Lost Identity Page 7

  Although he obviously didn’t expect Henry to be in his office at this hour, he was nevertheless relieved to hear his familiar voice; at least he had remembered the number correctly.

  ‘You’ve reached the office of Doctor Henry Parker. I’m afraid I can’t take your call right now, but if you’d like to leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Henry, I’m in trouble. I’m in Miami for the conference but I got attacked in the street. I’ve lost all my belongings, and Emma doesn’t even seem to …’

  His voice tailed off as he noticed a tall man in a black leather jacket leaning against the wall of the concourse, about thirty yards away. He was, ostensibly, reading a newspaper, but when he looked up, over the top of the newspaper, he made brief eye contact. In that moment, Stephen knew he was being followed.

  ‘Henry, I have to go. I’ll call again when I have a contact number I can give you.’

  He hung up and, trying to look as casual as possible, walked across the concourse towards an entry gate which led to the platforms. As he approached the gate, he glanced over his shoulder to see the man in the leather jacket walking straight towards him.

  He had no idea why this guy was following him, but he had no intention of hanging around to find out. He vaulted over the gate and broke into a run, dashing along a corridor towards one of the platforms. He glanced back to see the other man scrambling over the gate before elbowing a dawdling couple out of the way in his haste.

  A train had just pulled up. Stephen sprinted along the platform, swerving to avoid the handful of passengers exiting the train and trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuer. At the last moment, he dived into one of the carriages. It was clear that the other man wouldn’t be able to catch up with him before the doors closed, but, to Stephen’s alarm, he jumped into another carriage on the same train – two back from his own.

  His heart pounding, Stephen waited … waited … and then, as the doors began to close he stuck his foot in the way, causing the doors to retract. He jumped out and immediately flattened himself behind a pillar, hoping his pursuer had not seen him.

  He hadn’t. A few seconds later the train pulled away and he stepped out from behind the pillar. He watched his own carriage roll by, followed by the next, and then he saw him. The man in the leather jacket had a thin, craggy face, and dark, penetrating eyes. His black hair was slicked back in something of the style of a fifties rocker. As he made eye contact with Stephen, he slammed his fist against the window in frustration, mouthing something which Stephen couldn’t make out.

  ***

  Having evaded his pursuer, Stephen made his way back out onto the street, climbing over the barrier gate when it was quiet enough to avoid being seen by too many other passengers. He retraced his steps until, eventually, he found the motel which the passer-by had told him about. ‘El Refugio’ was a pretty down-at-heel joint, the neon sign outside flickering on and off erratically, and the cracked glass alongside the main entrance held together with black duct tape. By now, though, Stephen was ready to crash just about anywhere and, as the sign read ‘Rooms $50’, it wouldn’t consume too much of his meagre cash reserve.

  ‘You got I.D.?’ enquired the grossly overweight guy behind the counter.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t … I had an accident and, well … I’ve lost all my stuff.’

  The other man shook his head. ‘Can’t give you a room without I.D. More than my job’s worth.’

  ‘Will this help?’ said Stephen, peeling off another ten dollars from his wad of cash and adding it to the fifty he had already laid on the counter.

  The man pursed his lips and shook his head once again, the sharp intake of breath signalling the impossibility of Stephen’s request. Nevertheless, as Stephen made to retrieve the banknotes the man swiftly relented.

  ‘OK, room eleven,’ he said, grabbing the money and stuffing it into his shirt pocket.

  ‘Does the room have a phone?’

  ‘Afraid not … if you want a room with a phone, that’ll be another ten.’

  Stephen exhaled noisily. He handed over another ten-dollar bill which joined the rest of the cash in the man’s shirt pocket.

  ‘Room fifteen,’ said the fat man, smiling.

  Once safely ensconced in his room, Stephen tried calling Dr Henry Parker once more. Once again, he got through to Henry’s answering machine. ‘Henry, its’s Stephen again. Sorry I had to ring off earlier but there was this guy following me and … well … it’s a long and complicated story, but … Henry, I’m in real trouble. Can you call me back on this number as soon as you get this? It doesn’t matter what time of day or night … just call me as soon as possible.’ He read out the number and hung up.

  Having undressed and showered, he sat on the edge of the bed and laid out on the bedside table the few items which the police had given him while he was in hospital: his wedding ring, which should have matched Emma’s, but didn’t; a lipstick which might, or might not, have been Emma’s; a card for Eduardo’s Restaurant; and a diary with just two dates highlighted. What did any of it mean?

  One of the dates highlighted in the diary was Thursday March 9th – just two days away. What was the significance of that date? It wasn’t the date of the conference – that was on Monday 13th March. So what was so special about Thursday 9th? And what about the other date: Sunday July 23rd? That was months away. None of it made any sense.

  What should he do now? The police had previously seemed disinterested in his plight, but things had now got a lot worse. Surely, now that he was able to tell them that he was being followed, they would take him seriously and do something about it? But then again, what actual proof did he have that he was being followed? Should he go to them anyway?

  In his current state, exhausted and confused, he just couldn’t process it all. He needed to sleep …

  Chapter 8

  Something was pressing repeatedly on his chest, several pulses of crushing pressure and then a few seconds of relief. The cycle repeated again and again – relentless, irresistible. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids refused to respond to the signals his brain was sending. The unrelenting blackness which enveloped him was punctuated only by the regular cycle of insistent pulses of pressure followed by occasional respite. He didn’t know where he was, or what was happening to him. All he knew was that he was powerless to do anything other than submit to whoever, or whatever, was doing this to him.

  Finally, though, the persistent rhythm stopped, but now he couldn’t breathe – something was covering his nose and mouth. But then, the strangest sensation: his lungs were filling with air of their own accord. Suddenly, his mouth and nose were freed from whatever had covered them, allowing him to exhale. As he did so, he felt a choking sensation, coughing and gagging as he fought to breathe properly. Finally, with one last spluttering gasp, he succeeded in clearing his windpipe and sucking in a delicious lungful of cool, life-giving air. Moments later, he managed to open his eyes. His vision was blurry, but, as the mists began to clear, he found he could just make out a woman’s face.

  ‘Emma?’ he croaked.

  But it wasn’t Emma. The deep brown eyes, dark skin, and black hair belonged to another woman entirely – a woman he didn’t know, yet who, somehow, seemed strangely familiar. Where had he seen her before? She seemed to be straddling his body, leaning over him, her face just inches from his, her expression filled with concern.

  As she moved her face away from his and raised herself to a more upright position his eyes fixed on an image on the front of her shirt; it looked like a badge or logo of some type. As he struggled to focus on the image, he was finally able to discern that it depicted some sort of fish, leaping and twisting in the air—

  ***

  Suddenly, he was wide awake. He switched on the lamp and rummaged through the items lying on the bedside table. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for: the business card which the two police officers had br
ought to him when he was in hospital. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the light, the link which his half-asleep brain had just made was confirmed. There it was: the swordfish logo, just as he had seen in his dream. There had to be some connection between the dark-skinned girl in the dream, and Eduardo’s restaurant.

  He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled over to the window. As he opened the grubby blackout blind, his eyes were assaulted with a blinding shaft of sunlight. How long had he slept? He glanced at the clock on the wall: 10.07 a.m. He had been asleep for around nine hours.

  Henry hadn’t returned his call, so he tried again, but again he only got through to the answering machine. He left another message.

  By the time he had washed and dressed he was feeling more or less human once more. Henry still hadn’t called back, but at least Stephen now had a plan … of sorts.

  The fat man was still there on reception, still wearing the same clothes as he had the previous evening; he was now fast asleep, slumped in his chair. The faint whiff of body odour which assaulted Stephen’s nostrils as he stepped past the crumpled figure confirmed his suspicion that the man had probably spent the entire night right there behind the desk.

  Stephen stepped out of the front door of the motel into the bright sunshine; he screwed his eyes half-shut, shading them with his hand to give them time to adjust. He made his way back to a drug store which he remembered passing on his way to the motel the previous night. He used another seventeen dollars of his rapidly dwindling resources to purchase some large Band-Aids, antiseptic spray, and a small bottle of mineral water – he had drunk a little water from the tap in the motel that morning but he wasn’t keen on risking any more of the slightly brown-tinted liquid.

  When he returned to his room, he discarded the – now, frayed and grubby – bandage. Once he had cleaned up the area of the wound, with the aid of a hand-held mirror opposing the wall mirror in the bathroom, he was pleasantly surprised to see that most of the swelling had subsided and he could detect no sign of infection. A thin layer of stubble had regrown in the area that had been shaved and he soon realised that this would prevent a Band-Aid from sticking properly. Damn! he thought. I could have saved myself six dollars on those. He wasn’t sure just how money-conscious he had been in his previous life, but having to rely solely on a limited cash reserve, with no prospect of its replenishment, certainly concentrated the mind.

  He sprayed the wound site with antiseptic and carefully rearranged his hair – which was, fortunately, quite long and very thick – so that it more or less covered the shaved area. Now, at least, he would no longer be attracting curious looks wherever he went. He headed down to the motel reception and checked out, keeping conversation with the malodorous figure behind the desk to a minimum.

  Now it was time to find out what had happened.

  ***

  He gazed at the leaping swordfish logo above the frontage of Eduardo’s Restaurant – just the same as that on the card, and on the front of the shirt of the woman he had seen in his dream. As the police officer had said, the restaurant – more like a diner really – didn’t look up to much, but maybe … just maybe, it might provide some answers.

  As the aroma of cooking bacon wafted past his nostrils he realised that he was ravenously hungry. When had he last eaten? Not since he had left the hospital. He stepped through the door to find that the place was packed solid; it must be very good or very cheap … or both. As the police officer had observed, most of the clientele, and staff, appeared to be Latinos.

  A couple stood up, vacating a table right by the window; he dived in before anyone had even cleared the table. No-one came to attend to him immediately, but there was a menu on the table so he set about making his selection. He was gratified to see that the prices were, indeed, very reasonable. He would eat first, and ask questions afterwards.

  ‘Yes sir, what can I get you?’ The accent sounded familiar.

  He looked up at the waitress. The front of her shirt bore the leaping swordfish logo. As their eyes met, he recognised her immediately. The dark eyes, distinctively shaped nose, and well-defined cheekbones: it was the girl he’d seen in his uneasy dreams. Her welcoming smile evaporated in an instant, to be replaced by an anxious, haunted expression. In an instant, he knew …

  ‘You recognise me, don’t you?’ whispered Stephen.

  ‘I … er … I’m sorry sir. I don’t believe we’ve met before.’

  ‘Please … Carla’ – he had read her name from the badge she was wearing – ‘I know you were there when I was attacked. I’m in big trouble … I need your help.’

  Her eyes darted from side to side. ‘I’m really sorry, sir … There must be some mistake.’

  He grabbed her wrist and, with his other hand, withdrew the lipstick from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘Look … it’s yours, isn’t it?’

  She tried to pull away from him, glancing anxiously from left to right, but Stephen’s grip on her wrist was relentless.

  ‘Please … let go of my wrist. You’re hurting me,’ cried the girl, panic now starting to rise in her voice.

  ‘Look at it,’ insisted Stephen. ‘I know it’s yours … you must have dropped it when—’

  ‘Hey, Carla … everything alright over there?’ The big Latino guy in a greasy white apron, standing just behind the counter, had evidently detected the altercation.

  Stephen ignored him, still not relinquishing his grip on the girl’s wrist. ‘Please,’ he implored, ‘you have to help me.’ Her eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and confusion.

  The big guy came striding over. ‘OK, pal … you’d better take it easy now.’

  Stephen relaxed his grip on her wrist. ‘I’m sorry … I just …’

  ‘I think you’d better leave.’

  ‘Yes … I’m sorry.’ He turned to Carla. ‘I don’t know quite what happened … back in that alley. But I think that you helped me, so … well … thank you.’

  As he turned to leave, he took one last look into her dark eyes; the fear seemed to have gone, to be replaced by a look which could have been regret or compassion … or both. The big guy’s countenance, however, wore a menacing scowl. This was definitely not the moment to pursue things any further.

  He was still desperately hungry, so he decided to go into a rival diner on the opposite side of the street – it looked barely any more salubrious than Eduardo’s, but by now he was ready to eat just about anywhere. He wasted little time perusing the menu before placing his order.

  Having devoured a mountainous portion of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and mushrooms, he ordered a cup of tea while he considered his next steps. He really needed to talk to Carla. He just knew that she had recognised him; if he could persuade her to talk to him she might have some of the answers which he sought. Maybe she would be more forthcoming if he could catch her outside of her workplace. Should he wait here and try to intercept her when she finished her shift? But he had no idea when that would be. Nevertheless, he decided to give it a try. He settled down to wait.

  As he sipped his tea, he began mulling over what he knew so far. He realised that he was now able to piece together much of what he was supposed to have been doing during his trip to Florida. He pulled from his pocket the pen and notepad and jotted down as much as he could remember of his planned schedule.

  Thursday March 2nd – Dinner with Professor Mandelson

  Tuesday March 7th – Party at Palm Grove Hotel

  Friday March 10th – Pre-conference reception at the Palm Grove

  Monday March 13th – Conference proper, also at the Palm Grove

  Was there anything else? And what was the significance of the date highlighted in the diary, Thursday March 9th – the very next day? He closed his eyes and concentrated all his mental energy on trying to recall anything else … any tiny detail which might help him unravel this mess. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything which might make the following day significant.

  But then he did remember something – so
mething very important. Wednesday March 8th, that very day, he was due to meet with Professor Mandelson at his lab to go over the details of his discovery. Although, as far as he knew, he had never actually met Mandelson face to face, they had been exchanging research notes for months. Surely the professor would vouch for him.

  What time was he supposed to be there for the meeting? However hard he tried, he just couldn’t remember. He decided to just go there straightaway. He would have to come back another time to try to talk with Carla.

  He called for the bill and settled it – again without any tip – and headed for the door.

  ***

  The revelations about Stephen’s relationship with Professor Mandelson triggered a flood of further memories, which came back in a giddying rush. By the time he reached the Marsden Medical School at the University of Miami he had recalled quite a bit of what he and Professor Mandelson had been working on. He felt sure that a face-to-face meeting with Mandelson would further help him to untangle what the hell was going on.

  The campus was extensive, but the site map posted near the entrance enabled Stephen to find the right building without difficulty. Inside, seated behind a desk at the back of the foyer was a round-faced, bespectacled woman, who looked up and smiled at Stephen’s approach.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Doctor Stephen Lewis – I have an appointment with Professor Mandelson.’

  A puzzled frown creased her face. ‘Doctor Lewis?’ She looked at her watch and consulted the computer screen in front of her.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I’m not actually sure what time I was supposed to be here – I’ve lost my diary you see.’