Sweat poured over his forehead, running down his face mixed with blood. He wiped it off with his hand. He grabbed the laptop and leapt across to the other side of the room, pulling his desk up and connecting the wires. Running his hand along his skull, he longed for everything to come to an end.
He waited until the computer went through the motions. It took its time to load, something Brock always loathed. It was an old computer, bought second hand. The screen eventually lit up and his glance caught an email from Sarah, perking him up somewhat. He clicked on the email and it appeared on the screen.
Hey Brock, how you doing? Thanks for lunch. I need a big favour … can you meet me at the hospital reception tomorrow, PLEASE! Around 10 a.m.
It was odd because Brock had never given Sarah his email. Never.
Chapter 8
Crossing the busy street in a daze, Brock headed for the cafe on the corner. His whole body ached; his face was numb. Peering through the gleaming cafe window, he couldn’t see Audrey. The cafe was empty. He pulled the glass door open, stepping inside. Green plastic chairs were aimlessly shoved under white plastic tables and a chalked blackboard menu hung over the metal and counter. Behind was a woman in white chef’s attire, staring at him.
“What do you want?” she shouted.
He glared back at her. “I’ll take a latte, please. And do you have any cakes?”
She grunted, rolling her eyes and pointing to the glass counter before turning her back to fidget with the coffee machine. He took a pew under the window, perching himself on the edge and looking out the window for Audrey. She’d said in two hours and that was up. She was late.
The chef woman wandered over to him, placing his warm latte and cake on the table. He took a sip of the latte, fiddling with the cake and occasionally glancing out the window. He drank the coffee and he had just thrown the last bit of cake into his mouth when someone patted him on the shoulder. He swung around. It was Audrey smiling at him.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. The manager delayed me at the office. I didn’t think I would ever get away. Would you like another coffee?”
Brock nodded and Audrey placed her handbag on the table, trotting off the counter and then returning to the table.
“That cut on your forehead looks serious. It might need stitches. You should pop to the hospital. Let’s face it, we all pay for the damn thing—we should use it.”
The chef hovered over the table, placing two cups of coffee.
“Oh, can I have cream?”
Audrey pulled out some documents from her handbag, dropping them on the table and swirling the cream in her coffee.
“I’ve found a few things out, but I’ll be honest—this information has been unusually difficult to come by.”
Brock moved closer.
“Firstly, I’m not supposed to do visits. It’s against our protocol, and the manager has been giving me some bad vibes about this case. I reckon somebody could be on his back.”
Brock looked into her stressed, puffy eyes, sensing her tension and at the same time eagerly waiting for her to speak.
“Oh, don’t worry about him. I don’t. Your origins appear to have started somewhere in Buckinghamshire. West, to be precise, in a place called High Wycombe. And did that take some syphoning … your case has been complex. It was on an old school record I found in Mile End—”
“Mile End?” interrupted Brock
“This is where it gets kind of technical. In fact, it’s the reason I wanted to assist. The school’s long gone, but from a record stored with the local education authority in some remote storage, we managed to dig out an address. But you are not going to like it.”
His face was pained as he rubbed his mouth.
“The trail took us to a children’s home.”
“What? I grew up in a kids’ home? This feels wrong … are you sure?”
“Yes. If someone is wiping your history, they missed this.”
Their eyes met head-on, and the reality of the last few days being a dream or unreal somehow broke and hit him with a big thump.
“I’m not suggesting someone is wiping your history …” she said hastily.
“They are, and you know it. My flat has just been turned over.”
“Oh, Brock, I’m so sorry. What did the police say?”
“Forget the police. Carry on.”
“I tried to call the children’s home but the line is dead. Maybe you can pop by. Saves us the aggravation of the red tape. Your stay may have only been temporary, but without a doubt you resided there aged twelve. The rest of the records have been destroyed, probably due to age. We couldn’t check your medical history as I forgot to get your consent and protocol requires it.”
“So all the time my parents never existed?”
“We couldn’t be sure. Like I say, most of it’s a blur. I’ve written down the children’s home address on this piece of paper. Sadly, I spilt my coffee on it.”
He grabbed the tatty piece of paper from her hand. The address didn’t ring any bells, and his mind was a blank. Audrey tilted her head.
“You should go to the police. Don’t let those criminals get away with it. And pay a visit to the hospital. Like I say, you pay for it.”
Brock placed the note into his trouser pocket, taking the last sip of his coffee. The cafe door swung open and a man in a black mac stepped in, shooting a weird glance at Brock. Brock leaned over to Audrey and in a quiet voice said, “I found something out too. After digging through my bank statement, I came up with Condour Housing. They own the property I live in, and I paid them a visit in Mayfair.”
“Mayfair? That’s posh.”
“Exactly. Someone else signed the lease nine months ago. I got the impression there was something they weren’t telling me. I could feel it.”
“Probably a mistake. I see it a lot in my industry.”
Brock pursed his lips. The man in the mac had his back to him, opening up a newspaper. Audrey grabbed the mug and downed the last of her coffee before shooting a glance at her watch.
“Time’s pressing. I’m going to have to make a move, especially if that Tube’s playing up. Now I come to think of it, there was something else but I’ve forgotten. I’ll give you a ring later. Chin up.”
She pulled herself out of the chair, stood up, and left, giving him a wave through the window. He knew he could trust her; she would help.
Moments later, Brock jumped up from the green chair, stepping out and into the busy main road to the other side of the pavement, heading to his now smashed-up apartment. He had barely reached the door when he sensed someone over his shoulder, and he swung around to a man in a very creased white top, ripped blue jean, and faint ginger hair.
“This your place? It looks jazzy. Fancy coming out for a drink and talking over old times?”
Brock remained silent, agitated by his closeness.
“Ice-cold beer? You used to love that.”
Chapter 9
Tiny spots of rain filled the windy air and autumn leaves blew casually through Camden Avenue. Somehow, Brock couldn’t place him, and even the man’s faint ginger hair wasn’t throwing up any clues to his identity. His stomach hardened, but he visualised a perfect ice-cold beer running down his dry throat. The stranger eyeballed Brock’s forehead as though he was deeply examining his open cut.
“Who are you?” said Brock.
“Hey, hard nut, have I aged that much? Surely you can fathom who I am …”
Brock stared into him like a psychoanalyst reading his patient, but there was nothing. He didn’t have a clue.
“I’ve suffered a memory wipe … baseball bat laid into me and cleared the lot. I don’t know who you are.”
The man shook his head and glanced around as if looking for answers. A whirlwind of leaves blew up from the ground. The man stepped back slightly.
�
��It’s Preston, as if you didn’t know.” He pulled his hand in front of him, anticipating a handshake. “The ice-cold beers await around the corner. We could do with an chat.”
Brock’s hands remained firmly by his side. Preston shrugged.
“I’m intrigued. Maybe we should have a chat after all. Lead the way,” said Brock.
Preston nodded and made across the road in the direction of Camden Town.
Upon reaching the infamous Camden High Street, the aroma of Chinese cuisine wafted into their faces. Both moved through the busy crowd of tourists and locals, passing the many tattoo parlours and Gothic shops packed to the brim with goodies and artistic clothes. Both passed in front of market stalls bustling with people laughing. A poor homeless guy hovered over the entrance of the market, holding his hand out. Brock dug into his pocket, throwing over loose change. They passed several market stalls selling knick-knacks for all occasions and cannabis-branded items poking out from every space.
“This is one place in the world where you get true culture. People here don’t give a damn, like our antics many moons ago, aye, Brock?”
“Where is the bar?”
Preston yanked hard on his arm, pulling him into a bustling walkway full of market stalls serving delicious international. The aroma overpowered Brock; a woman stepped between them and he struggled to keep up. Preston’s hand appeared, snatching at his jacket and dragging him into another small entrance into another busy walkway. Brock shook his hand off and continued to follow, although still lagged behind. Brock shouted over to Preston, “Excuse me … excuse me, where exactly do you know me from?”
“Quiet, we have to keep moving,” said Preston. He hurried in front, leaving Brock behind. He’d really had enough of all this, but his inquisitiveness got the better of him and he followed. His heart raced and he bolted in a limping fashion straight towards Preston, firmly grabbing his shirt.
“It wasn’t my intention to startle you by the passageway,” Preston said. “I’m in some trouble, like old times. I didn’t think he’d turn up in Camden today, of all places. The bar is through there … can we hurry?”
He pointed towards a red brick alleyway. Brock loosened his grip, letting his white shirt go. The crease of his tight grip blended in with the rest of the creased shirt. He followed Preston to a large black and white Tudor building A red-tiled roof hung over horizontal wooden black beams with whitewashed panels in between. Brock gasped at the Cafe Rock Bar sign that hung across the front of the magnificent building. It was the popular bar with the Russian crowd: the exact bar he and Sergei had got acquainted some seven months ago after he wandered in off the street on that fateful warm spring night. Preston had brought him via a different route, but it was the same place alright.
Preston hauled open the door waving Brock through into the unusually coloured dim-lit bar. Red, yellow, and orange lanterns hung low from the ceiling, dimming the ambience. Preston headed towards a well-stocked colourful bar, ordering drinks from a young male bartender, and Brock edged towards a pine table, watching his every move. The entire place was empty … too early in the day perhaps for its patrons to meet. He sank into one of the seats by the emergency exit. Moments later, Preston appeared in front of him holding two glowing pints of cold beer, the frothy white head seeping over the glasses. Both of them grabbed the pints like children, taking in large gulps. Brock stared at him, waiting for answers.
“You really don’t know who I am do you?”
Brock shook his head picking up his pint and taking in another large gulp of the cold beer.
“It was years ago. We were just kids.”
Preston crossed his arms and paused. Brock took another large gulp of beer and placed the glass on the table. Preston unfolded his arms and began nervously twisting his watch.
“Just kids, damn it,” whispered Preston “Do you remember anything at all?”
“You sound strange. All I’m trying to do is fill in the blanks. Tell me about our childhood.”
There was silence, and Preston clutched his pint, sinking further into the pine chair. “I’d rather not discuss it. Anyway, this isn’t what I brought you here for.”
Brock glanced at the emergency exit.
“Oh great, tell me about your crap then. Like I haven’t gotten enough of my own.” Preston gave Brock a pained stare. He rose from his seat, pulling Brock by the arm and staring at the door.
“What are you doing?” Brock asked.
“Can’t explain. We need to move. We cannot be seen together.”
Brock gasped as Preston dragged him by the jacket in the direction of the door.
“Sorry, Brock, I mean you no harm. Take my number and keep in touch. I’m making a dash for it—you should disappear too.”
Brock swung his hand across Preston’s shoulder, pulling his arm away with such a force he ripped the man’s shirt, revealing the top of a tattoo that looked familiar. He ripped at the shirt further, revealing the same dagger and snake tattoo as his own.
“How come we have the same tattoo?”
Preston shoved open the door, tumbled into the alleyway, and sprinted out of sight.
Brock scratched his head as he stood in the doorway. There was a couple kissing near the alleyway and the homeless guy wandering around aimlessly. Nothing he could ascertain that would freak anyone out. Everything appeared in place, and the funny thing was, nobody chased after him. Preston was either a liar or something else going on.
Stepping back into the pub, Brock necked the rest of his beer, casually wandering towards the young bartender to order another. They chatted briefly and he learnt Sergei was barred due to his excessive drinking and fighting. He finished his beer in two mouthfuls, enjoying it a little too much, and left. Outside, his mobile rang, vibrating in his pocket. Quickly, he pulled it out and Sarah’s name appeared across the lit screen. He eagerly pressed to accept the call, but the screen went blank. The battery had died.
Chapter 10
Brock hovered in front of the sliding doors of the Royal Free Hospital, sheltering from the rain under a thick plastic canopy. Bright lights gleamed through the glass as patients and uniformed staff went about their routine, frantically dashing from place to place. Brock threw his hand in the air, the automatic glass screeching open as he stepped inside. A deep antiseptic aroma wafted through the air like a visit to the dentist, clearing his nostrils. He stepped around some grey chairs that took up most of the floor space, people slumped on most of them.
At the far end of the room, several people hovered in front of a small reception desk. Sarah, in her grey jacket, was glaring at her computer screen and banging her fingers against the keyboard. A doctor in a long white coat and stethoscope dangling around his neck flung her a thick file. Brock strolled towards the desk, bumping into a nurse in the usual dark blue uniform. She stepped back, adjusting her neatly tied back hair, and stared at him, her eyes wandering across forehead.
“I apologise. I should watch where I’m walking. This is the second time today,” she said, examining his face. “Do I know you? Come to think of it, I do. You were the poor guy they fetched in some months ago. I’m Nurse Hayes from Intensive Care. I cared for you during your stay. Have you come today for an outpatient appointment? I can direct you if you like.”
Somehow, she appeared familiar, and he pulled his lips to make a smile.
“I remember when that ambulance wheeled you out. Unconscious and in such a bad way. I’ll never forget that laceration to your head, covered in blood from top to bottom. We all doubted you’d pull through. The staff here worked tirelessly through the night and you fought all the way. Sadly not like the other guy.”
Brock jerked his head. “You mean there were others?”
She coughed, straightening her uniform “Only one. He was loaded from an ambulance about a month later. His wounds bore similarities to yours. Nurses wired him up, a bed opposite you.
Sadly he never pulled through. The doctors never gave him much hope. You know, I’m no detective, but I’m an old doll here with many fine years of medical experience. If you ask me, I would say he most certainly was attacked by the same person.”
“Who was he?”
“Sorry, it’s against protocol to give personal details.” She moved closer to him. “Especially in regards to him.”
His mouth opened but before she could say anything else, the nurse made to leave.
“I’m going to have to dash. Our ward is manic today. I certainly hope you are making a good recovery, a strong lad like you. Our duty doctor said it would take a while for everything to get back to normal. How is your father, anyway?”
“Father? I’m not sure I have one.”
“My apologies, I got the impression that nice tall man was your father. He was always popping in to see you, asking questions. He had an unusual name … what was it? Sighrus, that’s it!”
“A scar on the left of his face?”
“That’s the one.”
She glanced towards a man in a black suit folding his arms. A name badge hung around his neck and he was staring right at her.
“I’ve got to dash. As I say, we are very busy. Good luck for the future, Brock, and give my regards to that Sighrus,” she said, stepping away. She looked at the man in the suit again and lowered her tone. “And I hope they catch that mad man, for the sake of other innocent people.”
She disappeared into a nearby corridor, and the man in the black suit was now staring hard at Brock. He ignored him and crossed the floor towards Sarah, who sat at a now-empty reception desk.
“Why are you limping like that? Your forehead looks even worse. How did you know where to find me?” said Sarah.
“Your email, the one you sent last night,” said Brock.
She shook her head, moving away from the desk and looking at his cut. “I’ve no idea what your email address is. I tried to call you last night but the phone went dead. Let me get Doctor Shanklin to examine that cut. It might need stitches.”
Brock Steele Sphere Page 5
