by E. M. Brown
He came to the exit and left the hospital. The sun was still shining, but with little warmth; he buttoned his jacket and turned up the collar. He came to a busy main road and saw a sign for Trafalgar Square. He turned left and headed down Charing Cross Road.
He wondered if he should be more frightened, cut adrift in the capital without an idea as to his identity, other than the name ‘Edward,’ a set of vague, uneasy memories, and a photograph. The odd thing was that he felt liberated, free of fear: he tried to analyse why, and had the strange notion that he’d escaped something dreadful.
He was penniless in London, without a home to call his own or much of an idea who he was, and yet he felt curiously light-hearted, almost relieved.
He caught a fleeting glimpse of his ghostly reflection in a shop-window, and stopped to stare at himself. The face of a stranger stared back at him: young, lean, and handsome, with shoulder length dark hair and a five o’clock shadow like emery paper. The bandage around his head made him look like an Apache brave. He moved on, meaning to find a window where he could get a better look at himself, but found himself staring instead at a display in the window of a bookshop.
A pile of hardback books, as thick as bricks, formed a ziggurat, but it was the paperbacks piled at either side of it that caught his attention. The large format paperbacks were entitled A Trove of Stars, by Digby Lincoln. A sleek starship graced the cover, flying by what looked like an exploding planet.
Digby Lincoln…
On auto-pilot, he pushed into the warmth of the bookshop and moved towards the display. He picked up the thick, eight hundred page hardback and stared at the author photograph on the back of the book.
The photograph matched his memory of the Italianate, moustached young man. Digby Lincoln was his friend, his best friend, and his girlfriend was… He could visualise the elegant, sophisticated young woman, but could not recall her name.
Above Lincoln’s name on the front cover a banner declared Lincoln a New York Times Best-Selling Author, and the blurb on the back announced that A Trove of Stars had been optioned by a major Hollywood production company. He flipped through the vast tome and was brought up short by the dedication. To Ed Richie, the best of friends, whose harsh words made it work.
Ed Richie. He was Ed Richie…
Something stirred in his sluggish memory. Why did the dedication sit so awkwardly with his elusive recollection of reading the book? He recalled commenting on the first draft of the novel, as if it were years ago, and felt uneasy at something. Digby Lincoln’s reaction to his criticism?
His memories were maddeningly intangible. He replaced the book on the pile and knew that he had to find Digby, question him, and perhaps come to some understanding of who he was.
But where did Digby live? He racked his memory but came up with nothing.
He picked up the hardback; the publisher was Gollancz, and itsoffices were just around the corner in St. Martin’s Lane.
He left the bookshop, stepped out into the freezing December street busy with tourists and Christmas shoppers. He asked a newspaper vendor for directions to St. Martin’s Lane, then made his way back along Charing Cross Road, turned right and hurried along an alleyway. It was odd: he had no idea where he might live in London, or where Digby Lincoln lived, but he made his way around central London as if by instinct.
He came to the imposing glass-fronted tower block across the road from The Ivy restaurant and pushed through the swing doors.
A uniformed attendant behind a desk did a double-take at the sight of his bandaged head, and asked, “Can I help you?”
He found himself saying, “I have an appointment with my editor at Gollancz.”
The attendant pushed a thick ledger across the counter. “Just sign your name, and put the time there.”
He did so, thanked the man, and crossed to a silver-fronted elevator. A silver sign beside the lift said that the offices of Gollancz were on the third floor. He stepped into the lift and rose, rehearsing what he would say to the receptionist.
The lift bobbed to a halt and the door slid open to reveal a foyer with a potted fern and, opposite, a glass-plated door. Beyond, he made out a reception area, a high counter, and shelves of new books.
A young woman like a fashion model sat behind the counter; she gave him a dazzling smile as he approached.
He found himself stammering. “This is rather unusual… I suspect you won’t give out the addresses of your authors, but I’m a good friend of Digby Lincoln. The thing is…” He smiled ruefully and touched the bandage, “I was mugged yesterday and… Well, I can’t recall a thing… Could you possibly contact Mr Lincoln, explain that Edward Richie would like to see him, and ask if he could possibly come here?”
Throughout his explanation the woman had tried to maintain a neutral expression; by the end of it she was frowning. “Would you mind if I spoke with a colleague briefly, Mr Richie?” She pointed across the foyer. “Please take a seat.”
He sat in a comfortable padded chair while the woman slipped from her high stool and pushed through a swing door to an open-plan office.
She returned with a tall, stooped, grey-haired man in his fifties who regarded Richie over a pair of half-moon glasses as if he were a vagrant. “Mr Richie, I understand?”
Richie stood and held out a hand. Reluctantly, the man took it.
He found himself repeating himself, gabbling that he was a good friend of the author Digby Lincoln and needed to see him. “Look,” he said in desperation at the man’s dubious expression, snatching a copy of A Trove of Stars from a nearby shelf and opening it at the dedication page. “Digby dedicated the book to me. Ed Richie. If you could just ring him and say I need to see him…”
The man looked from the dedication to Richie’s bandaged head. “Do you have any proof of identity, by any chance?”
“Look, I was mugged, robbed. My wallet was taken, and… to tell the truth I don’t know where the hell I live. I need to talk to a friend. Please, if you could call Digby…”
“I’ll see what can be done,” the man said, and turning to the woman murmured, “Leave this with me, Amy.”
The man returned to the office and Richie resumed his seat. He caught the young woman’s glance and smiled, but she looked away quickly.
He was still clutching the copy of A Trove of Stars. He opened it and began reading.
The starship Prometheuswas still twenty-five thousand light years from the galactic core when xeno-biologist Lani Choudry made the discovery…
He looked up as the swing-door opened and the tall man spoke quietly to Amy. To Richie he said, “We have Mr Lincoln on the phone, if you’d care to…” He indicated the receiver Amy was holding out to him.
Richie set the book aside and took the phone, smiling his thanks and relief.
“Digby…?”
“Ed? What the hell – ?”
“Digby, am I glad tohear your voice! Look, I need to see you –”
“Charles said something about you being mugged?”
“Knocked unconscious and robbed. That’s not the worst of it. Seems as if…” Strangely, he was on the verge of tears. “Digby, my memory’s gone. Can’teven recall where the hell I live…”
“Right, I’m on my way. Sit tight and don’t move. I’ll be there in… say, thirty minutes. Is Charles still there?”
“Yes. Thank you!” Richie almost sobbed. He passed the phone to the tall man. “Digby would like a word.”
He returned to the padded chair and sat down.
Charles spoke with Digby in lowered tones, then nodded to Richie and pushed through the swing door. This time, when Richie caught Amy’s glance, she smiled and said, “Mr Richie, would you care for a tea or coffee?”
“I’d love a coffee, thanks.”
Digby would rescue him, fill him in. He had a vague notion that he, like Digby, was a writer, but certainly not a sci-fi writer as he’d never cared for the stuff. Digby would put him right. Presumably, in time, his memory would return.<
br />
Amy returned with a cup of coffee. Richie held it in both hands, warming himself and sipping: it was excellent. He smiled at the woman.
She said, “Digby’s mentioned you, Mr Richie. He said you read the first draft of Trove. Weren’t you at the launch last year?”
He smiled and indicated the bandage. “I might have been. So… Digby’s a New York Times Best-Seller…?”
“He’s big, Mr Richie. One of our biggest sellers in all genres.”
“Good old Diggers. He’s always wanted to write a sci-fi blockbuster, combining hard science with great characterisation.” The words came, backed by knowledge, but from where?
“He’s a fine writer, Mr Richie. I mean, I don’t like SF, but I can read Digby’s books.” The phone rang and Amy said, “You’re through to Gollancz. How might I help?”
Richie sat back and closed his eyes. The headache had ceased; all he felt now was a dull ache that seemed to permeate his entire body, and an all-encompassing tiredness. What he needed was a hot bath and a long, uninterrupted sleep.
He had a sudden flash vision: a view through a window – a study window, he somehow knew: sheep in a sloping field, a distant copse. And he knew, somehow, that he was no longer in his twenties. He was approaching sixty…
“No!” He sat up quickly, opening his eyes.
Amy looked at him, fixed a smile in place, and turned to her monitor.
The doors to his left swung open and Digby Lincoln stood there, staring at him. He wore an immaculate blue suit, a white silk shirt and red tie.
“Christ, Ed! What the hell…?” His friend winced at the sight of the bandage, sat beside Richie and gripped his arm.
Richie found himself holding Digby’s hand and squeezing. “Great to see you. I… You don’t know how…”
“You should be in hospital –”
“I was.”
“This amnesia? What did they say?”
Richie tried to think back. “I… I’m not sure. I gave them the slip. I… I hope you don’t mind me getting in touch like this? I needed to see a friendly face. I don’t even know where the hell I live.”
“Christ, Ed… You mean, you discharged yourself?”
“Not even that. Just walked out. I had to get away.”
“Right. I know someone. I must have told you about Mick. He’s a doctor, our neighbour. Anyway, I’ll give him a call and have him give you a once over. You’re coming back to my place.”
“I don’t want to impose…”
“For chrissake, Ed, don’t be so bloody daft. Look, a taxi’s waiting.”
Digby crossed to Amy, spoke a few words, then took Richie’s arm and assisted him into the lift.
“What the hell happened?” Digby asked as they descended. “You said you were mugged?”
“Apparently. Woke up this morning in a mews off Fulham Broadway. A homeless guy found me and raised the alarm. An ambulance took me to Charing Cross hospital.”
“You’ve no memory of being attacked?”
“Nothing.”
“Bloody hell, it was sub-zero last night. You could have frozen to death.”
Richie laughed.“I was a bit cold when I came to my senses.”
“And this amnesia… You said you don’t know where you live? But you know who you are, of course?”
“Not at first. I mean, I knew I was called Edward… then I left the hospital. I saw your books in a shop and something clicked. I knew you were a friend.”
“Thank Christ for that. You might’ve been wandering around all bloody day.”
Digby escorted him from the lift, across the foyer, and out to the waiting taxi.
He collapsed into the back seat and they were whisked away through the streets of London.
“Just got back from a meeting, which is why I’m dressed like this.” Digby indicated the suit. “Can’t wait to change into jeans and a T-shirt. I called Pam, and she’s bringing in a Thai, your favourite.”
“Pam?”
“You know, Pamela?”
Richie shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“‘Posh, pulchritudinous Pam, all pashmina and pearls,’ you call her.”
“I do?”
Digby smiled uneasily. “Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you.”
He stared out at the passing traffic. “Caroline…” he murmured.
“What?”
Richie shook his head. “Strange… I could have sworn you were with Caroline. I… I can see her, but… No, it’s gone.”
He saw a tall blonde woman, smiling at him, but the image was as fleeting and elusive as something glimpsed in a dream.
Digby smiled again. “Don’t know a Caroline, Ed. You sure she wasn’t one of your many conquests?”
He turned to his friend. “Do you know if… I mean, am I seeing anyone at the moment?”
“You mean you can’t recall Jemima?”
Richie shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
“Perhaps that’s just as well. It ended a month ago and you took it badly, hit the bottle. Right, here we are, home.” He leaned forward and said to the driver, “Anywhere around here.”
He paid the driver and helped Richie up the steps of a big townhouse on the corner of a tree-lined square. Try as he might, Richie remembered nothing of the house from the outside. And, on entering the lounge and sitting on a vast floral sofa, he recalled nothing of the interior, either.
“I’ll fix us a couple of coffees and ring Mick,” Digby said, and slipped from the room.
Richie stared at his hands resting on his lap, and turned them over to examine his palms. They were the hands of a stranger, and yet he must have seen them millions of times in the past… They should be familiar: why did he recognise areas of London, and know his way around, when his own body was unfamiliar to him?
He looked around the room. The painting above the mantelpiece was familiar, a rural French scene, which he recalled Digby buying on holiday. He recognised the statuette of a leaping hare, and the Hockney prints – and not just as cultural icons: he remembered seeing them before, on many a late-night session with Diggers. But surely not here, in this palace?
Digby returned with two mugs of coffee. He’d changed into faded jeans and a Levi’s T-shirt; he looked slim, and no longer carried a beer belly.
No longer…? Now where the hell had that come from?
“Mick says he’ll be around inside the hour,” Digby said, passing Richie a coffee and sitting at the end of the sofa. “How are you feeling?”
Richie touched his head. “Fine. Well, there’s no pain. A little tired.”
“And… your memory? What can you recall?”
“Not a lot.”
“Short-term, and long-term?” Digby asked. “I mean, can you recall coming here last week, the party for Pam’s thirtieth?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Not a thing.” He sipped his coffee.
“Okay… what about your play?”
“My play?”
“You do know you’re a writer?”
Richie nodded. “I… dimly, yes. But as to what I wrote…”
“Radio plays, Ed. Your second was broadcast a fortnight ago on the Friday afternoon slot. Decent reviews. You don’t recall coming round here last week, waving the letter from the production company who wanted to talk to you about your adapting it for TV?”
Richie smiled. “No, nothing.”
“Bloody hell, Ed. Okay… you recall uni? Meeting me, the sessions in the Mitre, the parties in that grotty little house I rented off Mill Road?”
“The place with the patch of mould on the sitting room ceiling, like a map of Africa?”
“That’s the place! So your long-term memories still function…”
“I remember the Mitre – and the first time I met you, wasn’t it at a rehearsal for the Footlights? I froze like a dummy and you breezed through it like a natural.”
Digby smiled. “And what I liked about you, Ed, was that you didn’t bear a grudge in the pub afterwards. And
it wasn’t long afterwards that we discovered we both liked… Well, you tell me.”
Richie pointed at him. “Plays, specifically for radio and TV. We both loved David Mercer’s work. It’s strange, the more I speak about it, Digby, the more I remember – the more things come back. But as to what happened a few days ago…”
“You went to a party at Camilla’s last night – or you said you were going.”
“Camilla?”
“That blonde with the studio flat in Chelsea you’re nuts about – the blonde, not the flat.”
“Means nothing to me.”
He drank his coffee and considered the visions, the dream-like glimpses of Digby and himself as older men, and images of a foreign land he had never visited.
The doorbell chimed, distracting him.
“That’ll be Mick.”
Digby returned to the sitting room with a small, plump man in his late twenties, whom he introduced as Mick Canning. Dr Canning’s casual dress – paint-stained jeans and a Hawkwind T-shirt – clashed oddly with his pristine black bag.
“So…” Mick said, sitting beside Richie on the sofa and peering into his eyes, “Digby says you were mugged, taken to hospital, from where you absconded. And your memory’s shot, right?”
“Pretty much,” Richie said.
“Long-term’s okay,” Digby put in, “but his short-term memory is kaput.”
Canning opened his bag, pulled out an ophthalmoscope, and shone a bright light into Richie’s eyes. “Do you have any idea when you were assaulted, approximately?”
“Not really. Late last night, early this morning, perhaps. I might have been to a party in Chelsea. I came to my senses somewhere in Fulham.”
“Any double vision?”
“No.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“No other episodes of unconsciousness since?”
Richie shook his head. “No.”
“And did they x-ray you at – ?”
Richie shook his head. “No.”
“So you have long-term recall, but no short-term, right? How far back can you go? How about last year? Christmas, say?”
Richie concentrated. “No, nothing.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”