The Odessa Bride

By CB Barrie

Peter Enfield doesn’t believe in good fortune, as he say’s, “all you have to do is sit in one place minding your own business and the world pisses on you”

But even a cynic would have to admit that Peter’s guardian angel is permanently on strike. Nothing he can do seems to change the  endless stream of misfortune that besets him  –  his son’s illness, his job insecurity, his ability to attract crises when he can least cope with them, all appears to be fate laughing at him.

He is severely injured when his car gets side-swiped after which a major accident kills everyone in his family and leaves him on a long and traumatic road to recovery. The only person he can rely on is Isaac, the one man that held his sanity together when he lost his family – yet even Isaac has his secrets.

It’s only when he is discharged from hospital with the insurance pay-out cheques in his pocket that he can remodel his life.

But even with a determination to make good, his fate is not in his hands and he buys a house with an unusual background. Hidden in the pool house is a secret room still fitted out with a computer and sundry photographs. The computer is still linked to an Odessa based mail-order marriage website and the one time recipient is apparently still waiting for a reply to some cryptic messages from a very attractive woman. The outcome sees him attempting to extricate himself from being dragged into a security agency operation for an illegally diverted weapons shipment. Rather than escaping his old life, he is sucked into episodes of extreme danger and personally traumatic events.  Except for Isaac, Peter learns how to frustrate fate from all the people he encounters in his new life and proves himself to be no jinx – indeed, eventually his life threatening experiences strengthen his resilience and teaches him that he is far more than simply one of life’s victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Éditions Dédicaces
• Release date: Sep 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781770766051

Book preview

1

He looked down on the grey speckled concrete, watching his feet cover the same five-yard track he had been repeatedly treading for the last forty-five minutes.

The tightness from his left shoe had swollen his foot and it had just started to throb; his right dragged slightly as a touch of cramp reminded him of his long and anxious pacing. He bent down, stiff with tension, loosening the laces on both shoes and feeling some relief as the pressure lessened.

Why, he asked himself, do disasters always seem to come in three's, and why were all his disasters predicated by a profound lowering of his spirit. God knew he had weathered many grim adversities in the past, but of late, they seemed to be swamping his resilience like avenging demons. How easier it would be to cope if he had more of the optimist in his nature, rather than what now amounted to a paranoid pessimist.

But even the most optimistic soul has a limit of endurance before optimism succumbs - often to be replaced by a grim stoicism. Indeed, he found it hard to remember a time when he didn't survive on sheer bloody persistence and stamina. That was it - all he could do was to keep going - somehow.

Looking up from the garage floor, he sensed the presence of the shop supervisor.

Mr Enfield?

Yes, what's the news?

Pretty good sir! You'll be on your way in an hour - we've found a new alternator for you, we're fitting it now.

An hour!

Well, he knew now that the good news was bad news.

The car had ground to a halt on the way to the hospital. On his way to be with his wife Betty as their son went into the operating theatre. He should have taken a taxi, hired a car or pleaded with the garage to provide an unofficial courtesy car - but it was less straightforward than that.

His employers electrical business had stalled over the last three months and even the senior men like him were being reduced to short time attendance (and a much reduced salary). After months of trying to pay for domestic bills and constant hospital visits, resulting in outgoings far exceeding income, his personal finances had collapsed just a week before. He had too little credit left to deprive Betty and their boy - their welfare came first, even if it meant he was absent when Betty was in need of support.

His mouth - dried of saliva - felt swollen and sore. A drink would have been welcome but in the circumstances, even a vending machine coffee was an extravagance.

Oh, Mr. Enfield, reception has your keys.

He looked up; the foreman was smiling a smile of 'didn't we do well - forty minutes instead of sixty'.

He forced a smile in return to the foreman and fumbled for his wallet. At reception his hand shook slightly as he handed over his last credit worthy piece of plastic. It was typical - had he been nearer home, he had the tools and the expertise to have done the job himself, and it would have saved so much precious and vital money, but as usual fate created the worst of circumstances.

To his relief the card transaction went through without embarrassment and in minutes he was in his car and fitting the seat belt.

As he twisted the ignition key the dash lit up and the engine fired. Now the alternator warning light extinguished, so all was well. He sat motionless for a moment listening to the tick over as he re-checked his bearings; then, engaging first gear he rolled forward out of the service yard.

A gap in the main road traffic allowed him a smooth and unhurried merging into the traffic stream and, as he picked up speed, he was suddenly aware of his stupidity in not using the garage's phone to contact Betty and tell her he was now on his way. Thirty minutes and he would be there to hear what the surgeon had to say. Betty was probably frantic, her worry compounded by his absence and the outcome of the operation.

Christ, but it never let up did it? All he needed...!!

He never heard the impact as such, just an overwhelming force that slammed into his back and whipped him forward. After that it was all blackness, filled with a small voice that kept shouting at him not to let the dark void swallow him up and turn into oblivion. It shouted and shouted again, and only abated when he began to notice that it wasn't so dark any more and a dim light was coming from somewhere.

––––––––

He opened his eyes to find himself strapped onto a stiff platform of some sort with his head and neck pinned into position by compressible pads and straps. Likewise, his lower half was immobilised with more straps and cushions around his torso and legs. Above him bright actinic strip lights bathed everything in a shadow-less artificial daylight. Around him, he saw three figures inspecting parts of him with a serious, unwavering concentration, while another, white masked and dressed in clinical green, appeared to be absorbed by something to do with his right leg.

Mr Enfield...Peter...can you see me - is your vision okay?

His mouth hardly worked but he managed to mumble a response to the man with the stethoscope who suddenly towered above him.

Good - do you hurt? Have you pain, if so can you tell me where?

He thought for a short moment.

What happened - what the hell am I doing here? Got to get up...Betty...

Calm yourself - you've been in an RTA. Everything is under control - please answer the question – any excessive pain? Do you hurt?

He had to get to Betty, had to tell her he would never desert her, had to know how their boy was doing, had to get up no matter what!

Let me out of this bloody thing - I have something to do - it's bloody important, I don't care what you say, let me out or I'll break out.

The three gowned figures surrounding him turned towards the stethoscope man with perplexed looks and then, as if on que, walked off.

The stethoscope man looked down at him. Alright Peter, we’ll have you out of there in a moment - just let us do a final check on your leg, it appears to be a bit cut up at the moment and you will need some work on your head - it'll require some surgery I'm sorry to say. We’ve given you a touch of morphine, you may not be feeling or thinking too clearly...okay?

He tried to turn his head as a smile from the man said goodbye and he suddenly disappeared from his field of view.

He sank back, retreating from panic into uncomplaining anxiety, resolving to give them two minutes to keep their word.

As he became more aware, the idea that he was in a hospital A&E department was no surprise given the term 'RTA' that the doctor had used, that (he remembered) meant Road Traffic Accident.

So - another piece of foul luck!

He'd somehow been involved in a collision, though for the life of him he couldn't work out how. Jesus Christ! How the fates laughed at him. It was all he needed.

At that instant another body appeared above him, a bespectacled man dressed in a surgical gown and armed with a very comforting and disarming grin.

Mr Enfield - seems you aren't having the best of days! I'm Davis, senior surgical registrar here. I thought your name was familiar when I overheard that a patient was causing a ruckus here in casualty and staff were being urged to sedate the individual in question. I don’t think that will be necessary will it? I've met your wife by the by - that is, prior to your son and I becoming acquainted.

A wave of relief overwhelmed him; it was sheer joy to hear the words the man spoke. This man knew about his son and Betty - please God it wasn't bad news.

Oh Lord! Please - what's the...situation. Is my son okay, is my wife...where is my wife?

I'm here.

Her concerned angelic face framed by long dark hair came into sight below the shoulder of the man above him. As the two bodies exchanged, one pirouetting away from the other, she was leaning down on him kissing his lips.

You've been in the wars my love - I was so worried...

Delight replaced relief as she came close to him and in the massive respite of the moment he allowed his head to collapse back on to the pillow. As he felt the softness of his wife's lips on his, the pent up tension began to drain away and he silently thanked heaven for his reprieve.

Betty -how is....

The man in surgical green reappeared - and interjected.

Fine - a tricky procedure but we won through. Your son will be fine I assure you.

The thought that the spinal tumour on his son had been removed without the risk of permanent paralysis was another massive plus - worth all the trauma he had been through. He suddenly felt elated and exhausted in equal measure and could do little more than smile up at his wife's lovely face. Drawn, and showing all the signs of a long physical and psychological ordeal, she was now beaming with the same sense of release and hope that he was.

Sorry to interrupt but I'm taking you into surgery.

The green man with spectacles loomed above his wife's head, peering down with a knowing expression.

As they both became silent and their heads turned towards him, the surgeon continued in a brisk business-like manner.

Got to get your leg and skull sorted out I'm afraid - taken a bit of a bashing.

I didn't think I was...that...bad!" he anxiously choked out forcing his voice outward against the numbing of the morphine.

You're in need of a 10,000 mile service I'm afraid - I'm going to have to fix a good deal of tissue loss on your right leg and pin your right tibia before the day is out, not to mention a touch of cranial depression of the right side of your skull. But don't worry, I appear to becoming your family surgeon and I appreciate the privilege.

The surgeon smiled, and as two other nursing staff responded to his nod, they collectively began to pull his trolley out of the trauma cubicle. He suddenly found his right arm in the hands of a male nurse who took the canula tube leading to his drip and started to inject into it with a syringe.

Pre-med okay. He said looking at the surgeon who then nodded an acknowledgement.

Betty walked alongside, holding his free hand as the trolley glided out of the casualty unit and into the hospital complex. He tried to keep her in sight but the restraints around his head kept getting in the way. He didn't mind, she was still there - he could just feel her. As they approached the OR he felt another hypodermic prick his right arm.

He tried to lift his voice so the surgeon could hear him.

Before I get really...dopey, how bad is my skull? Did you say a...depression? I can't feel...anything.

The green man was walking on the opposite side of the trolley to Betty and half a pace in front. He slowed and looked down.

From your verbal and physiological responses, and with no sign of serious concussion, I suspect it's no great shakes. The CT scans we took while you were unconscious show cranial damage, but there is no sub-dural bleed or any sign of compression on the brain so we are dealing with direct impact damage to the skull. I'm simply going to brace any skull fractures and leave your body to repair it - permanently that is. The surgeon's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles in the half shaded corridor lighting and he said no more, concluding his remarks by grinning reassuringly.

It fell on deaf ears – his patient had already drifted into anaesthetic oblivion.

2

It had been a nightmare of circumstances to get where he was now. He had been discharged from hospital only a day later than the time Betty had arrived to take their son home. She had too much to contend with given his son's needs, and for all his own incapacity, he resigned himself to being as independent as possible; so as to give her the smallest possible work load.

She somehow found the time to help him back from the hospital, but he refused any further support once he was home. The agency nurse who had stood in for Betty while she came for him, smiled sympathetically as she saw him limp in through the front door.

Good to see you on the mend Mr. Enfield. I'll stay a while longer to give Betty a chance to organise things. Want some tea?

Betty smiled a thankful smile as she took his arm and steered him into the lounge. He propped the walking stick alongside one of the fireside chairs. Gripping the chair arms from behind he flopped down into the seat and wondered how long it would be before he was completely mobile again. The surgeon had given him a no less than three months before he could expect to be back to 100% fitness.

You can't expect to be running marathons straight away! he'd said, You took quite a beating in the RTA and although you are recovering very well we have to be realistic. Okay, I know it means somehow you will have to survive without an income for a while, but better that than pushing yourself to the point where your wife collects your life insurance!

Yeah - yeah! he thought, but the one was almost as bad as the other - at least if he was dead Betty and his son wouldn't have to scratch around for money to pay the bills.

But the medical man was right of course, though it was going to be a bloody difficult few months.

Betty had borrowed from her parents while he was in hospital and had worked herself into the ground holding things together while their son Bobby recovered from his 'op. As to that, he had the momentary realisation that Bobby wasn't in the house to greet him as he returned.

Get you some tea. Betty said as she fussed over his cushions and backrest.

Before he could quiz her about Bobby she hurried off to the kitchen where the agency nurse was supervising the kettle. He heard the two women chatting in the kitchen - not in any excited way but with a subdued and friendly tone. Snatches of the conversation flowed out of the half closed door and it was clear that his son was in no condition to see his father.

Turn him every two hours - bedsores are a bugger, get him to try and wriggle his toes every hour and make sure he gets his lower joint exercises. Mind his support cushions - try not to let him load up the spinal area where he has the stitches. From what I can see he should be starting his bed exercises very soon, but as to that, when he's ready, and only when he's ready...okay. That's as soon as he recovers full control of his bladder, bowels and can wriggle his legs and toes voluntarily. Give it ten to fourteen days.

He sighed inwardly; he was no more than a stairway from his son but the chances of him seeing him anytime soon was remote. He was hardly mobile, while his son was bed-bound for the interim. Each of them was too early into their respective recoveries and recuperation to bridge the gap - each of them might just as well be at the other end of the world.

Damn! No communication was unthinkable.

What he needed was a pair of megaphones; he could call up to Bobby and tell him how much fun they were going to have when their ills wore off. With his bedroom door open Bobby in turn could shout back.

It sounded stupid, but he desperately needed to restore contact with Bobby and Betty, to tell them how sorry he was for all the misfortune that had descended on them, and how he hated watching them having to be brave and stoic.

Perhaps hate was too strong a term - resented was better. He resented their silent compliance because he had never heard a word of complaint; they never blamed him for all the misfortune or expressed any bitterness. Neither gave a hint of how easily it would be for one to say 'it's your fault - your fault because you brought me into a world of pain and discomfort and the second to remark and your lack of care in your choice of employment, coupled to your thoughtless driving, brought us to the edge of domestic and financial ruin.

He was guilty as hell, guilty enough to want their absolution, guilty enough to want to demand that they didn't bury their feelings, and guilty enough to want to rail against the world, against fate, and above all, God!

Just one small shift in the chaos that engulfed his life could have changed everything, but it seemed that on his Lotto ticket was the inverse of the big prize - his prize was misery, and he kept on winning!

He wanted to feel something more than the enclosure of his house, of the impending and predictable difficulties the next months would throw up. He wanted just a taste of complete freedom from worry and concern - enough to kill his depressed state and refresh his buoyancy and optimism.

He grabbed at his stick and hauled himself to his feet. The lack of muscle strength in his right leg was still pronounced but he was going to ignore it. He limped out of the lounge and into the hallway making a snake like route to the front door. He was through it and onto the front lawn at a pace. Propelling himself forward he almost fell, staggering back up to an upright position using his stick as a crutch.

He waited outside the door, looking around at the neighbourhood houses and his long front patch of rampant grass that spoke volumes about the neglect two months in hospital could create. Even the fencing had weathered badly in the short time he had been away; or perhaps he had never noticed it when he had been around. His job had been a massive and soul-destroying distraction - he seemed never to have the time to think of other things. Now, as he thought on it, he resolved to change everything. Betty, Bobby and he would cope, he would find another occupation, train if necessary, start a new life.

Yes - that was it, be positive and insist on something better.

He slowly limped towards the front gate, running his hands over rough, weather beaten wood. He saw himself with the time and the enthusiasm to commit a Saturday morning to repairing the hinges and then slapping wood preservative onto the fencing. His imagination saw a refreshed fence and a refreshed life - that was if he didn't let circumstances rule him and betray his determination. No, he was not going to sink under any more...by all that was holy, he damn well wouldn't!

As the thought passed, something sucked the air from his lungs like a huge vacuum cleaner and a massive, searing hot force picked him up and slammed him into the fencing.

3

Everything considered, he had come out of it relatively unscathed. He should have been killed or at least crippled. The skin grafts on his back and legs had healed well and he was walking virtually unaided now. Even the hair on the back of his head had re-grown enough to cover the scars and indentations the surgeon had left after removing the debris that had punched into his back and skull. How he had survived was a miracle, but not one he was inclined to boast about.

The fact that he remembered nothing of the colossal explosion that had gutted his house, or the weeks of semi-coma, was, so they told him, a good thing. You couldn't have nightmares about something you didn't witness or were unable to recall they said.

They were wrong!

Not only that, they had no answer to the numbness in his soul that kept pulling at his emotions and making him yearn for a time when things were bad, but at least offered a world that was recognisable, intact and mutable. Now Betty, Bobby and the district nurse were gone - as was his world. A world of disappointment and pain certainly, but one he had once vowed to restore to full life.

Now there was only himself - with a severely damaged body and soul to mend.

The police had asked him for a statement - he'd told them all he knew which, in truth, was very little. As more information filtered through to him, after months of treatment and convalescence and visits from faces he didn't know and never saw again, it seemed that the explosion that had nearly killed him had originated in the kitchen.

The experts had concluded that a gas leak, from an unlit gas ring, had filled the kitchen with enough gas to create an explosive atmosphere. Unnoticed by the two women occupants, the gas concentration ignited from the newly lit rings. The resultant explosion collapsed most of the kitchen side of the house and exposed a gas main. This, leaking volumes of fresh gas, had momentarily delayed its out-gassing just long enough to provide a second massive eruption. He'd been on the receiving end of both shock waves, the first being the most destructive. They found him halfway into the street, having been lifted off his feet and blown through the rickety garden fence.

Half the time he'd spent in hospital had been a dream like sequence of catheters, surgical masks and injections. Not to mention being wheeled for the umpteenth time into the operating room, only half conscious or aware of the glowing TV monitors, the gleaming white walls, and the blue white of the overhead strip lights each glinting and reflecting off the laid out racks of chrome-steel instruments.

But, now it was done - he had been discharged with only periodic check ups to bear; and those not for a while yet.

He sat outside the hospital main entrance; now free from the vague smell of methyl alcohol, disinfectant and open toilet doors. The day was breezy but bright and he welcomed the wait for his taxi.

A small gaggle of nurses, patients and visitors were hogging the side screens to the Perspex covered entrance, furtively puffing cigarettes and glancing nervously at the main doors for sight of any officialdom.

He remembered how he too had distrusted his luck when it came to contravening the rules of his job, and how early in his career he was always disciplined for stepping out of line just a fraction. Even to this day he still felt massive resentment for the time he had sacrificed hours of unpaid overtime for his employers only later to be torn off a strip by his supervisor for just once arriving at work fifteen minutes late.

But now - he was free.

In his inside pocket was his safety net, a cheque for £650,000 and a letter of condolences from the insurance companies. All the damages and personal injury claims, the letter added, had been settled to everyone's satisfaction.

It was funny how, without him raising a finger, everything that followed the disaster had been superbly organised, apparently without the slightest hitch or mishap. His story had been a major news item for a short while, but interest had waned