In his delirium, Thom failed to notice that he had strayed from the original path and had wandered off on to one that was even more obscure, a way that perhaps could only be familiar to woodland creatures. A path that – although he was not yet to know this – led more quickly to Little Bracken.
THE AFTERNOON, the evening, the night – the whole of the night – passed as a blur. Thom remembered finding himself on the doorstep of the cottage and the front door was wide open as if he had been expected.
Nothing more then. He could not remember entering, nor climbing the stairs to the bedroom; he could not remember undressing, but did remember waking later in his bed, naked beneath a single sheet. He thought there had been someone else in the room with him, but could not recall seeing anyone. He was sure though, that he had felt soothing hands on his body, gentle applications of creams or ointments to his wounds and swellings, the coolness seeping through to dampen their heat, sinking deep into the poisons to weaken their hold and blunt agony’s sharp edge.
He remembered glimpsing a face close above his own, that same sweet face he had been mesmerized by in the woods, golden hair hanging loose to brush against his cheeks, his forehead. The softest fingertips touching his swollen eyelid, more lotions being applied, the mist – and the pain – lifting from the injured eye. Yet he had been unable to speak, unable to express gratitude . . . unable to ask who she was.
He also thought he had witnessed the tiny lights once more, this time gliding around the bedroom, leaving and entering by an open window, but he could not be sure, it might have been part of the delirium, an evocation of his fevered mind. Whatever they were, real or imaginary, they had made him feel wonderfully peaceful with their subtle hues and their graceful flight.
There had seemed to be occasional voices, sweet sounds that were easy on the ear – and sometimes there came that high flutey whistling, the speech of the lights. Thom could be sure of none of this, though: it could all have been a fever-induced dream. Possibly he had found his own way home, had climbed the spiral staircase and put himself to bed, all the rest in his own imagination. But he did not think so, because it wouldn’t have made sense. The attack had left him too weak, too full of poison, the combined stings enough maybe even to fell a horse or a cow. So much injected into a human could have proved terminal. He had gone into some kind of anaphylactic shock and there was no way he could have got himself upstairs, shed his clothes and climbed into bed. Just no way.
Then there was the liquid he had been coaxed into drinking. He was certain of that, could easily recall its cool, syrupy taste, someone – the girl, it had to be the girl, he could still remember her fragrance that was of flowers and fresh air and nature itself – lifting his head from the pillow, delicate fingers cushioning the back of his neck, the liquid she proffered yellow in colour, like honey, but less viscid, flowing smoothly into his parched throat. The sound of her voice came back to him, for it could not easily be forgotten, even though the words might. Gentle, tender – magical. The voice of an angel. But angels did not masturbate in the woods. Did they?
He put a hand to his forehead, aware that he was going nowhere with this line of thought. There was a dull ache in both temples, but otherwise there was no pain and, as he stretched his legs beneath the sheet, apparently no stiffness. He still felt tired, but not exhausted, which presented another mystery: with all he had been through, he should have felt totally drained even after a good day and night’s sleep. That was the natural law of things. There was always an aftermath, even if only brief.
Thom began to explore his face with his fingertips, cautious at first, touching lightly, feeling for the tender inflammation and swelling capped by blisters that should have been there. He felt only his own skin and overnight stubble on his chin. He already knew before touching the left eyelid that there would be no injury, his vision was clear in both eyes, and there was no weight on the lid that had been stung. What the hell was going on?
Thom studied his hands, the palms, their backs: there were no marks, scabs or punctures, nothing at all to indicate the harm they had suffered when he had tried to beat away the swarming wasps. Throwing back the bedsheet from his waist, he lifted his head to look at his legs and in particular, his ankles. Nothing. God, he did not even feel anything.
He leapt from the bed and went over to the free-standing swivel mirror on the oak sideboard. Tilting it so that he could examine his face, Thom released a long, slow breath. Apart from the two small shallow scars on his cheek and lower lip, he was unblemished, completely unmarked.
Thom straightened, eyes staring straight ahead, yet seeing nothing. He felt dazed, confused. But most of all, he felt wonderfully well.
Thom hurriedly donned cargoes and short-sleeved sweatshirt, pondering the events of the day before as he did so, the fact that at least some of it had happened given credence by the condition of the clothes he had worn, the joggers and gilet, which were lying together over one arm of the sofa. They were sodden and muddy, the armless shirt torn in several places. He examined the damp tan boots, picking one up and turning it over in his hand to examine the undersole. Mud was caked between its ridges. And there, leaning against a windowsill close to the bed, was the walking-stick he had lost during his flight from the horror near the lake. He shook his head in puzzlement.
Bundling clothes and boots together, Thom carried them downstairs and laid them on a kitchen worktop for attention later. His bare feet were cooled by the flagstone floor. It was only when Thom glanced at the old wind-up clock on the windowsill that he realized how late it was: fifteen past ten. The sun’s position through the bedroom window should have given him a hint earlier. He rarely slept so late, but obviously his body knew it needed the rest. A yawn escaped him as though prompted and he stretched his arms wide and high, arching his back, letting go of the last sleepy remnants, feeling unusually well. He froze mid-yawn when he spotted the bowl of fresh fruit on the centre table.
Beside it was a jug of cloudy liquid – it looked like opaque apple juice – and Thom strolled over, puzzled, his arms now folded, hands clamped around his upper arms beneath the short sleeves of his light grey sweatshirt in a gesture of calm but reluctant acceptance. He was already too mystified by events to be fazed by the unexpected offering of food and drink. That someone had tended him through the afternoon and night, then left him breakfast the next day was fine; what really troubled him was who that someone could be.
He remembered the beautiful face close to his own as he lay in fever, the golden hair brushing his face, the tenderness in her eyes. The vision became sharper. Those lovely, doelike eyes, tilted at the corners, their colour . . . their colour changing from silver-blue to an astonishing soft shade of violet! The memory stunned him and he could only stand by the table and stare into space, his mind reeling once more. Who was she?
His thoughts then went to his first sight of her, naked in the small clearing by the lake, touching herself in that most intimate way, the tiny lights driven to a frenzy around her, helping her with her pleasure, titillating her body with their movement and glances, and memory revived that same desire he had felt when he had been innocent voyeur to her personal moment, hidden observer to solitary (apart from the tiny lights) passion.
His erection swelled against his clothing and, despite himself, it felt good, was, in fact, a relief to him, for such reaction had been absent too long and the absence had caused him anguish. His mouth became dry, his hardening almost painful, as the eroticism he had been witness to filled his mind and senses. He cupped a hand to himself as if to stay the tide of passion, but the touch merely increased the sensation, made him give out a small groan. It had been a long time since . . .
Jesus! No. You’re not that bloody desperate!
With a sigh of frustration, Thom wheeled around and strode determinedly from the kitchen into the bathroom beneath the stairs where he whipped off the sweatshirt and doused his face and chest with cold water from the tap. Still dripping, he steadied himself by
gripping the sides of the porcelain sink with both hands, elbows locked, arms straight, and stared into the wall mirror.
The soul-wearying tiredness that had reflected back at him for so long was gone; in its place was a fresh vitality, a sharp-edged keenness in his eyes that was marred only slightly by the confusion in them. Thom suddenly found himself smiling at his own image.
With a rueful shake of his head he reached for his electric razor.
Thom sat at the oak table and took a huge dark plum from the bowl, pouring himself a tumbler-full of apple juice, or whatever it was, from the jug before biting into it. He warily took a sip first, taste buds sampling the juice before swallowing.
It was apple juice; and yet it wasn’t. It had a flavour all its own, one that was unfamiliar to him, a sweetness that was refreshing rather than sickly. It tasted like nectar – not that he’d ever tasted nectar, nor knew anyone who had. But it was his idea of what nectar would be like if he had the chance. Deep, satiating, somehow filling his chest first before his stomach, the flavour almost addictive. This from one small sip. He took a larger gulp, nearly draining the tumbler.
If the drink was good, then the fruit was an ideal complement. The plum was a plum, looked like a plum, tasted like a plum. But oh God, it was the finest and biggest plum he had ever eaten. And the apple that he tried next was the finest apple he’d ever eaten, as were the berries he tried afterwards. It was as if he could physically feel their goodness, their nourishment, entering his system, to revive and energize. Thom was well aware that senses could be heightened after a long illness, but this was different. It was as though this was the first fruit he had ever eaten and the very first juice he had ever drunk. Neither tasted strange, but both were unique.
With renewed relish, Thom sat at the table and feasted.
Sometime later, after exercising (which he had tackled with uncharacteristic enthusiasm) and completing what little unpacking was still left to do, he heard the sound of a car’s engine approaching the cottage. Assuming that either Eric Pimlet was paying another visit, or that Nell Quick had returned, this time by car, Thom went to the open front door.
The small, sickly green, two-door VW Polo had pulled up beside his Jeep by the time he reached the doorstep and a bespectacled young woman was opening the driver’s door.
‘Hi!’ she called out, stepping from the Volkswagen and giving him a cheery wave. ‘Tried to reach you on your mobile yesterday, but it must have been switched off. Unless I was given the wrong number, of course.’
She wore trainers and tight-fitting black cycle shorts, a white T-shirt and an open, hooded zip-up; as she stretched back into the car to retrieve something from the passenger seat, he saw that her legs were long and lightly tanned (just a few shades off their natural colour), white ankle-socks enhancing their tone. Quickly, she was upright again, slamming the car door with one hand, a large canvas sports bag in the other. She came towards Thom, her smile as cheery as her greeting, her free hand now stretched towards him, fingers straight, thumb cocked.
‘Katy Budd,’ she announced. ‘Your new rehab physiotherapist, here to get you fighting fit again.’
Thom offered his own hand and she shook it a lot less robustly than he thought she might, probably in deference to his condition, whatever she assumed that to be. Her tawny-flecked eyes behind the round thin-rimmed glasses were already appraising him.
Thom was undertaking his own appraisal: probably in her late twenties, just slightly overweight, heavy-breasted and bra-less it seemed, for her nipples were pleasingly pronounced; her blonde hair contained lighter streaks that looked sun-blessed rather than beauty-fashioned, and her face was appealing rather than pretty. She had an engaging smile and lively expression.
‘You weren’t easy to find,’ she was saying as he considered all this. ‘Luckily, I went to the big place – Castle Bracken? – first and they directed me here.’ He detected Home Counties in her accent rather than anything local.
‘Sorry I missed your phone call,’ he apologized. ‘Could’ve made it easier for you.’
‘No problem. I’m here now. Can we discuss the torture?’
He grinned, but only weakly; he knew the kind of ‘torture’ she had in mind.
‘Sure. Come in. Can I get you coffee?’
‘Fruit juice would be nicer.’
‘Ah. I’ve got just the thing.’
He led the way inside without bothering to close the door behind them.
As she placed the sports bag on the floor her eyes swept round the octagonal-shaped room.
‘This is such a cute place,’ she said with unconcealed delight. ‘It looks like some tiny faerytale castle as you approach. Is it your holiday home? The agency told me you lived in London.’
‘No, I was born here.’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘I went south when I was a kid. Stayed down there after I left college.’
‘I see,’ she said, but he could tell she didn’t quite; she probably thought he was loaded, with a place in London and a retreat up here.
‘You said juice rather than coffee? I could make tea.’ Was he suddenly reluctant to share the nectar?
‘Oh no, juice is fine.’
He mentally slapped his own wrist. Selfish with fruit juice? Come on.
Thom took a glass tumbler from the dresser and poured from the jug, saving just a little for his own glass. He caught her watching his hands, no doubt looking for signs of poor finger extension; generally, it wasn’t gripping objects that stroke victims had trouble with, but releasing them, extending fingers enough to let go. They sat opposite each other and exchanged generalities before discussing the main topic – his illness and the exercise regime she proposed to help get him back to normal.
‘Basically it’s this,’ she said, taking leaflets and notebook and pen from her bag. ‘These are for you . . .’ she pushed the leaflets across the table at him. ‘You probably know everything about having a stroke and what it does to your body – not to mention your mind – and I know you’ve already been through a lot of physiotherapy, but these will just refresh your memory. That particular one . . .’ she indicated the leaflet he was flicking through ‘. . . will explain the exercises I’ve planned and how they’ll help your body get completely back to normal. In your case, because the stroke was relatively minor and because you’re still young, I think we can achieve that. Tell me how you’re feeling now, after what is it, three months . . .?’
‘Four.’
‘Okay. How fit do you feel you are and what physically is bothering you the most?’
Thom gave her a quick rundown on his present condition, mentioning the ongoing weakness to the left side of his body, and the physiotherapist made notes, nodding her head and making sympathetic noises as she did so. Naturally having no wish for the state of his mind to be brought into question, he made no mention of yesterday’s little adventures, the naked girl in the forest, the floating lights, the attack of the wasp swarm (how the hell would he explain the lack of marks and bruising to his body?), and the loathsome things that had tried to crawl from the earth itself. No, he wasn’t that crazy – at least not crazy enough to tell anyone else.
As he talked, he noticed she was constantly laying down her pen to take more and more frequent sips of the drink he had given her, until finally she said:
‘What is this stuff? It’s delicious. At first I thought it was apple juice, but now I’m not so sure.’
For some reason unbeknown even to himself he lied. ‘Apple juice mixed with mango.’ The invented ingredients almost seemed reasonable, given the unusual taste.
The therapist screwed up her face and held up the glass to examine the last dregs. ‘You could’ve fooled me. Doesn’t taste like that.’
Again, he lied, and again, he wondered why. ‘Well, I’ve added something a little extra of my own. Secret recipe, you know?’
She gave him a mean smile and shook her head. ‘So I can’t get it in Tesco’s or my local health sh
op?’
He laughed with her.
The therapist took a few more notes as he resumed informing her of how he felt generally until finally she flipped the notebook shut and laid it on the table.
‘Good,’ she said with another reassuring smile. ‘I think you might be one of my easy clients. I’ve got to say, you already look pretty fit to me.’
‘Uh, one thing . . .’
Her eyebrows rose askance.
‘Did . . . have . . . have any other patients or, er, clients of yours – those who’ve suffered strokes, that is – have any had problems with, well, with their mind?’
Her attractive face became serious. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Most – no, not most, all – have been a lot older than you, and some have become somewhat vague or slurred their words. Sorry, I know you want me to be frank. Not all recovered their full mental faculties after their original attack. But only one or two had second and third attacks, if that’s what concerns you.’
‘No, I really meant mental problems.’ There, he’d said it.
‘I’m sure your doctor has told you that often there can be speech impediment, or that simple things like reading or tying up shoelaces have to be relearned. A stroke can wipe clean certain parts of a person’s memory, but they’re likely to recover over a period of time. Time and patience, Mr Kindred, that’s what it’s all about. And exercise, of course – can I call you Thomas?’
‘You could, but the name’s Thom, with an h, but no as.’
‘Mine’s Katy, with a y. And Budd has two ds. So, listen, we’ll make a start day after tomorrow, but now I want to do a few simple tests.’ She reached into the sports bag by her feet and drew something out.
He was surprised to see it was a small dartboard.
She quickly looked around and spied the coat hook on the door leading to the spiral staircase. ‘That’ll do,’ she said, rising and taking the dartboard over to it. She hung it on the hook and returned to the bag, dipping into it again and bringing out a transparent box containing three feathered darts.