The Freedom Building

by Martin Kendall

  The perimeter of the construction site jutted out into the High Street and Square by a few metres. Light from street lamps sparsely illuminated vehicles and cranes. He remembered the random horizontal and vertical lines of the plan, which he saw in the office before he lost consciousness, trying to comprehend them again in his memory; but he couldn’t unify them into a comprehensive whole, and a blankness began to overcome him as before; so he stopped thinking about it, fearing he might faint.

  A shabby-looking man appeared on the bench in the middle of the Square; he was very still and almost camouflaged by the grey rain. As John approached him, the sound of rain hitting his tatty leather jacket became louder than the heavy rain on the ground, like incessant gunfire. Water dripped from his beard into his lap.

  ‘You found me lying on the site the other night, didn’t you?’ John said loudly.

  The tramp remained still, rooted to the iron lattice bench and the solid brick ground. He seemed like a part of City Square: born from the surroundings with his greys merging into the rain. The police had often moved him on, but they had never been successful in permanently moving him away.

  ‘I wanted to thank you.’

  The man still didn’t move. John knew he wasn’t deaf, because he remembered Janice saying that the tramp had used John’s mobile to call the ambulance; John also remembered talking to him on the night he crashed his car, although that was years ago now. He suddenly feared the man was dead, because he was so still. John stepped back but, as he did so, the tramp’s head shuddered, and John cried out with shock before controlling himself.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ John said.

  The tramp’s head swayed from left to right but did not look up at John: ‘You, too?’

  ‘Who else thinks you’re dead?’

  ‘Me, sometimes.’

  The rain died a little, and John felt that he didn’t need to talk so loudly: ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, not looking up.

  John wasn’t convinced: ‘I wanted to thank you for what you did in calling the ambulance the other night.’

  The tramp grunted. The sound was primordial, as if emanating from centuries past, deep beneath the concrete ground.

  ‘Do you remember three and a half-years ago when I stumbled around the wreckage of the old building at night?’

  The tramp remained still, patient, as if waiting for something – perhaps death. A drop of silver snot appeared at the end of his nose.

  ‘But why would you?’ John said despondently, lowering his voice: ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘I remember you, Mr Gowan.’

  John was surprised and waited a moment for him to embellish. He seemed to hold an answer to something hidden and close by: an answer that had been unattainable to John since waking in hospital.

  ‘You see, I’m looking for something,’ John said impatiently.

  The tramp slowly moved his head upwards. His face was mottled with scabs. One fake eye stared into the sky, but his real eye focussed intently on John: ‘What would that be?’

  John tried to remember the design process and closed his eyes, but the oppressive darkness of the amnesia stared back at him, so he opened them again: ‘A time behind the darkness.’

  ‘Aye,’ the tramp said, in a matter of fact tone.

  The tramp seemed to dispel the fear that this world wasn’t real in these moments, leaving only mystery. There was an odd, personal connection between them. The tramp had been with him on both nights either side of the amnesia: the night John took measurements at the site before going on to crash his car, and the night before construction began when the tramp used John’s mobile phone to telephone for an ambulance. The amnesia, guarded by this gatekeeper.

  ‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’ John said.

  The tramp looked down towards John’s shoes as if he’d given up with the conversation.

  John began to feel despondent, realised his impression of the tramp was beginning to play tricks on him this dark night and wanted to go.

  ‘I do!’ the tramp said with sudden ferocity, his head rising quickly and his teeth suddenly appearing beneath his dry rubber lips – like a piranha’s mouth.

  Surprised by the outburst, John stumbled back and tripped over his own shoe. The air rushed passed his ears, and he hit the ground hard on his tailbone. He just managed to hold his head up to save it from hitting the concrete, too.

  ‘There you go, falling again,’ the tramp said, cackling with laughter.

  Shocked and vulnerable, John scrambled to his feet with a wet back and almost fell again. He felt compelled to kick him and demand what he meant, but fear of the tramp seized him as the man continued to laugh, almost as if he knew more than John was prepared to know, so John turned quickly and walked towards the Norman Gate on the north side of the Square. He was not running away, he told himself. The tramp was crazy and not worth talking to.

  The yellowy white stone arch, lit by electric light, passed above as the rain briefly stopped and footsteps echoed. The tramp’s voice was long gone. On the other side, the grand cathedral appeared. Ablaze with artificial light, it towered into the night with three huge, recessed arches adorning its western front. On top were tall spires that were far bigger than any ordinary church spire, and towards the back was a large square tower with four spires of its own. John did not believe in God, but he did believe in this building, and if there were any place on earth he could feel comfort, it was here.

  He walked along a gravel pathway that cut through the large front lawn and approached the main entrance. Above the entrance were stained glass windows and various decorations and embellishments carved into the stone, all of which were dwarfed by, and housed within, the central arch. He passed beneath the arch and stepped up to the great oak door. The round metal handle was cold to the touch and loose, but the door was locked. He turned, sat on the steps and looked fearfully back to the Norman archway from whence he had come. Tonight, the cathedral offered him a little warmth and a place of sanctuary, but the amnesia was still too frightening to allow him adequate escapism.

  Rain continued to pour a metre away from his feet, and small puddles peppered the gravelly pathways that criss-crossed the lawn. As a result of his fall, the underside of his trousers were wetter than the rest of his clothes and sticking to his legs; a small bruise on his tailbone made it a little uncomfortable to sit. He had the option of walking back to the car, which he had parked in Princegate shopping centre car park but, to do so, he would have to pass the Square where the tramp would be waiting: a crazy old man who, nevertheless, evoked the frighteningly mysterious aspect of the amnesia. John could go another way, through another archway elsewhere, and eventually end up on the other side of the shopping centre; but first, he would close his eyes for a moment and listen to the rain hitting the gravel – a sound that helped to drown his fears.

  He awoke shivering and to the sound of birds singing. Arched shapes of sunlight lit distant parts of the lawn. He couldn’t remember dreaming. His body was an obstacle to a couple of people walking towards the oak doorway, which was now open, but they paid no attention to him. His head was at an odd angle, wedged against the stone archway, and his torso and legs felt like a trodden worm – squashed and somewhat detached.

  With aching bones and the help of a demonic gargoyle for leverage, he hoisted himself up. He remembered Mann from last night, whose presence hadn’t triggered anything from his memory. Mann seemed like a relic from the Empire Days with his broad handlebar moustache and practical way of speaking. That people referred to him as ‘Captain’ was understandable, because he certainly seemed to have the appearance of somebody who had been in the army. The fact of not remembering such an eccentric character and then experiencing terrifying darkness that had appeared when Mann suspected his amnesia had been shocking, but John couldn’t afford to believe he was not living in the real world. He retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket and called Pete.

  ‘Y
ep?’ a nasal voice said.

  ‘I went to the Chamber of Commerce last night and talked to Mann. I told him that I’d do the newspaper interview.’

  ‘Good.’

  John had to be careful not to reveal his amnesia whilst, at the same time, proving to people he could remember everything. It was Pete that had told Mann about John’s possible amnesia.

  ‘However, I’ve felt on and off since coming out of hospital. The doctor told me to take it easy and not work, so it might be best if you were there in case the reporter asks questions about the building, itself, and I don’t feel up to it. Mann agrees it would be a good idea, and you’ve been on the construction site the last couple of days, so you might be in a better position to answer any up-to-date questions, too.’

  ‘Okay, John, that won’t be a problem.’

  John ended the phone call and closed his eyes again. There had to be a way of validating this existence. There had to be a truth he could find that made everything real and explained why and how he was here. There had to be an explanation for his amnesia that validated his present existence. He walked along the gravel path that separated the grass, through the medieval gate and across the High Street that led seamlessly onto the Square. A lot of noise came from the site where workers were shouting and diggers were crunching, and the tramp was no longer to be seen.

  7

  At home in his study, John needed to find the address of the temporary Zenith offices where he would be attending tonight. He looked inside his oak desk and found an old letter dated from the amnesiac period. At the top of the letter, it read:

  G R Mann

  Company Secretary

  Zenith Star Holdings Ltd

  Floor 9

  Regis Building

  40 Aylsham Road

  Blanworth BL3 9XT

  He knew this area in Blanworth not far from the city centre. Happy now that he could find the location, John felt intrigued by the letter, it being written to him from the amnesiac period, and continued reading:

  ‘Dear Mr Gowan and Mr Williams

  Following our letter of [date], advising you of your Partnership’s inclusion in the shortlist of tenders for the design and management of the construction of a building at Blanworth, and our subsequent meetings, I can now inform you that you have been selected as the preferred bidder.

  Since time is of the essence, a copy of this letter and a draft contract have been forwarded to your solicitors, Messrs Graham and Surly. Some clauses of the contract need urgent discussion with you. In this regard, perhaps you would kindly telephone this office for a mutually convenient time.

  We are delighted to welcome you on board and look forward to a close and profitable relationship.

  Yours sincerely

  G R Mann

  Company Secretary’

  John didn’t encounter any of the dizzying problems he had experienced when looking at the notes in his notebook or the building designs, because the letter didn’t reveal design aspects of the building, itself. Ignoring his doctor’s advice to rest, he now felt invigorated to learn more information about the amnesiac period, especially as he was going to the Zenith offices tonight with the intention of disguising his amnesia. Perhaps new information might trigger his memory before then.

  He opened his laptop and tried accessing his emails. His old password had changed, but the email account offered security questions which he could answer and, finally, he got into his account. There were many emails dated over the past couple of days since waking in hospital. Ignoring these, he looked at older ones. Many were correspondence with Zenith, similar to the letter he had just read, and some revealed design information about the building which John could not read; he looked away quickly before losing a sense of reality.

  For the next two hours, he avidly read over information indirectly linked to the building, such as construction company details, financial dealings, dates and times. Grey area information that hinted at the design, such as materials and amounts, proved to be impossible.

  On the way to Blanworth, the countryside appeared mysterious in the sun with great tramlines passing through green autumnal fields towards a bare, stark horizon. It frightened him, but there was a beauty to it, too. When the land became absolutely flat and the far-off cathedral appeared – its tall spires visible for miles around – he glanced at the letter on the passenger seat which had the address of the temporary Zenith offices.

  On the other side of town, he left the inner ring road and headed back toward the City Centre. A large, semi-circular building, several stories high with maroon-coloured brick and reflective-mirrored windows, concavely faced the side of the road, and in the concave space, behind neatly trimmed bushes and a yellow road barrier, was a car park. Beside the barrier, a sign read: ‘REGIS Offices available now. Short term. Long term. Your terms.’ He opened his wallet and, to his relief, found a yellow card with the word ‘Regis’ written along the top. He inserted the card into the machine, and the barrier rose.

  With satchel in hand, he looked up at the building – its mirrored glass reflecting a darkening red sky – and counted to floor nine. Zenith was on the top floor. Through the central door, the lighting was dim with one flickering bulb on the wall.

  A security man was dressed in a black coat with yellow lines across it: ‘Identification, please?’

  John hoped his driving licence was good enough.

  The man held a machine, typing a couple of buttons, and smiled: ‘Thank you, Mr Gowan, you’re expected on floor nine.’

  As the lift began its ascent, John’s throat tightened and became dry. Where would he go, once the doors opened? He couldn’t remember this building, yet he would have been here many times before, liaising with Zenith over the design plans. He had wanted to meet Pete in the car park before they went in, just to have somebody to follow to Mann’s office, but Pete had sent a text saying he was detained at the site and would be here as soon as possible.

  The lift opened sooner than he wanted, and ahead was an open area, followed by a red-carpeted corridor that disappeared into the distance in a gradual bend. He stepped into the open area.

  ‘He’s in there, Mr Gowan,’ a voice said, to his right.

  John turned and saw a well-dressed young man, sitting behind a reception desk. Behind the young man, a darkly tainted window highlighted his blond hair. John wondered whether he’d met him before.

  ‘Do you mean Mann?’ John said.

  ‘Yes.’

  John was afraid to ask which room for fear of exposing his amnesia, but he had no choice: ‘Whereabouts?’

  The man lowered his eyebrows slightly: ‘Mr Wilkinson’s office.’

  ‘Oh, I thought we might be meeting in Mann’s office.’

  The young man smiled and shook his head with slight movements.

  John turned towards the corridor. It appeared long as it curved away. He began walking. The sumptuous red carpet felt buoyant, but the walls were a dreary, greyish white with the odd corkboard displaying messy post-its, and cheap-framed pictures depicting countryside scenes. He felt a little deja vu, as if the lines of separation between him, the carpet, the walls and the things on the walls overflowed into each other; and he wondered whether his memory was trying to poke through into his consciousness.

  Half a minute later, he began to wonder how the corridor could be this long inside this building. The building didn’t seem that big from the outside. He looked side to side, glancing at the doors – none of which were numbered – and wondered whether he had passed the correct door.

  Finally, the corridor ended in the distance with a door that was different from the rest – varnished oak with a pretty grain. John guessed it could be Wilkinson’s room by its distinction from the others.

  He approached and touched the door’s golden handle which felt cold against his hand. There was a high, but powerful male voice emanating from inside, and he recognised it to be Mann’s from yesterday at the Town Hall. Would Wilkinson be there, too? John couldn
’t remember Wilkinson on a personal level, either: a man he was supposed to have met several times during the design process, according to his correspondence. Wilkinson had, however, been on the News before the design process as a softly spoken American and had, occasionally, appeared at Chamber of Commerce meetings, so John knew what he looked like. John wondered whether it was not too late to turn away, but the golden handle seemed to turn of its own accord, like a Ouija board.

  A large, bright room appeared with four Queen Anne chairs to the left-of-centre, facing each other; they were similar to John’s sitting room chairs with studded wings and brown leather. Behind them, further to the left, a window displayed a green horizon beyond the city, and a darkening sky slashed with oranges and reds. John closed the door behind him and noticed Mann to the right, standing rigidly beside a large oak desk. Behind Mann, a darkly tinted window displayed shadowy city buildings.

  ‘Gowan’s here now,’ Mann said into his mobile phone with a big grin that stretched with his moustache like an elastic band. He put the phone in his pocket and moved towards John: ‘No Pete?’

  ‘He’s delayed at the site but should make it to the interview.’

  ‘It’s good he’s coming. He can talk about construction at the site in the last couple of days. Good publicity!’

  John wondered why Mann called Pete by his first name and himself by his surname; he hoped, having undoubtedly dealt with Mann a lot more than Pete in the design process, it might be a term of endearment, Mann having been in the army. On the desk beside Mann was a family photo of a man surrounded by children. He had silver hair, combed back around his ears, and piercing blue eyes. John recognised him to be Wilkinson, presumably with his grandchildren.

  ‘Will Wilkinson be joining us?’ John said.

  ‘Oh, no, but he wished you luck and sends you his regards.’