Lightning Encounter (3 page)

Her mind turned slowly, meditatively. How could she know what she was like? Truly like? It had been easy to be strong and fearless and quietly resolute with her father's hand slung carelessly round her shoulders; easy to be brave when faced with a chest massive enough to burrow her head against, her cheek at a tilt to receive his smacking kiss. Her father was an undemonstrative man who always curtailed his
emotions,
and yet it was her cherished belief he enjoyed those spontaneous bursts of affection as much as she did. Would he miss the loving soft snuggle? No, because now he had Angela, his Angel as he called her, to satisfy such needs. She wasn't quite his Angel yet, but she soon would be. Now that he had cast off the appendage of a daughter, he would feel free to woo the lady.

An appendage . . . a parasitic creature who had to be told it was time to stop hanging on. The hurt of it pricked her eyes and it was suddenly necessary to tug a frantic hand in her pocket for her handkerchief. As the square of lace trimmed cotton travelled speedily upwards, something soft brushed against her legs. She was going to bend down to investigate, when two hands made light captive of her shoulders, and a mouth touched hers.

The unexpectedness of it relieved her of coherent thought. Yet even she knew platform kisses were stock. All about them goodbye kisses were given and taken, some prolonged and passionate, others as light as the parting token she had just received.

They broke away and he bundled her on the gently moving train. Well, now he knew. Not teasing promiscuity at all. She'd been riding him, challenging him, out of curiosity. Inexperience can be very curious, he thought, dimly remembering his own green youth.

Something disturbed him. Not her actions,
it
wasn't the first time a girl had blatantly invited a kiss, the twist, the thought to munch on was his mishandling of the situation. He didn't know how, or why, but that kiss had been a liberty. His blandness, the quality of assurance she had secretly admired in him, gave way to an inability to reason properly. Because, heck! what's a kiss in this contemporary age? Not even a kiss, but an innocent peck. So why did he feel guilt-ridden?

His thoughts checked right there, because it wasn't only guilt he felt as he viewed the rear end of the fast receding train, but something else. Sharp, with a zealous kick. In a word: dismay.

CHAPTER THREE

The heavy carriage door slammed shut. From its slow start the train surged forward like an animal in pursuit of the night, which now wasn't so very far ahead. Already the gloom of evening was pressing against the windows and the line of cottages, running parallel with the track, flowered, one by one, into light.

Karen viewed the gathering dusk with feelings of disquiet. It would be dark by the time the train pulled into Weighbridge. She began to wish she'd stayed put, the prospect of looking for overnight accommodation was a
gloomy
one and she could well do without this hindrance. She tried to estimate the actual time of arrival, but his face kept getting in the way. A tender tyrant with chameleon eyes: kind for a second, satanic and condemning the other fifty-nine. Odd to think they would never meet again. Yet if there had been a possibility of a future encounter she would never have unburdened in that juvenile fashion. It seemed incredible that she had. Normally she was a reticent sort of person, but these weren't normal circumstances.

Life used to be so placid. She could remember back to a time when she'd sighed for something out of the ordinary to happen. Nothing dramatic or spectacular, but something to enliven the set pattern of her life.

Perhaps she'd brought misfortune upon herself by being dissatisfied with her lot. The beginning hadn't been Angela, as she had led Ian to believe; the real beginning had been the night of the storm. Fate had pointed its finger and said, ‘Let's teach this Miss a lesson.' It was one she could not forget, yet found too painful to remember.

She deliberately turned her thoughts away, seeking a distraction that was pleasant and amusing. That platform kiss had been pleasant and amusing—now she was happily diverted—and instructional and enjoyable. Had he enjoyed it? She was inclined to think he had. He might have considered her a bit of a
nuisance,
but that hadn't stopped him finding her kissable. At the actual moment of kissing, her eyes had been closed, so she didn't know what his face had registered; but afterwards a telling tenderness had driven away his justifiable irritation. Poor man, he hadn't known what he was letting himself in for when he first struck up a conversation. That would teach him not to let sympathy override common sense!

Well, anyway, it was nice to know she hadn't lost her sense of humour. But a sense of humour makes a frail blanket for a cold and weary traveller. She had been up since long before dawn and the hours prior to that had been robbed of sleep by excitement and apprehension. She reached in her pocket for her good luck mascot, her bit of comfort, but all her fingers met was the silk of her pocket lining. Darling Ugly wasn't there. Then she knew what had brushed her legs in falling on to the station platform. She must have pulled the troll doll out with her handkerchief.

The hotel she finally decided upon, after a brisk walk down dismal, inadequately lit streets, was red bricked, totally unimpressive. The inside was as unadorned and as depressing as the exterior, but at least it was clean. A dour little man with greying hair, after informing her firmly that the restaurant was closed for the night and she couldn't hope for a hot meal, showed her to her room.

She
had to bite her lip to stop herself from apologizing too profusely for being such a great trouble. After all, it was a hotel. Then she thought, well, perhaps it's his rheumatism, he walked with a rheumaticky gait, and as he swung open the unprepossessing brown door she flashed him a hoydenish smile. His mouth parted in a toothy grin, which might or might not have been in response to her smile. More likely it was due to the generous tip she pressed into his hand.

Brown paintwork, fawn linoleum, a top-heavy wardrobe that was old old, not antique. But her eye barely registered the room; all she could see was the bed. High, she almost needed a step-stool to climb in, and then it was like floating on goosefeathers. It was so soft and warm and she was asleep.

Next morning she ducked out of bacon and eggs and breakfasted on toast and marmalade. During her years of exile she had eaten lightly for this first meal of the day, following the continental custom, and she hadn't sufficient faith in the hotel to wish to renew old taste habits. After breakfast she checked out and went in search of a garage showroom.

The little car, which just had to be her little car, was parked temptingly in the forecourt with a price ticket affixed to its windscreen. It was red and she could just see herself behind the wheel, the window wound right down so that the wind would ruffle her hair as she
bowled
along the open road.

Carefully she pocketed the necessary documents, M.O.T. certificate and the insurance cover note. After much deliberation she had decided to risk it and insure third party as the difference between that and full comprehensive cover would bed and breakfast her for a few nights. And she wasn't going to have an accident. She never had and she'd been driving since she was seventeen.

And yet, because of the unfamiliar driving conditions, at first she gritted her teeth and pressed her foot very lightly down on the accelerator. How green everything looked. Green, green, incredibly green. It seemed to her she had never seen so many variations of this wonderful colour. As she negotiated her first traffic-free country road, she relaxed her grim determination and delighted in so much lush vegetation and velvety greenness. After living in a country where so-called green has a yellowish tint, vegetation is sparse, and each brave blade of grass is frizzled by the fierce heat of the sun, it was as if her starved eyes couldn't get their fill. And yet she allowed herself only quick sideways glances, which, as things turned out, probably saved her life.

The road had more curves than a camel's back; rounding the second successive hump she was confronted by a yellow car, travelling at a fantastic speed. On the wrong side of the road!

Instinctively
she wrenched at the wheel. The car careered across the grass verge; the moment its tail-end was no longer imperilled by the yellow car, she jumped on the brake, but her timing was a split second too late. The vehicle was already shuddering on a precipitous bank, and to her horror it fell away into nothing. It was the most numbing moment of her life. Her hands were ineffectually gripping the steering wheel, when it came to her with sickening clarity, that in a situation such as this, driving skill counted for nothing. Her fate was, literally, in other, more blessedly competent hands; all she could do was ignore the drumming noise in her ears and pray to remain fully conscious. She mustn't allow herself the sweetness of oblivion, not yet.

But, oh! the temptation to let the horrible reality slip away and feel soft, black nothing. She felt so drowsy. If only that hysterical female would stop screaming. Then she realized she was alone in the car and the anguished sound was coming from her own throat. Perhaps she was shocked into awareness, because now she was alert to her plight. She rolled herself into a ball and protected her head with her hands. She remembered reading somewhere that it was important to protect the head. In the event she was ready, and reasonably prepared for the final dull thud as the car's two front wheels slid neatly and inexorably into the ditch.

Now
that it was over, now that the skyline had stopped chasing the bank, and the car was holding more or less steady, she marvelled that so much agony could be crammed into a few seconds.

Then she realized it wasn't over, not with so much petrol splashed around. The smell of it hit her stomach and as she clawed at the door she didn't know how she managed not to be sick. The door lever went down all right, but the door wouldn't open. It was jammed. Now, she was not only fighting nausea, but fear. It wasn't the first time she had known real fear. She thought it unjust, cruel even, that some people are allowed to go through life without incident, whereas she had faced death twice.

Well, she had escaped it once, if not unscathed, so why not again? Perhaps her worst fear wouldn't be justified. The petrol tank didn't have to explode.

She renewed her efforts to get out, putting her shoulder to the door and heaving with all her might. Nothing happened. She gritted her teeth and tried again, perhaps desperation lent strength because this time the door gave and she half fell into the foul-smelling ditch. Except that as she fell, stumbled, crawled, two or three steps, it was the sweetest smell in the world.

A shadow fell over her and a voice, it was male and very angry, demanded: ‘What the hell were you trying to do? Kill yourself? And
me,
too? You little fool, don't you know better than to—'

He must be the driver of the yellow car. She hadn't thought about it, but it was reasonable to assume he would come to her aid. Especially as he had driven her into the ditch. That unspeakably horrid ditch. She was aware now of the slime and the smell and she didn't know whether to cry or belt into him. He hadn't even had the common decency to ask her if she was hurt. Was she hurt? Well, her dignity had taken a trouncing and her shoulder throbbed painfully, and if that wasn't enough she must look an absolute sight. And it was all his fault!

She screamed: ‘You maniac driver! You're an imbecile, a menace to all road users. You're a—' She wished he would keep still. She couldn't see his face properly. Looking at him was like looking at a distorted film.

‘I'm sorry,' she stammered. ‘I think—'

‘It's all right. I was angry with you because you gave me a fright. Relax, now, I'll take care of you.' Something was wrong with his voice. It was coming to her through wads of cotton wool. She thought he was lifting her. The ground certainly went from beneath her feet. She protested, saying that if he'd give her a minute or two to collect herself, she'd be able to walk. Something—smoke or fumes?—was stinging her eyes and choking her throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

She
felt his arm tighten round her body as they began to climb, presumably out of the ditch. It was all very hazy. He didn't seem to be taking any notice of her protests; instead he told her to stop wriggling. She must have obeyed because progress suddenly became easier. Her throat stopped feeling as if it had been scrubbed raw, and she began to experience a delicious sensation, like swimming under water. The crystal water round her island home had been perfect for aqua sports. How she had loved poking about among the rocks, identifying the different species of brightly coloured fish: red, coral, darts of pure dazzling gold. Oh! such pretty colours danced before her eyes! But what was that terrific noise? Eruption? Explosion? Now she was falling through layers of soft midnight blue . . . down . . . down . . . down.

She knew she was in hospital. In a spotlessly clean bed. Who could have put her in such a beautifully clean bed, when she was covered from head to toe in mud and slime? But she was no longer dirty, even her hair felt silky and clean. The man in the yellow car had gone away and another man stood in his place. A doctor in a white coat. In a little while he, too, went away, but she was not alone. Her tender tyrant sat by her bed, holding her hand.

She felt comforted and at peace. She didn't think it strange for him to be there. It felt natural and right. ‘Hello,' she said. ‘You do get
around.'

‘Come to think of it,' he said, his voice stern and grave, just the way it had sounded in the restaurant, ‘the same might be said of you.'

She pouted. ‘If you're going to be cross and disapproving, I shall go to sleep.'

He said drily: ‘You will, anyway. You've been given something to make you rest.'