The Death That Wasn't

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Baxter was healing. The plaster was due to come off in two weeks. A short time with crutches and then he would be on his own. And so would I. Even the few weeks working for him had improved my state of mind, with fewer periods of depression, and fewer frantic nights trying to banish Denning from my dreams. Still from nowhere, waves of revulsion would engulf me. I had started biting my nails, and dreaded not having a reason to get out of bed each day. Inactivity was an open door for the soldier I killed.

Baxter surprised me when he asked if I would want another driving job. “I know someone looking for a driver, mainly to ferry their two children around. Doing the school run, taking them to various activities after school. That sort of thing. What do you think?”

My first reaction was yes. And then no. I wanted to continue doing something useful, to feel that I was needed, but I could never pull it off. The interview, that is. I was insecure with strangers and I would not impress.

“Why would they ever employ someone like me?” I asked, somewhat taken aback at his suggestion. “I am sure that there are many drivers looking for work.” I gritted my teeth, but it was the truth. “I don’t think that I am very employable.”

Baxter gave a short laugh, “Nonsense. I have watched you over the last six weeks, and know more about you than you think. Yes, you are an introvert. Sometimes even a bit of a recluse. But I have seen how your attitude has improved and how you continue to gain confidence. And besides which, the interview will be conducted by the housekeeper and you will rarely see the parents. And I will put in a good word for you. Your driving skills, and particularly your road attitude, is outstanding. That is what they would be looking for.”

I nodded, and briefly met Baxter’s gaze before lowering my eyes again.

“Thank you Mr Baxter, I would like to try.”

“Good man. I will arrange the interview for tomorrow.”

The lead up to the interview the next day was as bad as I had feared. The security gates at the address that Baxter had given me were foreboding. Solid, and taller than I was, they hung off massive stone pillars, creating an unfriendly and formidable barrier. I was completely out of my depth, and would have turned and fled, if not for knowing how upset Baxter would have been. Reluctantly, I pushed the button to announce myself, while a security camera silently swivelled to scan me. Slowly, the gates opened, and I rode warily up the winding driveway. When it curved through some trees and finished in front of a mansion that seemed to stretch forever, my gut constricted with anxiety. I sat on my bike, lost and panicky in the huge parking area, surrounded by rolling gardens.

“Oi. Over here.”

A smallish, roundish man was standing at the corner of the house, waving me over. I dismounted and wheeled the bike, leaving it where he indicated.

He introduced himself. “Hi. I am Terry Thornton, and you must be our new driver. Lets go into my office where we can talk”.

Thornton had a broad, affable grin that stood out from severe acne scarring. He looked to be in his late fifties, was completely bald, with slightly stained teeth, dressed very casually in jeans and a slightly bulging tee shirt, and seemed to be just a regular guy, not too intimidating.

His office was large, with an ‘L’ shaped desk along the one wall, several lengths of shelves carrying neatly labelled folders, some rather nice paintings and two security monitors. I saw the main gates on one, and a scene that I did not recognise on the other. He pointed to a chair for me, and offered tea from a small kitchenette in the corner, which he placed on a table alongside my chair, then slid behind his desk, easing himself into a black leather covered executive chair. Baxter had referred to him as the housekeeper. Some housekeeper. More like a manager. I was the apprehensive school boy, nervously facing the principal.

“Well,” he started. “Bill spoke very highly of you.”

Bill? How well did he know Baxter? I wished that my tea was cooler, as I would then have something to do instead of just sitting there, trying to match his gaze every now and then. But I couldn’t handle anything hot. Neither drink nor food. I cleared my throat. After the bomb’s acrid fumes, I needed to do this regularly.

“Mr Baxter is very kind,” I managed, speaking fairly quietly, and waited for the next question.

The questions did come. Not nearly as traumatic as the Captain’s two years previously. Thornton had a more gentle approach that I found rather friendly and strangely calming.

“So, you are looking for a job as a driver. Besides working for Bill, have you had any previous experience?” He asked me.

I mentally revved up as his manner was making it easy. “Driving was part of my army training, but the only proper driving job was with Mr Baxter.”

I wondered whether that response was going to be a mistake. Now he would want to know more about the army. I surprised myself by tackling this head on. “I had a bad experience under fire and suffered severe PTSD, but therapy has sorted most of that out.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I was far better than I had been at one stage..

“Army driving. Is that tanks and stuff?” He queried.

“No.” The thought of controlling that amount of power and fighting ability did have appeal at one stage. A long time ago, when my over-confidant ego ruled. “Part of the training was learning how to control a vehicle on wet roads. That sort of thing.”

He nodded his round head. “Good. Bill did say that you drove well and considerately. Let me tell you what would be involved.”

Thornton went on to explain that Mrs Seebold, who I gathered was the mother of the children, wanted to start working at her husband’s business, and would need a driver to do the school run and all extra mural activities. There were two children, a girl aged 12 and a boy of 9 . . one had extra violin on a Monday while the other went to swimming; Tuesday there was ballet for one and then horse riding for both; Wednesday, one had netball and the other had a free afternoon. And so it went on, as I became completely confused and imagined how easy it would be to forget one of them while worrying about the other. This would be a scheduling nightmare.

Thornton could probably see that my eyes were glazing over. “Don’t worry. You will have a schedule at the start of each week. It is not as complicated as it might appear, and most of the events are within a short distance of the school. Easy to get to. You won’t have a problem.”

We talked some more, discussing other aspects of the job. It actually seemed reasonably easy. Something that I knew I could handle. And from what Thornton had said, the children would be too preoccupied with their phones and their homework to pay much attention to me. Far better than driving overly chatty grown-ups.

He knew my situation, that I could not start for a couple of weeks, and he offered me a wage that I thought was a bit generous. Certainly more than Baxter was paying. While I was intrigued that Thornton had the authority to finalise everything, without having to seek the approval of Mr or Mrs Seebold, it was obvious from his office, and his extremely comfortable set-up that they trusted and thought highly of him. Later I learned that he had worked for Stan Seebold for a dozen years, having started when Mr Seebold still had his first wife. The current Mrs Seebold was his second wife, and the mother of the children whom I would be driving.

Baxter was delighted for me when I gave him the news. “I knew that you could handle the interview, and there certainly won’t be any problems with your driving. They are lucky to have you.”

In my final week with Baxter, the plaster came off both legs. Understandably, they were weak from weeks of non use, so he had exercise and physiotherapy sessions each afternoon after work. He was overjoyed to be able to dispense with the chair and managed to get around quite well on crutches, but still needed me to do the driving.

I dropped him off for his first physio session, and then waited in the clinic car park. When he finished, he was with a younger woman dressed in a medical coat. I opened the car door for him, and he explained.

“This is Vera from the clinic. My health fund requires a professional to check the house, looking for loose rugs, a sliding bath mat, anything that might cause a fall. I suppose they don’t want to have to fork out again if I trip and go back to square one. Well, neither do I, so Vera is coming along for the ride.”

She looked like any member of any medical clinic. Neatly dressed in a white coat with what my mother would have called ‘sensible shoes’. Her black hair tied back into a short pony tail, shiny under the floodlights that illuminated the parking area. She looked quite trim, though if she was the physio, then she was probably far stronger than she appeared. She had a kindly face, as would be expected of someone who spent their day helping others, and spoke softly and politely.

There wasn’t much conversation during the ride back to Baxter’s. When we arrived, Baxter surprised me by asking Vera whether she would need a lift back. I had just assumed that she would arrange a taxi.

It appeared that she lived in an apartment block, only a few streets away from mine. Baxter, knowing where I lived, gestured towards me. “Hey, that is close to where you live. As long as Vera doesn’t mind being a pillion passenger, would you give her a lift home?” That was almost a directive to give her a lift. I hoped she would mind going on a bike. She didn’t.

She gave me an appreciative smile. “Bikes are great. It is a while since I have been offered a ride. Thanks.”

By the time I had parked Baxter’s car in his garage, given it a hasty wipe down to remove the city dust, and wheeled my bike to the front door, she was back downstairs.

“Everything is fine,” she was reporting this to me, “but I will need to come back tomorrow with a firmer pillow and lifters to raise the base of the bed slightly.”

I swung my leg over the bike to steady it while she climbed on behind me. It was obvious that she would have to lift her coat and the skirt underneath, and I couldn’t avoid looking.

Her voice had a tinge of excitement. “OK. Ready to roll.”

My mouth had dried and I could feel the blood pounding in my head. She was too close, sitting right behind me, and my angst probably showed as the words came out with difficulty. “Right. Use the foot rests. I will drive slowly.” And I did. And carefully.

I had no interest in women. I had no interest in s*x. My libido was dead. Yet, I was intensely aware of her white thighs as she straddled the seat in her hitched up skirt, and leaned forward into my back as I steered around corners. Her presence was suffocating as she invaded my space, and I flinched at the thought that she might hold onto me.

We threaded our way through the traffic, and only when we neared my place did she lean her head so she could speak into my ear, her voice raised to give directions. I pulled up outside her apartment block and waited while she swung herself off the back, wriggling her skirt and coat back into position so that once again she was the medical clinician.

The ride had been an ordeal for me. Her presence, the slight press of her body against my back as she moved forward when I braked . . I wasn’t ready for any of this. She was a nurse or something, and would never have left a patient, or anyone to die. I removed my helmet as I could see that she was going to talk to me. Her hair was a bit tousled from the wind and I couldn’t help but notice the sparkle in her eyes. “Wow. I really enjoyed that. Thank you.”

And before I could say anything, she continued. “Could you give me a lift tomorrow evening too, please? It won’t take me long to sort out Bill’s stuff. And then perhaps I could buy you a drink, or we could have dinner?”

We were standing in the gutter of a busy street, while I balanced the bike upright. The city was on the move with the incessant evening traffic stream, and non stop activity on the footpath. It was all blanked out as I hesitated, unsure of how to answer. I had scarcely said a dozen words to her. I was not ready for a friend, certainly not a female friend. I couldn’t immediately think how to refuse, and I capitulated.

“I would be happy to give you a ride tomorrow,” I lied, careful not to mention a drink, and definitely not dinner. “What happens if it is raining?”

“Well” she laughed. “Then we get wet, I guess”. Then, giving me a finger wave she turned and entered the building.

The ride home was only a few minutes, and my mind was working overtime. How did I get myself into this? She seemed nice enough, if one can judge anything at all after our brief acquaintance. But I didn’t need anyone in my life, and no one needed me.

My therapist had warned me about erecting a fence to keep people out. Or was it to keep me in? The fence was there, and Denning was the gatekeeper. And that night, with a piece of intestine in his hand he kept prodding at Vera, forcing her away. Prodding at her stomach and her groin, he was relentless, and I was shaking when I awoke from this horror dream.

Subconsciously I held my left wrist, as I found myself frequently doing when frightened or nervous, or upset. It had become a habit to finger the tattoo, trying to extract some strength from the words that were once my comfort and inspiration. Now they were just meaningless inked characters. Platitudes without relevance. My fate was no longer mine to master, and my soul had long been sold to the devil. I was a mess, struggling with a life no longer under control. I did not go back to sleep.

The following day, Baxter went to his physio appointment as usual, and I waited in the car outside. When he emerged, there was no Vera. And when he told me that she would be coming the following evening instead, I was relieved, but at the same time I felt mild disappointment. The slight touch of her leaning into my back had been disconcerting, but, in a strangely surprising way, if I was truthful about it, it had been slightly comforting. I had forgotten about touch. I slept better that night.

The next night I was pleased to see Vera accompanying Baxter to the car. She carried a pillow and two wedge shaped lifters to raise the foot of his bed. It was a short ride back to Baxter’s, and her smile was warm when she climbed out of the car.

“Are you still able to give me a lift home?” No mention of wine or dinner.

“Yes.” Was that too curt?

She nodded her thanks and went inside with Baxter. I didn’t bother wiping down the car, and once again wheeled the bike to the front of the house, and waited for her. This time I had brought a spare helmet. The front door opened, Baxter waved her good night and she appeared pleased when she saw me.

I handed her the spare helmet. “You should wear this. It is safer, and last time we were breaking the law. It was fortunate that we weren’t caught.”

“Yes, I wondered about that, but I did enjoy the feeling of the wind in my hair. Am I doing this right?” she asked, loosening the helmet strap and easing it over her head. Her eyes bright behind the visor.

I nodded, unsure whether she would need any help in tightening the straps. She didn’t.

This time she was wearing a dress under her coat. It still required hitching up, but not as high as the skirt that she wore previously. Still too much skin, but only a glimpse of thigh. As before, her cheery “Ready to roll” was the start signal and we were off.

I still drove cautiously so she would avoid holding onto me. It was only when I had to brake a bit suddenly as a car ahead swerved while changing lanes that I felt her hands gripping my waist for stability. It seemed that she left them there a bit longer than necessary, but perhaps I was too sensitive to her touch to be sure.

When I dropped her off, she again did that hip wiggle to rearrange her clothes. After we had both removed our helmets, she asked.

“Are we still on for a glass of wine? There is a small wine bar that we could walk to, that has a tapas menu, if you feel peckish. Would you like to try it?”

I did some quick thinking. “Thank you, but I couldn’t have a drink and then drive home.”

“Look, as you live so close, we could drive to your place and then walk. It is a pleasant evening.”

I didn’t particularly like the ‘we’ bit. I was doing this for Baxter, not looking for a friend, and she made everything sound too pally.

She saw my hesitation. “Come on. I owe you one for the ride home, and for the last time too, so it’ll be my treat. I did discuss this with Bill as I thought that you might be reluctant, and he felt it was a great idea. He said I might have to be persistent, but I would prefer if you just wanted to come along.”

Her fun and happy manner was infectious. But perhaps too much so for the world that I had built for myself. Not fair that she had mentioned Baxter. Could I disappoint him by refusing? He would surely find out, so I cautiously agreed, hoping that it did not show.

Her choice of bar was typical for the area. Too many tables in too small a space, with scarcely enough room between for the waitress to move. The lighting was subdued, and while the atmosphere was warm and friendly, the nearness of other drinkers made me uncomfortable. I had never heard anything further from the army about Denning. If he was alive, this was probably the type of venue he would frequent. I felt out of place and scanned the noisy crowd.

The evening started off somewhat strained, but eased up as things progressed. Wine, even a single glass, has that effect on me. Since that day, being with a girl who was not the therapist, or a nurse, was very strange. But, I kept telling myself, it is all OK as Vera was a nurse, which made it easier for me to rationalise. She was good at keeping the conversation going, and whether it was the subdued lighting, or the wine, or perhaps I hadn’t really noticed before, she was an attractive woman with striking features. She had untied the band holding back her hair, which hung straight, perfectly framing her face, and her brown eyes had a healthy and happy sparkle. She had a wide smile that spread across her face, causing fine lines that fanned out from the corner of her eyes. She used her hands a lot, fiddling with the drinks coaster, or toying with her wine glass as a long finger traced around the rim. The contrast between her well maintained nails, and my chewed ones was stark.

While some might have found her attractive, there was none of that effect on me. I saw and appreciated her feminine features, but my PTSD sat heavily on top of my libido, and it did not stir. As a nurse, I could accept her sitting next to me, or befriending me, and it was easier under that scenario. I had long ceased even thinking about women. That feeling had died along with Denning, if indeed he was dead.

I managed to plead tiredness so the glass of wine didn’t stretch to dinner. I walked her back to her apartment, and I was a bit shaken when she asked for my telephone number. She could see my hesitation.

“I really enjoyed tonight. I don’t have many friends and it’s good that we live so close. I would like to stay in contact.” For a brief moment our eyes met and she smiled.

I agreed to exchange numbers, and it didn’t really worry me about providing my email address that was a free add-on to my cable TV contract.

“Can we get together again?” she asked. “Perhaps on the weekend? We could take a ride out of town, or even to one of the beaches. Riding on your bike is really exhilarating. Should I phone you?”

Unsure how to refuse, I reluctantly agreed.

She had planned a short country drive for Sunday. The weather was perfect and the countryside green and fresh. Our lunch stop was nothing special. But it was fun, sitting on a wooden bench with our pies and cold drinks, waving away a marauding magpie and the flies that were intent on getting to the food before we could.

Vera stood to dust away the crumbs from her lap. “That was fabulous! Just look at those trees along the hill line. What a view there must be from up there. I bet they are happy trees.” The dappled light from an overhanging branch danced patterns on her face. Like the trees, her face was happy.

Her exuberance was contagious, but not sufficiently so to dispel the hate that I carried within me. Hate for myself at my act of cowardice in the face of danger, and hate for my willingness to lie about the fate of Denning. It caged me, keeping me in, and keeping her out. She must have noticed the tension in my demeanour, and did her best to lift my spirits. I was grateful for this, even though we lived in different worlds, and the effect was limited.

Still, I just wished that I knew what she wanted.