by Chris Ryan
No man could have survived that kind of pain. It would have been unendurable.
The biker was- dead.
Turning the key in the ignition, Josh fired the truck back into life. Wearily he started to reverse, using the rearview mirror to help him to steer the Ranger back over the broken torso of his opponent. 'Broken into a thousand pieces, pal,' muttered Josh as the debris kicked up by the Ranger's wheels spread a sprinkling of dirt over the bleeding body of the biker.
Josh pulled the truck^ back up towards the road, then slumped back, leaving the engine still idling. The pain was starting to win now. Josh could feel himself starting to lose concentration. Nothing else mattered except trying to fight back the terrible agony assailing every inch of his body. He could feel himself starting to become afraid.
'I'll drive,' said the woman, leaning across him and starting to pull him away from the driving seat. With
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difficulty, they swapped seats again. 'I'll get you home. You need treatment.'
Josh had no intention of resisting. He moved back across to the passenger seat, trying to rest his head in the space between it and the driver's place. He could feel the woman brushing her hand across his forehead, gauging his temperature. For the touch alone he was grateful.
There was nothing worse than the thought of dying alone. And right now I feel as if I really might die, Josh thought.
'Who am I?' asked Josh, looking up into the woman's eyes.
She shrugged, tossing back a lock of her red hair that had fallen down over her forehead. 'How the hell should I know? I just found you at the side of the road.'
Josh struggled to keep his eyes open, fighting to hold on to consciousness. Suddenly, he had a sense that if he closed his eyes he might never open them again. Even in the humid, sweaty cabin of the Ranger, he could feel himself growing colder. 'No, I'm serious,' he said, gripping the woman's hand hard. 'I don't know who I am.'
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TWO
Tuesday, June 2nd. Afternoon.
The sweat lay thick on Josh's forehead. He opened his eyes reluctantly. The light flooded over him as he glanced towards the window. Through the doorway he could see a yard with two pick-up trucks parked on the gravel, and a barn that looked as if it had been empty for years. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a dog barking, but otherwise it was completely silent. The heat was still stifling.
The woman was leaning across him, a swab of cotton wool in one hand and a bottle of disinfectant in the other. That perfume again, thought Josh, as the fragrance drifted over him. What was its bloody name?
The woman dabbed some disinfectant on the cotton wool, then started rubbing it onto Josh's arm.
A jolt of pain shot through his system, running deep into his spine. He pushed her aside. 'No,' he said firmly.
'Let me,' she replied. 'I'm a doctor.'
Josh looked up into her eyes. She was wearing a blue denim skirt, and a white .blouse through which Josh could just see the outline of a white lace bra. There was some make-up on her face -- a dab of face powder and some pale red lipstick -- but she still looked fresh and natural. Her hair was tied up behind her neck and a pair of sunglasses was pushed up over her forehead.
'A doctor?' said Josh, the surprise evident in the tone of his voice.
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The woman nodded. 'And you're sick. Very sick. So just lie back and let me treat you.'
Josh's gaze roamed around the room. Wherever it was, it certainly wasn't a hospital. Or a doctor's surgery. The room was about ten foot by five, with a pair of French windows at one end that led out into the yard. It was painted a pale grey-cream, but Josh reckoned that it was at least five years since anyone had run a paintbrush over it. There was nothing on the walls, and the bed he was lying on was a single, with a wooden frame and with only one sheet covering his body. Next to the bed was a jug of iced water and a face flannel. Apart from that, the room was empty. Josh lay with his head back against the pillow. A thick bandage was strapped to the side of his neck, and beneath it his skin felt burning hot. His head was throbbing with pain, as if someone was chipping away at the inside of his skulL.with a chisel. The beat of the pain was a dull, steady rhythm that kept time like a jazz drummer. Every three seconds came another beat, making it almost impossible for Josh to hold a straight thought.
First things first, he told himself. Figure out where you are, what's wrong with you. Who attacked you yesterday? And who the hell are you?
The woman dabbed some more disinfectant onto his arm, sending another bolt of jabbing pain through him. She paused, as if she was wondering where to start. 'You were shot,' she replied. 'Twice.' a
Josh nodded. 'How bad?'
'Once in the neck -- that was the worst one,' the woman replied. 'It went in just to the left of the windpipe, nicking the skin and blowing out a chunk of flesh. Another centimetre and you'd be dead. I've cleaned it up and cut away all the infected skin. That bandage stays on your neck for at least two weeks, and I'll need to change it every three
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days. Keep it clean, though, and you should be okay. You were lucky'
She sounded like a doctor, thought Josh. She could discuss his injuries with a cool, professional detachment, as if she was explaining how to fix a machine.
'The second bullet went into your left calf. Nasty and painful, but not as dangerous. It took out a chunk of flesh but didn't sever any of the main arteries. The bullet was lodged in there but I took it out, and I think the wound's pretty clean. You lost at least two pints of blood, and you're going to have a nasty scar there, but it will heal okay. I'll keep the bandage on for a few days, then go in and take another look.'
The woman looked closely at Josh. 'You're strong,' she said softly.'A lot of men would have died from these wounds. You know how to take a bullet.'
Josh sighed. The throbbing in his head was still intense. He leaned across the bed, pouring himself a glass of water and raising it to his lips. From the heat of his body, he suspected that he was suffering from a fever as well as from his wounds. 'What am I on?' he asked.
'I've patched up and cleaned your wounds, and given you some painkillers,' the woman replied. 'Trust me, you'd be feeling a lot worse without them. I haven't got any blood here, but if I had, I'd have given you some. What you lost is making you feel a lot weaker. It's going to take a few days in bed, lots of rest, and plenty to eat before you start getting your strength hack. And that's before we start worrying about the wounds healing.'
Josh examined her closely, watching how she held herself when she spoke. She certainly seemed to know what she was talking about.
'Who are you?' he asked.
The woman took the sunglasses from her forehead, holding them in her right hand. 'I'm sorry, we haven't been
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introduced,' she answered, an easy smile playing across her lips. 'My name is Kate. Kate Benessia.'
'How long have I been sleeping?' said Josh.
'Just over a day,' said Kate, putting her shades back on. 'We got here just after one yesterday. It's now three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. You slept for twenty-six hours, and, believe me, you needed it. That's partly the painkillers. But I gave you some sleeping tablets as well. A man in your state needs a lot of rest.'
Josh paused and drank some more of the water. His throat felt as if it was made of rock, and the throbbing in his head was making it hard to concentrate. Nothing makes any sense, he told himself. Who is she? What am I doing here?
'Where are we?' he asked.
'Near Fernwood, in Coconino County,' Kate answered. 'Although it's just a tiny town with a gas station, a diner and a general store, and even that's two miles away. Boisdale is bigger but that's ten miles away. So you might say we're in the middle of nowhere.'
Josh looked out into the yard. The ground was bone dry, the soil caked and cracked. A few weeds had sprouted through the earth, but even they seemed to have dried up and died. 'I'm sorry, I don't even know which country I'm in.'
Josh had heard of it. It seemed .that the general knowledge was still there. He knew what the capital of France was and how many inches made up a foot. He just didn't know anything about himself or his own history.
If only I could stop my head from hurting, thought Josh. I need to concentrate on who I am, and how I got here. / need to start remembering things.
Kate took the shades off, her eyes looking down at him
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intently. 'What were you doing lying in a ditch with two bullet holes in you?' 'I don't know,' said Josh. 'Okay, we'll worry later about how the wounds got there. Now, who are you?' A cold sense of fear started in Josh's mind, then began to creep down his spine, slowly spreading through every nerve in his body. 'I told you, I don't know.' Kate smiled, but her lips tightened as she did so, and her expression was angry. It was the kind of forced smile that doctors use on difficult patients. 'Take a deep breath, relax, then tell me who you are.' Josh could feel his hand starting to shake. I don't know, he repeated to himself. / don't even know my own name. 'Just try taking it slowly,' said Kate. 'Say it out loud. My name is . . .' Josh hesitated. 'My name is . . .' Nothing. A wound was one thing. A lump of steel could bury itself in your leg, and after a few weeks there would be nothing to remind you that it had ever happened apart from a scar. A soldier could lose his money, even a lot of his blood, and still recover. But without his name he was nothing. Get a grip, man. Remember. It's there somewhere, you just have to find it. 'I ... I can't remember,' Josh said, looking up at Kate. Her expression told him that she was suspicious. Her eyes were narrowing, and a frown had started to crease her brow. 'Think,' she said. 'Just relax and think.' Josh shook his head. 'I can't,' he stammered nervously. 'I don't know.' 'Your age, then,' said Kate.
My age, thought Josh. I feel about a hundred and three right now, but that's not it. He attempted to think, taking
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a moment to try and bring the throbbing in his head under control. Nothing. The memories just weren't there.
'I don't know,' he replied.
'Okay,' said Kate. 'Your mother's name?'
'Nothing,' answered Josh, shaking his head. 'Is that sort of memory loss possible?' he asked, looking back up at Kate. 'Medically?'
'It's rare, except when it is drug-induced,' she said. 'But it can be a consequence of severe injuries. Maybe the bullet wound to your neck has done something to your nervous system.'
Josh closed his eyes for a second. He tried again, stretching the muscles of his mind to see if he could recover anything, but it was like pushing your foot on the accelerator of a car that had an empty petrol tank.
'Can it be fixed?' He looked up at her, scrutinising her reaction.
Kate lowered her eyes, then looked back into his.'Depends,' she said slowly. 'Usually it's just a short-term thing. A few days' rest and recuperation, then it will all start to come flooding back.' A smile suddenly curled her lips. 'A month, and you'll be remembering your second cousin's birthday'
'And unusually?' asked Josh. 'What then?'
'I'm not an expert, so I can't really say,' answered Kate. 'Memory is a very delicate thing. Nobody really understands what memories are, or where they are stored. People forget things all the time, then remember them, then start remembering them slightly differently. Who can say how all of that works?'
'Which means that I might not be okay?'
'Which means that if the memories don't come back naturally in a week or two, then you're into a strange place which doctors don't understand very well.'
Josh lay back on his pillow. He was fighting a desperate urge to rip the bandage from his neck, and start scratching
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his wound: it was itching, as if pepper had just been rubbed into the raw skin. His leg was aching too, and his eyes were starting to water from the constant throbbing in his head. A fly had come through the window. It flicked past Josh, then landed on the side of his cheek, but he lacked the strength to swat it away. Kate brushed it off for him.
'I know nothing about myself,' he said, speaking as much to himself as to the woman at the side of his bed. 'I don't even know what I do.'
'He's a soldier,' said a man standing in the doorway.
Josh glanced upwards.The man was about sixty, with grey hair combed back over his head, grown long so that it reached the top of his shoulders. He was wearing black jeans and a pale blue linen shirt. His skin was tanned and heavily lined, carved like an old piece of granite. And his nose was long and prominent.
'This is my father,' said Kate. 'Marshall.'
Marshall walked forward, standing next to the bed and examining Josh as though he were a piece of livestock at a cattle market: he was probing Josh's character and worth, without any detectable trace of sympathy.
'You said I was a soldier?' Josh asked.
Marshall nodded. 'Yes,' he replied. 'You have the build and physique of a military man. Seen some action as well, I reckon.' The words were delivered slowly and carefully.
Josh tried to sit up, but the pain in his body was too great: he could command his muscles to move, but right now he could not make them oljey. 'What makes you say that?'
'I was a soldier myself, once,' said Marshall.'Vietnam. Two tours. 1968 to '69. Then 1971 to 72. The worst of it. Saw a lot of men get wounded. So I like to think I can recognise the scars.'
He leaned over, gently removing the cotton sheet that was covering Josh. He pointed towards a scar running across his abdomen. 'See this?' he continued, his voice dropping
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down to a whisper. 'Knife wound. Whoever gave it to you was clearly aiming for your heart, but you rolled sideways, took it in the stomach instead. That's military training. If the blade is going to cut you, try to make sure it's somewhere it can't do too much damage.'
Marshall moved sideways. 'Then here,' he said, pointing to the top of Josh's leg. 'That's a scar from where a dumdum bullet has gone in. Only on a battlefield are you going to find that kind of ammunition in use.'
Marshall shrugged. 'There has to be some explanation for those scars on your body. You could just be some smalltime drug dealer who's got caught up in one too many street fights, but I don't think so. Look, a series of small wounds up the side of your rib cage. Those are frag wounds, the kind you get from a hand grenade. That tells me you're a soldier.'
'What kind of soldier?' asked Josh.
Marshall shrugged. 'A lucky one, I'd say, and that's the best kind. You took a lot of damage yesterday, and you've taken some big hits before. But you're still alive. Be grateful for that. There are plenty who aren't.' He ran his right hand through his long, greying strands of hair. 'Those tattoos. They're military as well.'
At the top of Josh's arm a pair of wings was etched in thick black ink, the design fluttering every time he moved his shoulder muscle. Beneath the wings was the letter 'O', then the word 'Pos'.
'Do you know what that meansj' asked Marshall.
Josh shook his head. Wings, he was wondering to himself. What the hell have I got that for?
'British Parachute Regiment,' said Marshall. 'An Opos will be your blood group. A lot of soldiers get that info tattooed onto themselves so that the doctors know what to pump into them if they get dragged off the battlefield and need a lot of blood in a hurry'
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'He needs sleep, dad,' Kate interrupted.
Josh looked up towards Marshall. 'Someone came after us on a bike,' he said. 'He was trying to kill us.'
'Seems like you're an unpopular man,' said Marshall drily.
'Who the hell was it?' snapped Josh.
Kate looked at him fiercely. 'You need to sleep,' she repeated.
'I need to know who was on the bike,' Josh shot back.
'Later. Sleep first,' said Kate quickly.
'Easy, boy,' said Marshall. 'She's just trying to help.'
'This will help you sleep,' said Kate softly. 'You need it. You're very weak.'
Josh could feel his eyes starting to close. For a moment he resisted. A sense- of dread overcame him. He could feel the sweat trickling off his forehead. Get a grip, he commanded himself, for the second time that afternoon. You'll be okay. You just need to get some sleep, and start getting your strength back. Then you can figure out who you are and what happened to you.
His mind emptied. Except for a single image that now flashed through his mind. It was briefly as clear and vivid as a picture on a cinema screen. A boy running. And a man falling to the ground.
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THREE
Wednesday, June 3rd. Morning.
Josh reached up to feel his forehead. The sweat was still there, but there was less of it than he remembered from yesterday. A light breeze was wafting in from the two open doors: the air was hot but dry, and somehow its movement cooled his face.
Sleep, he told himself. You must restore your strength:
Slowly he opened his eyes. The light was fierce, but he couldn't see enough of the sun from his bed to get any fix on the time. Morning, that was all he could tell. He reached across for the water, taking the full glass and throwing its contents down his throat. The skin inside his mouth was parched and dry, the way it would get after a hard drinking session, and even a second glass did nothing to help.
His head was still throbbing but now it was only as if someone was chipping at the inside of his skull with a screwdriver, not a chisel.