Cuckoo

by Richard Wright

  After breakfast they dressed, then made their way down to the car. Greg was relieved to see Alex casting eyes over the people in the street, assessing each, for it made him feel he was being less neurotic about the whole affair. Glancing round for himself, he noticed nothing out of place. Still, when the car door shut he was relieved to be away from even the potential of prying eyes.

  Warmed by the morning sun, Alex’s car was somnolent and comfortable. As it reversed from the residential car park, Greg felt his mind wander from what Alex had started to say.

  Georgina. He hadn’t given her a moment’s thought since the Ramkin, and just couldn’t see how she could be connected to recent events. Of course she had been present for his first flashback, but that had to be coincidence didn’t it? Would they even bother to tamper with her memories, if they knew about her? Where other things which had been taken from his life were precious beyond measure, Georgina was...what? A distraction? A diversion from the tedium of his own existence? It was a gloomy realisation, but he knew that she was both. Certainly not significant enough to be used against him. It would be irritating to find that she had no memory of him, but nothing more than that.

  It had been Alex who again pointed out the obvious. Greg’s life had been tampered with on or soon before the day he had wandered into the Ramkin Hotel. Since that point everybody who should have known him considered him a stranger, and everybody else thought he was Richard Jameson. Except Georgina. She had dined with Greg Summers, and when his hotel booking vanished, it had still been Greg Summers who she spent the night with. When she departed the following morning, it had been Greg Summers she bade farewell to. They hoped that she would still be a reliable witness to his identity. If she had been overlooked by the enemy, if she still recognised Greg for who he was, she would be proof.

  What they would then do with her testimony was another question, one that pained Greg in a very personal way. Should her tale ever be used then all the sordid details of his affair would be revealed. If it were possible to salvage Jennifer from the grip of the brainwashing, then it would be to this story that she returned. What would that do to them?

  Absurd as it was, this was the most subtle and disturbing thing he had so far faced. Not terrifying in the same way as the creature had been, but striking in a deeper, more insidious way. All his battles to reclaim his identity were based on Jennifer being the reward if he succeeded. Would it be worth the struggle if she returned only to turn her back on him, tormenting him in her own way through abandonment and divorce? Even worse, could their marriage continue as a sterile, lifeless thing forever marred by his betrayal?

  He would take the risk. If necessary, he would take any risk. Too much had happened for him to just withdraw from the battle, to flee the breathing nightmares that haunted and taunted him.

  “…we going?” The end of the question intruded on his reverie. He flushed with embarrassment.

  “Sorry,” he replied. “Mind was wandering. What did you say?”

  “I was just asking how we get there.”

  Greg thought about it. “I’m not sure. I walked there from a car park last time.”

  “Fine, we’ll leave the car at my hotel. Will you be all right from there?” Alex was looking at the road, but his face was creased with concern. With a sigh, Greg realised this was going to happen every time his concentration lapsed. Alex was all too aware that he was dealing with a man having difficulty holding firm to his identity.

  “I’ll find it. And I really was just thinking.”

  Alex glanced across. “I’m that transparent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I just can’t help…”

  Greg cut the apology short. “No offence taken. One us should be watching me. As I don’t seem able to catch my personality swings until after the fact, it’s up to you.”

  Alex nodded. “I’m honoured,” he said.

  It was an unnerving experience to be walking the city streets, though Greg knew his paranoia stemmed more from Alex’s elaborate precautions than any real sense of things amiss. Alex thought it important not to be seen in public together, which was a sensible enough thought given that the hotel manager was still Greg’s only unseen card in whatever game he played. What had really set his imagination alight was Carlisle’s secondary goal, to see if he could spot any pursuers. In trying to do that he was tailing him at a considerable distance.

  Greg walked with as much purpose as he could, but it was like having an itch between the blades of his shoulders. Knowing Alex was following made him want to turn and see if he was still there, watching, keeping him safe.

  His awareness of the people around him had grown exponentially. Not a minute passed without him thinking he had just caught a glimpse of the thing’s human disguise.

  The corner of his eye caught long brown hair blowing in the wind. He forced his head not to whip round and look.

  Alex, did you see that? Was it him?

  A tall man in jeans and a T-shirt brushed him at a traffic light.

  Alex, he’s found me! Are you watching?

  Twice he found himself ready to break into a run and flee, just to get as far away as possible from where he was. Someplace safe, and enclosed, and protected, and warm, and secret, and…

  He was there. Messop and Son Photographic Studios. Sweat soaked the fabric of his shirt. He opened the door and stepped inside, turning to look out of the window at the street as the door closed and the bell rang. Nothing. People. Ordinary people completing their random errands, on an average day.

  “Feeling the heat, hm? It’s an uncommonly warm day for the time of year.” Startled, Greg turned. Forcing a grin to open his face, he stepped up to the counter.

  “Mr Messop, good morning.” He wished he could power the croak from his voice, but the dry panic had yet to fade. “I called by a couple of days ago.”

  “Ah yes. The unusual service.” For a moment Greg thought the old man might leave it at that, locking the two of them in uncomfortable eye contact, but then Messop turned his myopic, NHS-enhanced stare away and vanished into the back room. His voice drifted to reception.

  “If you would care to wait a moment, I shall retrieve your photographs.”

  For the few minutes that Greg was left alone his panic returned tenfold. Glancing back at the door, he expected it to shatter inwards and reveal the tall, longhaired man. Or the skinless tormentor from his nightmare life.

  The door was still closed when Messop returned.

  “Hm. Did my best you understand. Interesting work, to be sure.” Greg could no longer speak. He had already heard the facts in the developer’s voice. Suddenly the room was very, very large and Greg very small.

  Sitting in the transport café where he and Alex had agreed to meet, he avoided considering the implications of the morning. Alex would soon be there. Alex would know what it meant. He had become used to handing his life over to strangers. Only this last thought reached his face, placing there a lifeless smile. It flickered away, and anybody watching might doubt it had surfaced at all.

  Within five minutes of him choosing a table and sitting, Alex arrived. Impassive, Greg watched him enter, seeing his friend grin as he surveyed the plastic cheerfulness of the place. Each garish colour in turn defied its fellows to complement it, forming a mutant rainbow of the room. The smell of frying proteins made his eyes water. Four other people sat in the café. A young couple feasted on plates of chips, while an elderly pair hunched two tables down from Greg, sipping from mugs of tea.

  Alex pulled up a chair. “I certainly claim no expertise in the ways of espionage, but I think they’re probably harmless.” He caught Greg’s eye then stopped, noting the blankness, seeing the nothing. “Greg…”

  Raising a marionette-like hand, Greg stopped the question before it was asked. “You first.”

  Alex paused, then nodded. “Fair enough. As far as I can tell there was no one following you. I dropped a reasonable way back, so nobody should have associated me with you. Be
tter safe than sorry.” Again, he paused. When the question finally came it was gentle, almost tender. “You?”

  Greg winced, for this was a moment he had dreaded since leaving the shop forty-five minutes earlier. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he pulled forth the photos which had been returned to him, tossing them on the table as though glad to be rid of them.

  “He couldn’t find anything wrong with them.”

  Stunned, Alex sat back in his chair and stared out of the window. For a time they remained like that, two men sat opposite each other in a small café in the centre of London. The silence hanging between them was tangible, a force field keeping the world away. Greg noticed, from the corner of his eye, a waitress come towards them to take an order. She stopped short a few feet away, gazed at the two men, then turned and walked back to the counter, too aware of the moment to intrude.

  When he could bear the silence no longer, he broke the spell. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What does it mean?”

  Alex looked back up, surprised. Studying Greg’s face for a moment, his surprise grew to astonishment. “You mean you don’t know?”

  Greg shook his head, stubborn to the last. “Don’t know what? This is hardly the time for games.”

  “Games? Christ.” Again he searched Greg’s face, perhaps looking for some glint of humour or misunderstanding. On discovering nothing, resignation collapsed over him. “You’re in shock, or active denial. You know what this means and you’re waiting for me to reassure you that it’s not the case.” He looked into Greg’s eyes, sorrowful, then shook his head. “I’m not going to do that. I can’t see how such pretence is going to hand us anything but more problems. So I’ll be blunt. There is a very real chance that you are Richard Jameson.”

  Greg flinched. He knew he had heard the words, but was unable to decipher their meaning. He shook his head.

  “I’m Gregory Summers.”

  “Listen to me. Listen carefully. These photographs are real. You’ve confirmed they show you as a young boy. You’ve had them authenticated. These photographs are your childhood.”

  “No. I’m Greg Summers.”

  Alex clenched a fist, frustrated. Picking up one of the photos, he turned it to face Greg. It showed him as a child, alongside his ersatz mother and brother. Speaking with increasing conviction, Alex ploughed on. “Explain this to me, then. Explain this photo. You have to consider the possibility that Richard Jameson is the original personality, and Greg Summers the impostor. Is that really less believable than anything you’ve told me?”

  Greg was coming to life now, denial threading hot anger through his stomach. “Alex, I know you mean well, but I know who I am. The photo is confusing, but I’m still Greg Summers. Even the crazy old man who looked at it only said that any tampering was beyond his skill to detect. It doesn’t mean he was right. Don’t you see?” His voice was hissing now, sounding unhinged even to his own ears. “This is what they want me to think!” Closing his eyes, he tried to will himself calm. “You’re reading too much into this.”

  “The tobacco.” Now Alex was the one fighting to contain himself. “Greg, the tobacco.”

  Confused, he shook his head. “I don’t…”

  “We know Jameson smokes, yes? You wanted that cigarette, you enjoyed it. You smoked it easily, without coughing or feeling nauseous or any of the dozen symptoms I would expect of a first time smoker.”

  “Jameson’s personality took over. We’ve covered this Alex, the brainwashing…”

  “Your mind can be brainwashed. Your lungs, I suspect, can’t. You didn’t cough. I thought it was odd, but you were so sure you were Summers…”

  Greg spoke like an automaton. “I am.”

  Hostility hung between them, palpable and bitter. Reading the surety in Alex’s eyes pushed a race of thoughts through Greg’s head. I trust him, he thought, I know I trust him. Now he’s taking their side, trying to confuse me. But I trust him. Nobody else has helped me. Nobody else has accepted me. Nobody else has let me cry. I trust him. Why is he doing this to me? Doesn’t he know how close I am to losing myself? Can I prove myself to him? Can I…

  “Georgina,” he said, and it was almost a gasp. Seeing the confusion on Alex’s face, he continued, words tripping over each other in their quest to convince. “Please Alex, don’t make up your mind yet. We stick with the plan. Let me talk to George. Let me find out who she’s been sleeping with for three months. If she won’t accept me as Greg then I swear I’ll listen. But let me try. Please?”

  To his eternal relief, Alex nodded. “Agreed. It can’t hurt to have all the facts before we try to work this out. Just promise that if she doesn’t tell you what you want to hear, you’ll be open to this.”

  Grateful for the respite, feeling like a man on trial, Greg nodded. His treacherous subconscious, however, trembled in anticipation of the response Georgina might give.

  In his heart, he already knew who she had dined with that day.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  VERIFICATION

  Georgina Hood had seduced him in a bar four doors down from his office. It was early evening and Greg, not normally a solitary drinker, had finished a hard day. Going straight home to Jennifer was a bad idea, recent experience had told him she would only become the focus of his frustrations, so a chance to shake off the stresses of the day was important. It was quiet inside, the afternoon horde having left for familial homes, the evening crowd still grooming and preparing for a night out. This left the brightly coloured bar, replete with neon lights, only a handful of patrons. Greg had stared into his second lager, finding the whole atmosphere annoying and pretentious.

  Georgina approached him as he ordered his third drink. Tight jeans wrapped around graceful, muscular legs, and a tight T-shirt made an asset of her delicate breasts. What struck Greg most surely, however, was her hair. Blonde, naturally curled, and hanging loosely about her waist, it rippled with the tempo of her words. Sky blue eyes flashed above a mouth which contrived a pout to suit every emotion.

  Small talk ensued, and then Greg had proceeded to buy her a drink. Several glasses later, more than he had ever intended to stay for, they were having frenzied sex against the back wall of the car park.

  It need not have gone further than that. They had agreed to meet again in two days, but it had been the booze speaking. In the sober light of the following morning Greg could have dismissed the idea as foolish, but he did not. Excited by this vibrant young woman and her attraction to him, he kept the appointment.

  Thus it began. At least, Greg hoped that was how it had begun. Despite his assurances to Alex, he was far along the road of doubt. There was no question that these memories were vivid and real to him, but he was no fool. The validity of his memory was the whole focus of his dilemma.

  Driving to her flat, the weight of his situation bore more heavily on him than ever. This could be the final proof he needed to convince both he and Alex of his identity., but the reality had also hit home. He really could be Jameson.

  A shudder took him as he glanced across at Alex. No help there. His friend was fixing his attention on the road ahead, trying to avoid further conversation until he had fulfilled his promise to meet Georgina. Greg regretted his hostility in the café, for Alex had only been trying to help. The very nature of the discussion had caused Greg’s violent reaction. It questioned the very fundaments of his identity in ways he could not dismiss. As well as that, he resented that Alex had been the one to bring the topic up. The man who had done so much for him, supporting and helping him, taking him at his word time and again. When Alex doubted, it threatened what little security he had left. Raising the question had been for Greg’s own good, but it had also been a rejection of sorts. Despite the short time they had known each other, perhaps because of the heightened circumstances they found themselves in, he had come to trust Alex, and his opinions counted for much.

  Knowing now that his anger in the café had been misdirected, he felt easier in him
self. After he had faced the next trial he would apologise, but that ordeal was fast approaching. Already the car was pulling into one of the parking spaces outside the flat where Georgina lived.

  As the engine died there was a moment of intense silence between the two men. Neither looked at the other, but there nevertheless existed a communication between them. It was the silent, respectful support given to the terminally diseased. Both men now accepted the truth. Speaking to Georgina was just a formality. Greg Summers would die in just a few minutes, never having existed. Richard Jameson would be born anew. The shiny sleek car in which they travelled was a substitute hearse.

  Alex was first to intrude on the silence. “Well?”

  Greg grunted, not wanting to stand up yet. If he stood first it would become obvious that he was shaking, and could not trust his legs to hold him. Yet it was his own funeral march they were playing. Gingerly, as though discovering for the first time how to walk, he stepped from the car.

  Facing the flat, Greg wished that he believed in a god. It would be reassuring to trust his fate to a higher power. Until recently he had believed in only two things - the love he shared with Jennifer, and his own ability to survive whatever life threw his way. Those beliefs had both been savagely ripped from him.

  Jennifer was gone.

  He might not even exist.

  That was the most frightening thing. He was more and more certain that, regardless his memories, he had until recently lived life as a man called Richard Jameson. If this were so then he had been Gregory for a matter of weeks, probably only days. That had been his entire life.