by Ray Green
‘Now sir, I understand that you are suffering a degree of memory loss, resulting from your head injury.’
Stephen nodded. ‘It’s the weirdest sensation – trying to remember anything at all is like trying to recall the elusive details of a dream you’ve just had. You know it’s there, tantalisingly close, but you just can’t quite reach out and grasp it.’
Looking at the expressions on the two police officers’ faces did little to convince him that his attempt to convey the turmoil which beset him had struck any kind of chord.
‘Yeah,’ said Brooks, ‘must be kinda tough.’
You got that right, thought Stephen.
‘So,’ the police officer continued, ‘just what can you tell us about what happened on Thursday?’
‘Well, not much, I’m afraid. I can remember hardly anything that happened before I woke up here, in hospital. I don’t even know what I do … did … for a living or what the hell I’m doing here in Miami.’
‘So nothing about the assault?’ prompted Brooks.
‘No … nothing. The only things I can remember are my name – and now my wife’s name, and what she looks like. I can see her in my mind’s eye in perfect detail. She’s tall – about five-nine, slim, long blonde hair, thirty-seven years old and …’ His heart leapt with the realisation that he had just remembered her age. Snippets of his memory were starting to return.
‘Let’s see if any of this helps,’ said the police officer turning to his partner who passed him a plastic zip-lock bag. ‘Apparently these were the only things you had with you when you were admitted.’ He withdrew from the bag a gold ring with three small diamonds embedded in its surface. ‘You were wearing this.’
As he gazed at the ring, a dim and distant memory began to stir. He saw an image of a hand … no, two hands. A small, feminine hand, with elegantly-manicured nails, dwarfed by the much larger, man’s hand which held it. Both wore matching rings – gold, embellished with three diamonds. It was a photograph: he and Emma, on their wedding day, holding clasped hands towards the camera, displaying their identical rings.
‘My wedding ring,’ gasped Stephen. ‘My wife has one exactly the same.’
‘OK, good,’ said Brooks, ‘that’s one more thing which will help to identify your wife if—’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Stephen. ‘Why would you need to “identify” her? Has something happened to her?’
‘No, sir – nothing like that. It’s just that the more information we have, the easier it will be for us to find her. So now we have her name, her description, and a precise description of her ring. That gives us a good starting point.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Stephen, as another memory came back to him. Somehow, answering these questions, forcing him to trawl the muddled depths of his brain, seemed to be stimulating more and more fragments of recall. ‘My wallet … I keep a photograph of the two of us in my wallet. If you have an actual photograph of my wife then surely it will help you to—’
The police officer shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you had no wallet on you when they brought you in. I guess the lowlifes who attacked you must have taken it, along with anything else you had on you.’
Stephen’s heart sank as quickly as it had lifted.
‘By the way,’ continued the police officer, ‘can you remember if you did have anything else in your possession when you were attacked?’
‘I already told you,’ sighed Stephen, ‘I can’t remember anything about it.’
The policeman shrugged. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t take off with the ring too,’ he continued. ‘Looks like it could be worth a fair few dollars.’
‘They probably didn’t spot it,’ added the other police officer – the first words he had uttered since arriving.
Stephen didn’t respond; he had no desire to prolong this conversation any longer than necessary.
‘OK,’ said Brooks, ‘what about this?’ He took from the bag a small leather-bound book and passed it to Stephen. ‘Apparently, it was lying on the ground right beside you. The paramedics picked it up.’
Stephen took the book and turned it in his hands – a diary; he didn’t recognise it. He looked up at the two police officers and shook his head.
‘Take a look inside,’ said Brooks.
Stephen flipped through the pages; his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
‘But … there’s nothing written in it. Why would I be carrying a diary without any—?’
‘Look again,’ interrupted the police officer. ‘Check out this week.’
Stephen went to turn to the relevant pages, but stopped dead when he was hit by a dawning realisation. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know which is this week.’
A slight shadow flitted across the police officer’s eyes. Disbelief? Irritation? Could be almost anything. Anyway, the moment passed, and Brooks’s countenance resumed its previous neutral, detached look.
‘Today is Monday March 6th.’
Stephen turned to the relevant page: nothing. He looked up, puzzled and gave a slight shake of his head.
‘Go forward a few pages,’ prompted Brooks.
The date Thursday March 9th was ringed in black ink. What did it mean? He gazed at the page for several long seconds but the date triggered nothing in his brain.
‘Well?’ prompted Brooks.
‘It’s … this Thursday. Just a few days’ time.’
‘I know what day it is’ – Stephen thought he detected a hint of annoyance in the police officer’s voice – ‘but does it mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ sighed Stephen.
‘OK, now turn to Sunday July 23rd.’
‘But that’s months away … what could that have to do with my current situation?’
‘Just take a look will you?’ muttered Brooks, his tone now clearly betraying his growing impatience.
Stephen found the page; this date was also ringed in black ink. He shrugged, helplessly.
‘So I guess that date doesn’t mean anything either.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘Sorry, no.’
Brooks rolled his eyes; Stephen was starting to take a real dislike to this guy.
‘OK, well those were the only things you actually had with you when they brought you here, but we had a good look round the scene of the attack. There was all kinds of garbage on the ground, but we did pick up a couple of things that might be relevant.’ He delved into the bag and withdrew the next item. ‘What about this?’
He held up a small gold-coloured cylinder: a lipstick.
Stephen’s heart stuttered. ‘Oh my God! Is it Emma’s?’
The police officer gave him a stony stare. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell us … What colour does she wear?’
Stephen conjured in his mind that vivid image which had dominated his dreams these last hours. ‘Most of the time it’s a sort of pink colour … yes, she nearly always wears pink lipstick.’
‘Yeah, well so do most dames,’ muttered Brooks.
By now, Stephen felt an overwhelming urge to plant a punch squarely on the man’s already-crooked nose. He resisted.
The police officer took the lipstick back, removed the cap, and twirled the base to expose the contents. ‘Does she wear this shade of pink?’
Stephen’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated intently, trying to match the colour in front of him to his mental image. After a few seconds his shoulders slumped in defeat.
‘It … it could be … but … I just can’t be sure.’
‘OK, I’ve got one last thing to show you.’
He took the final item from the bag and passed it to Stephen. It was a business card: pale blue background with an image of a leaping swordfish. It bore the words ‘Eduardo’s Restaurant’.
‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of this place,’ said Stephen.
‘Well, there was all kinds of shit on the ground where you were attacked but this card looked kinda cleaner and newer than all the other stuff so we figured
you might have dropped it during the struggle. And if you turn it over, you can see there are a few spots of blood on it, which also suggests—’
‘Blood?’ he gasped. With trembling fingers, he turned the card over; the three dark stains seemed to portend something terrible. ‘Oh God! Maybe something’s happened to Emma.’
‘No … we already checked the blood group: it matches yours. You left a hell of a pool of the stuff on the ground after you got whacked on the head.’
A wave of relief coursed through his body – only to be replaced, moments later, by a renewed spear of dread. ‘But what if she’s the same blood group as me?’
Brooks extended his hand, palm-outward, in a calming gesture. ‘Relax … we did a DNA check too, and it’s definitely your blood.’
Relief flooded through him once more. He took a few moments to compose himself before speaking again.
‘OK, well have you checked out this’ – he glanced at the card again – ‘“Eduardo’s Restaurant”?’
Brooks gave a derisory snort. ‘Hardly a “restaurant” – more of a scruffy diner really. Full of damned Latinos.’
Rodriquez visibly stiffened at this pejorative remark; he might be second or third generation, but he clearly had some Latino blood in him. Nevertheless he said nothing, instead lowering his gaze and resuming his note-taking duty.
‘But did you check it out?’ insisted Stephen.
‘Yeah, we went there … talked to the owner and a couple of his waitresses, but they don’t remember a tall, white guy like you in the joint recently. We even showed them a photo, but the fact you were flat-out unconscious, with a bandaged head, in the photo probably wouldn’t have helped, even if they had seen you before.’
‘So, you don’t really have any leads right now?’
‘I guess not. We were hoping you might be able to help, but as you can’t remember anything at all about the attack’ – once again that slight tone of annoyance or scepticism revealed itself – ‘we really don’t have much to go on. Anyway, if you do recall anything which might help us, just give me a call.’
Stephen was only too pleased to terminate the interview and see the back of this unpleasant policeman and his superfluous sidekick but whatever he thought of them, he needed their help.
‘Please,’ he said, as the two men stood up to leave, ‘you have to find my wife.’
‘We’ll do our best, sir,’ said Brooks. ‘We now have a name, a description, and we know she wears pink lipstick.’ The sarcasm in his voice was only thinly veiled. ‘Of course, we don’t even know for sure that she’s actually in Miami at all.’
Stephen fought to control the anger which surged within him. ‘Look, I’m sure she is here. I remember her sitting alongside me on the plane.’
‘Oh, so now you remember something you neglected to tell us earlier.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
You never mentioned anything about a plane … or about your wife being with you on it.’
‘Didn’t I? Well … oh, I’m sorry … I told Doctor Holt about it, and I assumed—’
The police officer silenced him with a raised hand. ‘So was this plane coming into Miami?’
‘I … I think so.’
‘You think so … but you don’t actually know?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t be absolutely sure, but … can’t you check immigration records? Won’t they show whether a Stephen and Emma Lewis came into Miami recently?’
‘We’ll take a look,’ said Brooks.
‘Don’t worry,’ piped up his usually-silent partner, ‘if your wife is here in Miami, we’ll find her.’ Somehow, Stephen was less than convinced.
Moments later they were gone, leaving Stephen to ponder the handful of items they had left with him – the only clues to a life which was now a closed book. A wedding ring; a diary with nothing in it, other than two highlighted dates; a lipstick; and a business card for a seedy diner.
What the hell did it all mean?
Chapter 3
The following day he awoke feeling rather better – at least physically. The nagging ache in his head had finally dissipated, and he felt much stronger. He noted that the drip, which had been connected to his wrist, had now been removed, and he was able to sit properly upright. His mental state was, however, a different matter entirely: in spite of all his best efforts, he could make no sense of the discussion with the two policemen, or of the various items they had presented him with.
He decided to test his legs, swinging them over the side of the bed and tentatively attempting to stand. He felt a little unsteady on his feet, but he could stand up. He tried taking a few steps; his balance was a little off, but overall, not too bad. Even though his life was in turmoil, it felt good to experience the simple sense of independence engendered by the ability to stand, literally, on his own two feet.
The nurse appeared in the doorway. ‘Well, I can see that you are feeling much better,’ she said, a warm smile creasing her friendly countenance.
‘I am,’ he confirmed. ‘The headache’s faded away and,’ he said, spreading his arms wide and looking down at his own feet, ‘I can finally get up and walk.’
‘That’s very good,’ she said, fussing and trying to shepherd him back towards his bed, ‘but, please don’t try to do too much too soon.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’re the boss.’
She smiled. ‘You’re dead right – around here at least, that’s exactly what I am.’
Stephen was immediately drawn to this woman; he liked her no-nonsense manner, which he sensed belied a genuinely caring individual.
‘What time is it?’ he said, skilfully evading her attempts to encourage him back into bed.
‘It’s almost 3 p.m. You’ve been asleep for around fourteen hours straight.’
‘Fourteen hours?’ he gasped. ‘I need to get up and dressed … try to figure out what’s happening to me.’
‘Not just yet,’ she replied firmly, placing her hands on his shoulders, gently but insistently guiding him towards the armchair alongside the bed. ‘Your body obviously needed the rest, and you’re still too weak to be up and about.’
‘OK,’ said Stephen, sinking obediently into the chair. ‘I guess I need to do as I’m told.’
‘You do,’ she said, smiling.
‘By the way,’ he said, accepting, for now, his temporary confinement to the armchair, ‘you never told me your name.’
‘Kelly.’
‘Well, thank you Kelly, for everything you’ve done.’
‘Oh, just doing my job,’ she said, dipping her head a little and raising a hand to sweep away a stray lock of hair from her cheek.
He didn’t for one moment believe that, for this likeable woman, it was ‘just a job’. She was clearly one of those people for whom helping others was second nature.
‘Well, thanks anyway. I owe you.’
She batted her eyelids, but did not respond directly. ‘By the way, I’ve brought you a local newspaper. As you’re here in Miami, you might as well know a little about what’s going on around here. Who knows … it might even help you recall something about why you’re here.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee before I bring your breakfast?’
‘Do you have tea?’
Her face broke into a broad smile. ‘How very British,’ she laughed.
‘Actually,’ he replied, frowning slightly, ‘I don’t know what nationality I am.’
‘From your accent, you couldn’t be anything else … well, maybe Australian at a stretch, but I’d say British. Anyway, of course we can do tea … how do you take it?’
‘Milk, no sugar,’ he replied, without hesitation.
‘See?’ she said, smiling, you didn’t have to even think about that – you know how you take your tea. Your memory hasn’t been stolen from you completely – it’s just … well … muddled. I’m sure that many more things will start coming back to you soon.’
<
br /> He fervently hoped she was right.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I’ll go and make that tea.’
When she had left the room, he picked up the newspaper. He read the headline on the front page.
Can this maverick businessman really make the White House?
Although the newspaper was a local journal, this was a national news story which, apparently, was gripping the nation. Campaigning for US presidential elections was well underway, and it seemed that a flamboyant, multi-billionaire businessman was threatening to completely overturn the political establishment and, potentially, sweep to power against all the previous predictions of political analysts.
It was all fresh news to Stephen. He had previously been completely unaware that the USA was even in the throes of an election campaign, and the names of the key players set out on the page in front of him meant absolutely nothing to him. He sighed in frustration at his own total ignorance of these obviously-important events.
When he turned the page, however, the headline he saw immediately triggered a jolt within him.
Breakthrough in Treatment of Drug Addiction to be Announced This Week?
He read on …
The fourteenth annual Drug Addiction Conference will be held on Monday March 13th at the luxurious Palm Grove Hotel in Miami Beach. As always, it will attract experts in the field of addiction treatment from all over the world, but the attendance, this year, of Bob Gench, multi-billionaire tech giant and renowned philanthropist, has fuelled rumours that a breakthrough is to be announced.
The keynote speech is to be given by Professor Richard Mandelson, whose research in the field of drug addiction has been sponsored by Bob Gench. The fact that Gench has decided to attend in person has only added to speculation that a ground-breaking discovery is going to be unveiled.
He had no idea why this story had provoked such a strong reaction within him but, somehow, he felt sure that it held the key to why he was in Miami.
He laid the newspaper down on his lap and rested his head back, closing his eyes as he struggled to make the connection. Drug addiction … research … Gench … Mandelson. Why were those names so familiar?
