“I’ll bet. Fine. I believe you. But I’m still holding court on fleshy beasts and brainwashing.”
“I don’t blame you.” Then the big question, the whole reason he had presumed to come here. “Will you help me?’”
There was a moment of utter vacuum; it seemed to Greg that Alex had no idea what his answer would be. Then, staring into space, he nodded his head.
Four days of solitary pain crashed in on Greg, and he started to cry. He wasn’t aware of Alex crossing to sit tentatively beside him, nor could he remember precisely when the larger man began to hold him. All he knew, as he lay like a newborn in his friend’s arms, was that he was safe. After all the running, the struggles and revelations, he was finally safe. Making no attempt to hold back, he relished the chance to weep soft tears.
Alex allowed Greg to cry until he was certain that the nightmare had been, at least for the moment, subdued. Only when he felt that his new friend was holding together better did he go to make coffee.
Greg used the time to consider his next move. Lying back on the couch, he let his mind wander over the possibilities. They were few in number. He had an ally at last, the single thing that kept him from despair, but what new options did that open up? How was he better off than before?
Cigarette smoke drifted past his eyes as Alex took the seat opposite him again. A mug of steaming coffee was presented, and he sipped it, burning his lips in the process.
“Easy does it,” warned Alex, “I’m not convinced I should be giving you any caffeine at all. You’re stressed enough as it is.”
Coffee. Burning. Strangely, those images felt as though they should be familiar to him. Unable to place why, he shook the thought from his head.
“Do you mind if I have a cigarette?”
Alex gave him a peculiar glance, then handed his pouch of tobacco over without a word. Deftly, Greg pulled loose a cigarette paper, then spread tobacco over it and rolled a narrow tube. Only when he was running his tongue along the glued edge of the paper did he realise what he was doing.
He stared at the object in his hand as though it might bite him, then lifted his head to look at Alex. The words were difficult, emerging as a breath. “I don’t smoke.”
“Thought not. I remember the look on your face when I lit up in my office. You rolled that like a pro, though.” Alex’s brow furrowed. “Can we try something? Call it an experiment.” Greg nodded. Putting out his own cigarette in the ashtray on the table, Alex pulled a lighter from his pocket. “Smoke it.”
Part of Greg was repulsed at the thought. Even when he was a boy, he had never been tempted to indulge such stupidity. For as long as he could recall he had been aware of the dangers inherent in smoking, had always thought it a disgusting habit. As a young man it had made him nauseous whenever he was in a room with somebody smoking. Now though, he was curious. Oddly, the thought revolted him less than it once had.
He nodded his assent as he placed the cigarette in his mouth. Alex reached over with the lighter, sparked it aflame, and lit the tiny homemade.
Deciding that the experiment was useless if he entered it halfheartedly, Greg drew in deep. He expected to explode with a convulsive fit of coughing. He expected to feel sick. Neither happened. Instead, after a moment of mild lightheadedness, he realised he was enjoying the cigarette tremendously. Some of the tension left his body. Noticing the inquisitive cock of Alex’s eyebrow, he answered the unspoken question. “It feels good. I can see why it’s so addictive.”
“This is your first cigarette?”
“Yes.” He took another draw. “Just being around the smoke used to make me queasy.”
Alex looked troubled. “Why did you ask for one?”
“I’m not sure, it was just an urge. I felt like having a cigarette.” He realised what he was saying, knew it sounded foolish. “Isn’t that how it starts?”
“I don’t think so. It wasn’t that way with me. Besides, think it through. You’ve never had a cigarette in your life, yet you have a sudden urge to smoke. Without even thinking about it you roll a perfect cigarette, a skill which takes time to perfect. Then you puff away on a strong, unfiltered tobacco that should, by rights, leave the smoking initiate retching and choking. It makes me wonder.”
Greg realised precisely where the argument led. A chill broke over him, his suddenly clumsy movements causing him to drop the cigarette.
“It makes me wonder if Richard Jameson might be a smoker.”
Picking the cigarette from the floor, Greg extinguished it in the ashtray. After the dream of the adventure park he had been sure that no other fragments of Jameson were to be found in him. Perhaps he had been looking in the wrong places. “I think, perhaps, he is.” Exhaling, he reached for his coffee. And stopped short. “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” Alex was eager, the mystery snaring him. “You don’t usually drink coffee either?”
Greg shook his head. “No, I’ve always drunk it. At least, I think I have.” Could he be sure? “When I was very young I scalded myself with coffee. It terrified my mother and she slapped me. Whenever I burn myself it makes me think of that. Just one of those memories that sticks.”
“Joys of childhood, and all that.”
“Except, just before I asked for a cigarette, I burned my lips on the coffee. I couldn’t remember why it was significant. I knew it was, but I couldn’t work out why.” Fighting back a fresh surge of panic, he forced himself not to shout. “I couldn’t place it, Alex. Do you know why? Because it wasn’t me trying! I was Jameson again, like in the bathroom. Every time I relax, he forces his way in. I can’t even tell when it’s happening!”
“Okay, calm down. Panicking isn’t going to help.” Greg nodded, taking deep breaths to soothe his rising anxiety. “I know it’s distressing, but you have to stay calm. Before we do anything else we should get you cleaned up. And you can hardly leave the flat with those handcuffs dangling from your wrists. I don’t know what we’re going to do after that, but we’ll work this out. I promise.”
Greg knew what Alex was trying to do and appreciated it. Short term goals. At the moment it was too terrifying to consider the wider implications of the situation. It was easier to concentrate on what could be done then and there. He took another sip of coffee, clinging to his recovered memory, and nodded his agreement.
“Good. Wait here.” Saying this, Alex picked up his jacket and keys, unlocked the front door and was gone.
Greg was left alone. Despite having woken up only a few hours ago, exhaustion from the telling of his tale crashed in on him. Minutes later, he was dozing quietly on the couch.
When Gregory Summers married Jennifer Sharpe, it was happiest and most terrifying day of his life. Despite drinking little the night before, he woke late and panicked. Dressing was a blur, and all he later remembered was having to do it twice. Had he not glanced briefly in the mirror before leaving he would have worn jeans and a T-shirt to the ceremony. Similarly, the drive to the church was a manic affair, verging on the suicidal. Once there the torment continued. Waiting at the front, knowing in his heart that Jennifer wouldn’t show, he was near tears when his bride strode through the doors. Vows were exchanged, words flowing from his mouth without the direct intervention of his mind. They kissed.
And the years of loneliness and isolation ended. He had a family. Somebody who loved him, whom he loved dearly in return.
People meeting him at the reception received little more than a dazed look and a beauteous smile. Nobody minded. Shellshock, they said to themselves, and this was not far from the truth.
The newlyweds honeymooned in Florida. Eager tourists, they made the most of tacky sights and attractions. Over those two wonderful weeks they shared themselves more willingly and truly than Greg could have imagined possible.
Panic-stricken shouts…
“Greg! Jesus! Greg!”
His eyes darted open, the fog of sleep dissipating in an instant. Alex was above him, shaking him awake. Reading the fear in the man’s eye
s, he looked around the room. Where were they? Had they found him?
Then he noticed the dampness of his clothes, felt the slickness on his face. Looking down, he found the cause of Alex’s concern. His clothes, the settee, even the carpet - all now bore the familiar signs of one of his flashbacks. They were crimson with blood.
While he slept, he had exploded again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FADING
Eternity continues. This time, as the tank drains, it is only the sensation of sinking that alerts him to the fact. Nothing remains of the complex biological system that is the ear to tell him of any gurgling.
Sinking. Falling. Dropping. Then the pain. What must he look like now? Despite the shattering icicle stabs of sensation, too intense now to determine from which part of his body they scream, in his mind he comes close to a chuckle. He knows exactly what he looks like. The thing, the creature that fractured his life. There is no skin left on him, only muscles and tendons. Blood and fat. It is possible that his stripped body gleams redder than that other monster had, but the globules of fat will be as white, the shudders of his heart as strong. For a while.
He wants to give up now. No life awaits him should he escape, not as he is now. He would spend the rest of his days in hospital, alone but for the nurses. Even they would turn away in sympathy and horror.
Now there is a new sensation, a fresh pressure sitting next to the pain. It builds in his torso, climbing slowly through grades of power until he feels sure he must expand to contain it. His awareness becomes dizzy, flashes of red illuminate his sightless brain.
He knows what it must be, this strange force. Upon draining, the fluid has been replaced with pure, sweet air. Which he can no longer breathe. Great swallows of the fluid have bubbled within him, eating his lungs away until nothing remains but the pool of grey mucus that must now slosh at the bottom of his chest cavity. The only things preventing his chest from collapsing are his still solid ribs.
Building, building, the pressure increases until he knows he must explode. The insignificant part of his existence that still recognises himself as individual grows smaller.
Fading?
Why is he?
fading?
away?
With a rush, the pressure recedes and he returns. He is not dead, and the sensation of rising, floating, is the only clue he needs to tell him why. The fluid which now refills the tank is keeping him alive, somehow replacing the function of his lungs to bring him oxygen.
For just long enough to make his death a slower sufferance.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DUBIETY
An hour later, Greg emerged from the bathroom. It had been a labour to bathe, loss of blood having again left him listless and without energy. To his alarm, he found himself becoming used to the sensation. Alex was sitting on the remaining clean couch, staring in open disbelief at the stained mess of its twin. Greg read his thoughts without difficulty. So very much blood.
When he had woken and realised the cause of panic, it had been the task of a few moments to calm his friend. All he had said was that this was nothing to worry about, at least compared to all the other things they had to worry about, and that he would explain when he was cleaned up.
The hot water of the bath had been soothing, soporific, and it had been a struggle to emerge from that enveloping comfort. His myriad aches - his sprained wrist, the sting of his feet - all became less debilitating in the penetrating heat. Eventually though, he could rest no longer. There were things to be done, even if he could not yet specify what they might be, and only he could do them.
“Alex?” The other man looked up, shock still in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
A brief and welcome smile flickered across Carlisle’s lips. “You’re asking about my health?”
Greg chuckled. It was strange, but in a funny way he had adjusted to accept these events. They no longer caused him such dismay and confusion. Still, he badly needed Alex’s strength to maintain himself. Earlier the manager had been so controlled, so strong. What now sat before him was a man edging along a precipice. The reasoning behind the violent physical eruption he had borne witness to might be sufficient to calm him. Sitting next to Alex on the couch, Greg began his explanation.
“Okay, take a deep breath. This is what I think happens. Do you remember I told you about the fits earlier? How they’ve become steadily worse?”
“Of course. But I had no idea…”
Greg raised his hand to silence him. “Let me finish. The fit, if that’s what you want to call it, which happened this evening sort of validates most of what I thought. The theory I was working with supposes that they’re a method for my own memories to reassert themselves against the implants. We already know there may be more artificial memories in my head than I’m aware of, and I think that this particular fit was a reaction to the new ones which surfaced this evening.”
“The cigarette thing?”
“Exactly. I don’t think they’re dangerous, just uncomfortable.”
“I take your point Greg, but not dangerous? Take a look at the couch. How much blood do you see there? A pint? Two?”
“I know. Still, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, isn’t that what they say?”
Alex gave him a sceptical look, then sighed. “Do you know if any of your fellow brainwashees have these fits?”
Greg shook his head. “Not for certain, but if you want me to guess, then I don’t think so. This might be something the creature hasn’t come across before. I’m less susceptible to my new identity than others have been, and it doesn’t know how to deal with that. It only dropped its disguise to shake me up, and I think that was because the fits were stopping the brainwashing from having a severe enough effect.”
“You weren’t suffering enough.”
“That’s it. I don’t know why it needs me to suffer in such specific ways, but it’s significant enough for it to take extreme measures to make that I do.”
Alex shook his head, though Greg was relieved to see that he had visibly relaxed. Amazing, he thought, what the human mind can accept with a bit of nudging and rationalisation. Now it was time to start thinking about the future. “So,” he hazarded. “What next?”
Alex shook himself. “Well, first we’re going to get those bloody handcuffs off you. After that you’re going to do your damnedest to clean my couch.”
During his brief excursion, which Greg was surprised to hear had only lasted an hour and half, Alex had made his way back to the hotel. Picking up a toolkit from the caretaker’s office, he had driven back by way of a twenty-four hour garage and bought some paracetamol and bandages.
Greg took the pills dutifully. His sprained wrist had swollen to press firmly and painfully against the chill metal, and the constant throb which originated there was signal enough that taking the cuff off was going to hurt like hell.
He was right. Laying the arm across the coffee table, Alex took a hammer and chisel from the dusty bag on the floor. Carefully resting the tip of the chisel against the lock of the cuff, even this gentle pressure sending a light shock of pain through Greg’s arm, he glanced at his kneeling friend.
“This will probably…”
“Hurt. I know. Hurry up, the suspense is…”
The hammer descended and Greg screamed, tears springing to his eyes. His arm was dipped in molten torment, but the sensation soon numbed to a mute ache.
“Oh, hush,” Alex said. “The neighbours are going to think I’m murdering somebody in here.”
Yes, thought Greg, and what an accurate guess that would be. Through gritted teeth he asked, “Is it off?”
“Not quite. One more good blow should do it, I think.” Greg closed his eyes against the coming shock. Hot fire again drove into his flesh, boiling blood and tearing at nerves, and he bit his tongue to silence himself.
“It’s off.” For a moment he thought Alex was referring to his tongue, then he opened his eyes with relief. Pulling back his
arm he saw, for the first time, how badly swollen the wrist actually was without steel to keep it in check. Black, blue and red blended to form a harsh kaleidoscope of pains. He felt faint.
“Could I…could I possibly have another paracetamol?”
“Certainly,” Alex grinned. “And for being such a brave little trooper, you can be dismissed from all couch restoration duties until further notice.”
Greg replied with a wan smile. After he had sunk another of the pills, they set about making sure the wrist was securely bandaged. Again, the pain was terrible, but the end result felt far stronger than before. “Thanks,” he told Alex, and meant it.
“No problem.” His eyes twinkled. “A pleasure, in fact.” His face turned serious before Greg could respond. “Now, to business. Fun though torturing you is, we’re going to have to take a break and look to other things.” Tired, the paracetamol beginning to take effect, Greg nodded drowsy agreement. Alex sat next to him. “I’ve been thinking that there are two leads you haven’t followed up yet.” He made it sound like a bad police show. “Firstly there are the photographs you handed over to authenticate.”
Greg had completely forgotten about the eccentric developer he had intended to visit that day. “Good. And second?”
“The only person you’ve left completely out of the loop.” He paused, meeting Greg’s eyes. “Your lady friend from my hotel. Georgina.”
The next day found Greg energised, in high spirits despite everything. Having rested well - if there had been nightmares then he did not remember them - he felt in good health. Only a dull throb from his wrist, which knifed out when he forgot himself and tried to use it, reminded him of the aches of previous days.
Alex was up before him, preparing a breakfast consisting mostly of cholesterol. They wolfed it down, greases relished as plans were made. It was decided that they should take Alex’s car into town, leaving Greg’s outside the flat. Wondering whether it was paranoiac to be making such elaborate precautions in the cold light of day, Greg in the end accepted that he had developed a healthy sense of fear over the past week. Safety had to be placed at the fore. They could well be grateful for the anonymity at a later point.