by Ellen Datlow
“NO!” Weybridge shouted. He did not want any more drugs. There had been too much in his bloodstream already. He had the impression that there had been a time when his veins had been hooked up to tubes, and through the tubes, all sorts of things had run into his body. He thought that he must have been wounded, or … A light truck overturned and burst into flame as a few men crawled away from it. Had he been one of the men? Where had the accident occurred? He put his hands to his head and pressed, as if that might force his mind to squeeze out the things he needed to know.
Malpass had retreated to the door and was signaling someone in the hallway. “Just a little while, David. You hang on,” he urged Weybridge. “We’ll take care of you.”
Weybridge pulled one of his pillows over his face in an attempt to blot out what was left there. Gouts of flame, shouts and cries in the night. Bodies riven with bullets. Where were they? Who were they? Why did Weybridge remember them, if he did remember them?
Another nurse, this one older and more massive, came barreling through the door, a steel tray in her hand. “You calm down there,” she ordered Weybridge so abruptly that his fear grew sharper.
There was a chill on his arm and a prick that warmed him, and shortly suffused through him, turning his world from hard-edged to soft, and making his memories—what there were of them—as entrancing as the boardwalk attractions of loop-the-loop and the carousel.
Later that day, when Weybridge babbled himself half awake, they brought him food, and did what they could to coax him to eat it.
“You’re very thin, Mr. Weybridge,” the head nurse said in a tone that was more appropriate for an eight-year-old than a man in his late thirties.
“I’m hungry,” Weybridge protested. “I am. But …” He stared at the plate and had to swallow hard against the bile at the back of his throat. “I don’t know what’s the matter.”
“Sometimes drugs will do this,” the head nurse said, disapproval in her tone and posture.
“You’re the ones keeping me on drugs,” he reminded her nastily. “You don’t know what—”
The head nurse paid no attention to him. She continued to bustle about the room, playing at putting things in order. “Now, we’re not to lie in bed all day. Doctor says that we can get up this afternoon for a while, and walk a bit.”
“Oh, can we?” Weybridge asked with spite. “What else can we do?”
“Mr. Weybridge,” the head nurse reproached him. “We’re simply trying to help you. If you just lie there, then there’s very little we can do. You can see that, can’t you?”
“What happened to the we all of a sudden?” He wanted to argue with her, but lacked the energy. It was so useless that he almost wished he could laugh.
“That’s better; you’ll improve as long as you keep your sense of humor.” She came back to the foot of his bed and patted his foot through the thin blankets. “That’s the first step, a sense of humor.”
“Sure.” How hopeless it seemed, and he could not find out why.
By the time Malpass came back, Weybridge had enough control of himself that he was able to take the man’s kind solicitations without becoming angry with him.
“You’re going to get better, David,” Malpass promised. “We’ll be able to debrief you and then you can get away from all this. If you cooperate, we’ll make sure you’ll have all the protections you’ll need.”
“Why would I need protections?” And what kind of protections? he added to himself.
Malpass hesitated, plainly weighing his answer. “We don’t yet know just how much you did while you were with the other side. There are probably men who would like to eliminate you, men from their side as well as ours. If we put you under our protection, then your chances of survival increase, don’t you see that?” He stared toward the window. “It would be easier if we could be certain that you’re not… programmed for anything, but so far, we can’t tell what is real memory and what is … random.”
“That’s a nice word for it: random.” Weybridge leaned back against the pillows and tried to appear calm. “Do you have any better idea of what happened?”
“You were in prison for a while, or you believe you were in prison, in a very dark cell, apparently with someone, but there’s no way to tell who that person was, or if it’s your imagination that there was someone there.” He coughed. “And we can’t be sure that you were in prison at all.”
Weybridge sighed.
“You have to understand, David, that when there are such states as yours, we … well, we simply have to … to sort out so much that sometimes it—”
“—it’s impossible,” Weybridge finished for him. “Which means that I could be here for the rest of my life. Doesn’t it?”
Malpass shrugged. “It’s too early to be thinking about that possibility.”
“But it is a possibility,” Weybridge persisted.
“Well, it’s remote, but… well.” He cleared his throat. “When we have a more complete evaluation, we’ll talk about it again.” “And in the meantime?”
“Oh,” Malpass said with patently false optimism, “we’ll continue to carry on the treatment. Speaking of treatment,” he went on, deftly avoiding more questions, “I understand you’re going to be allowed to walk today. They want you to work up an appetite, and you need the exercise in any case.”
“The head nurse said something about that,” Weybridge responded in a dampening way.
“Excellent. Excellent! We’ll tell headquarters that you’re improving. That will please the Old Man. You know what he can be like when there’s trouble with an operative in the field.” He rubbed his hands together and looked at Weybridge expectantly.
“No, I don’t know anything about the Old Man. I don’t know anything about headquarters. I don’t recall being an operative. That’s what I’m being treated for, remember?” He smashed his left arm against the bed for emphasis, but it made very little sound and most of the impact was absorbed by the softness.
“Calm down, calm down, David,” Malpass urged, once again speaking as if to an invalid. “I forgot myself, that’s all. Don’t let it trouble you, please.”
“Why not?"Weybridge demanded suspiciously. “Wouldn’t it trouble you if you couldn’t remember who you were or what you’d done?”
“Of course it would,” Malpass said, even more soothingly. “And I’d want to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.”
“And you think I don’t?” Weybridge asked, his voice rising.
“David, David, you’re overreacting. I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t doing everything you can to … recover. You’re exhausted, that’s part of it.” He reached out to pat Weybridge’s shoulder. “I hear you still aren’t eating.”
The surge of nausea was so sudden that Weybridge bent violently against it. “No,” he panted when he felt it was safe to open his mouth.
“The nurses are worried about you. They can give you more IV’s, but they all think you’d do better if you …” He smiled, making an effort to encourage Weybridge.
“I… can’t,” Weybridge said thickly, trying not to think of food at all.
“Why?” Malpass asked, sharpness in his tone now. “Can’t you tell me why?”
Weybridge shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” Really? he asked himself. Do you really want to know what it is about food that horrifies you so? Or would you rather remain ignorant? That would be better, perhaps.
“You’ve got to eat sometime, David,” Malpass insisted.
“Not yet,” Weybridge said with desperation. “I need time.”
“All right,” Malpass allowed. “We’ll schedule the IV for three more days. But I want you to consent to a few more hours of therapy every day, all right?” He did not wait for an answer. “You have to get to the bottom of this, David. You can’t go on this way forever, can you?”
“I suppose not,” Weybridge said, fighting an irrational desire to crawl under the bed and huddle there. Where had
he done that before? He couldn’t remember.
“I’ll set it up.” Malpass started toward the door. “The Old Man is anxious to find out what happened to you. We have other men who could be in danger.”
“I understand,” Weybridge said, not entirely certain that he did. What if he was not an agent at all? What if that was a part of his manufactured memories? Or what if he was still in the hands of the other side—what then? The headache that had been lurking at the back of his eyes came around to the front of his head with ferocious intensity.
“We’re all watching you, David,” Malpass assured him as he let himself out of the white-painted room.
Stone regarded Weybridge with scorn when he heard about the increased therapy sessions. “Taking the easy way, aren’t you, you bastard?” He lit a cigarette and glowered at Weybridge.
“It doesn’t feel easy to me,” Weybridge replied, hoping that he did not sound as cowardly as he feared he did.
“That’s a crock of warm piss,” Stone declared, folding his arms and directing his gaze at the window. “Anyone does what you did, there’s no reason to coddle them.”
It was so tempting to beg Stone to tell him what it was he was supposed to have done, but Weybridge could not bring himself to demean himself to that hostile man. “I’m not being coddled.”
“According to who?” Stone scoffed, then refused to speak again, blowing smoke toward the ceiling while Weybridge dozed between unrecallable nightmares.
The therapist was a small, olive-skinned gnome named Cleeve. He visited Weybridge just as the head nurse was trying to coax him out of bed to do his required walking. “Out for your constitutional, eh, Mr. Weybridge?” His eyes were dark and glossy, like fur or crushed velvet.
“We’re going to walk twice around the nurses’ station,” the head nurse answered for him. “It’s doctor’s orders.”
Weybridge teetered on his feet, feeling like a kid on stilts for the first time. Dear God, had he ever walked on stilts? He did not know. The effort of a few steps made him light-headed, and he reached out for Cleeve’s shoulder to steady himself. “Sorry,” he muttered as he tried to get his balance.
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Weybridge,” Cleeve told him in a cordial tone. “All part of the service, I give you my word.” He peered up at Weybridge, his features glowing with curiosity. “They’ve had you on drugs?”
“You know they have,” Weybridge said a little wildly. His pulse was starting to hammer in his neck.
Cleeve nodded several times. “It might be as well to take you off some of them. So many drugs can be disorienting, can’t they?” He stared at the head nurse. “Who should I speak to about Mr. Weybridge’s drugs? I need to know before we start therapy, and perhaps we should arrange a … new approach.”
The head nurse favored Cleeve with an irritated glance. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Malpass about that.”
“Ay, yes, the ubiquitous Mr. Malpass,” Cleeve said with relish. “I will do that at once.”
Weybridge was concentrating on staying erect as he shuffled first one foot forward, and then the other. His nerves jangled with every move and his feet were as sore as if he were walking on heated gravel. “I don’t think I can—”
Both the head nurse and Cleeve turned to Weybridge at once. “Now, don’t get discouraged,” the head nurse said, smiling triumphantly that she had been able to speak first. “You can take hold of my arm if you think you’re going to fall.”
Weybridge put all his attention on walking and managed a few more steps; then vertigo overwhelmed him and he collapsed suddenly, mewing as he fell.
“I’ll help you up, Mr. Weybridge,” Cleeve said, bending down with care. “You appear to be very weak.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Weybridge responded vaguely. He could not rid himself of the conviction that he had to get to cover, that he was too exposed, that there were enemies all around him who would tear him to pieces if he did not find cover. Who were the enemies? What was he remembering?
Cleeve took Weybridge by the elbow and started to lever him into a sitting position, but was stopped by the head nurse. “Now, we don’t want to indulge ourselves, do we? It would be better if we stood up on our own.”
“That’s a little unrealistic,” Cleeve protested. “Look at him, woman—he’s half starved and spaced out on the chemicals you’ve been pouring into him.”
Hearing this, Weybridge huddled against the wall, arms and knees gathered tightly against his chest. He did not want to think about what had gone into him. The very idea made him cringe. He swallowed hard twice and fanned his hands to cover his eyes.
“They’re necessary,” the head nurse said brusquely. “Until we know what’s happened to this man”
Cleeve shook his head. “You mustn’t mistake his condition for the refusal of an enemy. From what I have been told, this man is one of our operatives, yet everyone is behaving as if he were a spy or a traitor.” He steadied Weybridge with his arm. “When it’s certain that he’s been turned, then we can do what must be done, but not yet.”
The head nurse folded her arms, all of her good humor and condescension gone. “I have my orders.”
“And so do I,” Cleeve said mildly. “Mr. Weybridge, I’m going to help you back to bed, and then I want to arrange to have a little interview with you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
It was an effort to nod, but Weybridge managed it; his head wobbled on the end of his neck. “I want… to talk to … someone.” He coughed and felt himself tremble for the strength it cost him.
“Good. I’ll return in an hour or so. Be patient.” Cleeve gave a signal to the head nurse. “Get him back into bed and arrange for an IV. I don’t think he’s going to be able to eat yet.”
The head nurse glared at Cleeve. “You’ll take responsibility for him, then? I warn you, I won’t be left covering for you if you’re wrong.”
What were they arguing about? Weybridge asked himself as he listened to them wrangle. What was there to be responsible for? What had he done? Why wouldn’t anyone tell him what he was supposed to have done? He lifted one listless hand. “Please …”
Neither Cleeve nor the head nurse paid him any heed. “You’ll have to tell Malpass what you’re doing. He might not approve.”
Cleeve smiled benignly. “I intend to. As I intend to ask for permission to remove Mr. Weybridge from this wing of the hospital. I think we can do more with him in my ward.” He turned toward Weybridge. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort everything out.”
“What… ?” Weybridge asked, frowning. He felt very tired, and his body ached in every joint. He supposed he was suffering from malnutrition, but there was more to it than that. Even as the questions rose again, his mind shied away from them. There was so much he could not understand, and no one wished to explain it to him. He pulled himself back onto the bed, pressing his face into the pillow, and nearly gagging on the carrion smell that rose in his nostrils. He retched, gasping for air.
“That’s enough of that,” the head nurse said with unpleasant satisfaction. “When Mr. Malpass takes me off this case, I’ll stop giving him drugs, but for the time being, it’s sedation as usual. Or do you want to argue about it, Mr. Cleeve?”
Weybridge was sprawled on the bed, his face clammy and his pulse very rapid. His face was gaunt, his body skeletal. He was like something from deep underwater dragged up into the light of day. “I… I…”
Cleeve sighed. “I’m not going to oppose you, Nurse. Not yet. Once I talk to Mr. Malpass, however—”
The head nurse tossed her head. “We’ll see when that happens. Now you leave this patient to me.” She gave her attention to Weybridge. “We’re too worn out, aren’t we?”
Weybridge hated the way she spoke to him but had not strength enough to protest. He waited for the prick in his arm and the warm bliss that came with it. There was that brief respite, between waking and stupor, when he felt all the unknown burdens lifted from his shoulders. That never lasted long—once aga
in, Weybridge felt himself caught in a morass of anguish he did not comprehend.
The walls were thick, slimy stone, and they stank of urine and rats. His own body was filthy and scabbed, his teeth rattled in his head and his hair was falling out. He shambled through that little space, maddened by fear and boredom. Someone else cowered in the darkness, another prisoner—was he a prisoner?—whose?—why?—or someone sent to torment him. He squinted in an effort to see who it was, but it was not possible to penetrate the shadows. He thrashed on his clean, white bed, believing himself in that dreadful cell—if he had been there at all.
Malpass was standing over Weybridge when he woke with a shout. “Something, David? Are you remembering?”
“I…” Weybridge shook his head weakly, trying to recapture the images of his dreams, but they eluded him. “You …” He had seen Malpass’ face in the dream, or a face that was similar. He had no idea if the memory was valid, or the dream.
“We’re having a little meeting about you this morning, David,” Malpass said heartily. “We’re reviewing your case. The Old Man is coming to hear what we have to say.”
Weybridge could think of nothing to say. He moved his head up and down, hoping Malpass would go on.
“Cleeve wants you over in his division. He thinks he can get at the truth faster with those suspension tanks of his and the cold wraps. We’d rather keep you here on drugs, at least until you begin to … clarify your thoughts. However, it will be up to the Old Man to decide.” He gave Weybridge’s shoulder another one of his amiable pats. “We’ll keep you posted. Don’t worry about that. You concentrate on getting your memory in working order.”
There was a fleeting impression of another promise, from another man—or was it Malpass?—that winked and was gone, leaving Weybridge more disoriented than before. Who was the man he had seen, or thought he had seen? What had he done? Or was it simply more of the confusion that he suffered? “How soon will you know?”