Lost Identity Page 6

‘You know I can’t do that, Doctor … well, whatever your name is.’

  Stephen whirled on Schultz, towering over him; the other security man rose to his feet. Schultz took a step backwards, clearly unsettled by the invasion of his personal space, but at the same time indicating, with a hand gesture, that no intervention from his colleague was necessary.

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Schultz, calmly, ‘… unless you want me to call the police again.’

  Stephen exhaled loudly, struggling to keep his frustration in check, but he did as the other man asked. Losing it with Schultz was going to get him absolutely nowhere. He decided to adopt a more conciliatory approach.

  ‘I’m sorry. Look … maybe you’re right. The attack … everything that’s happened. Maybe I really am more screwed up in my head than I realised.’

  ‘So,’ said Schultz, regarding him through narrowed eyes, ‘are you now saying you are not Doctor Stephen Lewis?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’ His head was spinning from overload, and he just couldn’t figure out what to say or do next. At length, he pulled from his pocket the card which Dr Holt had given him. ‘This is the doctor who was treating me … he warned me that I could suffer all sorts of unexpected after effects. I think I need to go and see him again.’

  He raised his gaze to meet that of Schultz, whose expression had softened somewhat.

  ‘I think that would be a very wise course of action. Would you like us to call you a cab to take you back to the hospital to see your doctor?’

  Stephen nodded, dumbly. ‘Yes … that would be good … thank you.’

  ‘We’ll cover the fare,’ added the security chief, who now appeared to have some sympathy for Stephen’s befuddled state of mind.

  ‘Thank you,’ repeated Stephen.

  Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled away from the main entrance of the hotel with Stephen seated in the back. His mind was in turmoil as he tried to decide what to do next. He had no intention of actually returning to the hospital – to do so would just waste valuable time. But what should he actually do? It was clear that he wasn’t going to get any further with Schultz, and the police obviously weren’t going to be of any help. No, he was going to have to rely on his own resources to try to figure out what was going on. As the car left Miami Beach and set off across one of the huge bridges which crossed Biscayne Bay en route to Downtown Miami, he made his decision.

  Shortly after the taxi had entered the streets of Miami, Stephen leaned forward to speak to the driver.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘What? But we’re still a couple of miles away from—’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind … please let me off here.’ He had spotted an internet café on the left-hand side of the road.

  ‘Your choice, buddy … I’ve already been paid, so it don’t matter to me.’

  The driver pulled over, and Stephen stepped out. As the cab pulled away, he looked left and right, waiting for a gap in the traffic so that he could cross the street. Annoyingly, his view of the oncoming traffic to his left was obscured by a silver SUV which had pulled up, right on a yellow line, about twenty yards back. The combination of the heavy traffic and his restricted view down the road made it just about impossible to judge when he could make a dash for it. In the end, he gave up and walked back down the street, past the parked car which had been obscuring his view and on about another fifty yards until he reached a pedestrian crossing, controlled by traffic lights. As he waited for the lights to change, he heard a car horn sound to his right. He turned towards the sound and saw the silver SUV executing a hazardous U-turn, cutting right across two lanes of traffic.

  When the lights changed, and Stephen was able to cross to the other side of the road, he turned back towards the internet café, walking right past the silver SUV which was now in the queue at the lights. The driver of the car behind had his head and left arm out of the window as he gave the middle finger to the guy in the SUV, shouting something which Stephen couldn’t make out over the general hubbub in the street. In spite of his desperate situation, Stephen couldn’t help but smile at just how easily a minor traffic altercation could provoke such rage.

  When he reached the internet café, he purchased thirty minutes of browsing time, which was the minimum amount on offer. Upon logging on, the first thing he did was check the website of the University of Oxford Medical Sciences Division, searching for the number of Doctor Henry Parker’s direct line. He quickly found Henry’s profile, with a brief biography, and information about his field of research. Frustratingly, though, there was no direct phone number listed.

  He backed up to the site’s homepage to see if that would guide him to a list of phone numbers. All it provided, however, was a general number for the Medical Sciences Division. But as he gazed at the number he immediately recognized the area code and the first three digits of the number itself – another fragment of his memory was returning.

  He realised that the direct line numbers differed only in the final three digits. He closed his eyes as he tried to reach out for the elusive numbers. Yes, his own direct line ended in ‘276’ and Henry’s in … come on, think … yes … ‘279’. He pulled from his pocket a notepad and pen, which he had picked up at the hotel, and scribbled down both the general number and that of Henry’s direct line, in case the fragile memories should desert him once more. As soon as he could find a payphone, he’d give Henry a call. Even though it would be the middle of the night the UK, he could, at least, leave a message.

  But then a thought struck him: how would Henry be able to make contact once he had received the message? Stephen had no fixed place of residence and, right now, he didn’t even have a mobile phone.

  What had happened to his damned phone anyway? Surely he must have had one before the attack, but what had happened to it? Had he lost it? Had it been taken by whomever it was who attacked him? He closed his eyes, trying desperately to recall the events of that fateful evening …

  ***

  The take-off of the plane had been delayed by almost three hours due to heavy fog at Heathrow and the pilot had only been able to make up about half an hour of that time.

  As they waited in line to get through immigration, Stephen turned to Emma. ‘By the time we get through here and pick up our luggage, there’s no way I’ll have time to go to the hotel and freshen up before my dinner date with Richard.’

  She gave a small frown, cradling her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s OK – I can take the luggage, get a cab to the hotel, and check us in, while you go straight to your date with Professor Mandelson.’

  ‘You OK with that?’ he said.

  ‘Yes – sure. You go ahead.’

  ‘OK – I’ll join you at the hotel as soon as I can.’

  Thanks to an interminable wait to get through immigration, it was around an hour and a half later when the cab driver finally loaded their luggage into the back of the car.

  ‘OK,’ said Stephen, giving Emma a brief kiss on the cheek, ‘I’ll see you in a few hours’ time.’

  As the cab pulled away, he looked at his watch again: 7.25 p.m. Would he be able to get to the restaurant by eight? He approached the next cab in the line; the driver looked him up and down before moving his head a little to one side, as though trying to see what was behind Stephen.

  ‘No luggage, buddy?’

  ‘No, just this briefcase.’ He held up the case. ‘My wife’s gone ahead to our hotel with the rest of our luggage. Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry; how long will it take to get to Downtown Miami?’

  ‘Depends which part. Where d’ya wanna go?’

  ‘Do you know a restaurant called “La Mariposa”?’

  ‘Sure – we should get there in about twenty minutes if the traffic’s OK.’

  Stephen sighed with relief – they should make it in time.

  The traffic wasn’t OK, though. At 7.50 p.m. they were completely stationary, hemmed in front and rear with no means of escape.

  ‘Is it usually like this?’ en
quired Stephen.

  ‘Nah – must be an accident or sump’n. Look, we’re almost there, actually, but God knows when this shit is gonna clear.’

  ‘Dammit!’ muttered Stephen. ‘I’m supposed to meet someone there at eight.’

  ‘Well, we’re real close. If you want to jump out and walk, you could be there in about five or ten minutes.’

  ‘OK,’ said Stephen, seizing on the opportunity that the driver had offered, ‘which way?’

  ‘See that alley up there on the right?’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘Cut through there, then hang a left when you come out in the next street. Carry on for about three blocks and it’s on yer left. Nice place, I’ve heard.’

  ‘OK. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Oh, I guess forty bucks’d cover it.’

  Stephen thrust a fifty-dollar bill into the man’s hand. He jumped out of the car without waiting for his change.

  ‘Hey, buddy … don’t you want …’ called out the driver, but Stephen was already striding purposefully away from the car and didn’t bother to turn around.

  As he turned onto the alley, he heard what sounded like a woman’s voice. It sounded as though she was in distress – he thought he heard her—

  ***

  His train of thought was rudely interrupted.

  ‘Hey, excuse me pal, but are you intending to actually use that computer, or are you just gonna sit in front of it staring into space. It’s kinda busy in here and I ain’t got all night to wait.’

  Stephen looked up to see a tall, skinny white guy, probably in his early twenties, with long, greasy, black hair protruding from under a grubby, grey baseball cap, worn back-to front.

  ‘I … I’m sorry. I just got sort of … well, distracted. Give me just a few more minutes to finish what I’m doing, and then I’ll be out of here.’

  ‘Hey, you Australian?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘No kidding? I’ve always wanted to visit England. I’ve got a buddy who lives in London. He says it’s a great place to live. You from London?’

  ‘No – Oxford’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that – it’s where you got that Oxford and Cambridge college place.’

  Stephen just nodded: he had no desire to prolong this conversation by giving an impromptu geography lesson.

  ‘Hey, what’d ya do to your head?’

  ‘Er, it’s kind of a long story. Look, if you’re in a hurry, maybe it’d be best if you just let me get on and finish up here. I only need about ten minutes.’

  ‘Oh, sure. I’ll just sit over there’ – he pointed to a threadbare couch in front of the window – ‘until you’re done.’

  Stephen was more than a little irritated that his train of thought had been interrupted – if it had not been, perhaps he would have remembered even more about what had happened in that darkened alley. Nevertheless, this was a massive step forward. He now knew that not only were he and Professor Mandelson professional associates, but that they were actually due to meet for dinner that evening. Furthermore, he now understood how he had come to be in the alley where he was subsequently attacked.

  But there were still so many questions …

  Who was the woman crying out in distress? What had been happening to her? Did that have something to do with the attack on him? Who was his attacker anyway? The briefcase … what had happened to the briefcase? And where was his wallet … his passport …?

  Maybe it would all come back to him in time, but right now he wanted to check one more thing on the Medical Sciences Division website, before the young guy in the baseball cap began hassling him again. From the homepage, he clicked on the tab labelled ‘Academic Staff’ and scrolled down the list of names. He soon found what he was looking for.

  Dr Stephen Lewis

  Dr Stephen Lewis is a Research Fellow specialising in the field of treatments for drug addiction. He has over twenty years’ experience in this area and has contributed to the development of several important new therapies.

  He is currently conducting research into cocaine addiction, liaising closely with Professor Richard Mandelson at the University of Miami, in Florida.

  That was it: cocaine addiction. This was the field of research in which he and Professor Mandelson had been sharing and comparing their findings. And now, Mandelson had made a major breakthrough, which he intended to unveil at the forthcoming conference. He had invited Stephen to meet with him before the conference itself so that he could preview what was to be announced.

  Stephen returned his attention to the computer screen, scrolling down to see if he could learn any more. Rolling up from the bottom of the screen emerged a portrait photograph of Dr Stephen Lewis …

  It wasn’t him.

  The face staring at him from the screen was that of the man he had seen with Emma at the hotel: his nemesis.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Hey, you OK man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  The voice came from somewhere close behind him, but Stephen barely registered it; his eyes were fixed on the screen – staring at the image of the man who had stolen his identity.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder; finally, he managed to tear his eyes away from the screen and gaze up at the young guy with the back-to-front baseball cap.

  ‘I … uh, yes … I … I have to go,’ muttered Stephen, finally shaking himself free of the trance which had gripped him. He clicked the ‘back’ button a couple of times to exit the website and logged out. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said.

  With that, he stood up, grabbed his jacket from where it hung over the back of the chair, and made for the door.

  ‘Hey, you sure you’re OK, buddy?’ came the voice from behind him. You sure don’t look—’

  But Stephen was already halfway through the door. As the warm, humid air hit his face he suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. His head was swirling with a maelstrom of disconnected thoughts. Could it be that this other man really was Dr Stephen Lewis? And if so, he thought, who the hell am I? And how come I know so much about him … and about Professor Mandelson? And what about Emma? None of it made any sense.

  He began walking along the street, completely oblivious to his surroundings as he grappled with the chaos that was overwhelming his brain. Perhaps I really am going mad.

  Suddenly, he felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. He needed to rest, to think, to try to unravel this crazy situation. He looked all around, and spotted a small coffee shop, just across the street; that would do. He crossed at a pedestrian crossing, just a few yards ahead, and stepped inside the coffee shop, taking a seat by the window. They didn’t serve tea, so he ordered a coffee in an attempt to wake himself up while he tried to figure out what to do next. As he sipped the scalding hot liquid, he glanced through the window to see, on the opposite side of the street, a silver SUV parked at the kerb. Was it the same one he’d seen earlier making that hazardous U-turn? No, probably just coincidence. After all, silver SUVs weren’t exactly a rare sight around Miami, and he couldn’t even remember what make the other car was. Nevertheless, he did take the trouble to check this one out: it was a big Ford. He noticed that it had a bad scrape along the left hand side.

  He turned his attention back to his current situation. However much he tried, he could find no rational explanation for the bizarre sequence of events which had beset him. He was tired and confused; he needed somewhere to spend the night. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, he might be able to glean some kind of order from the chaotic jumble which filled his addled brain. He pulled out the wad of banknotes which the nurse, Kelly, had so generously lent him. He swiftly counted them: there was still a hundred and fifty-one dollars left. He could probably just about afford a cheap hotel for the night while still leaving himself enough cash for the next day or so.

  He left the exact money for the coffee on the table – still conscious of the need to conserve his precious resources – and headed for the door.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, pal
,’ muttered the scruffy-looking attendant who cleared the table, mouthing something else – probably uncomplimentary – under his breath as Stephen stepped outside.

  He began walking along the street, looking for somewhere to spend the night. After walking for a few hundred yards he hadn’t found anywhere. Maybe he should ask someone?

  He stopped a randomly-chosen, but respectable-looking middle-aged man. ‘Excuse me sir, but do you know of a reasonably-priced hotel or motel around here?’

  ‘Say … you Australian?’ said the man, smiling.

  Oh no, not that routine again.

  ‘No … English,’ replied Stephen. ‘Look, I need somewhere to spend the night, but I don’t want to spend much. Do you know of anywhere around here?’

  The man thought for a few moments before replying. ‘I think if you head back that way’ – he pointed back in the direction from which Stephen had just come – ‘there’s a little place called … oh, I can’t remember exactly. Some sort of Spanish-sounding name.’

  Stephen couldn’t recall seeing anywhere as he had passed that way earlier, but maybe he had missed it, given his current preoccupied state of mind.

  ‘OK – thanks.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the other man, as he went on his way.

  Stephen was about to start retracing his steps when he saw it … A silver SUV had pulled over on the opposite side of the street about thirty yards back. As Stephen registered the scrape along the side of the car, he realised it was the same car he had noticed earlier. Surely, this could no longer be mere coincidence. Was this car actually following him? A shiver of apprehension shot through him.

  He abandoned the idea of heading back in the direction which would take him closer to the car and instead carried on in the direction in which he had been walking, stealing an occasional glance over his shoulder. There was no sign that the car was moving after him; maybe his imagination was just working overtime.

  He came to a Metrorail station and, still feeling a little nervous, made his way inside, taking the escalator up to the main concourse. It was getting late now, and the station was pretty quiet. He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes before coming across a payphone. He decided to give Henry Parker a call.