by Chris Ryan
Welcome to another day, Josh told himself, a grim smile twisting his lips. Mr Nobody. ^
He tried to lift himself. His bandaged neck was still itching, and the wound in his leg was jabbing at his nerve endings. But his torso was beginning to feel better: the strength was starting to come back to his upper body. He could feel more blood filling up his veins. Using his elbows, he levered himself upwards, taking a deep breath as he did so. He sat on the edge of the bed. Next to the single chair
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there was an old crutch, made from aluminium and plastic. About a foot away.
I can make it.
Josh started to stand. He winced as his leg rebelled against the movement. Then a blinding flash of pain burst through him. He sat down, closing his eyes, trying to bring it under control. Count, he told himself. Do anything to take your mind off it.
At the count of fifty, he tried again. More carefully this time. He stood on his right leg only, using his arms to balance himself, then took one hop. He could feel himself wobbling, and for a moment he was terrified that he might fall onto the wounded leg. But, steadying himself, he grabbed for the crutch, holding on to it as if it was the last lifeboat leaving a sinking ship.
Steady yourself, man. You can do this.
Holding on to the crutch, Josh started to hobble forwards painfully. He grabbed a blue dressing gown that was hung on a hook on the door, then stepped outside. It felt good to feel sunlight on his face again, and to smell the air. The yard measured twenty feet by fifteen. There was nothing there but scrub, and one slow-dripping tap in the corner. To his right he could see two pick-up trucks: the Ranger, which looked shot to pieces, and a three-year-old Chevy Avalanche which aside from a layer of dust covering its bodywork and one dent above the rear left wheel looked in reasonable shape. Josh looked up. In the distance, he could see a mountain: a thick slab of reddish rock that looked as if it had dropped straight into the desert from space. About a mile or so down the flat road, he could see another building, but whether it was a barn or a house he couldn't tell from this distance. Aside from that, the landscape was empty: just sand, dust and scrub stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Why the hell would anyone want to live here? he asked himself.
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For a moment, Josh lent against the window, trying to compose himself. My memories, he asked himself. Where are my memories?
He started searching around in his mind again but it was like walking through a pitch-black maze. There was nothing there to guide him. He ran through the same questions he had tried yesterday -- what's my name, how old am I, who was my mother -- but no matter how hard he concentrated, there was nothing there.
The main building was ten yards in front of him. A low bungalow, probably prefabricated, it was just one step up the housing ladder from a mobile home. The house was a rectangle, about sixty yards long, divided into different rooms. Next to it was a satellite dish, but otherwise nobody had done any work on its appearance. Not for years.
Josh stepped forward, biting his lip to control the pain in his leg as he did so. He could hear voices from a television. 'Anyone up?' he called, leaning against the aluminium frame* of the French windows that led from the kitchen into the yard.
Kate looked up, startled. 'You,' she said. 'You should be in bed.'
Josh hobbled towards her, using the crutch to steady himself. The kitchen looked as though it had been put together from a flat-pack at Wal-Mart a decade ago: a slab of Formica ran around its perimeter, interrupted only by a sink, a cooker and a pair of cupboards. Kate was sitting at the small wooden table - cheap gjne - eating a bowl of cereal. The television in the corner was tuned to Fox News.
'If I can walk, I'll walk,' said Josh. 'The first thing I need to get back is my willpower.'
Kate nodded. She was wearing pale blue slacks, and a loose blouse with the top two buttons undone, displaying an inch of freckled cleavage. Some powder and lipstick had brightened up her face. 'Sit down,' she commanded,
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pointing to the spare seat. 'You don't need any weight on that leg.'
Josh placed himself beside the table, relieved to take the weight off his feet. Naturally he couldn't remember whether he'd ever had to walk with a crutch before. But it took practice. And it was more tiring than it looked: all the weight had to be carried in his shoulders and arms. Even travelling a few yards strained the wound in his neck.
He took a sip of the coffee that Kate had placed in front of him. The caffeine hit him like a gale blowing into a tree: he could feel his head swaying as it shot into his bloodstream. It had been at least two days now since he'd had anything to drink but water, and he could feel the coffee jolt rushing through him, delivering a sudden and unexpected burst of energy.
Josh glanced towards the television. The newsreader was discussing a power cut in Memphis last night: the lights had gone off for a few brief minutes, causing a tremor of panic and alarm throughout the city. 'Could it be a repeat of the Three Cities attack of earlier this year?' asked the newsreader. 'We'll have more after this break.'
Kate looked at Josh. 'So how're you feeling?' she asked.
He paused. It was a difficult question to answer. He was in bad shape, yet, in truth, not as bad as he had been twenty four hours earlier. Physically, I'm probably starting to get better, although it's still a long road back to full health, he mused. Mentally, I'm feeling worse.
'Like a field mouse that's just been dragged backwards through a combine harvester.' Josh smiled. 'But I'm getting better - slowly. I think.'
'We'll need to do a proper check soon,' said Kate. 'Blood pressure, temperature, the works. I'm going to keep those bandages on today because I don't want to disturb the wounds. We'll change them tomorrow.' She stood up, taking down a bowl of cornflakes from the cupboard. 'Now, you
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need to eat. Get some calories back into the system. You like cereal?'
'Can't remember,' answered Josh, glancing back at her. 'I'll try.'
Kate put the food on the table. Josh dipped his spoon into the cereal, raising it to his lips. His throat was still dry and sore, and it was difficult for him to swallow. The food tasted okay: bland, but he could feel the energy starting to sink into him, restoring his strength. I have my hunger back, he thought, and that's a start.
'Even if I don't know who I am,' said Josh, pushing aside the cereal bowl and taking another sip on the coffee, 'somebody knows -- because they tried to kill me.'
'And they sure came close,' said Marshall.
The older man had just walked into the room. He poured himself a coffee and looked across at Josh. 'What do" you think happened?'
'Someone tried to kill me,'Josh repeated.'That's all I know.'
'Or you tried to kill someone?' Marshall asked.
Josh paused. The thought that he might have killed someone had been lying there somewhere, beneath the conscious surface of his mind. When you couldn't remember who you were, there was no way of knowing what you were capable of.
Marshall smiled, the lines on his weather-beaten face creasing up. 'Even out here in Arizona, a man has a couple of bullet holes in him, we reckon he ran into someone who knew who he was and wasn't tq,p well disposed to him. The trouble is, boy, we don't know who the hell you are.'
'What was I wearing?' asked Josh.
'Pair of jeans, and a black T-shirt,' replied Kate. 'They're covered in blood, and the jeans have a hole in them where the bullet went into your leg. I threw them away. Marshall has some spare pairs -- you can wear one of 'em when you feel able to walk properly'
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Josh leaned forward on the table. 'Nothing on me?' he asked. 'No wallet, driving licence, credit card?'
Kate shook her head. 'We found three thousand dollars in cash in your back pocket. It's up there on the shelf, in an envelope. Take it when you need it. Apart from that, nothing. No clue to who you might be.' She paused. 'You are clearly a man who travels light.'
; 'Three thousand dollars,' said Marshall.'What kind of man carries that amount of money around with him?'
Josh stayed silent.
'A gangster?' persisted Marshall.
Josh started to squeeze his knuckles together. 'We'll find that out when we know who I am,' he said, the statement delivered more to himself than to anyone else. 'Right now I need to know who was trying to kill me and why? What the hell was I doing there?' He looked down at the floor. 'If I can figure that out, I can start to figure out who I am.'
The sandwich tasted good. A thick slice of turkey breast, with some salad on top and a hefty dollop of mayonnaise, wrapped between two hunks of chewy white bread. Josh bit down on it, tearing off big mouthfuls with his teeth. He sipped on the Coke that he had poured into the tall, thin glass, and looked out onto the surrounding scrubland. It had a harsh beauty to it. The terrain rolled into the distance, dipping towards the far horizon, scarcely disturbed by any living thing, whether animal or human. If you wanted to hide, this would be a gqod place. I've been here before, he told himself. Mountains. Rugged landscape. Sand and dust. I don't know when or where but I've seen this or something very like it.
My memory is there somewhere.
Kate stepped out onto the porch and sat down next to him. She was holding a hypodermic syringe in her hand. Josh looked down at its needle and winced. There was only
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one man's skin that needle was going to puncture, he thought. And I'm living in it.
'You're eating,' she said softly. 'Another day or two and you'll be surprised at how strong you are feeling.'
Josh nodded. 'My body will be okay, I can feel it. It's my mind.'
'Any memories yet?'
Josh shook his head. 'Nothing.'
'You're a soldier -- we've figured that out.'
Josh nodded. 'If you say so.'
'I reckon you're British as well,' continued Kate. 'From the accent.'
'You recognise it?'
'From films, that kind of stuff. I've never been there.' Kate took her shades from her face and started fidgeting with them. 'You may not sound much like Hugh Grant. But I still reckon you're a Brit.'
'Then what was I doing here?'
'In Arizona?'
Josh nodded. 'A British soldier. Serving or not serving. Lying in a ditch with a bullet through him. That's some puzzle.'
'I'll try some associations,' said Kate. 'I'll say a word. You tell me what it makes you think of. Okay?'
Josh took another bite of his sandwich, chewing vigorously. He felt that if he could just eat enough to get his strength back, maybe he would start to drag some memories out of the back of his brain. ^
'Army,' said Kate.
Josh stopped eating. 'Nothing,' he said.
'War?'
Josh shook his head again.
'Okay, I'll try another track,' said Kate. 'Family.'
'Nothing.'
'Parents?'
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Josh shook his head once more.
'Home town?'
The look of sadness was visible on Josh's face as he shook his head yet again.
'Conspiracy,' said Kate.
Josh hesitated. The,' he replied slowly. 'You said conspiracy, and I thought of myself
'Maybe we're getting somewhere,' said Kate, a hint of excitement in her tone. 'Mystery?' she went on.
'TV, films,' said Josh, his tone hopeful.
Kate stopped him. 'No, we need real memories. Not just stuff you've seen on TV.'
'Then, nothing,' said Josh.
'If you're British, you must come from somewhere over there. Maybe Liverpool?'
'I don't know.'
'London?'
'I don't know,'Josh repeated.
'How about Manchester?'
Josh shook his "head -- it was getting to be a habit, he thought.
'Birmingham?'
'Not a sodding Brummie. Maybe it's better not to get my memory back if that's all there is to look forward to.'
'How old do you reckon you are?' said Kate.
Josh shrugged.
'You look about thirty.'
'I could be. I don't know'
'Married?' she asked.
Josh shrugged again. 'I can't remember.'
Kate laughed, raising her hand to her lips. 'I bet you use that line on all the girls.'
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FOUR
Thursday, June 4th. Afternoon.
Josh lifted his head from the pillow. He kept his eyes closed, trying to cling on to the image that had been playing through his mind as he awoke. A man falling. A boy running. A shot. Then a shout.
The shout. What was he saying?
Josh squeezed his eyes tight shut, trying to hold himself in a state where he was half awake, half asleep. The shout, he repeated to himself. What the hell did it say?
No good.
The image had gone now, consigned to the dustbin, along with all the rest of his memories.
Josh opened his eyes. He took a long drink of water, looking at the clock. It was just after four in the afternoon. He must have slept for at least twenty-four, maybe twenty five hours. His body felt lazy and tired still, but the aching in his head was starting to ease, and the itch on his neck underneath the thick layer of bandages was getting weaker.
If there was a shot, was it my finger on the trigger?
Twenty-five hours, thought Josh. Whatever Kate jabbed into me must have been the strongest stuff in her locker.
A fly landed on the sheet. Josh slammed down his fist, squashing it against the white linen. Getting my strength back, reflected Josh. And my reflexes.
He levered himself from the bed, using all the strength in his elbows. Carefully, he put his left foot on the floor,
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pressing it against the cold tiles. The pain was still there, but it didn't scream up through his leg the way it had yesterday. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the red streaks running through his pupils were not quite so thick. And the fever heat on his brow seemed to be lessening. Gently, he reached out for the crutch and started to walk.
A gunshot rang out from the yard.
Instinctively, Josh ducked, his shoulders turning sideways, his hunched posture protecting both his head and his torso from any bullets that might come flying through the window. Looking around, he started searching through the room for something that could be improvised as a weapon. Nothing. The crutch might make a staff, but against a man with a gun it would be useless.
Another shot echoed across the empty landscape. Josh looked through the window. Marshall was standing in the yard, a pistol in his hand. Fifty yards away he had lined up a row of tin cans and was firing at them one by one.
A soldier, Josh thought to himself. They said they thought I was a soldier. And those were a soldier's instinctive reactions to the sound of gunfire. Shield yourself. Stay alive. And look for a way to fight back.
He watched Marshall from the window, noticing the ease with which the older man carried the weapon in his hand. A Browning, Josh noticed. A Browning Buck Mark field pistol, with its distinctive black metal barrel and polished walnut grips.Who are these people? he wondered to himself. Why have they taken me into this house? Why are they looking after me?
What do they want from me?
A tin can had fallen to the ground as one of Marshall's bullets tore through it.
'Nice shot,' said Josh, stepping out from the porch.
The heat of the midday sun was still beating down on the parched ground. It must be at least forty degrees, reckoned
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Josh. As soon as he stepped outside, he could feel the sun burning into the back of his neck, but the air was so dry and arid that it hardly raised a bead of perspiration on his skin.
'I'm not really any good,' said Marshall. 'I can fire a gun if I have to, but I was never really blessed with a natural aim. Only a few men are.' He looked hard at Josh, his eyes narrowing. 'How about you?'
Josh shrugged. 'I would
n't know.'
Marshall smiled, walking across the dusty yard towards the back of the main building. Josh hobbled at his side, using the crutch to hold his weight as he moved forwards. He was dressed in just his gown, and the ground felt hot on the soles of his feet. 'Take a shot,' suggested Marshall. 'I think it might be good exercise for you. Get your senses working again.'
Josh just nodded. So far, he was uncertain what he should make^ of Marshall. Kate was a doctor, although even her motives were hard to figure out. But the old guy, thought Josh -- he was a puzzle without any clues.
The door swung open to reveal a storeroom full of guns and ammunition. There must have been a dozen hunting rifles stacked in rows. Josh ran his gaze over them, recognising a Saiga, a Kalashnikov, a Winchester, a Marlin and a Browning. They were all sporty, heavy-duty models with polished wooden stocks, designed to fell a deer or a stag at two hundred yards in the woods. Next to them was a range of pistols. .�
'Pick one,' said Marshall.
Josh looked at the weapons and let his instincts guide him. He took a Sig-Sauer P228 pistol, cocked it, then uncocked it and activated the firing-pin safety.
'I keep these loaded all the time,' said Marshall. 'Give it a go.'
Marshall held the gun for him while Josh hobbled outside.
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He walked across to the side of the porch, leaned his crutch against the wall and used the frame of the door to support some of his weight.
'Think you can hit one of those cans?'
'I have no idea,' answered Josh.
He released the safety, lifted the pistol and gripped the weapon in both hands, his feet positioned slightly apart like a boxer's. He raised the gun so that it Was level with his eye.
'The weaver position,' said Marshall.
'What?' asked Josh.
Marshall smiled. 'Never mind. It's a police term.'
Josh squinted, concentrating on the tiny sight at the tip of the barrel. The tin can was fifty yards distant, and only just visible. He lined up the pistol's barrel, then took a deep breath to steady the muscles in his shoulders and his forearms. Is this instinct? he wondered. Like a dog chewing on a bone. Or have I been trained to do this?
He squeezed the trigger gently, exerting only as much pressure as was needed to release the bullet. The barrel of the gun slammed backwards with the recoil but Josh had enough strength to control the kickback. Without thinking, he fired again. A double tap: two bullets in quick succession.