Amnesia
He had forgotten where he parked his car, and not only that; he had forgotten who he was.
Part One: The CEO.
The day of the symposium.
He stood in the car park, confused. He absolutely couldn’t remember where he’d left his car. Was it even the right car park? It didn’t look familiar in the least.
With growing alarm, he realised he had absolutely no memory at all of having parked the car. But this was the car park at … in … He couldn’t remember that either. He had literally no idea what town he was in or why he was there.
His heart began to pound and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Why couldn’t he remember where he was?
He forced himself to take three deep breaths. That often helped. He mustn’t panic. The most important thing was not to panic.
He searched his memory feverishly but couldn’t recall even the slightest detail of how he had arrived at his current location.
He was surrounded by endless rows of cars. A few hundred yards away was a second carpark, equally full of cars.
He held the car keys in the air and pressed the lock button, hoping to see lights flash somewhere. Nothing happened. Of course, that never worked, unless one was practically sitting on top of the thing in the first place.
He began to walk along the row of cars, pressing the button.
Then he realised he couldn’t even remember what kind of a car he owned, or what colour it was. Did he even own a car? Surely he’d remember if he did. It must be a rental car that he was looking for.
He examined the key. It had no key fob, and no car details were attached to it. It was just a generic black key, of the type that might open any kind of car.
As he walked along the row of cars, the enormity of the task began to dawn on him. There were too many cars here. The sun was going down. He had no idea whether he was in the right car park, and there was another large car park within sight across the street.
He stopped, suppressing the urge to panic again.
Where would he go, if he did find his car? What was he doing here? Where was he? He couldn’t remember any of it.
He felt slightly drunk, but only very slightly. He quietly resolved never to drink again. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t remember a thing.
Then he started to wonder if he was having a stroke. He felt his heart thumping like a drum in his chest, and thought, no, I’m just panicking. I mustn’t panic. I must be calm. Everything will come back to me if I remain calm.
His wife. He would phone his wife. He’d tell her he was having some kind of panic attack. She would tell him where the car was, or she’d come and find him. He felt relief sweep over him when he felt the phone in his pocket.
He pulled it out and pressed his finger to the fingerprint reader. He went to the list of contacts, and then a new terror seized him. He couldn’t remember his wife’s name. In fact, none of the names seemed familiar in the least. Was this even his phone?
He groaned softly with a dry mouth, put the phone back in his pocket, and looked around despairingly.
Did he even have a wife? For a few short moments he had felt sure that he did have a wife, but now he couldn’t recall his wife, or anything about her. It seemed on balance that he might be mistaken. Perhaps he was thinking of some old girlfriend, perhaps even from years ago.
He held his hands to the sides of his head and closed his eyes, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing. Then, with sudden resolution, he strode back down the row of cars the way he had come.
He had to get out of the car park. The car park was only making him more confused. He would go into the nearest town and there he would somehow get his bearings. He’d probably recognise the town once he saw it.
The car park exited onto a street busy with traffic, with few shops on it. He spotted a woman walking along the pavement towards him, perhaps on her way home from work.
“Excuse me.” he said. “Could you tell me which way the centre of town is?”
“That way.” she said, pointing in the direction from which she had just come, with a brief smile.
He looked in the direction she had pointed. Yes, that looked like the way to the centre. He set off towards the town, attempting to appear purposeful, even to himself.
Suddenly the phone in his pocket vibrated. Someone was calling him. He took it out and looked at it. ‘Angela calling’ said the phone. Angela … who was Angela? He couldn’t remember ever hearing of an Angela. In a panic, he switched the phone to silent and put it back in his pocket. He wasn’t in a fit state to be talking to any Angelas.
Gradually more and more shops appeared and he found himself walking through a pedestrianised area.
None of his surroundings looked familiar in the least.
Clearly, he needed help, but where to get it? Should he go to a hospital, or a police station? But the nearest hospital might be miles away. Are police stations even still a thing? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t recall ever seeing one.
He stopped in a small square and looked slowly around. Nothing seemed familiar there either. Absolutely nothing.
Where did he live? He must live somewhere. Everyone lives somewhere. Almost everyone. He couldn’t remember.
He had been in the square for perhaps five minutes, feeling a growing sense of desperation, tears almost coming to his eyes, when he noticed a policeman watching him from a distance. Why was the man watching him? Had he done something wrong? Were the police looking for him?
He had to get away so he could think. He began to walk briskly away from the policeman.
He could be wanted, he thought. He could be a wanted criminal. But why would he commit a crime? Could he be sure that he hadn’t committed a crime?
His throat felt painfully dry.
As he got further away from the square and could see no sign that anyone was following him, he allowed his pace to slow.
What if he called a random person on the phone and asked for help?
He took it out. The phone said he had six missed calls.
He pressed his thumb against the reader. Then he went to the contact list and pressed the first person on it, since they all appeared equally unfamiliar.
After a few rings a voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hello,” he said, “it’s …”
But then he realised he couldn’t remember his name. In a panic, he pressed the button to end the call.
He pressed his back against the wall of a bookshop and leaned against it, closing his eyes.
“Dear God.” he muttered to himself. “I don’t know who I am.”
“Harry Tillbsbury?” said an excited voice.
He opened his eyes.
In front of him stood a young man and a young woman, both dressed rather strangely, largely in black and purple. The woman was wearing purple and black makeup.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” said the young man.
“We’re huge fans of yours.” said the woman. “Especially your Deathmatch of the Vampires series.
“Oh.” he said, trying to smile. “Wonderful.”
“Could we get your autograph?” said the young man.
“I’m Sylvia. This is Tristan.” said the young woman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” he said, and as he said it, a sense of relief swept over him. Someone, at least, knew who he was. “Of course I’ll give you an autograph.” he added.
He felt his pockets. They seemed to be empty aside from a small quantity of cash in notes, along with his phone and car key.
“I don’t have any paper or a pen.” he said.
“I’ve got some.” said Sylvia, and she rummaged about in a black velvet handbag, producing a pen and handing it to him. “No paper.” she said. “Sign my neck! We’ll photograph it. It’ll be just as good.”
He pushed the button on the pen and placed the tip by her neck, leaning his arm on her shoulder to steady it. A thousand and one thoughts flitted through his mind.
What was he supposed to sign? They had called him Harry. Was he Harry?
“What do you want me to write?” he said.
“Just put your name.” said Sylvia.
“My name.” he repeated in a monotone.
Suddenly he felt an enormous urge to cry. Everything was so strange, so unfamiliar.
“Are you OK?” said Tristan, seeing the expression on his face.
He stood up straight.
“Please help me.” he said. “I’ve lost my memory. I don’t know who I am or where I am. I can’t remember anything. Who am I?”
Tristan and Sylvia exchanged baffled glances.
“You’re Harry Tillsbury.” said Sylvia. “The famous writer.”
“Famous writer?” he said.
“Your books are right here.” said Tristan, pointing at the window of the bookshop.
He turned to look at the window display.
There they were. Deathmatch of the Vampires Volume VII: The Awakening. Deathmatch of the Vampires Volume VIII: The Return of the Beast Master.
“I … I wrote those?” he asked faintly.
“Is this a prank?” asked Sylvia. “Are we being filmed?”
They looked around for hidden cameras.
“No.” he said. “It’s not a prank. I think I need a doctor.”
“I’ll call you an ambulance.” said Sylvia.
“Thank you.” he said. Then a suddenly terrible feeling seized him. Hadn’t something bad just happened? Wasn’t someone pursuing him? He vaguely remembered a square, and running away from someone or something in it.
“Wait.” he said. “I just need to get home. Do you know where I live?”
“He lives near Hampton Court somewhere.” Tristan said to Sylvia. “I don’t know where, exactly.” Then he added, “Sorry.”
“It’s OK.” said Harry, as he must presumably be, he thought. “It’s fine.”
“Maybe we can look him up on the net.” said Sylvia. “You’ve got 5G, Trist. See if you can find him.”
Tristan began to type on his phone. After a moment he said, “Look, this is you.” and he held up the phone for Harry to inspect.
There, on the phone, was a photograph of Harry Tillsbury.
“Is that me?” said Harry, doubtfully.
“Of course it’s you.” said Sylvia. “Come into Tilda. They’ve got mirrors in there.”
She led him into a clothes shop and gently turned him so that he was facing a mirror, then held up Tristan’s phone next to the reflection of his face in the mirror.
“It is me.” he said.
“You really don’t remember anything?” said Sylvia.
“Absolutely nothing.” he said.
“But how come?” said Tristan. “People don’t just lose their memory, just like that.”
“I don’t know.” he said. “I only know I really need to get home.”
“Show me your head.” said Sylvia.
“What?” said Harry.
“Bend over so I can see your head.”
He obligingly bowed in front of her. She ran her fingers delicately over his scalp.
“Looks fine.” she said. “I don’t think anyone’s hit you on the head.”
“He could have been in a car accident.” said Tristan. “I’ve heard of people who had an accident and they barely had a scratch on them but their entire brain smashed against the front of their skull inside and got mashed up.”
“Just look up his address.” said Sylvia. “We’re not doctors.”
“OK, give me a few minutes.” said Tristan, and he took the phone and began to type.
“We’re huge fans of yours.” said Sylvia earnestly.
“Didn’t you already say that?” said Harry.
“Sorry.” said Sylvia.
“No, don’t apologise.”
“You see you can remember things.”
“Yes.” said Harry. “You’re right. I remembered you said that already, at least.”
“Your Deathmatch of the Vampires books changed my life. They changed so many people’s lives.”
Harry forced a smile.
“I’m embarrassing you.” said Sylvia.
“No, it’s just that … I can’t remember writing them. I don’t remember writing anything at all.”
“Must be weird.”
“Yes, it is.” said Harry.
“Got it.” said Tristan. “This is your exact address. I was right, it’s near Hampton Court.”
“Let’s go there, then.” said Sylvia. “We can get the bus.”
“I don’t know if I have enough money.” said Harry.
“We can spot you.” said Sylvia. “You can pay us back.”
“You’re very kind.”
“It’s the least we can do.” she said.
Somewhere on the way from Kingston-upon-Thames to Richmond, a light-fingered thief stole the phone that was conspicuously sticking out of Harry’s trouser pocket, and no-one noticed.
Half an hour later they stood outside a house in a cul-de-sac in Richmond. Harry’s house was right at the end, set back somewhat from the others.
“Nice house.” said Tristan.
“It’s huge.” said Sylvia.
“So, do you recognise it?” asked Tristan.
Harry stared at it, searching his mind.
“Not really.” he said.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s at home.” said Sylvia.
“Don’t I have a wife?” said Harry.
Sylvia and Tristan looked at each other apprehensively. Sylvia took Harry’s arm.
“Harry, your wife died.” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Harry felt his heart sink a little.
“Oh, don’t be.” he said. “I don’t have any memory of her at the moment. I just … it would be nice to see a familiar face.”
“We’d better get you inside.” said Sylvia.
“I don’t think I have a key.”
“We can break in at the back.” said Tristan.
“Let’s check if he left a key somewhere first.” said Sylvia.
They checked under the plant urns outside the front porch, under stones, and in the gutter of the little porch. Finally Tristan found it, in a container made to look like a rock.
“That’s so Harry Tillsbury.” said Sylvia, lauging.
Inside, Harry walked around looking at the photographs on the mantelpiece and the pictures on the walls: pictures of book covers and ghoulish illustrations.
“Does anything seem familiar?” asked Sylvia.
“No.” he said, bleakly.
“It’ll come back to you.” she said.
“I hope so.”
“We have to go.” said Tristan. “We can come back tomorrow or the day after and check if you’re all right.”
“Thanks” said Harry, still staring blankly at the photographs.
They made to leave and, a thought occuring to him, he said, “Listen, I’m extremely grateful for your help. If you see anything you like, I want you to take it as a gift.”
“Really?” said Sylvia and Tristan simultaneously.
“Yes.” he said. “Maybe a couple of these pictures? One each?”
They left talking excitedly to each other, carrying pictures from Harry’s wall.
Only when they were well out of earshot did Tristan say, “I’m not completely sure he’s Harry Tillsbury.”
“It is him.” said Sylvia. “He’s had some sort of trauma or something. We probably should have called an ambulance.”
“He doesn’t know anything even about his own books. Maybe he’s a dopplegänger like in Riga’s Revenge. And we’ve just helped him break into Harry’s house. I don’t think we should go back there. Not until he’s better anyway.”
Sylvia frowned thoughtfully.
“Maybe you’re right.” she said. “Just in case.”
Harry explored the house bit by bit, eventually finding a passport. He held it up next to his own face, looking in the bathroom mirror. It did look like him. Then he looked at the name and details on the passport, and ran his fingers over them.
“Harry Tillsbury.” he said. “I’m Harry Tillsbury.”
He felt inexpressibly sad, as though he had lost more than just his memory, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.
Feeling hungry, he looked through the cupboards in the kitchen, and the fridge. Most of the food would require cooking if he were to eat it, but he found half a fruitcake and ate that with a glass of wine. His stomach felt unpleasantly acidic and there was a faint high-pitched buzzing in his ears.
When he looked at the ornate clock that stood on the mantelpiece, it didn’t seem to make much sense. Eventually he decided to go to bed.
He spent the following day methodically examining the entire contents of the house. He found photograph albums, lots of books, some with his face on them, letters, and things that looked as though they must have belonged to his wife. There were photographs of his wife too, and photographs of Harry, sporting a beard, with his arm around her. He couldn’t recognise her. He would have walked past her in the street without a second thought.
The house contained multiple computers but all of them required a password to log on; he didn’t have it, couldn’t remember it, and it didn’t seem to be written down anywhere.
The house had a telephone, but it didn’t ring and he had no idea who he might call on it.
A black medium-sized car stood in the drive at the front, but the key in his pocket didn’t work on it and he could find no other car key. The car looked a bit like a hearse, he thought.
His most bizarre and perplexing discovery was a pile of books with his photograph on their covers. In the photograph, he was holding a sign that said ‘fraud’ in large red capital letters.
At first he felt angry, and frightened. Someone had clearly very publicly accused him of being a fraud, in some sense or another. Then he realised the books bore a picture of him on the back as well, identifying him as the author.
Why would we write books accusing himself of being a fraud? It made no sense. He opened one of the books and tried to read it, but he couldn’t understand the words at all. They seemed to dance and shimmer on the page. He wondered if they were even written in English.
After puzzling over the books for a while, he went back to the kitchen, worked out how to use the coffee machine and drank black coffee. He felt it would have been better with milk, but there was no milk in the fridge. There was frozen bread and frozen lasagne in the freezer. He toasted the bread and cooked the lasagne, burning it almost beyond the point of edibility, but not quite.
In the evening he sat and feverishly tried to remember something, anything, about his life, but nothing came to him.
He still had an uneasy sense that something was very wrong, and that perhaps he had done something he shouldn’t have, or failed in some way.
What if he simply dialled Emergency and told them he needed help? What if he had done something wrong? Perhaps he should throw himself on the mercy of the police in that case. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life rattling around an empty house with no memory of his entire past. He needed medical attention.
At other times the conviction seemed to rise in him that he had really messed up, somehow, somewhere, with something. Shouldn’t he hide away for a few weeks and try to regain his memory?
The following day, he was sitting in the living room staring blankly at his surroundings when he heard the sound of the front door opening. Again he almost panicked, but then he resolved to get a grip on himself. Why was he avoiding people? Whoever was coming in might be able to help him.
He got up and met the man in the hallway and for a moment, Harry and the man stood staring at each other, the man with a startled and horrified expression on his face.
The man seemed very familiar, and yet at the same time, Harry absolutely couldn’t place him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” shouted the man angrily. Harry backed slowly into the hallway.
“I don’t want any trouble.” said Harry.
“You sick, unhinged psychopath!” shouted the man. “Haven’t I suffered enough?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” said Harry, smiling nervously.
The man abruptly lunged at him. For a while they wrestled with each other, the man apparently trying to strangle him. Somehow Harry managed to free himself and he ran to the kitchen and tried to slam the door shut behind him. The man fell against it before he could close it and Harry pushed against the door with all his strength while the man tried to open it.
Then Harry’s eyes alighted on a half-open kitchen draw. If he could get to the draw fast enough, perhaps he could pull out a knife to defend himself with before the man could get his hands on him again. The door was slowly opening; the kitchen floor was smooth and polished, and Harry’s feet couldn’t get a proper grip on it.
He was going to have to act quickly. As quickly as he could manage, he let go of the door and sprang for the cutlery draw. He pulled out a carving knife and swung it around, intending only to threaten the man, but the man had lunged at him again. The knife severed the man’s neck and blood began spurting out in great jets.
The man fell on the floor in a heap.
“Oh no.” said Harry. “Oh no. What have I done? What have I done?”
The jets of blood gradually subsided as he stood watching.
“Ambulance!” he suddenly said to himself, and he ran for the phone in the living room.
He picked up the phone and was about to dial the emergency number, but then he realised he couldn’t remember it, and he sank to his knees, groaning.
After a while he got up the nerve to go back to the kitchen. The man was quite dead, and the entire floor of the large kitchen was almost entirely covered in blood. An incredible amount of blood, he thought.
He would go to prison for this. There could be no question of it. He, Harry, had hardly a mark on him, aside from some tender spots on his neck where the man had tried to throttle him. The man, on the other hand, was now nothing but an exsanguinated corpse.
Carefully stepping around the enormous pool of blood, he took a bottle of vodka that stood next to a spice rack, and took two great gulps of it.
“Clean it up.” he thought. He had to clean up the mess. Once the blood was out of his sight, and the corpse, perhaps he could think more clearly about what to do next.
He searched and found a mop and bucket, and began to laboriously mop up the blood.
It was while he was mopping the blood, wondering what to do with the body, that he noticed the pool at the back of the house. It was entirely covered with a plastic sheet. He went out and unfastened the sheet and brought it into the living room. Then he fetched the knife, and after rinsing it, used it to cut the pool cover in two. Half of it should be more than enough to wrap up the corpse, he thought.
The man is clearly some sort of criminal. Probably no-one will miss him. It’s the right thing to do. Wrap him up and bury him in the garden. No — better still, take him somewhere remote.
If only he could find the key for the car, he could drive the body out to some remote spot and bury it there.
He carefully rolled up the half of the pond cover that he didn’t need and propped it in the corner. Then he took a towel and wrapped it around the man’s neck to absorb any blood that he hadn’t already mopped up. Then he put the pond cover next to the man and rolled him into it.
He found some parcel tape in a drawer and began to methodically parcel the man up. When he’d finished he dragged the parcel to the side of the kitchen and then retreated to the living room with the bottle of vodka, and flopped onto the sofa.
“Somebody please help me.” he murmured to himself miserably.
Why had the man tried to kill him? He replayed the man’s words in his mind. What are you doing here?
Why shouldn’t he be here? He knew the man somehow, he was sure of that. The man’s face had definitely seemed familiar.
He rose to his feet unsteadily and checked the clock. It was either half-past-eleven or half-past-twelve. He wasn’t sure which and couldn’t quite remember how to read clocks, but it was one of the two, he was almost sure. Either way, the sun was in the sky so it was around noon.
How many days had he been there now? He was moderately certain he had spent no more than one full day there, although it seemed like more. Then he remembered his phone, and he felt in his pocket for it. It wasn’t there.
For two hours he sat on the sofa, sipping vodka from time to time, miserably wondering what to do next.
The corpse would start to smell eventually. He would have to do something with it within a few days. He still couldn’t remember anything. Who was the man he had killed? Was he involved in some sort of criminal conspiracy with him?
A knock at the door almost made him jump out of his skin.
His first instinct was to hide, but a desperate hope arose within him that whoever was at the door might be able to tell him who he was and why he couldn’t remember anything.
He made a snap decision and marched to the door.
When he opened the door, a shortish man stood there, with black receding hair.
“I got your message.” said the man. He seemed angry.
“Oh?” said Harry.
The man pushed past him and went into the living room. Harry closed the door and followed him. The man rounded on him.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” he said. “We agreed.”
“I wanted to be at home.” said Harry.
“You wanted to be at home?” said the man. “Oh, well that’s lovely, isn’t it? You wanted to be at home. That’s just great. Are you aware he’s gone missing?”
“Who’s gone missing?” said Harry.
“Steve, you fool. No-one’s seen him since the symposium. We are screwed. Screwed!”
The man was almost shouting.
How should he best handle this man, Harry wondered to himself. He wished he hadn’t open the door. He should never have opened the door.
“This is the last place you should be, you bloody idiot.” said the man. “Has anyone seen you here?”
“No.” said Harry.
His heart was in his mouth. Whoever this terrifying individual was exactly, and whatever his connection to him, none of it seemed to bode well.
The man didn’t seem quite in his right mind. He was twitching oddly, as if on some sort of powerful stimulant.
“What the devil is that?” said the man, suddenly catching sight of the parcelled-up body of the first man through the half-open kitchen door.
The man ran into the kitchen and began prodding at the parcelled corpse.
“Who is this?” he said. “Is it him? It’s him, isn’t it?”
Harry silently weighed the options. Should he say it was him, or should he say it wasn’t him?
“Is it him?” said the man again, almost shouting.
Hoping to placate the man, he said, “Yes, it’s him.”
“Why?” said the man. “I can’t be a part of this. This isn’t what I intended. Not at all!”
The man paced back and forth, twitching.
Then, arriving at a sudden decision, he said, “I have to see for myself.”
He took a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and began cutting away the plastic around the corpse’s face.
“I wouldn’t do that.” said Harry. “He’s still leaking a bit. He attacked me. I cut his neck open. It was self-defence.”
“What was he even doing here?” said the man.
“I don’t know!” said Harry.
Finally the man was able to pull the plastic away from the corpse’s face.
“It is him.” he said.
“I told you it was him.” said Harry, pleased to have got something right.
“Wait a minute.” said the man, peering at the face of the dead man.
Suddenly he stood up straight and turned as if experiencing a terrible shock, and staggered back against the kitchen drawers.
“It’s you!” he said.
The colour had drained completely from his face.
“Who?” said Harry, growing more perplexed by the minute.
He stepped forwards, intending to look at the corpse’s face himself in the hope of understanding what the man was talking about, but the man quickly grabbed the chopping knife that Harry had placed back in the open drawer, and held it out threateningly.
“Stay away from me!” he shouted.
“OK.” said Harry, raising his hands and showing his palms. “Everything’s OK. Be calm.”
“I never imagined you were capable of this.” said the man.
“I’m not!” Harry protested. “I told you, it was an accident.”
Suddenly the man bolted past him and ran for the front door. There was a thump, a loud yell, then silence. Harry hurried after him. He was on the floor, halfway out of the living room. Harry turned him over. He had tripped on a rug and fallen on the knife, which was now stuck awkwardly between his ribs, penetrating his heart. This second man was now also quite dead.
“Not again!”
Harry pulled at his hair.
There was only one thing to do. He unfurled the second piece of pool cover in the living room and dragged the man onto it. There was less blood this time, but it was still all over the floor and the floor was made of wood and wasn’t going to be so easy to clean as the kitchen floor. He would have to do his best.
After he had parcelled the man up, he filled a bucket with hot water, squirted some bleach into it that he found under the sink, and scrubbed at the bloodstains with a sponge.
Soon the only trace of the accident was a wet floor, and a medium-sized plastic-wrapped corpse to add to his new collection of plastic-wrapped corpses.
He collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted.
Was he in Hell? Was this his fate now, to live in this house, eating frozen food, witness to and unwililng participant in an endless succession of grisly accidents?
His mind felt almost unbearably chaotic. Nothing made sense. He couldn’t see any way out of the situation. He drank the rest of the vodka quickly, then decided to try to sleep, even though it was the middle of the day. He hadn’t slept well. Perhaps it would all make sense after more sleep. Perhaps he was even imagining the whole thing.
When he awoke it was dark. His mind felt clearer, but the corpses were still there and he still couldn’t properly understand the clock on the mantelpiece.
The sight of the two corpses made him feel ill. He decided to drag them into the garage. There was a door connecting the garage to the kitchen. The garage was empty, since the car for which it was presumably intended stood outside at the front. The garage was the logical place to stash corpses. Even if they started to smell, the smell wouldn’t bother him so much in there. He could stop up the gap underneath the connecting door between the garage and the kitchen with a damp towel, he thought. Keep the smell out.
He transferred the second, smaller man to the garage first, since he was most in the way, lying as he now was in the living room. It was as he was dragging the first man into position next to the second man that he heard an odd sound: an electronic chirp.
Was that … it sounded like someone had opened the doors of the car outside at the front using an electronic key.
He froze, and listened. There were no further unexpected sounds. It didn’t sound like anyone was out there.
He went back to the living room and peered out of the window. He couldn’t see any sign of anything happening. Then he went back to the corpse and continued dragging it, and whatever it was, chirped again.
Again he froze, and again there were no further signs of human activity.
Could the noise have come from a smoke alarm? But he couldn’t see one anywhere. Then an idea hit him, and he felt around the area where the first man’s pocket ought to be. Yes, there was something in there that felt distinctly like a car key. He fetched the scissors and carefully cut open the parcel just at that spot. After some wrangling he managed to extract a car key from the man’s pocket. He pressed the button on it, and the car at the front chirped.
Harry felt himself both alarmed and excited at the same time. Why did the man have the key to the car at the front? It made no sense at all. The man hadn’t arrived in that car. The car had been there yesterday, or was he getting even more confused? However, leaving that aside as a puzzle to be solved at some later date, he now had transportation.
He went back into the house and out through the front door, and got into the car. Could he remember how to drive? For some seconds he felt impossibly confused by the levers and controls and switches, then a kind of instinct kicked in and he placed the key in the ignition and started the car.
With a burgeoning sense of optimism, he carefully backed the car up so that the rear was as close to the garage door as possible, and he opened the boot.
The car wasn’t big but it had a fairly substantial boot, which looked as though he ought to be be able to fit two corpses into it.
He went back into the garage and opened the garage door. The cul-de-sac seemed entirely silent. Hopefully the other people are sleeping, he thought.
Getting the corpses into the boot wasn’t easy, but eventually he managed it. Then he got into the driver’s seat and started the engine again. Where was he going to go? He was too confused to understand a map even if he had one. He decided to simply drive in the hope of eventually coming across a suitable location for disposing of the corpses.
He drove for three hours. The roads were incredibly confusing and he had little idea of how fast he was going, but somehow he managed to avoid having an accident.
Eventually he pulled into a track that led off into some fields at the side of a country road.
He was shaking with anxiety. He absolutely couldn’t drive anymore.
He got out and looked around. There was a ditch by the side of the track. That would have to do.
He opened the boot and began dragging the first corpse out of it and towards the ditch.
At that moment a car turned off the road onto the track and he was caught in dazzling headlights.
Inside the car, a startled farmer and his wife gawped in astonishment at the sight of Harry trying to drag what was clearly a corpse into the farmer’s ditch.
“Better call the police, love.” said the farmer, hastily putting the car into reverse.
Part Two: The Chemist.
One month before the symposium.
“You’ve left me with no choice, Zach. I have to let you go. I’m sorry.”
Steven Carano wasn’t used to firing people and he didn’t much like it. He knew Zach loved his job.
“Steve, it was for personal use, I swear. You’ve no need to do this. Don’t do this.”
“It doesn’t matter who used it.” said Steven. “If the authorities find out one of my chemists has been manufacturing illegal drugs on my premises, they’ll close us down. You’ve literally left me with no other options.”
Zach felt something snap inside himself.
“You’ll regret this, you worthless, disloyal piece of human garbage!” he shouted.
“There’s no need for that kind of language.” said Steven mildly. “With your skills you’ll easily get another job.”
“Five years of my life down the drain because of your … your …. pusillanimity.”
Zach stormed out of the door.
“I’ll give you a reference!” Steven shouted at his retreating back. “We can say you quit to look for new challenges!”
After he’d finished storming out, Jenna stuck her head around the still-open door of Steven’s office.
“Bloody hell.” she said, sympathetically. “Are you all right?”
Steven shook his head in disbelief.
“I honestly didn’t expect him to react like that.” he said. “What was I supposed to do?”
“He’s probably wired on that stuff he’s been making in the lab.” said Jenna. “I wouldn’t worry. He’ll probably calm down. There was nothing else you could have done.”
Part 3: The Writer.
Six months before the symposium.
“It’s a cracking book, Harry, I’ll give you that. I’m just not sure how your fanbase is going to react. It’s quite a departure. This isn’t even something we could target at your demographic.”
“The people who were reading me five years ago are in their twenties now, some of them.” said Harry. “They’re growing up. Maybe this is exactly the kind of thing they’d like to read. And if not, well, we’ll target a different demographic.”
“My other concern is, it could open us up to a certain amount of legal exposure.”
Simon Herron looked Harry up and down as Harry stood looking out of the window at Tower Bridge. He still couldn’t quite believe it. In all his years as a literary agent he’d never seen anything like it. The man had got himself up as the spitting image of Steven Carano.
“All I need to know from you is, are you going to help me get it published or aren’t you?”
Simon sighed heavily.
“Adnam Books aren’t going to touch it but Bloomsbury and Random House say they’re interested. The deal we’ve got with Adnam’s only exclusive for your gothic horror novels. We’d be perfectly justified in going with one of the other big names. Are you really absolutely set on this cover photo?”
Simon pressed his fingers on the desk, framing the photograph between his index fingers and thumbs.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It sort of, well, it could be taken to imply that you’re alleging Carano is guilty of fraud.”
“He is a fraud.” said Harry. “He pretends to be this great inventor who’s going round saving people’s lives with his genius, but his drug sends people crazy.”
“That may very well be, Harry, but he’d be within his rights to sue you for defamation.”
“I disagree.” said Harry. “Check with the legal people. I believe you’ll find there’s no law at all against me carrying a sign saying ‘fraud’ while dressed as Steven Carano and looking like Steven Carano. It’s not my fault I happen to look like him. It’s an Act of God. I’m not responsible for Acts of God.”
“Yeah but the suit … and the hair. And you’ve shaved your beard off. I’ll be completely honest with you Harry, it’s not only the legal repercussions I’m worried about. I’m worried about you. Grief can do strange things to people. I had an uncle once who —”
“Fiddlesticks to your uncle!” said Harry vehemently. “The only thing I need to know is, are you with me or are you against me?”
Simon sat up in surprise.
“I’m with you, Harry.” he said. “You know that. You’re our best-selling author. You will always have the full backing of Herron and Carlysle, and of me personally.”
“Then contact the publishers and swing me a deal.” said Harry.
Part 4: The Patient.
A year before the symposium.
“Is that really it?” said Karen.
“That’s really it.” said Harry.
“Where did you get it?”
“I put the word out. Turns out I know someone who knows someone who works at the place that’s manufacturing it.”
“Are you sure it’s the real thing?”
“I’m completely sure.”
Karen shook her head dubiously.
“It would have been better to get it through official channels. I’m grateful Harry, I truly am, but what if something goes wrong? I won’t even be able to tell my doctor I’m taking it.”
“Your doctor says you’ll be dead in six months. Who cares what he does or doesn’t know. Actually it’s better if we leave him out of it. Useless idiot.”
“We don’t even know what the side-effects are.”
Harry fetched the magazine from the bookshelf and opened it at page eight. The magazine was called New Frontiers in Neuromedicine.
“It’s right here.” he said. “In the article. We believe Gliomazin has relatively few side effects compared to conventional treatment options for glioblastoma. That’s Steven Carano, the CEO of the company that invented it. The article says it’s a miracle treatment.”
Harry laid the magazine out in front her and jabbed at the relevant text. Karen’s gaze flitted tiredly over it. Suddenly something caught her attention and she smiled.
“Hey, he looks just like you.”
“What?” said Harry.
“Steven Carano.”
Harry turned the magazine around and peered at the photo over the top of his spectacles.
“His hair’s completely different and he’s clean-shaven.” he said.
“Ignore the hair and the beard. Just look at the shape of his face.”
“Well if you say so.” he said, after a pause.
“Seriously, it’s uncanny.” she said.
“I can’t see it, but if you say so, my love, I believe you. Maybe it’s a good omen. A sign.”
She switched her eyes back and forth between Harry and the photograph of Carano. Then she spluttered with laughter.
“It really doesn’t matter what he looks like.” said Harry. “What matters is that these pills might cure you.”
“If it’s so great, why isn’t it available yet?”
“I told you already, I explained it. Weren’t you listening? It’s in phase three trials right now. They’re not allowed to start selling it till they’ve finished the trials. But you’ll be dead by then, Karen. We can’t afford to wait. According to everything I’ve read, it’s just a formality. Dozens of people have been cured by this drug.”
Karen picked up the little bottle of pills and looked at it glumly, turning it around in her fingers.
“OK, I’ll try it.” she said.
“It’s the right decision.” said Harry.
Two day later, Karen Tillsbury wandered outside in a confused state and was hit by a car. She died the following day.
Part Five: The Deed.
The day of the symposium.
“I still say it’s related to hepatic pharmokinetics.” said Blaise. “The liver is key to it. Most likely the effects we’re seeing are due to the decarboxylated primary metabolite.”
Blaise looked around awkwardly as he spoke. He hated these events. Steve had persuaded him to wear a shirt, and he could feel sweat trickling down his neck and dampening his collar.
“Complete rubbish.” said Maurice. “There isn’t time for that to take place, if you look at the time series I posted on the second page.”
At that moment someone swiped Steve’s glass from the table. Blaise turned to see Steve, apparently, striding purposefully towards the bathroom.
“Hey Steve,” he said, “help me out here —”
But Steve didn’t stop. Instead he only held his hand out flat at an angle to his hip, in the awkward gesture he always made when he wanted to escape.
Blaise turned back to Maurice.
“Pretty sure Steve will back me up on this when he gets back.” he said.
“Yeah, because he’s only heard about it from you, so far.” said Maurice. “There’s another side to this thing completely.”
Steve hadn’t been able to persuade Maurice to dress up, and he was wearing a t-shirt that had the word ‘science’ on it in yellow lowercase bold letters. Blaise envied him.
No-one noticed the glass containing Steven’s drink being placed down on the table again.
A few minutes later Steve reappeared. He was wearing brown corduroy jeans with a blue button-up shirt and a beige blazer, carefully calculated to project the right balance between serious businessman and eccentric genius.
“Steve!” said Blaise. “Let me run something past you. Maurice has completely the wrong idea.”
“Shoot.” said Steven and he downed the last half-glass of his gin and tonic in two big gulps.
For several minutes they discussed the pharmokinetics of PZ-128, an interesting substance that Blaise thought might prove a useful treatment for melanoma, then Steven’s wife, Angela appeared. She slid her arm around him and said, “Sorry to interrupt, darling, Henworth just told me that van’s moved from the front. There’s a space outside now. We can move the car closer if we’re quick. Henworth says he’ll do it for us. I’d do it but these heels are a nightmare.”
“Oh, I’ll do it, don’t worry.” said Steven.
“You’re up for your speech in twenty-five minutes.” said Angela. “Better if you let Henny do it. He doesn’t mind.”
“It’ll take me all of five minutes and I could do with a walk.” said Steven. “I’ll go and do it now.”
He kissed her quickly on her cheek and walked briskly outside, leaving his cigarettes on the table.
Part Six: The Conspiracy.
Three weeks before the symposium.
Harry Tillsbury stared at the keyboard disconsolately. It was as if a giant hand had reached into his brain and plucked out all his story ideas. Before Karen had died, ideas had come easily to him. He would wake up every morning as often as not full of new ideas. Now, all he could think about was her death, and the wretched pharmaceutical company that had caused it, and their wretched CEO, Steven Carano.
The knock startled him out of a deep reverie.
He spat out an expletive. If there was one thing he hated, it was being disturbed when he was trying to write. Initially, he ignored it. Then a second knock caused him to jump to his feet, cursing.
He yanked the door open and almost shouted, “What do you want?”
The man standing in front of him was short, with a somewhat rat-like face and receding black hair.
“Mr. Tillsbury?” said the man.
“Yes.” said Harry.
“I have information that I believe may be of great interest to you.”
Harry looked him up and down suspiciously. Most likely a fan, he thought, with a story idea. If there was one thing he hated, it was fans with story ideas.
“I very much doubt that.” he said.
“It concerns Steven Carano and Gliomazin.”
The words hit Harry like a glass of cold water thrown in his face.
“You really do look like him.” said the man. “It’s really quite something. Pardon me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Zach Enfield. I used to work at Gliacore Pharmaceuticals.”
“Come in.” said Harry.
In the living room Harry motioned Zach to sit down in an easy-chair, while Harry sat down in the middle of his matching plush brown leather couch. The three-piece suite was arranged around a low wooden coffee table, upon which sat a copy of Harry’s now-notorious book, its jacket bearing the photo of Harry dressed as Steven Carano, carrying a sign that said ‘fraud’ in blood-coloured block capital letters. Zach began to explain himself and Harry listened intently, fascinated.
“Gliomazin originated with an idea I had.” he said. “We screened over five hundred variations of the drug. It was painstaking work. Without me, Gliacore would be nothing. Steve fired me for using Gliacore labs to make my own off-prescription medication.
You have to understand, I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did without artificial stimulation. Steve should have recognised that. Instead, he cast me aside like a …” He stopped, grasping for the right term. “Like a dead fish.” he said, finally.
“It certainly sounds as though you’ve been treated badly.” said Harry sympathetically. “As you know, I have my own issues with the man. I believe he has suppressed data indicating that Gliomazin causes memory loss and confusion.”
“I’ve read your book.” said Zach. “That cover alone is worth the price. I saw Steve maybe three times a week for years, and honestly, I had to do a double-take. I really thought it was him. But let’s speak frankly, Mr. Tillsbury.”
“Please, call me Harry.”
“Harry.” said Zach. “You’ve said your interest in Gliomazin and Gliacore Pharmaceuticals was sparked by your wife’s condition. You see, we were aware people were counterfeiting this drug. Naturally, I’ve said to myself, wouldn’t it make sense if his wife had actually taken the drug? And if he blamed the drug for her death? Then it would make sense that a man who formerly only wrote vampire novels would suddenly switch to writing a powerful indictment of a new drug that’s not yet even generally available.”
Harry flushed. He wasn’t sure if he liked where this was going.
“You don’t have to worry.” said Zach. “I’m not here to criticise you for doing everything you could possibly do to help your wife. Certainly not. I’m here to offer you justice.”
“Justice?” said Harry.
Zach leaned forward and adopted a hushed tone of voice, suggestive, he hoped, of great empathy.
“Nothing can bring back your wife, but the man who hyped this drug, the man who is still telling people it has almost no side effects, is walking around unpunished. I propose we give him a taste of his own medicine — literally.”
“Tell me more.” said Harry, suitably intrigued.
“See, I can’t prove that Gliomazin causes confusion and memory loss, but one of the drugs I helped test was a methylated version of Gliomazin. Essentially it’s the same drug, but fat-soluble, whereas Gliomazin is only really soluble in water. We abandoned methyl-Gliomazin because it causes profound amnesia in rats, and a pronounced degree of confusion, lasting sometimes for weeks. I believe that Gliomazin likely does the same thing in humans; less frequently, no doubt, but Steve’s minimising the risk. I propose we give him a dose of methyl-Gliomazin.”
“You’re proposing we poison Steven Carano?” said Harry.
“Only with practically the same medicine he’s handing out like sweets. Three weeks from now he’s giving a talk at the Stanfield Symposium in Kingston. It’s a major annual event where people go to showcase their new pharmaceuticals. If he were to receive a dose of methyl-Gliomazin before giving his talk, it would derail the launch completely. We’d be saving people from the same fate as your wife.”
“And you can obtain this drug?”
Zach threw a tiny zip-lock bag into Harry’s lap.
“One tablet, self-dissolving. All you have to do is slip it in Steve’s drink before he gives the talk.”
“Me? Why me? I’m a well-known writer; I can’t go around poisoning people.”
“You have to understand how things work at Stanfield. They have a series of talks interspersed with socialising. I’ve been to three of their symposiums and another eight similar events, with Steve Carano. I’ve observed Steve many times before speeches; he gets nervous, and he always follows the same routine. He’ll sit drinking and chatting, sipping on a glass of wine, or a gin and tonic. He happens to be a smoker, and about half an hour before his speech he’ll go out for a smoke. There’s a smoking area at the side of the Boltman Hotel where they hold the conference, away from the main entrance. When he gets back inside he’ll finish his drink immediately.
“He’s obsessive about this routine. He believe he needs the alcohol and nicotine to calm his nerves, and he thinks twenty-five minutes is the optimum amount of time beforehand for it to have the required effect. All you have to do is go in there and slip the substance into his drink while he’s out smoking.”
Harry inhaled noisily, pressing his lips together and frowning disapprovingly.
“And I’m the right person to do this — why, exactly?”
Zach picked up the book from the coffee table and held it with the cover facing Harry, and tapped the photograph.
“They check people on the way in, but they know Steve. If you go in dressed like this, they won’t look at you twice. You’ll dress up like him and wait outside in the back of a van. I’ll observe the side of the hotel from a safe location. When Steve comes out, I’ll send you a text. Then you’ll go in. Steve’s wife will be off socialising somewhere — she always is. Steve will be hanging around with two or three guys from his company. I know; I used to be part of that circle. You’ll walk past the table and collect his drink. If anyone says anything he has this gesture he always makes when he’s walking away and doesn’t want to talk to people. I’ll show you and you’ll practice it beforehand.
“They’ll just assume you’re going to the bathroom, and that’s where you will actually go. In a cubicle you’ll drop the tablet into his drink. Then you walk straight back, dropping the drink on the table, and head straight out the door.”
“His friends at the table will realise it’s not him.” Harry objected.
“No, they won’t, trust me. Those guys are always immersed in debates about the technical aspects of pharmaceuticals; that’s why Steve’s wife doesn’t hang around with them. She hates the techie stuff. Steve is a complete obsessive and he always wears the exact same stuff to these events. And if you shave that beard off again and we trim your hair a bit, you’ll look just like him. Remember, they’re not expecting an imposter, and everyone’s tipsy at these things anyway.”
Harry felt a thrill of excitement at the idea of so boldly dosing Carano with his own flawed pharmaceutical, but Zach’s plan still struck him as absurd and outrageous.
“I’ve made a very public show of impersonating Steven Carano.” he said. “The world knows I’ve a grudge against him. “What if someone puts two and two together and realises I’ve poisoned him?”
“No-one’s ever going to realise he’s been poisoned, much less that you were involved. But, just to be sure, I’m going to be away in Wales during the symposium, and you’re going to tell people you’re going on holiday to refresh your mind. Book a house somewhere — I suggest Cornwall. Early in the morning before the symposium, I’ll come and get you, and drive you down in the back of my van. As soon as you’ve finished, I’ll drive you back before I head back up to Wales. You’ll have a rock-solid alibi. And frankly, you won’t even need it. Even Steve himself will just think he drank too much or something. I know what he’s like and the embarrassment of fluffing his speech will crush him. It’s perfect.”
“Are you really sure you know what he’s going to wear? And you’re sure about all this stuff with the drink and the cigarette? I don’t see how you could possibly be sure about it all.”
“I’m one-hundred percent sure, because Steve Carano is an obsessive, I’m telling you. Everything he does is finely calculated. The stuff he wears when he gives speeches was designed by an image consultant. The drink and the cigarette — it’s all calculated to appear casual enough, but he has charts showing his blood nicotine and alcohol levels. He showed them to me. It’s not a normal person we’re dealing with here. He’s extraordinarily anxious and control over minutiae like this is what enables him to control his anxiety.”
Part Seven: Aftermath
A month after the symposium.
“They’re not going to charge me.” he said to Angela as he came in through the door.
She yelped in delight and flung her arms around him.
“They say there’s no case to answer since I’d been drugged, and they believe me that it was self-defence.”
Angela leaned back, her hands resting on his sides.
“I thought it would drag on for years.” she said.
“So did I.” said Steven. “I need a drink.”
He went to the fridge and took out a bottle of beer.
“It must have been so frightening and weird, darling.” she said. “Did you really think you were him?”
“Yes and no.” he said, opening the bottle. “I thought I must be a writer called Harry because that’s what the evidence pointed to, but I had no idea who this person I was supposed to be actually was. I felt so confused.”
“I’m so glad they’re not going to charge you.” she said. “I’ve been so worried about it.”
“Me too.”
He took a swig from the bottle.
“You know,” he said, “I had no idea Zach hated me so much. And it was so unfair. The drug he poisoned me with was really a completely different drug to the one we’re about to release. You can’t just methylate a chemical and claim it’s the same thing. We’ve seen one instance of confusion and amnesia out of sixty thousand people who’ve taken it so far. One. If Harry’s wife had been prescribed it in the normal way it would have had a warning on the label just in case. Apparently none of that mattered to Zach. The man was off his head on that brain rot he was making in our lab.”
“No cigarette?” she said, smiling.
“That’s one good thing about it. After two weeks of not remembering I’m a smoker, I’ve stopped feeling the urge.”