by Ray Green
Could it? Could this really be? He just couldn’t believe it possible.
‘No,’ he insisted, ‘I can’t accept that. I understand what you are saying, but I just can’t believe that such vivid memories are nothing more than fantasies.’
‘Then why does she not seem to know you?’
‘I don’t know. I can only think they are forcing her to take part in something against her will.’
‘But why, Stephen? Why would they do that? And who are “they” anyway?’
‘I … I don’t know,’ he admitted.
‘And the man you believe is impersonating you – he has a driver’s licence, credit cards … even a photograph of himself together with the woman you believe is your wife. How could he have faked all these things?’
Stephen didn’t answer – he didn’t have an answer. He closed his eyes, trying to make some sense of it all. Then he remembered something else …
‘But, what about the guy who was following me?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘Maybe he wasn’t actually following you. Maybe he was just running to catch the train.’
Stephen exhaled heavily and sank back into the pillow once more. ‘What’s happening to me, Doctor? Am I going mad?’
‘“Mad” is a very emotive, and not very precise term, Stephen. My best guess is that the blow to your head has somehow prevented access to most of your long-term memories and, to fill the vacuum, your brain has constructed a whole alternative persona, constructed from snippets about people you have met, with the gaps filled in by your imagination.’
Crazy as it seemed, he had to accept that this explanation was, at least, consistent with all the evidence. ‘What the hell am I going to do, Doctor?’
‘Look, I am not a specialist in this specific area, so I’m going to arrange for someone who is to see you tomorrow. Doctor Marco Scarucci is one of the very best experts in this field. If anyone can properly diagnose your condition, he can.’
Stephen nodded, grateful for any straw to clutch at in his quest to understand what was happening to him.
‘First though,’ continued the doctor, ‘I want to give you an MRI scan to double check that the fracture to your skull has not impinged upon any brain tissue. It looked OK on the x-rays but … well, one can’t be too careful in matters like this. The nurse will give you a mild sedative to help you relax during the scan, and get some much-needed rest afterwards.’
Stephen nodded, weakly.
As Doctor Holt left the room the nurse offered Stephen two capsules. ‘Take these, and then we’ll get you straight down to radiology.’
He swallowed the capsules, washing them down with water from the tumbler she offered him. As he passed the tumbler back to her, he looked directly into her eyes. ‘Are you married, Kelly?’
She pulled her head back a little, widening her eyes in surprise. ‘I … er, well no I’m not, actually. Why do you—?’
‘Boyfriend then?’
‘Well, yes. His name is Rick, we’ve been going out together for over three years.’
‘OK, so a pretty serious relationship then?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Actually, we’re saving up for the deposit to buy a house together. We want to get married as soon as we can afford it.’ She paused, tilting her head to one side, a half-smile dancing around her lips. ‘But, why are you asking about my life all of a sudden?’
‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘waking up one day to find Rick didn’t know you.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘And imagine he showed up with another woman who claimed that she was the real Kelly, engaged to marry your Rick.’
‘It’s … impossible.’
‘But if it happened,’ he persisted, ‘do you really think that it could be true? That he really didn’t know you? That those three years you spent with him were an illusion? All in your mind?’
She sighed. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I couldn’t accept that.’
The silence hung heavily in the air for several seconds before Stephen spoke again. ‘Do you think I’m going mad, Kelly?’
Her eyes were filled with compassion as she laid her hand on his. ‘Let’s just see what the MRI scan shows and what the specialist comes up with.’
As he lay back and closed his eyes, he no longer knew just what to think.
Chapter 11
Carla Fernandez Garrido was torn.
There was no way on earth she could allow herself to become involved in anything which might result in her being questioned by the police. Like millions of other Mexicans, she had entered the USA illegally, and like most of them, she had remained undetected as she slipped seamlessly into North American society. But any contact with the police – even a parking ticket – could result in her cover being blown. If that happened, the very least she could expect was deportation. Worse still, though, if they found out she had become mixed up with drug dealers, she would probably end up in jail. She just couldn’t let that happen.
And yet, she owed a huge debt of gratitude to the tall stranger who had come to her aid the previous week. Without his intervention she would surely have been raped … or even worse. She hated herself for having shunned him so brusquely when he had come to the diner, but what else could she do?
She thought back to the shocking events which had ensued in that darkened alley …
***
She clasped a hand to her mouth as the stranger, who had tried to help her, sank to the ground as if poleaxed. His assailant used the bottom of his tee shirt to wipe the iron bar where he had been holding it, before dropping it on the ground; the sound rang out like a bell as it hit the ground.
‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ he yelled to his partner, who stood hunched over the stranger’s prone figure, still brandishing the knife, his eyes wild with bloodlust.
‘I should gut the interfering bastard first,’ he hissed.
The other man grabbed his knife arm, restraining him. ‘C’mon – he’s probably already dead anyway. Let’s split right now … before the cops arrive.’
The man with the knife stood motionless over the stranger for several seconds, the other man still clutching his arm. Eventually he shook the restraining hand from his arm and lowered the knife. He gave the lifeless body on the ground a vicious kick in the ribs.
‘That’s for poking yer fucking nose inta business which don’t concern ya,’ he growled.
‘C’mon …’ urged his partner, ‘let’s get outta here.’
‘What about her?’ demanded the first man, raising the knife and pointing it directly at Carla.
Terror rose in her throat once more as she caught the wild gleam in the man’s eyes. Her heart was hammering furiously.
‘Leave the bitch … we can deal with her later.’
Finally, he relented, turning to face his partner and returning the knife to its sheath. Carla sank to her knees, still uncertain whether this maniac would suddenly change his mind and attack her again.
But it seemed he now had other priorities. ‘Wait,’ he said, bending down to go through the fallen man’s pockets. He found what looked like a small book or diary, which he flung carelessly aside, and then a wallet, which he flipped open in order to inspect the contents. ‘Plenty of cash in here,’ he declared, closing the wallet and slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans. He then grabbed the mutilated briefcase. ‘There could be more money in here.’ He tried to open the case, but it was locked. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, punching the case in frustration.
‘C’mon,’ yelled the other man. ‘We don’t got much time. Leave the case.’
‘I ain’t leaving it. Look at this leather;’ he said, thrusting the case forward, ‘this thing musta cost five hundred dollars.’
‘Well it ain’t worth five hundred dollars now. Just leave it.’
‘No. He must be some rich bastard to have a case like this. There’s bound to be something valuable inside. Let’s just take it with us … we can force it open later.’<
br />
The other man just shook his head and shrugged. ‘OK, but c’mon … we gotta go.’
‘Bastard,’ growled the man with the knife, giving the lifeless figure on the ground another spiteful kick.
Finally, the two of them ran for it.
Carla dragged herself to her feet and staggered over to the motionless body on the floor. A pool of blood was rapidly spreading behind the man’s head. She peeled back one of his eyelids; only the white of the eye was showing. She put her cheek right up to his open mouth to check his breathing: nothing. She pulled back his sleeve and fumbled to locate the pulse in his wrist: nothing.
Her heart was racing as she rushed over to the point where she had been attacked. Her handbag was lying on the ground, its contents scattered far and wide. She dropped to her hands and knees, scrabbling in the dirt as she desperately searched for her cell phone. Her efforts were badly hampered by the poor light in the alley, but finally she found it. Her fingers were trembling so much that it took her three attempts to dial 911. Once the operator had assured her that the police and ambulance were on their way, she hung up, without giving her name.
She hurried back to the fallen stranger, checking for breathing or a pulse once more; still there was nothing. He must have been like that for around three or four minutes now. If he wasn’t dead already, he soon would be. She couldn’t just stand there and do nothing while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. She had had no medical training but she had to do something. She knelt down and tried to roll the body onto its back; she managed to get him about halfway there but then he rolled back onto his side. She tried again, but the result was the same. Christ, he was heavy. She took a deep breath, gritting her teeth and, with a superhuman effort, she finally succeeded in getting him onto his back
Trying to recall what she had seen in countless movies, she placed the heel of her hand in the centre of the man’s chest, before placing her other hand on top of the first. She positioned her shoulders above him, and then, using her full body weight – which wasn’t much, for she was of slight build – began pumping up and down. After about twenty compressions she stopped to check his breathing again: still nothing. Again trying to replicate what she had seen in the movies, she placed her hand under his chin and tipped his head back; Christ, there was so much blood behind his head. Trying to ignore the dark, spreading pool, she pinched his nose, sealed her mouth over his, and blew, firmly and steadily. She could feel, and see, his chest slowly rising; she kept blowing until her own lungs were empty. Pausing for a few seconds to take a deep breath, she once again covered his mouth with hers and repeated the procedure. The effort was now leaving her breathless and faint; she didn’t think she could keep this up much longer and, in any case, she really didn’t know whether she was actually doing it right. Still there was no sign of life.
She repositioned her body and resumed the chest pumping; after another twenty compressions, there was still nothing. By now she was exhausted; she couldn’t go on any longer.
But then his eyes flickered, and she heard him utter a low groan; her heart leapt in her chest. She checked his pulse again. Yes, it was there now: weak and erratic, but a pulse nevertheless. Encouraged, she once again pinched his nostrils shut and sealed her mouth over his, ready to blow into his lungs again, but this time he seemed to gag and cough. Maybe it would be best to stop now that he was starting to breathe on his own? She pulled back a little, but kept her face within inches of his, ready to resume mouth-to-mouth if necessary. His eyes opened fully and he raised a hand to touch the side of her cheek.
‘Emma?’ he croaked.
‘I’m not Emma. I don’t know who Emma is. You’ve been …’ Her voice tailed off as she realised he was slipping back into unconsciousness.
She straddled his body, positioning herself to start the chest pumping once more, but no sooner had she placed her hands on his chest, she heard the undulating wail of a siren. The emergency services were on their way. She was torn: she wanted to help him, to keep him alive until they arrived, but she couldn’t allow herself to be questioned by the police. When a second siren joined the sound of the first, creating a discordant cacophony, her mind was made up. She had to get away … as soon as possible.
She scrambled to her feet and rushed over to where her handbag was lying on the ground. With the aid of the flashlight built into her phone, she hurriedly gathered up all the contents which were strewn across the filthy pavement and bundled them into her handbag: she could not afford to leave anything which might identify her.
Which way to run? It sounded as though the sirens were approaching from the end of the alley from which the stranger had entered, so she made for the other end, sprinting as fast as her finely-muscled legs would carry her. As she reached the end of the alley, she paused for a moment to glance over her shoulder; the sirens were louder than ever, but no-one was following her. She hoped that she had done enough to save this man who had come to her aid, but there was no time to linger now. As she stepped towards the exit onto the street, she tripped over something, pitching forward and painfully skinning her knee. Cursing, she looked down to see what had tripped her: it was the briefcase.
Without really stopping to think what she was doing or why, she picked it up before stepping out onto the street and heading for the nearby sanctuary of her apartment.
***
Her smile was radiant as she took his hand and turned towards the camera, brushing away a strand of hair from her porcelain-smooth cheek.
‘Great,’ said the photographer, ‘now let’s get a shot of the rings.’ He fussed around them, arranging and rearranging their positions until satisfied. ‘OK, just make sure you keep your hands in exactly that position.’
Stephen looked down at the rings: matching gold bands each with three sparkling stones inset. Emma’s slender fingers and elegantly manicured nails contrasted starkly with his own shovel-like paw, but he just knew it was an image he would treasure.
‘Right, how about a nice kiss now?’ chirped the photographer, fiddling with the settings on his camera.
She turned towards him, her beautiful blue eyes sparkling with happiness. He placed a hand behind her neck and gently drew her towards him. As their lips met and he savoured the taste of her, he was oblivious to the photographer’s inane babbling – he was lost in the moment.
When their lips finally parted and he slowly opened his eyes, his heart skipped a beat. Where were those beautiful, azure blue eyes? The eyes which locked onto his were a deep brown colour. Her skin was dark, her hair black. The aquiline nose bore no resemblance to Emma’s, which was delicate, and slightly upturned.
‘Emma?’ he whispered, ‘What’s happening? Why—?’
He felt an abrupt jolt … and she was gone.
***
The sedative must have been very powerful. In spite of the deafening cacophony of buzzes, clicks, and bangs made by the MRI scanner, Stephen had actually drifted off to sleep.
But now all was silent; it must have been the sudden cessation of the noise made by the machine which had jolted him awake.
As he was being wheeled back to his own room, he thought about the two women who were now haunting his dreams. He resolved that, one way or another, he would have to persuade both of them to talk to him. As he wrestled with how on earth he would manage this, his thoughts became increasingly jumbled and disconnected.
Sleep overtook him again.
Chapter 12
He was drifting in that strange world midway between sleep and wakefulness, where dreams and reality seem to meld seamlessly into one. As his eyelids flickered, he became dimly aware of the presence of a tall figure in a white coat alongside him. Was that part of his dream, or was that the real world? Through blurred vision, he was just able to discern that the doctor was making some sort of adjustment to the drip attached to the tube which snaked down to the cannula in his wrist. Within seconds, he felt a warm, comforting fuzziness suffuse his body; the urge to return to the sanctuary of sleep wa
s almost irresistible, yet something inside him told that all was not well.
‘Doctor Holt?’ he murmured, ‘how long … I mean, what …?’ Somehow, he could not form a coherent sentence.
‘Don’t worry, Stephen,’ came the reassuring voice, ‘this is just something to help you relax.’
Yes, relax … It was nice to relax. He closed his eyes and began to let the delicious sensation envelop him.
He felt something pressing into the skin just above his left ankle, followed by a gentle tugging sensation. It wasn’t enough to significantly disturb his euphoric state; he allowed himself to sink a little deeper into the warm, cosy cocoon which enveloped him. Then something tugged at his left wrist, much harder this time. The pain he felt as something cut right into his flesh was enough to jolt him into full consciousness. By now, the doctor was no longer fussing with the drip; he was busy looping something around Stephen’s right ankle. As he looked down, he realised that the doctor was about to secure his ankle with a plastic cable tie.
‘What … what are you doing?’ he croaked, every word an effort to force from his lips.
The doctor looked up; it wasn’t Doctor Holt. The thin, angular features; the dark, penetrating eyes; the slicked-back hair – there was no mistaking the face of the man who had pursued him in the Metrorail station as he raced for the train. He tried to jerk his foot away, but the response of his muscles to the signal from his brain was leaden; he felt as though he were trying to move through a sea of treacle.
The face of the bogus doctor broke into a wicked grin. ‘Finding it a bit difficult to move, eh? Well, I really wouldn’t bother trying, because—’
Another voice cut in, urgent and indignant. ‘What is going on here?’
