Stranger at the Wedding

by Jack G. Hills

  Samantha knew though that she’d have to be quick if she wasn’t to lose the opportunity, as Dr Woodrow had already hinted that there was little else he could do for her at the Ambleside and had tentatively suggested that she would be helped more by a move to the Magdalen Clinic for Women. She recoiled again at the thought of moving to a place that sounded as if it would be the ideal breeding ground for lesbians and the one thing she hated more than weak men, were women who preyed on other women.

  Furious at the thought that Woodrow might force her to abandon her plan, she pushed herself away from the gatepost and angrily kicked a stone across the road and into the ditch on the other side, with all the force and accuracy of a prized centre forward.

  “It’s like this…” The bus driver said in a very knowing way. “…I’ve been driving this route for nigh on six years now and I’ve seen lots of folk come and go from the clinic here. Most seem to leave better for it, whilst some, like your friend there, seem completely beyond Dr Woodrow’s help.” Donald screwed his face into a ball, but the driver wasn’t about to be derailed just yet. “Now, this is my own personal observation mind you, cos I ain’t no scientist nor professor nor anything like that… I can only tell you what I’ve seen over the years.” The driver shuffled in his seat, as if what he had to say was so profound or dangerous that he might change his mind and remain silent. Donald saw the anxious look on the driver’s face and as one, they looked around to check that their conversation would remain private.

  “Go on, I’d appreciate any help I can get.” Donald said with a simple nod of his head. He was now more anxious than ever to hear what the amateur psychiatrist had to tell him.

  “Well, as I say on the whole the clinic seems to help lots of people but there’s been three cases that I remember, where getting back their memories did them no favours at all … in fact two of those three hung themselves from the trees in the grounds.”

  “What they committed suicide!” Donald exclaimed rather excitedly. Nobody had mention suicide as one possible cure or side-effect.

  “That’s right, local gossip says they went right out into the grounds, found a tree and strung themselves up. The place has got a bit of a reputation locally… so much so that folk hereabouts wouldn’t go into the woods, even if they were allowed.”

  “But why?” Donald still couldn’t quite believe what the man was saying but if it was true then he could see why Dr Woodrow wouldn’t be keen to mention it.

  “Because they remembered everything… especially what they were like before they’d lost their memories and after being free of the truth for so long, they couldn’t stand being that person again. I mean ask yourself, how would you feel if you suddenly knew that you’d been a wife beater or a murderer or maybe even a child molester… with all your new experiences and feelings, could you live with that on your conscious?” The driver checked his watch… he was already five minutes behind schedule.

  “I honestly don’t know… I’ve not thought about it, if I’m honest. Oh I try to remember but I’m only expecting my memories to be good ones, although others have been afraid for me or more accurately of me, I guess… but you said there were three people and only two suicides, what happened to the other?” Donald asked, not quite believing that he was indulging in a clinical and psychiatric discussion with a country bus driver.

  “Ah… the other case, yes that was the worst one because he didn’t kill himself. He had a road to Damascus recovery… you know he saw the light and recovered his memory in a flash after undergoing therapy up there at the clinic. Turns out that the pleasant, rational, easy-going John Smith, as he was called when he arrived at the clinic, was actually some psychotic madman called…” Ironically the driver’s memory momentarily lapsed.

  “Called what?” Donald asked with a degree of annoyance at being kept waiting.

  “Slipped my mind completely… funny that isn’t it, especially after what we’ve been talking about. Now it was something like that writer chap… oh you know Edwin Drood…”

  “The patient was called Edwin Drood?” Donald asked hopefully.

  “No, no. It was the chap who wrote the book… Dickens! That’s his name.” The driver announced triumphantly with a huge sigh.

  “So the patient was called Charles Dickens?”

  “No… Clarence Dickens. Bludgeoned two of his fellow patients to death with a poker then slit the nurse’s throat and made good his escape. By the time the authorities found out, he’d disappeared back into the criminal underworld… never been seen again I’m told.”

  “But people don’t just disappear, it’s not possible.” Donald said with a little too much disbelief for the driver’s liking.

  “Well as I said… I’m no expert but on the occasions when John Smith caught this bus into town and back, he was one the nicest, most polite men that I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. He’d go out of his way to help anyone, but even all that goodness couldn’t handle the resident evil that manifested itself once his memory had returned… so that’s why I said good luck. I’ve said it to everyone since Dickens… well that and make sure you want to know who you really are.”

  Donald didn’t wait to hear any more of the driver’s pearls of wisdom, knowing that he might be a murderer or a paedophile was more than enough for one day. As he stepped off the last step the driver called him back.

  “Oh and for what it’s worth… I’d watch that one.” He said nodding his head in the direction of Samantha. “Her and the other chap, this Dickens bloke… they were as thick as thieves, used to go into town all the time together. She was always buying him presents you know and not cheap rubbish… it was always expensive looking. Anyway you take care.” The doors folded shut behind him before Donald had a chance to interrogate the man further, but then he wondered what else there was to say.

  They stood and watched the bus disappear down the lane before ringing the bell. But their arrival had been closely monitored by the hidden camera that had been positioned high in one of the surrounding trees and before Donald could press the bell push, the gates began to slowly move apart like the Red Sea parting before the advancing Israelites.

  “That always spooks me you know.” Samantha said, taking hold of Donald’s hand, as they started down the long driveway to the house.

  Feeling embarrassed or maybe it was a reaction to the driver’s words of caution or perhaps it was the thought of the man Dickens killing the other patients… but whatever the reason, Donald pulled his hand free and walked backwards in front of his friend. Could he ever kill her, he wondered, could he be such a bad person that merely remembering his past might turn him into some monster. Worse still though was the thought that he might harm Martha.

  But whatever the risks, Donald knew he couldn’t stop now. The lure of the unknown far outweighed the possibility that he could be a murderous loose cannon that might explode at any moment.

  “I agree that the hotels seem rather widespread for a small chain.” He said out of the blue trying to forget everything the bus driver had just told him, although as he walked and talked, he couldn’t help but take a sneaky, quick peak into the mass of trees that skirted the drive… just in case another corpse might have been left hanging from the boughs of one of the larger trees.

  Samantha’s face contorted with a look of incomprehension, at the sudden outburst.

  “You asked about the hotels… I was merely agreeing with you.” Donald explained himself hesitantly. “I mean if I was going to build up a chain of hotels, I’d look to buy them all within a much smaller area. What I wouldn’t do is spread them out all over the country unless…” Donald stopped dead in his tracks and looked up through the encroaching tree canopy towards the heavens above them.

  “Of course! That’s it… the helicopter, that’s why the helicopter was there… It never struck me at the time… but then why would it?” Donald spun away down the drive like some demented ballerina on top of a musical jewellery box, whilst Samantha stood and watched…
bewildered by both his behaviour and his reply but still fascinated by the lure of what might be behind the mask of his lost memory.

  They found Dr Woodrow in the library, taking a break and drinking a well-deserved cup of tea.

  “How was Ambleside?” He said upon seeing the pair slip in through the door. “You found the post office I trust?”

  “Err yes... thank you.” Donald wasn’t sure how he could broach the subject of his leaving the clinic, as he was unsure what commitments Dr Monroe had made on his behalf. For all he knew Martha’s father had paid for all his treatment… of course nothing had ever been said about fees, but the medical institution didn’t have the feel of a Nation Health Service hospital and friendship alone wouldn’t pay the bills.

  “What’s the matter Donald? You look as if you’ve found a hidden treasure or maybe you’ve just remembered something important.” The doctor inquired in a kindly manner, for he’d seen the same look of discovery… of a lost memory recovered, many times before.

  “I told him I thought he’d seen a ghost.” Samantha interrupted, knowing the reference to ghosts would irk the doctor.

  “Thank you Samantha. Since we all know ghosts don’t exist, I think it’s safe to assume that whatever it was… it wasn’t a ghost. Now Donald?” Dr Woodrow offered his two patients the sofa next to his armchair.

  “Neither really but we did find something out that might be important in discovering who I really am. Isn’t that right Samantha?” Donald asked in the sympathetic way that friends do when they want help. Samantha though had other ideas.

  When he’d heard nothing by way of a reply, Donald shifted his position slightly on the couch and pleaded with his eyes for her help. Samantha though merely returned his stare in a way that a female black widow spider looks at her new husband on their wedding night.

  She’d never told Dr Woodrow about the other men that had come into and out of her life or how falling in love with them had brought out the other woman inside her… the one that was jealous, vindictive and evil. The woman who would go to any lengths to stop the men leaving her life before she was ready to let them go and the woman over whom Samantha had absolutely no control.

  In reality it was how she’d found herself involved in the car accident, how she’d apparently lost her memory but more importantly how the man had lost control of the car.

  The truth was that she’d not been drinking and had volunteered to drive home from the remote country pub. Her husband had chosen the out of the way place, as he’d told her that he had something important to tell her and he didn’t want to risk bumping into friends or neighbours… for her part she’d foolishly assumed that he was merely planning some grand romantic gesture, whilst all he’d really wanted was a divorce and to shack up with some blond bimbo he worked with.

  But Samantha’s reaction to the bombshell had left her husband little choice but to drive them both home, even though he knew the seven or eight double brandies he’d drunk to gain the courage to ask her for the divorce, had thrown him well over the limit. Sensibly, he’d taken the quiet back roads and kept to a safe speed, which hadn’t involved going any faster than forty. So the only tricky part had been when they’d reached the outskirts of the town. The new traffic system had forced him to take the bypass and not wanting to appear unduly slow, he’d pushed the car’s speed up to nearly seventy. They’d been only five miles from home and the road had been almost deserted when the accident happened.

  The lorry had been about a mile in front of them, when he’d indicated to pull over and that’s when the red mist had descended… If she couldn’t have the bastard then no one was going to have him, but her attempts at wresting the steering wheel from him and ploughing the car into the lorry had backfired, as it was her side of the car that had taken the full force of the high impact crash.

  But Samantha’s evil alto ego hadn’t finished punishing her husband… so she’d invented the story and painted him as a black monster who had preyed on his wife and in the end had tried to kill her. Of course he’d pleaded his case at court and explained that his wife, who’d come from her sickbed to attend the case, was insane and had tried to kill them both, but his pleadings had come to nought and his loss of temper coupled with all the damming evidence of his drinking and driving, saw him found guilty and sentenced to a lengthy prison term.

  His sentence could never be enough of course but it had temporarily satiated Samantha’s inner monster and from the moment he’d walked down the steps to the holding cells, her life had become like a fictional soap opera, where nothing was real except the two women who stalked her consciousness.

  Too late and as the three of them sat waiting for whatever reply Samantha was going to utter, Dr Woodrow realised that his misjudgement was not understanding that he he’d been dealing with two patients wrapped around a single body but even worse was the realisation that he’d been treating the wrong person.

  He also knew in those few moments of silence that had he adopted a different approach then Samantha might now be free of the other woman and Donald might not be in so much danger… for he was certain in his own mind that Samantha’s very own Mrs Hyde would never allow him to leave her or the clinic…

  “Well I don’t think it was anything really important Donald.” Samantha finally replied in a cold, callous voice. “I mean you don’t even know how you got the card that you keep pulling out and showing everyone, as if it’s some sort of answer to all your troubles. You told me that you just found it and that in reality you have no idea where it came from. For all you know it’s just as likely that you picked it up off the ground and it has nothing at all to do with you or where you came from.”

  Donald shuffled further along the length of the sofa, away from Samantha and her cruel remarks. He’d expected at least a crumb of support but now he too realised that he’d misunderstood Samantha.

  “Yes, I guess that’s true but what about the other four hotels? I was thinking that someone at one of them might know me or could know what happened to me.” He said feeling betrayed and defensive.

  “Sorry Donald I don’t follow… perhaps if you could explain for my benefit?” Dr Woodrow asked, as he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Samantha like a sheepdog watching an unruly ewe.

  Donald explained as carefully as he could about the cards and what he thought his next step should be.

  “So your plan would be to visit each of the hotels in turn and see if the card originated there… is that right?” The clinic’s director asked, as he flipped his attention between his two… three patients. It was an interesting proposal he’d thought but more than giving Donald hope, the conversation was giving the other staff the chance to implement their carefully worked out procedures, for unbeknown to either of the patients they’d walked straight into Dr Woodrow’s carefully laid trap.

  “Personally, I think it would be a complete waste of time. I think the words straws and clutching spring to mind.” Samantha interrupted dismissively, before Donald could reply for himself. “Next Donald, you’ll be asking Doctor Woodrow if you can leave the clinic… when it’s obvious to all of us that you’re in no fit state to go anywhere.”

  “Actually Samantha, Donald is free to leave whenever he wants. There are no locks keeping him here.” Dr Woodrow said, as he nonchalantly pushed his hand into his jacket pocket and pressed the button once more on his personal attack alarm.

  It pained him to act so underhandedly with any of his patients but he knew there was now no other way, for whilst Donald was free to leave, Samantha’s movements would have to be subject to a more rigorous set of standards, which would undoubtedly involve the police and a court appearance. He hated to admit that he’d been wrong and that his colleague’s assessment of Samantha’s longer term prospects had been more astute but the look in her eyes, as she condemned Donald’s plans proved the others had been right, especially in light of murderous rampage of Clarence Dickens and his close friendship with her.

  In the end though it hadn�
��t been the lack of any clinical judgement, which had prompted Dr Woodrow to press the alarm but more the call that the clinic had received from the police just as the CCTV system had showed the pair returning from Ambleside. The jewellers next to the post office had been robbed by a girl in a red coat and one of the officers who had reviewed the security tape had recognised Samantha from the investigation into the debacle involving Clarence Dickens.

  Sure that any overt show of force by the police might push Samantha into some act of violence or cause her to self-harm, the doctor had persuaded the police to let him isolate the pair before they took any unilateral sort of action.

  “But I thought nobody could leave here without your permission.” Samantha demanded, jumping up from the sofa. “Anyway he can’t leave because she won’t let him… and you don’t want to upset her. I can assure you she’s quite mad and totally uncontrollable.”

  Neither Donald nor Dr Woodrow saw where the knife came from. It was a large, red Swiss Army Knife, which thinking back Donald remembered Samantha picking up and admiring in the camping shop in Ambleside. He’d not been interested in looking around the store, as he was keen to buy his stamps and post his letter but Samantha had insisted and so he’d gone along with her… as any friend would.

  Now though, what shocked him more than having the blade wafted under his nose, was the thought that his friend must have pocketed the knife whilst the charming old lady who ran the store had been unwittingly distracted by his enquiry about the woollen scarf that he thought Martha may like.

  Blanking his mind from the events that were unfolding in front of him, he suddenly wished that they’d never gone into the town. All it had achieved was the misery of seeing his letter disappear into the black hole of the post box and if that hadn’t been bad enough the bus driver, with his tales of suicides and the psychotic murderer, had been about as jolly as someone who’d picked the winning lottery numbers on the wrong day. Then to cap everything, Samantha had turned against him.