looked ruefully over the water to the line of small sailing dinghies that were racing across the lake, line astern.

  Perhaps he’d been attacked in the same manner and perhaps there were people around who knew the guilty party… perhaps the police even had proof of the attack. But if he had been beaten, like the seals, it must have been in a town or a city that was far away from Inverness, because Inspector Dalkeith had been adamant, he’d checked everywhere within a hundred mile radius of Inverness and his enquiries had turned up nothing unusual.

  Out on the lake, the flotilla of small boats started to jostle each other for position, as they began to race around the first white buoy. Donald watched the triangles of white sail for a second longer, as his mind tried to erase the image of the seals being so brutally killed from his mind… but for some inexplicable reason, which he hoped bore no relation to his own predicament, the picture planted in his head by Martha’s letter disturbed him more than he thought it should.

  Anyway, now that Henderson is no longer around to dissuade father, I’ve managed to get him to agree that I can decorate the inside of the house. Since mother died it’s been left like a mausoleum but I decided that we all need a new start. When you come back home, you won’t recognise the place. Obviously I can’t do the outside, but until you return I’ve asked Ned MacTulloch to paint the woodwork and replace any rotten timbers… although between you and me, he’s not the most naturally gifted handyman but father says he’ll do until you return.

  I’ll keep an eye out for the postman and hope that you will be able to write soon. I want to know all about the clinic and what progress you’ve made. Father says that Dr Woodrow is very good and if anyone can help you, he can.

  It’s very lonely here without you and each night I find it difficult to accept that you may never return to me. Just promise me one thing… don’t tell me that you’re going to return until you have finished whatever treatment you are having. That way I won’t build up my hopes of seeing you again, only to be disappointed when someone I don’t recognise walks in through the door and tells me they can’t stay… I’d rather be dead than go through all that pain.

  Donald winced at the thought of causing Martha any pain… he couldn’t imagine ever hurting her and as he thought about what she’d told him, he wondered if he wouldn’t be better returning to his room, packing his bag and leaving the clinic immediately. If his recovery was going to affect Martha in such a way, he’d be better off never knowing the truth.

  Oh I nearly forgot, when they sent me the letter from the hotel, they also explained that they’d now installed a Wi-Fi system for the guests, before it seems we only had access to the internet via a single telephone line in the office… anyway they’ve kindly told me that if you can get to a computer and use something called Skype, then I can use their Wi-Fi absolutely free. But best of all we’ll be able to see each other into the bargain. All I need is the same password as they give their guests… isn’t that wonderful? Mrs Timpson, the hotel’s new housekeeper told me that as soon as they’ve had the cards printed, she’ll write down the code and drop one through the letterbox when she’s next passing.

  That’s all for now, please write soon,

  All my love,

  Martha X

  Donald carefully folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope and then tucked it lovingly into his pocket. Martha’s more upbeat ending to her letter had raised his spirits sufficiently to put any thoughts of leaving the clinic temporarily to one side and instead he made himself a promise that he’d reply to her that evening, after supper, and then tomorrow he’d take the letter into the Ambleside Post Office.

  Samantha bumped into Donald just as he was walking back through the main entrance. Nonplussed by his disappearance, and now his sudden reappearance looking like the a tomcat who’d just left a feline all-night orgy, she suggested rather forcibly that they should take a walk, so that Donald could explain why he’d sneaked off like he had… nobody, she’d explained carefully, as she grabbed hold of his arm, ran out on her without permission.

  Donald still high on the euphoria of Martha’s letter, let the comment and the forced march down into the garden pass idly over his head. Samantha heard little of his explanation. She’d been expecting some momentous announcement about a recollection from his past, rather than the soppy sentimental dribble about Martha’s letter that Donald had effused, as she’d frog-marched him to their bench.

  Never one to be on the back foot for more than a brief moment, once they’d settled on the seat, she’d quickly seen an opportunity to make the most of Donald’s planned visit to the town’s post office.

  If he was serious about going into Ambleside to post his silly letter, then they’d have to box clever and outwit Dr Woodrow’s new Rottweiler, she warned him with a sly wink.

  “A dog?” Donald had exclaimed a little too loudly for Samantha’s liking. “Dr Woodrow has a new dog?” He added, mystified that he’d not seen or heard of the new pet himself.

  “What? No… of course not a dog, stupid! I was referring to Petrie. My stoolpigeon, who in exchange for the odd blowjob in the linen store
, spills the beans on all of Dr Strangelove’s bizarre plots, tells me that Petrie’s been told to keep an eye on you, because our beloved director doesn’t trust you… he thinks you might make a break for it.”

  Donald looked on bemused. In all honesty, he had no idea what Samantha was talking about. Sometimes she said the strangest things that just didn’t make sense… although he did take exception to his letter being called ‘silly’ and he knew for sure that he wasn’t ‘stupid’, whereas he hadn’t the foggiest idea what a ‘blow job in the linen store’ had to do with anything.

  “Anyway tomorrow after lunch, we’ll spilt up and meet down the lane by the bus stop. There’s a small gate in the wall, which is supposed to be locked but it never is. The staff use it all the time when they go into town but even better is the fact that there’s no surveillance down there.” She looked over both her shoulders, as if they were being followed… “But don’t let anyone catch you and don’t show anyone your soppy reply because I can tell you now, they’ll confiscate it… don’t believe all the crap Woodrow tells you about you’re free to do whatever you want because it’s all a lie. I know that for certain because I had that fat greasy nurse’s little pinkie right down my throat at the time and believe me, no one lies when their manhood is stuck in the jaws of an alligator.”

  Donald wandered off to his room, seriously doubting his friend’s sanity. When she became excited Samantha seemed to make even less sense than normal and if it hadn’t been for the fact that he wanted to ensure his letter was sent on its way without any delay, he’d have given it to the cook to post on her next daily sojourn into the town and left Samantha to play in her own deluded little world.

  They thought that they’d given Dr Petrie the slip before they’d left the clinic’s wooden grounds. Taking Samantha’s advice, the pair had managed to avoid each other all morning… mainly because Donald had spent the entire time in his room, after telling one of the nurses at breakfast that he didn’t feel well and so was going to see if he couldn’t shake off whatever virus was causing his flu-like symptoms, before they took hold.