John looked up: ‘So?’
‘There’s speculation in the tabloids that you were hit on the head by a disgruntled Muslim.’
‘I’m sure I wasn’t,’ John said.
‘How so, if you don’t remember?’
John was sure nobody hit him because of the almost mystical nature of his amnesia: he knew he was going to be the next architect in the moments before he crashed his car, and he awoke years later as the architect on the very day construction began. It was all too much of a coincidence to be something arbitrary.
‘I don’t remember what happened to me in the last moments, but the doctor thinks this mark to the head was caused by a fall, and not from me being hit. Even if somebody did push me so that I hit my head on the ground, I don’t remember seeing anybody on the site with me.’
‘The press need to hear you say that. I just got off the phone with a Detective Murphy who apparently talked to you yesterday, outside the hospital. He’s tried to get in contact with you, but your phone has been off. He’s worried things could escalate and that there could be race riots in Blanworth again if you don’t talk to the press soon. I told Mann who talked to the detective just now on the phone, and he suggested an interview with a reporter at the Zenith offices.’
Mann again. Now John knew he worked for Zenith. And the ‘Zenith offices’ had to be temporary accommodation until the new building was constructed.
‘Why?’
‘Because Zenith have been blamed for not sacking Wilkinson Junior, so they want to be seen to be appeasing the moderate Muslims who, in turn, are tired of being blamed for everything.’
‘Okay, so the police and Zenith want me to say that I believe I wasn’t hit by a Muslim. Fine, I’ll talk to the detective and Mann.’
Pete made a move to get up: ‘Oh, Mann also said that he hoped to see you at the Chamber of Commerce tonight, if you were feeling up to it. He also apologises for not seeing you in hospital, but he knew you weren’t seriously hurt, and he hoped you’d understand, what with how busy Zenith are at the moment.’
John didn’t even know what Mann looked like, so he wouldn’t dare meet him in his present state, but it didn’t matter for now. He hoped his memories would be triggered once he looked at the plans beside him.
Pete’s mobile phone rang, and he took his phone out of his pocket: ‘Hello… Yep… Okay, I’ll be there soon.’ He put the phone back in his pocket: ‘That was Andrew. He needs me at the site. Do you want to come?’
John remembered the bearded man with Pete in the Portakabin yesterday whom he’d ascertained was the Site Engineer: ‘I’m not feeling quite up to it yet. I’ll stay here to phone the detective and Mann.’
When Pete left, John readied himself to look at the plans. He took a couple of deep breaths, put on his glasses and swivelled his chair towards them. Vertical, horizontal and diagonal lines appeared on the white paper, and he immediately felt happy and relieved. Unlike yesterday, when he was simply too stressed and not fully recovered from unconsciousness and concussion, he would see the design properly now.
He looked at the lines for a second but couldn’t quite appreciate them as a whole, so he retracted his head slightly to get an overall understanding. The lines were joined together in a big network, and he tried staring at it for a moment, but the meaning of the whole alluded him. It was quickly becoming apparent that the drawing was comprised of a random mishmash of straight lines and squiggles. He tried looking at the words beside the lines, all written in pencil. Again, like the lines, he could ascertain what they were, but to actually understand the meaning of them – what they actually said – was impossible. The letters in the words didn’t add up and neither did the lines in the letters. They were unintelligible like a foreign language.
He wasn’t afraid at first because he thought he was merely not concentrating enough, so he briefly looked away to gain composure. But when he looked back to the plans and tried reading the words again, the words and drawing began to move and clump together in a swirling, clockwise motion.
Now he was scared. Desperation surged through his veins as he remembered the experience yesterday in the Portakabin, but his fear was matched with an abhorrent curiosity, like the lure of watching a real-life execution on YouTube. What the hell was this? A pinprick of darkness appeared at the centre of the swirling mass and quickly grew in size. The page rapidly became a powerful whirlpool of darkness that filled his vision with infinite scope. Images of the spinning road, the bend and the crashing into the ditch flashed before him like lightening as if he had just lived those moments again.
Had he been dreaming everything since apparently waking in hospital? Was he really the architect of the new Zenith building, praised as a work of genius, or was he still in his car, head against the steering wheel, in need of medical assistance and imagining everything? Was the terrifying darkness simply his blackout?
‘NOOOOOOOO!’ he shouted and grabbed hold of what seemed to be the steering wheel.
The darkness disappeared, and he found himself clutching hold of the plans as he lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
6
In the fading light of his kitchen, John sat for hours, rigid, scared. The kettle, the sink and the outline of the window seemed to change form, as if their three-dimensional quality had become infused with time itself. Difficult questions arose and hovered above the work surfaces. He stared at them with stunned fear, unable to escape. Where had he been these past three and a half years? What was stopping him from seeing the Zenith building? Was his experience since waking in hospital utterly real? Did he really have the talent to be the architect of a building praised as a work of genius across the world?
He approached the dark blue light of the window. The sun was well below the horizon, and dark trees on the edge of the estate waved hauntingly at him. A memory of walking around the destruction of the old building the night he crashed his car floated into view. He remembered taking the measurements and writing them in the first pages of his new notebook: the same tatty book he found earlier in the office, full of words and diagrams.
He retrieved the notebook from his pocket. With the light of his match, he opened the page where he wrote his rough measurements of the building site on the night of the accident:
‘My perimeter walk:
Length: 60 metres
Width: 55 metres’
The following page was dated a few days after his car crash: ‘Third and fourth floor windows need to be larger to fulfil overall vision, requiring structural adjustments to the…’
He began to feel an incomprehension of what he was reading with the same dizziness he had experienced earlier in the office. He quickly dropped the notebook into the sink, shook the match dead and turned slowly back to the kitchen table. The room was now black, just like everything in his memory from the past three and a half years. Did that time exist? Did he really live those three and a half years? Was he alive or almost dead now, dreaming it all while slumped over his steering wheel with a fatal injury?
With a desperate need to escape the moment, he remembered Pete had mentioned the Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight. Mann, the Vice President of Zenith, would be there. He had apparently joined the company after the destruction of the last building. John knew him exclusively from the amnesiac period. What might happen if he met him? Recollection? If nothing happened, if no memory was triggered and his problems weren’t overcome, he would brave his fear of what may be the truth and reveal all to the doctor.
John stood nervously on the High Street opposite Blanworth Town Hall as heavy rain hit his raincoat hood with numerous dull thuds. Four huge Corinthian columns adorned the entrance and above the portico was a decorative triangular pediment with men riding chariots. To the right of the portico was a large room with tall Georgian windows where dark figures lurked, one of whom had to be Mann.
He was fearful of greeting Mann at this Chamber of Commerce meeting and of what he may or may not remember once he saw him,
but he couldn’t live in fear and do nothing in this world. He had to take positive action. He crossed the street and handed over his raincoat at the reception. In the Central Staircase Hall, he walked up black and white marble steps to a balcony which surrounded the hall on three sides. He approached the front of the building where he stopped at a large oak door on the left that had ‘Reception Room’ written above it. Muffled talking and laughter emanated from inside. With a rapid heartbeat, he turned the brass handle and pushed.
The room was grand, just the way he remembered it, with 1920s Art Deco bronze and crystal light fittings. Voices echoed softly in the expanse of the high-vaulted ceiling. Groups of people stood with drinks in their hands. The place smelt of damp clothes. He strode as naturally as he could towards the glasses of wine and bowls of crisps in the centre of the room and gulped down half a glass of red. A couple of faces were recognisable: one being the owner of a large delicatessen in Blanworth and another from the council. He would have dealt with the council extensively the past couple of years, during the planning process.
He retreated towards a tall window that looked out onto the High Street and the shopping centre opposite from where he had come. Through the rain and above the electric doors of the shopping centre – one set of many doors around the large complex – was written ‘Princegate’ in luminescent letters.
Thirty years ago, before the shopping centre was built, a street with old shops and houses had led proudly up to the Town Hall entrance. The council had deemed the destruction of that old street – and others – a necessary sacrifice for the shopping centre.
‘Gowan?’ a powerful, high-pitched voice asked, behind him.
John was startled and immediately turned to a man he did not recognise. He was broad, though not fat, tall and had a large handlebar moustache which stretched alongside his smile. His brown eyes remained steady and still.
‘Hello!’ John said, as confidently as possible.
‘Glad to see you’re up and about.’
Was this Mann? Pete said Mann had hoped to meet him here this evening, and this person was happy to see John. Mann was also called ‘Captain’, apparently, and this person had a militaristic aura, even a parody of it, with a confident attitude, a large moustache and a striped tie with some military-looking insignia.
‘You’re okay, then?’ the man said.
‘Not bad, thanks. I’m feeling a bit better now.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t contact you directly in hospital, but I’ve been very busy, what with the first day of construction and the press attention we’ve been getting, now that the terrorists have been found guilty. Pete told me you were okay which was good enough for me.’
John stared into his big brown eyes and ascertained this had to be Mann because, in addition to the military persona, he obviously worked for Zenith with his direct references to the building.
‘Actually, I tried calling your mobile but couldn’t get through,’ Mann said.
John continued to stare into his eyes, now trying to remember him: ‘My phone had run out of battery for a while.’
He looked at the mark on John’s forehead: ‘A bad knock.’
‘The headache’s gone.’
‘You tripped, then?’
John nodded and rubbed his forehead.
‘You remember falling?’ Mann asked.
‘Not exactly, but I talked to the detective when I left hospital, so I understand the seriousness of the situation. I don’t want to be the cause of more race riots in Blanworth if I can possibly help it.’
‘Neither do we, which is why I want an interview tomorrow night with you and a reporter at the Zenith offices, to subdue any suspicions.’
‘What do you, at Zenith, gain from setting up the interview?’
‘We have been blamed for not sacking Wilkinson Junior, so we want to be seen to be appeasing the moderate Muslims who, in turn, are tired of being blamed for everything. This will relieve a little political pressure we have at the moment.’
‘Okay, so you and the police want me to say that I remember tripping – which is fine.’
‘Don’t lie, necessarily. Just say you are sure that you weren’t being followed. I mean, you remember walking onto the site, don’t you?’
John nodded.
Mann beamed suddenly and slapped John on the arm: ‘You’re doing us a great favour. The reporter may ask a couple of questions about the building, too – extra publicity!’
John suddenly felt worried about having to answer questions he knew nothing about if his memory hadn’t returned by then: ‘What kind of questions?’
‘Oh, you know, just how things have been for you in the past few months, and how the building’s design, such as the ygje 34 hjed interacts with the ytyy78 ^guibhyde uj in such a way that the tiyuuh yugh…’
John was entranced by Mann’s words, so much so that they were beginning to have a dizzying effect; and as he stared at Mann’s lips, the sounds exiting them were becoming louder, more blurred and mesmerising. John’s balance began to feel lopsided: first one way, then another; and a blackness began to infiltrate his vision.
‘Are you okay, Gowan?’ Mann asked suddenly.
John realised his arms were stretched outwards in an attempt to regain balance. He tried breathing deeply to instil a sense of composure and felt a sickness at the base of his throat. Mann was staring at him with concern, and John realised he had just entered the beginnings of the world he encountered when staring at the designs of the building; only this time, the information about the building was in audio form as he tried to listen to Mann talk.
‘I’m fine, really,’ John said, placing both hands on his waist and standing as straight as possible, ‘although I’m still feeling the effects of concussion. I will be able to answer questions about my fall. But if the interview goes on for a while and the reporter starts asking questions about the building, perhaps it might be best if Pete comes with me so that he can answer them.’
‘Of course, Gowan, especially if you can’t remember things.’
John recovered his senses but suddenly felt fearful: ‘What do you mean, “can’t remember things?”’
‘Mann shrugged: ‘Oh, nothing, just something that Pete said.’
‘What did Pete say?’
Mann paused a moment: ‘Well, it’s what you didn’t say in conversation with him, rather than what you said, that made him think you can’t remember things.’
John stared fearfully at him and, as he did so, Mann’s moustache seemed to become strangely contorted, as if it were trying to lean back into the skin and hide from the light. Mann’s eyes, too, seemed strange. The pupils, steady and solid yet bigger than they should be, staring deeply into John’s soul.
Elsewhere in the room, the 1920s Art Deco bronze and crystal light fittings changed form somehow, no longer pleasant on the eye but coarse and puke-coloured. The high-vaulted ceiling seemed lower, too, as if, with every moment, it was descending upon John’s head in a spiral fashion. Objects and people also began to spiral as Mann continued to stare at him. All lines and colours joined together and moved in a clockwise direction and, at the heart of this spiral, a small black dot appeared, quickly growing bigger and bigger, just in the same way as when John had stared at the building plans.
He tried to gain control and an understanding of what was happening to him. Mann suspected his amnesia to at least some limited degree so, with this suspicion, John’s world was losing form and solid foundation. It was closing in on him, threatening to consume and annihilate him. It suspected he wasn’t the architect of the Zenith building and didn’t deserve to be here.
‘Noooo!’ he shouted, as the room circled around him. ‘I remember everything, even the moment I was hit on the head.’
The black hole continued to increase in size and strength, threatening to block everything from view and suck him in.
‘Are you okay, Gowan?’ Mann asked, disappearing behind the engulfing darkness.
John desperately
tried to remain calm: ‘I’m just saying, I don’t understand what Pete was talking about. I remember everything perfectly.’
‘Well, then, you shouldn’t have any problem with this interview.’
All of a sudden, the darkness withdrew into a small black dot and vanished. Mann reappeared and the room stopped moving. Mann was staring at him with concern and opened his mouth to say something more, but an elderly, dignified stranger greeted him, and Mann excused himself from John.
John remained standing there, shell-shocked for a couple of minutes and desperately trying to understand what had happened to him. The world had begun to disintegrate and lose form when John was close to revealing his amnesia, and a darkness appeared amidst this confusion, threatening to consume him. Where would it have transported him if he hadn’t assured Mann that his memory was fine?
His problems now seemed very real. Far from living in a normal, solid, grounded world, free from any immediate fear of death, he was living in a precarious reality: one which could transport him away to a place of darkness and perhaps death at any moment if it believed John didn’t deserve to be here. He couldn’t afford to expose himself, no matter what the truth was – or could be.
The doctor was no longer an option. He was a part of this world and, therefore, couldn’t be trusted. Could psychology explain John’s perfect amnesia, or his inability to see or hear anything about the building, or his original, pure certainty of becoming the Zenith architect before he crashed his car, to wake three and a half years later as the architect of a work of genius?
For the next few minutes, John ambled around the perimeter of the room, exchanging glances with some people he half recognised. No memories were triggered, and staying here now would only risk him talking to somebody else he was supposed to know from the amnesiac period. He drifted to the great wooden door, opened it ajar with his foot and slipped out.
Outside in the rain, with his raincoat back on, he walked up the High Street towards City Square: the same path he had taken when he left the taxi and saw the destruction of the building for the first time in what seemed only several days ago. The thick rain felt good, hiding him safely away from people and things.
The Freedom Building Page 5