Chapter 3
Gordon had some concerns about the wisdom of bringing this man into the secret base of International Rescue, but there was no other option open to them. They would simply have to be ultra careful and try to get him back to his home country as quickly as possible without him ever finding out exactly what went on behind the facade of the Tracy Island utopia.
As soon as they found out where he had come from they would be able to return him. His injuries were not so severe that he would have to remain on the island.
Jeff Tracy was waiting for them as Gordon and Virgil wheeled the stretcher up to the medical room.
'Good work boys. TinTin will be here shortly to look this guy over. Let's get him undressed and onto the bed.'
They set to work, carefully cutting off the sodden, ruined clothes and checking him over for further injuries.
'Look at this Dad. This is an old bullet wound.' Gordon was beginning to get a distinctly uncomfortable feeling about the whole episode. 'Here, on his back. And there's another on the right shoulder. Do you think this guy could be trouble?'
'Let's wait and find out when he wakes up Gordon. Don't jump to conclusions.' His dad admonished him. 'I'm not happy about this bruising on his head. Tell TinTin she may need to do an x-ray, but don't tell her about him having a gun. I don't want to worry her unnecessarily. Have we found anything out about him yet?'
'Nothing. He's a complete mystery. We don't even have a registration number for the plane he was in.' Virgil answered, in an annoyed tone. 'I'm sorry if we've caused problems by bringing him back here Dad, but we didn't have any other choice did we?'
'No Virgil we didn't. You did the right thing. We can't pick and choose who we save. He may well have perfectly good explanations. We will have to wait and see.'
TinTin, efficient and reliable as always, took control, ushering the Tracy men out of the sick bay. She steri-stripped the gash and dressed it after taking an x-ray, but had been unable to do much about his facial bruising.
He was covered in residue from the rescue; sea water and a fine sheen of oil from the aircraft's fuel gleamed in his platinum blonde hair and on his skin. She looked down at him; age about forty, tall, muscular but slender, with short, very pale, blonde hair.
Clean shaven, sparse blonde hair on his chest, blonde eyelashes crusted with blood and salt from the sea. He was an enigma and she had always been fascinated by mystery.
She brought a bowl of warm water and began carefully and gently to cleanse the blood from his face and hair, then to wash his hands and arms free of the salt residue and grease, gently lifting each hand, each finger, and sponging them with careful, meticulous precision, talking to him as she did so, even though he could not hear her.
He had strong fingers, she noticed, and no wedding ring or other jewellery. No old indentations from a wedding ring either. His hands had small calluses, not from hard labour, but from holding a pen, using a computer, and one, unusually, on his right index finger. Was that from a gun?
She could not be sure, but she had seen marks like that before when Virgil had been practising his shooting skills on the range. She was beginning to be more than a little intrigued by this tall unknowable man who lay so still on the bed.
She finished washing his hands and arms, and her hand moved across his chest, delicately, intimately, tracing the filigree of intricate scars on his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. Carefully she wiped the salt and scum away from his throat, exploring the hollow above his collarbone, letting her hand rest against his skin, aware of his heart beating steadily and his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.
Her own heart began to race, and she turned quickly to ensure that she was alone in the room.
He became aware that someone was nearby; he could hear the sound of liquid gently splashing and dripping, and a hand touching his chest, fingers travelling lightly across his throat and shoulder and down his arm. He remained still, unwilling to admit that he was awake and reasonably alert. He didn't know why this should be but it was almost as if the habit was ingrained into him.
There was the sound of a woman's voice, soft and quiet, talking to him as if he was listening. He could feel the dampness of a warm cloth wash across his body, leaving his skin feeling soothed and refreshed.
She rinsed her cloth in the water and squeezed it out. He would be far more comfortable if he was properly clean, she convinced herself, and continued to wipe his body with long, smooth, sensitive strokes, wiping away the oil and drying saltwater and leaving him clean and unsoiled by his immersion in the polluted water of the crash zone.
Almost guiltily, she finished by gently stroking his head, as she would have done for a sleeping child. She pulled the covers up over his chest. There; he was dry and comfortable; there was little else she could do for him.
It was when she was tidying up the small litter of equipment that she had been using; that she felt convinced that she was being watched. She turned around, and stepped towards the bed. Blue eyes, partly open, were following her movements across the room. She bent over him so that he could see her face clearly.
'Hello there, are you thirsty? Would you like a drink?' Her voice was soft and calming and she smiled at him to reassure him that all was well, that he was safe.
He moved his head in assent and she poured a glass of iced water for him, before slipping her arm under his shoulders and raising his head so that he could reach the straw. He sipped thirstily for a few moments, then relaxed, his head leaning sideways into the hollow of her shoulder, her arm around him, supporting, comforting.
''nkyou.' he muttered indistinctly and was asleep again.
She lowered him carefully, her arm still under his shoulders, reluctant to relinquish her hold on him. The memory of his clear blue eyes thrilled her and she imagined for one brief moment that he had reached up and pulled her down to him, had kissed her. She wondered what that would feel like.
When she and Alan kissed she felt his soft lips pressed firmly to hers, felt comforted by the contact, but there always seemed to be something missing. Surely one should feel more than just comfort from a kiss? Passion, desire, longing. She yearned to feel these emotions.
She shook her head. What was she doing, fantasising about a stranger? Especially one who was as mystifying and unfathomable as this man. Her life was mapped out for her already. Everyone knew that she and Alan were destined for each other. Jeff and the boys had even planned where she and Alan would live on the Island when they married. It was all settled, all sorted, all arranged.
Except that she had come to the realisation that she did not love Alan, had never truly loved Alan in fact. It had been more of an infatuation really. An immature girl's desire to be the partner of a heroic and enigmatic Thunderbird pilot.
Now she was over that childish emotion. She had matured into a woman, no longer a child. Alan was fun to be around, sometimes, but that was all, and she was beginning to outgrow him. She could not see herself trapped on this island for the rest of her life, wedded to an International Rescue hero and with herself stagnating in the background, stifled by the lack of a worthwhile purpose in life.
She wanted her future to be full of romance and adventure, her days filled with fun and laughter, her nights filled with passion and intimacy.
And with a blinding flash of insight she realised that she would have to leave. Leave everything behind here on Tracy Island and move away to start a life of her own. She would have to look for a new career, a fresh start, a chance to be herself instead of just good old TinTin, always there, always reliable, always taken for granted. The thought terrified her, but at the same time thrilled her.
She had her engineering degree and her paramedic training. She could build on those. Perhaps she could train as a nurse, or get a job working in aircraft design, her speciality. She knew she was clever enough; but the demands of her work here on the island had always thwarted her attempts to develop her education.
She had saved money from her mother's trust fund; enough to pay for her training, maybe enough to put a deposit on a small place of her own where she could hang the pictures she liked, listen to the music that she enjoyed and cook her own meals.
Only now she was beginning to see Alan for what he was; an overbearing, spoilt, youngest brother who sulked if he didn't get his own way.
And finally, her decision made, she left the medical room after looking back at the man whose presence had irrevocably changed her life. She would probably never get the chance here to thank him, but one day, she determined, when all this was behind her, she would find him and tell him what had happened today, now, here in this room.