Stranger at the Wedding

by Jack G. Hills

  Eventually, just when he thought the constraints would be too much for his body to bear, Martha provided a helping hand. Like Eve before her, she loosened the cotton shackles and freed the serpent from its abode so that it could roam at will, and seek out its next willing victim.

  “I love you.” The voice whispered in his ear, as his back arched and thrust upwards in one huge final effort of release. But rather than soothing the savage beast, the words instantly snatched the life from Donald. Suddenly he realised that he wasn’t on the beach in the summer sun and it wasn’t Martha that had released the sleeping beast from its fleshy repose.

  “No! Ingrid, no! We can’t, I thought you… I didn’t realise.” Donald pushed Ingrid from her saddle onto the bed and rolled sideways onto the floor.

  “Didn’t realise what? …that you fancied the pants off me?” Ingrid spat the words from her mouth that moments before had spoken her true feelings of love. Sometimes love hurt more than any amount of hate. “You might want to tell yourself that you didn’t want to fuck me, but deep down there was something inside you that really wanted me… believe me nobody has ever shagged me by mistake… so don’t you dare try to claim you didn’t know what you were doing. Anyway even you can’t tell me that you weren’t enjoying the experience.” Ingrid rolled from her back and rested her head on her elbow. The anger and hurt had gone from her voice and at that moment she wouldn’t have swapped the warm, wet feeling that dripped from her body, for ten diamond ear studs… Donald had given her something much more precious.

  “I’ve got no excuses Ingrid, I’m sorry… I don’t know what came over me.” Donald said without realising that he was still partially undressed himself. He’d been so consumed by his guilt that he’d overlooked his own embarrassment.

  “I think you’ll find that you came over me.” Ingrid said licking her index finger in a way that could only have one meaning.

  Whether it was some basic instinct of lust or a remnant of some emotion from his past, Donald knew he was powerless to stop what was going to happen next. Even the thought of his own debasement and his betrayal of Martha couldn’t stop him… there was something locked away deep down inside his psyche that told him whatever the objections, he was going to take advantage of the situation. Martha wouldn’t know and so she didn’t matter and he’d ask for forgiveness tomorrow and swear to himself that it would never happen again… but right now…

  “Come here.” He said standing up, as the serpent of temptation rose again from its soft lair. Ingrid smiled and willingly followed his command. Sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands sought out Donald, who placed his hands behind her head and using her newly washed hair as reins, pulled her slowly towards his lustful, salty body.

  PART FIVE

  THE LEGACY OF LOVE

  Winter 2009

  “The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts and is desired”

  William Shakespeare: Anthony and Cleopatra

  Patrick had been on edged most of the day. To say he’d never murdered anyone before was a little bit of an understatement… To admit that he’d had a hand in the killing Clarence Dickens… well that he’d never admit to, not even to himself. As far as he was concerned, Rachel was the murderer, she’d planned the deadly soiree and administered the strychnine, all he’d done was clear up the mess she’d made and put the trash out. He’d even made the decision, whilst flying back to Padstow that if the push came to shove and Dickens’s friends came round asking questions, he’d just tell them that he’d been nowhere near the restaurant that night… he’d been having the helicopter serviced in Plymouth, they could ask anyone.

  Work had been a blessed relief in the end, something to distract his mind away from the guilt but more importantly the worry of being found out. He’d not spoken to Rachel since he’d got back, as they’d both agreed that it would be best if they kept a safe distance for a while, just in case...

  “Just in case what?” Patrick had panicked, as he’d pushed the last dead weight into the rear of the Range Rover. Yes, of course he wanted Dickens out of his life, but consequences had a bad habit of spiralling out of control.

  “Relax Patrick. The only people who ever miss scumbags like Dickens are their mothers and thankfully according to police and social service records, Clarence murdered his family’s matriarch when he was eleven years old, so… don’t worry.” Rachel had said it so calmly and with such sincerity that Patrick had driven the Range Rover to the farm on autopilot, as his mind desperately held onto her reassuring words.

  His last farewell to Clarence Dickens had been a two fingered salute, as he’d hovered over a fairly choppy Atlantic and watched the steel coffin had crash into a maelstrom of white water and bubbles, as it slowly sank to the bottom… which according to the charts was some six hundred feet straight down. After hovering over the spot for another ten or fifteen minutes, the bubbles had finally stopped and the watery grave was marked with nothing more than the rays of the full moon, which in a moment of eerie adulation had crept out from behind the dense cloud cover, to dance over the water with a sort of macabre glee.

  He’d just fetched himself a coffee from the kitchens and was walking back through the reception area when the telephone started ringing. Patrick stopped and searched in vain for the receptionist. Swearing a swift retribution on the young girl for leaving the desk unattended he was just about to sneak away and finish his coffee when he saw the condemning faces of the guests who collectively had lowered their various newspapers to issue their silent demand… ‘Answer the bloody phone?’

  Risking another glance at the office door, in a final attempt to locate his missing receptionist, he casually dropped his cooling demitasse expresso onto the desk and snatched up the receiver. With a withering look at the guests, he answered the call with all the friendliness of a rabid Rottweiler that had just been doused in water.

  “Yes! What is it?” He shouted into the inoffensive piece of plastic.

  “Oh I’m sorry.” The female voice replied, in an understated sort of way that immediately told Patrick the woman wanted something. “Is that the Atlantic View Hotel?” The caller wasn’t being nosey and no doubt there’d already been many more similar calls that day all asking the same question, but Patrick hadn’t answered those calls… just this one.

  “Depends on what you want.” He said dismissively and in a tone that sounded ruder than it ought to have done. Once more the guests, gathered in the comfortable reception area, put down their newspapers. They could read inane facts and celebrity gossip any day of the week… whereas gems such as the one that was being played out at the reception desk, only came by once in a lifetime. The chance to watch a real-life Basil Fawlty in action was way too good an opportunity to miss.

  “Well information, now that you ask, if that’s not too much trouble? I mean that’s what most people want when they phone you isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, you sound like the expert, why don’t you tell me and before you ask, I was in Plymouth all day yesterday and didn’t get back until after midnight… there was a delay in getting a part for the helicopter. You can check if you want? HeliServ South West… I’ll give you the number if you want?” Patrick poured out his alibi like some petty criminal who’d been arrested merely on suspicion. He relaxed slightly in the knowledge that the managing director of HeliServ would only contradict his story if he was forced to corroborate the thin alibi under oath, in front of a judge. Telling a white lie to cover up the fact that he’d spent the weekend with his secretary at the Atlantic View Hotel was one thing, but out and out perjury was something he wouldn’t do… the man had decided when he’d agreed to Patrick’s blackmail.

  “That’s all very interesting and of course if ever I need to get a helicopter serviced I’ll now know where to go, but that wasn’t the information I was seeking on this particular occasion, although you are right in one way… I am an expert or so I’ve been told on more than one occasion… No I was wondering if you knew any
thing about a missing person or maybe even persons… ones that may have had a connection with the hotel?”

  Dr Atkinson’s question was deliberately obtuse, as she’d found after many years of dealing with patients that the worst type of questions, were those that led a person to give the answer they thought she wanted to hear.

  Patrick was flummoxed by the female caller’s calmness and directness. How was it, he thought that anyone could have reacted so quickly to Dickens’s disappearance and why would they assume that the crook had any connection with the hotel? Of course had he been thinking rationally and not in a state of high anxiety brought about by the gruesome slaying of four people, he might have simply asked who was calling… but he didn’t.

  “No, nothing and I think, as the owner, I’d know if anyone had gone missing whilst staying here.”

  “Well they may not have been staying with you, they could have just been visiting. What about the town… have you heard of anyone going missing from anywhere around the area?”

  Patrick’s mind blanked. He’d heard about Tom Cox’s disappearance from Rachel but all his senses and the fear of some form of painful retribution, told him that the caller was only interested in one Clarence Dickens.

  “No. What makes you think they came here anyway?” He asked and then wished he’d restricted his responses to a simple yes or no.

  “Well it’s not certain they did but information has come our way which leads us to suspect that at some point they’d been at the hotel prior to their vanishing act.”

  Patrick gulped at the thought that the net was already closing in on them. The caller had said ‘our way’, which to an already nervous person sounded much more menacing than ‘my way’.

  Unsure what to say next for the best, he sat down on the receptionist’s chair and wondered if he should confess all or simply jump in the helicopter and get as far away as possible.

  “Christ Patrick what’s wrong you look as if you’ve seen a ghost?” Rachel said unexpectedly, just as Patrick had come up with a plan to throw himself on the mercy of Dickens’s associates and grass up Rachel… she’d planned the whole murderous affair, not him… She’d killed Dickens and his henchmen… She was the mastermind… She… Stunned at hearing Rachel’s voice, he recovered some of his warped senses, covered the telephone’s mouthpiece and stared vacantly over the reception desk.

  “Dickens knows, they’re asking questions!” He babbled incoherently.

  “What?” Rachel was even more confused now. She knew Patrick had been spooked by their murderous affair but even she hadn’t been ready for his impression of a basket case.

  “There’s a woman on the line asking if we knew anything about Clarence Dickens’s disappearance.” He whispered, using his fingers to conduct the private conversation.

  “Don’t be stupid and pull yourself together… that’s impossible!” Rachel declared with all the authority of a self-confessed mass-murderer. “Here give me the phone and go and get yourself a brandy.” She snatched the phone from Patrick’s grasp and gathered her senses. Then slammed the receiver back down onto the cradle.

  “That Patrick, is how you deal with crank calls. Now I know I said we should keep a low profile but I thought popping round would be better than a call… have you heard from Helen?”

  Patrick wanted to ask her if she’d been popping pills or was she still merely on a high from killing so many people. Whatever the answer, he thought it best to keep his questions for another time.

  “No… I stayed here last night, as we agreed.” Patrick said quietly, still stunned by Rachel’s abrupt reaction to the call and the glint of madness in her eyes.

  “Good, then I think you should get yourself off to one of the other hotels… you know for an audit or some staff training or anything you can think of that sounds reasonable. Visit all the hotels but keep a low profile for a week… let the dust and your nerves settle.” Rachel’s confidence and her desire to be rid of Patrick for the foreseeable future did little to counter his belief that she was losing all contact with reality.

  “But why Rachel?”

  “Why? Because we… we Patrick have to move to the next phase of our plan.” Rachel explained in a Machiavellian way that sent a cold shiver down Patrick’s spine. For one thing he didn’t know they had such a plan and right at that moment, being part of Rachel’s worried him more than Clarence Dickens’s associates did.

  “Oh and Patrick, you’ll need to book two rooms and register one in my name. I’ll meet you here at three o’clock this afternoon.” Patrick’s blank expression annoyed her for no good reason other than she was beginning to think the man was no better than most of the other men she’d ever known…perhaps she’d have been better off with Helen, although the sex might not have been as good and legally it would have all been a little trickier.

  “Look, I’ll explain everything to you this afternoon, just make the arrangements… start in Scotland and work your way back down here but whatever else you do just make sure that your staff see both of us leaving together in the helicopter. Oh and one more thing Patrick… you did say that Helen adored sunbathing, didn’t you?”

  “Well she hates the water… floats like a stone. I only had the pool built for effect… but the sun terrace, well that’s a completely different matter. When she’s not busy doing whatever she does to fill her day, she’ll take every opportunity to top up that bloody tan of hers … I’ve told her so many times that if she doesn’t take precautions the sun will be the death of her… why?”

  ~~~~~

  Donald had kept a low profile for the next couple of days. Apart from feeling disgusted with himself, he just couldn’t face Ingrid. She was supposed to be his therapy partner not his bonking buddy and whilst he’d only gone to her room for a chat and she’d been more than willing, he couldn’t get the thought out of his head that he’d abused her trust and let her down. Although the real problem he knew had more to do with the way he felt about his treatment of Martha than Ingrid.

  Immediately he’d left Ingrid’s room, the feeling of disgust and self-loathing had flooded over him like a tidal wave but unlike a Tsunami, the anguished waves of regret wouldn’t disappear so easily.

  He wanted to forget… there was no doubting that, but his dark friend wouldn’t let him. It had enjoyed the experience too much to flush away such memories and each time he tried, another vision of Ingrid had popped into his head and he’d replayed another scene from their sordid sex romp. Sometimes it was just the sight of her standing there with nothing covering her perfect body, then it was the touch of her skin or the taste of her body. Whatever the sensations, he couldn’t clear the visions from his mind.

  “It was as though I was a different person doctor.” He explained before they started his next hypnotherapy session. “Like I lost control…”

  “Like you were someone else altogether?” Dr Atkinson finished his confession for him.

  “Yes! Exactly like that. One minute we were talking and then the next it was as if I’d been hypnotised and behaving in a way that wasn’t like me. I knew it was wrong but I couldn’t stop myself.” Donald tried to find the right words but the revulsion he felt blanked his brain and hampered his explanation.

  “Why was it wrong Donald? Ingrid was willing and you’re not married or engaged or even seeing anyone really are you?”

  “I know but it felt wrong, because of Martha. We haven’t…. you know done anything and I promised myself that we wouldn’t, not until I knew we could be together. So you see, it felt like I was cheating on her… even though it also seemed to be the most natural feeling in the world… as if I’d been doing it all my life.”

  For Dr Atkinson, the brief sexual entanglement and Donald’s subsequent reaction to it, had been the first sign that her patient might have had a sub-conscious memory relating to his former life.

  What she didn’t know but was determined to find out, was if that his past had merely involved an over-active libido, a good old fashioned ‘love
rat’ or something altogether more sinister.

  She hadn’t told Donald about her call to the Atlantic View Hotel or the dossier of information and photographs that her assistant had so far managed to gather together. If he’d been a guest at the hotel or had been living in Padstow at some point in the past, Dr Atkinson wanted to initially explore the possibilities under hypnosis, without any preconceived notions clouding his conscious or subconscious thoughts.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that the card, which Donald had put so much faith in, might just turn out to be a red herring.

  It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that maybe… just maybe he’d simply picked it up in the carpark of the Black Isle Hotel. In fact, the more the doctor had considered the possibility, the more she’d convinced herself that it might have nothing to do with Donald’s previous life at all.

  “So Donald, I’d like you to relax and open your eyes now. What I’m going to do is give you a number of photographs and if you see anything that looks familiar or you recognise anyone in particular just let me know.” Dr Atkinson handed Donald the photographs and waited to see what reaction they elicited. As a blind control, she’d included photographs of members of her own family, who she knew for certain had never met her patient… before or since his traumatic memory loss.

  “So take your time Donald.”

  The only photograph, which had generated even a flicker of recognition had been the hotel’s publicity shot of the owner and managing director of the Fitzgerald Hotel Group… Patrick Fitzgerald.