After searching all their usual haunts and hangouts, Donald had finally stumbled upon Ingrid sat in the summerhouse, where she’d gone to be alone and where she’d hoped to think of a way out of the terrible danger that was seemingly stalking their lives.
From the moment they’d stepped off the bus, she’d tried to tell Donald about the woman on the other bus, but each time she thought of the right words, the memory of that devilish smile had sucked the moisture from her mouth and she’d stumbled ungainly into some inane conversation about where they would go next and how they would get there.
In the end, her apparent apprehensiveness and rambling talk about Cornwall had driven Donald to the only conclusion he thought possible… Ingrid didn’t really want to leave the closeted environment of the clinic.
“So I thought we might delay going to Cornwall for a few days, maybe even a few weeks.” Donald announced without looking at Ingrid. Neither had spoken a word since his sudden appearance had broken her contemplative solitude, rather both simply sat mute, and waited for the other to break the awkward silence. In the strained quietness, Donald’s attention had remained fixated on the surrounding gardens and his mind had drifted back to the beach at Cromarty, where out on the water any number of sailing yachts were serenely sailing parallel to the shore.
Why, he thought to himself, couldn’t all journeys through life be so effortless and peaceful?
“That way, it will give both of us time to reflect and then if you think you’d rather stay here…” Donald let the silence finish what he’d been trying to say, but the abrupt hiatus and subsequent silence was more deafening than a clap of thunder in the middle of the night. Fearing that his naive attempt to prompt a response from his friend had gone awry, Donald stole a brief glance sideways.
Ingrid’s face, normally so bright and cheerful, remained stoically focused on the gardens outside. Either she’d not heard Donald or had chosen to ignore his interruption.
“I mean…” He tried one more time to break the ice. “…whatever I discover down in Cornwall… for better or worse… my future is with Martha in Scotland. But what about you? You won’t want to stay there by yourself and you can’t…” Like a blind mountaineer, he stumbled headlong into the bottomless crevasse of good intention and was only stopped when his brain caught up with his runaway mouth.
“Sounds to me as if you don’t want me to come with you, but that’s fine by me.” Ingrid snapped angrily back. In her own head she’d already decided that it would be safer for Donald if she stayed behind and faced the stranger alone. “I really wouldn’t want to get in the way of you and … her.” She hadn’t wanted to sound vindictive but her inner emotional turmoil forced her to spit out the last word, like a wounded cat that had been backed into a corner. Feeling some form of attack was her best form of defence, Ingrid jumped up and glared down at Donald who unused to seeing her behave in such an aggressive manner shrank back, away from her steely stare and sharp claws.
“I managed before I ever set eyes on you and I certainly don’t need your… brotherly help now. I’ve always fought my own battles and believe me I’m more than capable of standing my own ground… so why don’t you just go off to find yourself and leave me alone. That way we’ll all be happy and I promise you I’ll never tell your precious Martha about how we made love and how you never gave her a second thought whilst you were in bed with me.”
Ingrid didn’t wait for a reply… she couldn’t bear the thought that Donald might see the tears well up in her eyes, as she’d finished her uncharitable tirade. Rushing headlong from the summerhouse, the tears finally broke through her pitiful defences and flooded in torrents down her cheeks. Until, in the sanctity of her room, she threw herself onto her bed and sobbed for another hour, before drifting away into the blackness of her own despair.
But her fitful sleep was edged with one horrific nightmare after another. Since the trip into Oxford, there’d been no reprieve from the red spectre, who had haunted her every waking moment and who now plagued the deepest recesses of her somnolent imagination. She’d managed to keep her fears from Donald… fears that had screamed out in the middle of the night and had popped uncontrollably into her head during the day, whenever she least expected them.
Now, as she fought the demons of her dreams, Ingrid’s vivid imagination ran riot. Like a needle stuck on an old record, her mind constantly replayed the bloody shock-horror movie and each time it was Donald who’d played the wide-eyed young man who always met the same terrifying bloody end. Locked inside her nightmares and unable to break the bonds of her sleep, she desperately struggled to scream out, to warn Donald of his impending doom…
STOP! Don’t agree to meet her alone. Don’t turn your back on her. Don’t trust her rapturous eyes or believe her soft encouraging words… her one and only desire is to rip open your flesh and feed on your entrails…
But each time she’d failed to prevent his agonising death. For in Ingrid’s disturbed subterranean world, Donald’s lack of memories and experience made him easy prey for Satan’s red bride. He was too trusting to comprehend the extent of the evil that lurked behind the alluring mask of such femininity… he was too trusting to think that anyone, but especially a woman would want to hurt him.
Most terrifying of all though… was the thought that had finally startled Ingrid from her restless sleep and made her spring from her bed like a Jack-in-the-box… what if the woman was a ghost from Donald’s past…someone who did remember how he came to be so badly injured and someone who now wanted to make sure that he never remembered his past.
The pillow was still damp from her tears and streaked black where her running mascara had streamed down her face painting abstract pictures on the white cotton bedding. Pulling herself free from the overwhelming feeling of despair, Ingrid stumbled across the room and with no logical intent stared into the mirror that sat resplendent upon her dressing table. Shocked at the sight, which reminded her of the clowns at the circus… the clowns that had tormented all her childhood, she buried her face in her hands and tried to forget everything.
But it was a futile gesture. She knew that she couldn’t abandon Donald, for even if he was too stupid to realise it, Ingrid now knew that he needed her more than ever before and she loved him with all her heart and soul. So as she wiped the last vestiges of blackened tears from her face, she swore to herself that whatever happened and wherever he went, she would be right there, next to him… to protect him from anyone who might wish to playout the horrific visions of her bloody nightmares.
The nurse had actually been looking for Donald when he found Ingrid alone in the library.
“I don’t know where he is.” Ingrid lied without looking up from the book that she’d chanced upon some moments before the man had popped his head round the door. Without thinking, she’d read the same opening pages several times, and each time she’d started over the opening fateful lines seemed just as fresh as the first time she’d read them. Whatever else might befall the characters in the book, those first magical words in A Tale of Two Cities, had won Ingrid’s heart and soul, as Dickens’ words echoed her own tortured thoughts… ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’
“Last time I saw him he was down in the summerhouse… why?” She lied effortlessly for a second time. Her protection was all encompassing and she saw no reason for the man to disturb Donald’s sleep.
“There’s a letter for him. The receptionist said it was delivered by someone called Martha. Does that mean anything to you?” He’d asked with a certain amount of irritation. He was supposed to be taking the minibus to the station to pick up a new member of staff and at this rate he knew he’d be late and if that happened, excuse or not, he’d get a rollicking from Atkinson and he was already on one verbal warning for being late.
“Yes, I know Martha.” Ingrid said, as she forgot her book and left Sidney Carton to his own fate on the coffee table. Upon hearing the welcome news, the nurse’s eyes flashed out a silent plea
for her help, and even though she was no mood to assist the man, she was curious enough to know more about the letter and whoever might have sent it… because whatever the truth behind its origins, Ingrid knew that hadn’t been sent by Martha.
“If you’re busy, why don’t I go and find Donald and give him the letter? It’s absolutely no bother… honest and I can see you’re busy.” When the simple offer of help didn’t immediately persuade the nurse to relinquish his solemn responsibility to deliver the letter, Ingrid followed it with a smile that made his lower body wobble and turned the tide of his resistance in her favour.
“Ingrid you’re an angel.” The young man said dropping the envelope like a hot potato on the table in front of her. “If you weren’t a patient and I wasn’t…” He struggled to finish his sentence, as the smell of shower gel and apple blossom shampoo wafted across his nostrils and played havoc with his emotions. He must have been one of the few members of staff who’d not succumbed to Ingrid’s charms or her body, but the smell of her freshly washed hair sent another shiver down his spine.
“What a man…? Christ, where would the fun be in that?” She teased him provocatively, as another thought burst into her head like a kernel of maize exploding into a piece of popcorn. She’d always fantasised about him, not least because he was young and by far the most attractive nurse at the clinic… with the possible exception of Sandra.
Momentarily Ingrid forgot about Donald and his problems, as she thought back to that afternoon in the summerhouse and Sandra… of course she’d known it had been a disaster waiting to happen… the woman had been old enough to be her mother, but more worryingly had even talked and behaved like her mother… a relationship that even Freud might have found to be a little strange. So she’d decided, after their one and only quickie, that in future she’d only fuck men. Emotionally, men were much easier to handle, most just wanted a quick fumble and then to forget it ever happened. They weren’t clever enough, she’d decided, to want more from a relationship and that suited her right down to the ground.
“Just leave the letter with me Donald. I’ll see that it gets delivered.” Ingrid said determinedly, as all thoughts of Sandra and all her ill-conceived relationships lingered a moment longer than she’d meant them to.
Freed of his postal responsibilities, the nurse ran off to find the keys to the minibus. The bulge in the front of his trousers was in direct contrast to his pea-sized brain and try as he might he couldn’t understand why Ingrid had called him Donald… the patient was called Donald, whilst he thought everyone knew his name was Gary.
Even worse than being mistaken for someone else… and a nutter to boot, was the growling sensation in his groin, which jogged his memory and reminded him of an altogether more painful experience yet to come. For rather than stripping Ingrid naked and having an afternoon of rampant sex at some point over the next day or so, he knew that he’d be lying on a hospital bed in the John Radcliffe Day Unit, waiting for the vasectomy that his wife had forced him to undergo and his mates had all gleefully told him would be excruciatingly painful.
Why he wondered, couldn’t he have been born an amnesiac… then he could have forgotten about his girlfriend, the vasectomy, his three screaming kids and the fact that he was a nurse and simply remained blissfully happy all his life. Fucking who he wanted, when he wanted and then claiming to have no knowledge of anything… no responsibilities and no ties. Just endless hours of fun.
Yes he mused ruefully, as he finally picked up the keys… Donald sure was a lucky bastard.
The door had barely closed before Ingrid had jumped up from her casual repose and grabbed the letter, which Gary had tossed onto the table. With her hands slightly trembling with excitement and anticipation, she ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. She knew that whoever had written and delivered the note, that person wouldn’t… couldn’t have been Saint Martha of Cromarty.
Donald,
I have to see you. I’ve found something out about your past but if I come to the clinic they’ll stop me seeing you. Instead, I’ll be on the midday train from Oxford and will meet you at Hanborough Station. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.
Martha
Ingrid ran the note under her nose and took a deep breath. The overpowering scent of a cheap perfume told her it was certainly a woman who had penned the short invitation, but it was too strong to be one used by someone as innocent and pure as Martha. And if the note wasn’t from Martha, Ingrid knew it could only spell trouble for Donald.
Without giving it another thought, Ingrid screwed up the note and tossed it into the waste bin that sat next to the large open fireplace. The porter normally lit the fire in the afternoon using the waste paper as kindling and Ingrid couldn’t think of a better use for the ominous note. If the person wanted to speak with anyone about Donald’s past, Ingrid decided it would be her.
“There you are!” Donald exclaimed walking into the library. He’d been looking everywhere for Ingrid, to apologise for his behaviour and beg her forgiveness. He’d decided in her absence that whatever else had happened he wouldn’t leave without at least trying to make amends.
“Christ you made me jump.” Ingrid snapped, as she was caught unawares by the suddenness of his approach. “What’s the big idea, do you get some perverse pleasure from scaring the shit out of me.”
Donald was taken aback by her sharp uncompromising response… he’d done no more or less than he’d done a thousand times before, but this time there’d been contrition in his tone that wasn’t normally there.
“Sorry… look I was just wondering if you wanted to clear your head and go for a walk… I want to apologise for the way…”
But before he could finish, Ingrid looked at her watch, jumped up from the chair and scooted passed without giving him a second glance. If she was going to get to Hanborough for midday, she knew she’d need to leave immediately.
“I’ll take that as a no then… shall I?” Donald shouted after her, as she disappeared out of the library and down the corridor without another word or explanation. “Bloody hell… Ingrid!”
Round the back of the clinic, outside the garage block, Gary was just climbing into the minibus when Ingrid grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back and planted the wettest and most sensuous kiss on his mouth that he’d ever had the good fortune to experience. As his tongue started to do some exploring of its own, Ingrid pushed him back against the bus and drew breath.
“Steady tiger, there’ll be bags of time for that and more besides but right now I need a favour.” Gary was just about to explain that he was already late, when Ingrid’s mouth attacked his face once more. True to character and like the pitiful creature she knew he would be if she applied herself to the task, his resistance caved-in and like a puppy dog on a lead, he dutifully obeyed Ingrid’s every word.
“You’ll not regret this… ask anyone, I’m good… real good.” She promised, as she climbed excitedly out of the minibus.
Gary had stopped on the double yellow lines, right next to the entrance to the small country station, which was basically little more than an automated ticket machine, a rickety looking bridge and two platforms. His earnest hope was that the threat of a sixty pound fine would prompt Ingrid to finish her business quickly and allow him to carry out his other duties without incurring any further reprimand.
The drive from the clinic had cooled his rampant ardour, pricked his tiny conscious and heightened his responsibility to his young family.
“Wait right here, I won’t be more than ten minutes… fifteen tops. I’ve just got to meet someone who’s on the midday train from Oxford and then I’m all yours.”
Ingrid had slammed the passenger door shut and had sprinted onto the deserted platform before Gary could shout out his objection or his warning… He was going to be late and anyway there wasn’t a midday train that stopped at the station. The only stopping trains were for the hundreds of commuters and they only ran early in the morning and evening. Fee
ling aggrieved at his wasted journey, he was just about to run after her errant patient when his mobile rang.
“Gary where the bloody hell are you!?” The man on the phone demanded so loudly that Gary wondered if he was actually stood in the car park rather than sat in the cushy little office, which was the centre of his administrative empire. “And don’t you dare bloody well hang up. I’ve had Atkinson in my office twice already and the chap from the nursing agency on the telephone three times… Gary! Gary!” His exasperated boss ranted until he was blue in the face.
Gary, unsure what he should do next but hoping for some form of divine intervention, sat dumbstruck behind the wheel of the minibus and desperately searched the carpark and platforms for his wayward passenger.
The sudden flash of metal and glass, as the midday express shot through the small station without slowing, made him jump nervously in his seat and before his eyes had time to adjust to the blur, the speeding train had vanished in a trice. The nurse held his breath and waited anxiously for Ingrid to reappear. He couldn’t put his finger exactly on the reason for his heightened state of anxiety but his guts instinctively told him that his good deed wasn’t going to end well.
As his eyes scanned the heavens and he silently cursed the god of his Catholicism for taking retribution on his imminent vasectomy, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman leaving the unmanned rural halt. Tricked by the sudden appearance of the figure into thinking that he’d been given divine absolution for his mortal sins, he watched disappointedly as the woman, who had shielded her face from any prying eyes under a large cowl, walked past the minibus and disappeared down the lane.
Stranger at the Wedding Page 37