“This isn’t funny anymore.”
“You’re right.”
“Let go of my arm!”
Giving in to the rage, Greg yanked Stewart across the table and screamed into his face. “WHO ARE YOU!”
Which was when his mind tried to jump. Now familiar pressures built inside his chest and head, swirling and pushing. Greg squeezed his eyes closed against the pain. Not now, he begged himself. Please not now. Aware of voices around him, hands on his arm, he fought against the jump with everything he could muster. To no avail. He could feel his mind begin to detach from the here and now. Struggling harder only sped the process.
Then he knew. He knew how to avoid it. Opening his eyes, not really seeing the cluster of onlookers or the waiter who was trying to pry his fingers from Stewart’s wrist, he relaxed.
All the pressure, those terrible, pulsing forces which wanted to rip him apart, went away. Sighing relief he released Stewart, a smile on his lips.
With no warning at all, he erupted. Blood surged from his nose and ears, pulsing out of him in a desperate bid for freedom. Acidic, scarlet tears poured from his eyes, while strange new pains bursting from his fingers made him look down. Blood trickled from beneath his fingernails too.
“Richard! RICHARD! Shit, will somebody call an ambulance!” The waiter vanished, presumably to make that call. Everybody else stood well back from the sprays of blood gouting from him. Even his newly found ‘brother’ moved a respectful distance away. A churning deep in his stomach told him that a new orifice was about to run red, but this didn’t worry him. For the first time, he realised that he was in no serious pain. Granted, the bleeding parts felt like they had tiny needles jammed into them, but it was far from debilitating.
Again his stomach heaved. Rising shakily to his feet, he turned to Stewart. With one hand held before him he opened his mouth as though to say that everything was fine now, that the worst was over. Stewart stepped forward, and with a final convulsion, Greg sprayed crimson vomit over him.
Using the shock of the moment, relishing the obvious disgust with which Stewart leapt backwards, Greg turned and ran. As with his fingernails, his stomach felt as though a slender metal rod had pierced him through, but he ignored the pain and belted out of the restaurant.
Horrified faces turned to him on the street, but he avoided their gazes. Trying to remember his route from earlier, fighting all the time against waves of dizziness and nausea from the blood loss, he stumbled like a madman in what he hoped was the direction of the car park.
He was forced to stop once during his flight, to catch his breath and duck into a public toilet to wash up. Contradicting the theory that modern city dwellers have a reduced sense of public duty, several people had already tried to stop him and see if he was badly hurt. Typical, he had thought. Never a Good Samaritan around when you want one, then six come along at once. A little firm persuasion sent them about their business.
As soon as he washed the drying blood from his hands and face he walked the rest of the journey at a brisk pace. Of course, the suit was ruined, but he had been provided with plenty of spares at the apartment.
Despite being only a little more informed from his meeting with Stewart, it felt good to be fighting back. For too long he had been passive in this affair. Now he was finally taking chances to solve it. It was the most thrilling thing he had ever done.
Running from the restaurant had been necessary. Once he lost his temper and grabbed Stewart the game was blown. There could have been any number of associates watching, but Greg had escaped nonetheless. A successful afternoon, for now they might be getting an idea that they had picked the wrong man to mess with.
As he entered the multi-storey car park, he was aware of several odd glances being thrown his way, but was confident that they were due to the state of his suit. He did not seem to have been followed to the car. Paying equal attention to the rest of his trip, he felt sure he was not being watched. Why would they need to do that, he realised, pulling his car into one of the residential parking spaces outside his block. They know where I’m was going.
Hurrying into the building, he was caught off-guard by the doorman, who rushed to block his way.
“Mr Jameson! Are you all right sir? Your suit…”
“Is covered with blood, I know.” The man appeared to be concerned, and as Greg had yet to decide if he was involved in the conspiracy he chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. “The man sitting next to me at the restaurant had some sort of fit. Actually threw up blood. Stewart and I are wearing most of it.”
“Is the gentleman all right?”
“Better all the time.”
Looking relieved, the doorman stepped aside. Greg was about to walk by when a thought struck him. “Look, I’m a bit shaken up by the whole thing, so I’d like to get an early night. If I have visitors, anyone at all, you’re not to send them up. Understand?”
“I’ll send them on their way. It must have been very traumatic.”
Greg stifled a laugh, thinking of Stewart’s face. “It was. And thanks.” That said, he headed for the lift.
Once back in the comfort of the apartment his energy fled him. Slumped in one of the voluminous beanbags, he lay perfectly still for nearly an hour. Only when the telephone rang did he start back to life.
Shooting across the room, his hand was on the receiver before he had time to think. Then he stopped. It would almost certainly be Stewart. What was left to say to the man? Did he really want to answer the call? Lifting the receiver, he spoke before the person on the opposite end had a chance to get a word in.
“Fuck you,” he said, then switched off the phone.
Standing still, he felt exhaustion sweep over him. Thinking time, that was what he needed, preferably lying down somewhere warm. Feeling blank and lifeless, he stripped off his ruined clothes and ran himself a bath.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRATERNITY
School was too terrifying a concept for Richard to contemplate that day. Thirteen years old and a regular truant, his problem was easily solved. He did not attend. Mr Rhodes, the tyrannical head of the English Department, had arranged to have one of his ‘little chats’ just before the lunch break. His hands still aching from the last time Rhodes had taken the cardboard cane to them, Richard was in no hurry to keep the appointment.
But what fun was skiving without company? Most days, Richie would have a host of friends to choose from in organising his adventures in absenteeism. That day there had been no time. At first he had decided to be resolute, to face his fate with dignity. This state of mind lasted until he reached the end of the garden path. Resolve himself to being unable to clench his hands for a week? Was he out of his mind?
By then it was too late to organise anything with his friends. There was no chance to call anyone at home. Everyone would already be on their way to school. The opportunity to feign illness was already wasted, for his parents would never accept that the burgeoning teenager who strolled out of the door just moments ago had been struck down by a malignant virus before even reaching the street. He was left with just one choice. Stewart.
He didn’t mind dropping his little brother off each day. The primary school was on the way to his high school, and it was a proud measure of responsibility that his mother would allow him custody of Stewart for the journey. Today though, he desired company far more than parental respect. Devious thoughts sprang to his mind as he turned to his brother.
“Stewart, I think today should be an adventure.” Stewart looked at him as they crossed the road, face blank. “Today we are going to the park.”
His brother’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “The adventure park, Richie? Please can we make it the adventure park?” The kid was at the wonderful age of seven; bright enough to take the bait, but not yet intuitive enough to question it.
“Aw, heck Stu. That would be a wonderful idea, but we don’t have time. I just meant that, if we were quick, we might be able to stop at the kiddies park for
five minutes. It’s on the way.” Stewart was crushed. For a moment Richard thought he might have pushed too hard, but his brother bounced back.
“We could be really quick?”
“Sorry Stu. But hang on…” Richard exaggerated the look of dawning realisation on his face to a ridiculous extreme. All that was missing was a disembodied light bulb flashing above his head. Stewart took the hint.
“What Richie? What is it?”
“Well, if you reeaaally want to go to the adventure park I don’t see why we shouldn’t. It would mean being naughty though. We’d have to take a day off school. Couldn’t tell Mum or Dad. Might not be such a good idea.”
“I promise I won’t tell!”
Hook, line, sinker.
“You better not. Just remember that I’m only coming along to make sure you’re all right. It’s your idea.”
“I won’t get you into trouble. I’ll tell them it’s my fault if we’re caught.” Seeing the assenting look on Richard’s face, he laughed and began to run in the direction of the adventure park. Richard jogged to keep up, grinning all the while. Kids were so easy.
By one o’ clock Richard was bored. Lying next to the rope swing, he forced yet another smile of approval at the Tarzan-like antics of his brother.
“Did you see, Richie? Did you?” Nodding that he had indeed seen, he tried to will the next two hours to pass. Stewart had a boundless energy for the various rides scattered through the park, but Richard had managed only two hours of such enthusiasm before the novelty wore thin. Still, it had been his idea so he had little right to complain. If only his brother would let him be for five minutes instead of seeking his constant approval for each new stunt he concocted.
An idea occurred to him, one which might buy him those precious moments of peace he desired. Rolling onto his stomach, he reached out for his schoolbag. It took a few moments of rummaging, but eventually he found it. Pulling the cricket ball free of the odds and ends that seemed to infest his bag, he shouted over to Stewart.
“Hey, do you fancy tossing a ball around for a while?” Stewart came haring over. Richard knew how this worked. Older brother worship meant that anything he suggested must be a good idea. Often irritating, for it sometimes seemed that Stewart had no original thoughts in his head, it occasionally proved useful. It was time to make the most of it.
“Okay, you go and stand over there, by those trees. When you’re ready give me a shout.” With a laugh, Stewart ran in the direction Richard had pointed. Stopping just short of a thick line of trees, he turned and waved.
“Right, here it comes.” The first throw was an easy one, landing practically in his waiting brother’s lap. Stewart managed to get his hands round it, though he winced a little at the force with which the solid ball smacked his skin.
“I got it Richie! Good catch, huh?”
“Not bad, shrimp. England squad next.” Stewart giggled. “Chuck it back.” The throw went wild, but it took him only a few steps to line himself up for it properly. A small hop secured it safely in his outstretched hand. Now for plan A.
“Good throw. You ready? It’s coming back at you.” He hurled it. With some pride he watched it sail over his brother’s head, clear of even the luckiest catch, into the trees beyond. Stewart watched it go, then turned back.
“It’s all right Richie, I’ll get it.” Turning, he launched himself into the undergrowth, which swallowed him in an instant.
Plan A was a success. Richard had watched the cricket ball, and was sure he could find it if he had to. Stewart, on the other hand, should end up blundering around in there for at least ten minutes. He threw himself to the ground.
Sprawling there, the afternoon sun heating his face, he congratulated himself on a successful skive. Before they went home he would brief Stewart on what he should say had happened at school that day. That should go pretty well; for all that he could be irritating at times, his little brother was smart for his age. Later he would use Dad’s computer to forge the sick notes they would take to class tomorrow. He would even go into the primary school himself, most of the staff knew him pretty well by now, and explain in person why Stewart had been missing.
Engrossed as he was in this planning, the next events were surreal and out of context. At the very edge of his thinking he registered Stewart shouting.
“Watch this one Richie!” It seemed a long way away, probably because his brother was not expected to return for at least another five minutes. Slowly, he turned to face the direction of the trees. A red blur sailed towards him. With no time to move or respond, all he could do was watch the cricket ball smash into the side of his own face.
With a splash, Richard woke up. The water was still warm, which meant he had only been dozing for a few minutes. Good. With all his other problems the last thing he needed was to be found drowned in his own bathtub.
As always, the ball hitting his face was the last thing he remembered from the dream. In real life he had been knocked unconscious by the ball. It had been just his luck that the best throw Stewart ever tossed was the one he had been least likely to praise. His little brother had enough good sense to run and fetch help, finding a park attendant just along the path. Richard had been rushed to hospital, where it was determined that he was suffering nothing worse than a mild concussion.
When his mother and father had been called in they had been too relieved at finding their children in good health to make a fuss about them skipping school. What with Richard having concussion and Stewart getting the fright of his life, their father decided that more than enough punishment had been meted out already. It was still a story which amused them during the annual Christmas gathering, one his father took particular pains to relate to any and all guests who visited them.
Shaking his head, Richard got out of the bath, wrapped a towel around himself, and wandered to the mirror. Plugging in the hairdryer, he directed a blast of heat across his scalp.
His gaze met his reflection.
Dropping from his lifeless hand, the hairdryer caught briefly on its cord before the weight pulled the plug from the socket. It clattered to the floor.
Greg began to shiver violently. Sinking to his knees, he put his hands over his eyes and cried. How? How was it done? Another person had looked at him from that mirror.
For a few moments, before he had fully woken up, he had been Richard Jameson.
An hour later he felt better. Not much better, for he still couldn’t stop himself from trembling, but better than in the bathroom. When it had happened. Knowing that he had to face up to the incident, he finished adding sugar to the cup of tea he had made. Someone had once told him that sweet tea was good for shock. He didn’t want to think too carefully about who might have said that, for he didn’t want to know whether they had been talking to Greg Summers or Richard Jameson at the time.
Brainwashing. It sounded like something from a science fiction movie, but nothing else fitted except for schizophrenia, multiple personality orders, and other dysfunctions. Even without the necessary psychiatric knowledge though, he was fairly certain that schizophrenia didn’t come replete with luxury apartments, credit accounts, or families. No, this was all too material to be a delusion.
Which took him back to brainwashing. Somebody had planted a false memory in him. Just the one as far as he could tell, for he had spent the last hour scouring his mind for further reference to Jameson. All he found was the incident of the cricket ball. The most distressing thing, the reason he was still trembling, was that the memory now persisted. At the same time as he remembered burying his mother at the age of thirteen, he also remembered playing with his brother Stewart. On the very edge of that latter memory was the mother who had taken Jameson home from hospital. He could not recall her in the same way as he could the adventure park, but he had a vague knowledge of what had happened next, as though he had been told once. It gave him a headache. A heartache.
Attempting to take a swallow of the tea, his shaking hand spilled hot liquid on his ar
m. Wincing, he recalled the coffee scald when he was six, a precious, crystal memory that was his. Welcoming the pain on his skin, for it affirmed the past for him, he moved to the sink and let cool water soothe the burn.
Somehow, over the last few weeks, the false memory had been placed in him. He had no recollection of this happening, but he supposed that anybody capable of planting a memory so would have no trouble in erasing another one. Christ, how long had these people been preparing him for this? In many ways though, he was now closer to the answer than ever. At least he had a grasp of the mechanics that had lent such credence to their ploy. If they could brainwash him, they could also brainwash Jennifer. No wonder she had been so hostile towards him. Her traitor memories had cast him as a delusional maniac.
Perhaps he had also stumbled on a reason for the violent flashbacks he had been having. This was trickier to put together, and he moved through to the living space. Sipping his tea, he noticed that the trembling had stopped. Panic over, Greg Summers was back in charge.
Sitting at the desk by the window, he gazed at the river crawling by, allowing his thoughts to brush over the problem of the fits. He had almost dismissed them as secondary to the main torment. As his life had been taken from him a piece at a time, his health had become a small consideration. What if it was a physical symptom of the same problem though, like the weeping nose which accompanied a cold? Better, what if it was actually some sort of immune response? Yes, that could be it. What if he was reacting against the false memory in some way? Perhaps the flashbacks were an attempt by his subconscious to reject the implant, a way for his mind to grasp at the real past and violently reassert it? After all, the very nature of the fits forced him to remember parts of his life with unusual clarity.