by Alex Bell
19th August
I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that it will not do simply to wait for my family to return. After all, who knows how long that might take? I must find out about myself now. I hate to think that there might be something sinister in all of this, but . . . there was this distasteful episode that occurred yesterday. I was in a park, not far from where I live. The day was bright and sunny, and there were families having picnics and going for walks and playing games out there.
A fat boy scampered over towards the bench where I was sitting. He must have been about six or seven. The sticky remnants of old sweets and ice-creams covered his grubby t-shirt, and there was a horrible eager glee in his little eyes. At first I didn’t realise what he was doing as he pounced on something in the grass. But when he sat back triumphantly, I saw that he was gripping a large, beautiful butterfly in his plump hands. As I watched, the boy tore off the creatures’ wings and several of its legs.
The strangled yell of pure horror that escaped my lips startled me as much as it did the kid, who dropped the dying butterfly to thrash and curl on the grass in dreadful spasms of silent agony. I don’t know why the sight was so nauseating to me. After all, it was only a butterfly. But in one movement I stamped down on it as hard as I could, rounded on the brat and before I knew what I was doing, I had struck him hard across the face with the back of my hand, once, twice.
‘Look what you made me do!’ I hissed furiously, gesturing at the broken dead thing in the grass.
And as I stared at him, a savage desire rose up and rushed through me. The desire to hit him, to hurt him, to cause him to feel pain such as he had himself been happily inflicting only moments ago. He ought to know what it felt like. He was dribbling blood already from where his teeth had cut into his mouth, but it wasn’t enough for me. I should have felt ashamed of that, shouldn’t I? I should have been horrified. As it was, within moments the kid was screaming loudly enough to alert everyone in the park. Instinct took over and I ran from that place as fast as I could.
I couldn’t get back to the darkened haven of my apartment quickly enough. Slamming the door behind me, I then locked all the locks, pulled across all the bolts and drew all the curtains over the windows with shaking hands. Then I folded myself into the small, dark gap between my bed and the wall, covering my head with my trembling arms. How could you, accusatory voices whispered to me; how could you? What’s wrong with you?
When the whispers stopped and I at last looked up, the room was pitch black and my back and shoulders ached horribly. How long had I sat there, muttering to myself? Am I really dangerous? Do I belong in some kind of mental institute?Some kind of prison? Do I? After all, I didn’t really hurt that boy. A couple of stitches and he would be fine. Everyone loses their temper sometimes, don’t they? I mean, everyone does it. There will always be ugliness. It’s not only me.
24th August
I still know next to nothing about who I am. It panics me sometimes; makes me feel like a shadow. But I’m not - shadows don’t have names. I have a name: Gabriel Antaeus. Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel Antaeus. After all, I sleep, I eat, I bleed. That must mean something? I knew I could bleed from the way I had found myself here at the beginning of August but I cut myself with a knife the other day just to make absolutely sure. There was blood, so that cheered me. The sight of it horrifies me, though. It goes beyond mere squeamishness; it is a true horror. I must just be one of those faint-hearted people, I suppose. Probably because I have spent my whole life around books. I have written books. One book, anyway. I found the manuscript when I was going through my desk. It was entitled Dante’s Hell: A Theological Study. Skimming through it, I saw that it was an in-depth study of the structure of Hell, complete with references to demons and the nine circles of sin.
As I read through it, I remembered the subject matter. The manuscript dealt with the depiction of Hell put forward by Dante Alighieri in his poem Divina Commedia. But the manuscript I found in my desk argued that it was no mere poem; that Dante had really travelled down to the bowels of the Earth, through the nine concentric circles of Hell right to the frozen core where the Devil himself was held immobilised. The claim, of course, is quite preposterous, and with such wild and unsubstantiated theories it is no wonder that the script remains unpublished, assuming publication was ever sought. It unsettled me to find my name in the top right-hand corner of every page of the manuscript - I hate to think that I might actually have written this fanatical work. But at the same time, it pleases me that I am a writer. What danger is there in that? What violence could there possibly be in that?
Neatly arranged in a file in one of the desk drawers, I found all my banking and tax records. Having studied these I can see that I am, in fact, a very wealthy man indeed. It’s no wonder my rooms are filled with such fine things, although the state of the apartment itself puzzles me for I could easily have afforded something much nicer with my savings, not to mention the cash I’d found in the kitchen. It was nice to discover that I don’t need to be concerned about my financial situation, anyway. I also found my passport tucked away in the bottom drawer, which confirmed that I am a citizen of the United Kingdom. For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps my family were all still living in the UK? My hand automatically went to the box of fish food permanently in my pocket. Perhaps there were no fish? No one about to return from holiday?
But, God, what am I saying? No fish? No fish? There must be a holiday; there must be fish ... otherwise why the hell am I carrying fish food around in my pocket like this? No, the fish are real - I know they are.
I found contact details for my landlady in my desk. When I phoned her, she seemed completely uninterested in speaking to me, and really wasn’t of any use at all. My tenancy agreement is a standard one and began at the start of August. It was clear she knew next to nothing about me - she even called me by the wrong name more than once during the conversation. But then, why should she know me? I would hardly have poured out my life story to her when I arranged to rent the apartment.
I’d hit a dead end. There were no people around . . . at least, not until my family returned. In the meantime, I examined one of the few clues I had: my name. Gabriel Antaeus. I typed it into Google one day, stupidly thinking that a website may come up telling me all about myself. But there was nothing - not even other Gabriel Antaeus’s that I could search through. It’s an unusual name, I suppose.
Having found the internet no use, I turned to the books on my shelves. Of course, the name Gabriel has very strong religious and biblical, in particular angelic, connotations. The Hebrew meaning translates as ‘man of God’ and everyone knows of the archangel Gabriel of the New and Old Testaments. My books are all stacked alphabetically, and I have several that refer to angels and their realm. Clearly this issue of my name is one that has bothered me before, for my books are heavily annotated with all references to Gabriel underlined or highlighted.
You’d think that being named after an angel would not have any negative, any frightening, connotations whatsoever. But you’d be wrong. For angels are scary. I have had nightmares about them. I found the internet to be of little use, for the websites all spoke of the ‘new age’ angels so beloved by hippies and self-proclaimed healers and psychics. These angels were forgiving and loving, and covered people in golden light and love, inspiring feelings of well-being and peace. I wish that I could find some angels like that here.
But the original angels - the biblical ones - are so very different from these modern creations. Gabriel spans several religions, being the highest-ranking angel of the Christian, Hebrew and Moslem faiths. According to Mohammed, Gabriel was the author of the Qu’ran. Mohammed was meditating in a cave when he was visited by Gabriel in a vision that so terrified him in its violence and hostility that it left him feeling suicidal. I find this story very disturbing. It’s gone round and round my head. Angels should not be violent.
I’ve had trouble placing the origin of my surname, Antaeus. French, perh
aps? But I know I’m British because of my passport. And my accent . . . not that I ever really speak aloud, for I have no one to speak to and I don’t talk to myself in the privacy of my own home the way some people do. My apartment is always silent, whether I’m in it or not. Perhaps I should start talking aloud as I write in this journal. I hate that my voice still seems unfamiliar to me, still startles me if I speak without thinking. Yes, I think I will start to do that. It is not enough to write; I want someone to talk to as well.
But I’ve reached a dead end anyway. So what now? I’m too afraid to go to the hospital. All this fear . . . am I just the most terrible coward? I can’t go to a hospital or the police because they’ll ask questions, and I have a large and unexplainable stack of cash in my possession, now hidden away under the floorboards. What did I do to earn that money? I can’t let them find it. I can’t go to prison. Not now when I have so many fish to feed.
I hope I merely stole the money. I could live with being a thief. There are worse sins than thieving, although that crime in itself is disgusting to me . . . I think I might just be suffering from stress. I mean, I’ve waited patiently, haven’t I? It’s been over two weeks now and I haven’t remembered anything, and it’s not fair at all! I hate being stuck with a stranger like this. But it can’t be much longer before someone I know makes contact with me . . . an old friend who wants to catch up, or borrow something, or ask my advice, or whatever. I can’t go to them because I can’t remember them. But, soon, one of them will find me and this whole ridiculous situation will be all smoothed out, and there will be a rational explanation about the money, and I will remember everything. In the meantime, I will keep to myself in case I hurt someone again. It is not right to hit children. It’s not right. I shouldn’t have done it. I will order food to the door and I won’t leave my apartment until I know it’s safe. Just for now, this journal will have to do until I can find some people from somewhere.
29th August
Five days have passed since I last wrote here. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I’m dripping wet, my clothes are stained with splatters of blood, and there is a bleeding gash at the back of my head that is swelling up into a painful lump already. For four days I kept to my decision to stay inside the apartment. But this morning, I decided that I might have overreacted to the incident with the boy and the butterfly. And I was tired of takeout food. So I went to a nearby restaurant: the Pest Buda Vendèglö. I don’t like eating alone - it depresses me. I ordered a Hungarian traditional speciality, Libamàj Zsirjàban - goose liver fried in its own fat - along with a glass of dry Pinot Noir. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth so I would usually skip dessert, but the Vendèglö does the most delicious Gundel Palacsinta and I was reluctant to return to my apartment too soon, so I ordered the dessert to extend the evening.
I had been feeling almost content until the couple at the table next to me started to argue. Quietly at first, and then the man started to raise his voice and the woman was crying and other diners were looking embarrassed and pretending they hadn’t noticed.
The man stormed out in the end, leaving the woman alone at the table, looking miserable and embarrassed. I should have felt sorry for her like everyone else. But all I could feel was envy. At least she had someone to argue with, the lucky bitch. They must surely care about each other a lot to argue so fiercely. I could have hated them for it.
I lost my appetite, and pushed away the remainder of the sweet pancakes—And then I saw her. She was staring in at me through the window from the dark street outside, her nose pressed up against the glass. She was a little distorted from the ripples of the window, but she was clearly shocked by the sight of me. And she recognised me. I know she did. Pure instinct made me jump to my feet in excitement. She was middle-aged. In her forties, I would say, with the most beautiful chestnut hair. She saw that I’d spotted her and turned away from the window at once.
I called out to her as she walked quickly off into the night, and made to follow - but then remembered the meal and hastily threw down a roll of notes, probably leaving far too much on the table before striding from the restaurant.
Once on the darkened street outside, I strained my eyes, hoping I was not too far behind her. My only thought was to catch her up and make her tell me what she knew. For she did know something about me, I was quite sure in my mind about that. I’d seen it when our eyes met. For a moment I thought I’d missed her. There were few people out and about at this time of night in this area, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else within view as I stood there in the shelter of the restaurant archway. But then, by chance, I saw a head of chestnut hair disappearing down a side street and, with a strangled yell of excitement, I set off after her at a run. Thrills of anticipation rushed through me as I chased her. The mist hanging in the air clung to me and wet my hair and clothes even as rain began to fall in a gentle, hushed whispering that dampened out all other sound.
Within moments my clothes were soaked through. Feet sliding on the wet cobbles, I rounded the corner and set off down the dark alleyway behind the running woman. Anger flared suddenly and I was aware of a snarl curling my lips. Damn her, why did she run from me? I wasn’t going to hurt her. I just wanted her knowledge. Information, memories, answers - that was all I wanted. She was fast, though, and seemed to know where she was going as she sped deeper into the maze of back streets that we were both now quite lost in. I’m very fit and a fast runner myself, but I always seemed to be just a few yards behind the chestnut-haired woman. It was infuriating. Several times I almost lost her in the rain and mist, the only light coming from the shadowed moon above and the soft, reflected light from elsewhere in the city.
She had been running with surprising speed, as if she was scared out of her mind. So I was not prepared for her to suddenly come to a dead stop in the middle of a darkened street. I, too, slid to a halt, panting and trying to get my breath back as she turned towards me, her face half hidden in shadow. She did not seem at all breathless, and for long moments we simply gazed at one another in silence, the rain falling around us, drenching the cobbles beneath our feet. I had been about to ask her who she was, her name, how she knew me . . . but her expression stopped me. Deep, harsh lines were etched into her face, and there was raw fear in her eyes as she gazed at me in silence. And then she spoke, in a quiet, desperate voice, which somehow I managed to hear above the rain.
‘Eltévedtem.’
I’m lost.
I stared at her. Rainwater ran down the back of my neck and down my face, dripping from my chin and the ends of my eyelashes. After a moment I took a step towards her. I would help her. I’d find a way to assist her somehow. But then I noticed a movement in the darkness and realised that we were not alone in the alleyway.
‘Tessék vigyàzni!’ Look out! I yelled as a man stepped out of the shadows at her back.
I made to run towards them, but pain exploded suddenly behind my eyes as someone struck the back of my head, hard. In my preoccupation with the mystery woman, I had failed to realise there were other men behind me. A broken cobble bit deep into my cheek and my teeth seemed to go halfway through my lip when I hit the ground, warm blood filling my mouth and running down my face. Someone grabbed my shoulders and twisted me onto my back, running practised fingers through my pockets. Rain fell into my eyes and the moon above me seemed to spin nauseatingly in the night sky. I was aware of the thief ’s crow of glee as he drew out my well-filled wallet.
Perhaps hoping to find more riches, the thief was still leaning over me when I spat a mouthful of blood into his face. He jerked back instinctively, and at the same time my hand whipped out and gripped his ankle. One swift jerking movement and he’d slipped over on the wet cobbles, sprawling on his back beside me. Others started running towards us.
Afterwards I counted five of them on the ground around me. They had hardly touched me, for all that they had attacked together. There had been no conscious thought involved at all. Some of them had knives and other makes
hift weapons, but it had been an easy enough thing for me to twist their hands back round on themselves so that they couldn’t help but drop their knives of their own accord, turning their strength against them, bones snapping like twigs so that I hardly even broke a sweat. The stronger they were, the easier it was. With the right movements, they would break their own bones for me. How painfully easy it was. Like shooting fish in a pond with a bazooka. There’s no need for endless, energy-sapping punches and kicks when pressure applied to a certain place on a man’s neck will render him unconscious before he’s even realised what you’re doing. You just have to know where to press.
I don’t think the fight went on for very long. I was disappointed when they stopped getting up. It had been too easy. It had been far too easy! I was not ready for it all to be over yet. My heart was thumping in my chest with exhilaration, and I wanted more! I kicked one of them a couple of times, hoping it might incite him to get up, but all I got out of him was a muffled groan. They were all much larger than me, I noted with fierce pleasure as I bent and retrieved my sodden wallet from the ground.
It took me another moment before I remembered why I had been in the alley in the first place. I looked up sharply but, in all the turmoil and disorder, the woman had fled. The alley was quiet and deserted once more, save for the soft whisper of the falling rain. I’d saved her from being mugged or raped, or worse. She had escaped. I’d saved her from her own folly at running deep into one of Budapest’s dark, deserted side streets - the predatory silence of a sordid, greedy night.