Lost Identity Read online

  Her frown deepened. ‘But you are Doctor Stephen Lewis?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Look, Professor Mandelson and I know each other very well. Even if I’m not here at quite the right time, I’m sure Richard will see me now.’ Stephen hoped that the casual dropping of Mandelson’s Christian name would ease his passage past this determined gatekeeper.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips forming a pout. ‘I … I’ll have to call him,’ she said.

  Ignoring the phone which was right in front of her on the desk, she got up and stepped into a small room just behind her chair. She spoke in hushed tones which Stephen could not distinguish. As he was standing at the desk he noticed, alongside it, a layout map of the building. Stepping closer to study it, he observed that each room was marked with the name of the academic staff located therein. It took him but a few seconds to find Professor Mandelson’s lab, located on the second floor. He decided not to wait for the receptionist to finish her call, instead striding swiftly towards the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  The second floor appeared to be entirely taken up with medical laboratories. As he made his way down the long corridor he checked the names on each door he passed. Most of them he didn’t recognise, but one or two names stirred some distant, elusive memory. Finally, he found the one he was looking for; it was open. He tapped his knuckles on the door and stepped inside. He immediately recognised the man just putting his phone down as Professor Mandelson: his face was now completely familiar. There was also another man in the room, with his back to Stephen.

  ‘Professor Mandelson … it’s Doctor Stephen Lewis. I’m so sorry to have—’

  As the other man turned around, a leaden boulder descended in Stephen’s gut. It was the same man, claiming to be him, who had been with Emma at the reception in the Palm Grove Hotel: the man who now seemed to frustrate Stephen’s every move.

  Chapter 9

  ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Professor Mandelson, glancing from one man to the other, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement as he tried to process what he was seeing and hearing.

  ‘Richard, it’s me … Stephen Lewis. I was supposed to meet you for dinner last week, but there was an … incident. I just couldn’t make it.’

  Mandelson’s face was a mask of confusion.

  ‘But if you’re Stephen Lewis, then who—?’

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said the other man. ‘I don’t know who this guy is but he’s clearly delusional. He accosted my wife at the party in the Palm Grove Hotel yesterday. He came barging in, claiming that he was her husband. She was, as you can probably imagine, quite scared. We had to get hotel security to remove him. Perhaps you remember the disturbance when the security guys intervened?’

  ‘He’s lying!’ cried Stephen. ‘That man is not Stephen Lewis. I don’t know what the hell is going on here or what he wants, but he’s clearly up to no good.’

  ‘I … I do remember some sort of scuffle at the far side of the room last night,’ said Mandelson. ‘Was that when this guy approached you and your wife?’

  The other man nodded. ‘Yes … it was quite frightening. We thought he was going to—’

  ‘This is madness,’ protested Stephen. ‘Richard … you know me – we’ve been corresponding for months. I’d have made contact earlier, but I got attacked in an alleyway the day I arrived in Miami.’

  ‘Attacked?’ repeated the bemused professor.

  ‘Yes, I suffered a blow to the head and lost my memory … but it’s starting to come back to me now. I can remember—’

  The bogus Stephen cut him off. ‘Listen mister, I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but this is a private meeting’ – he took a step towards Stephen, jabbing the air with his finger – ‘so why don’t you just clear off, right now.’

  Stephen stood his ground; he turned to Professor Mandelson. ‘I can prove who I am. Just ask me about our research … I know I won’t be able to remember everything, but this guy’ – he pointed an accusing finger at the other man – ‘won’t have a clue.’

  Mandelson glanced from one man to the other, clearly disoriented.

  Stephen decided to press home his advantage. ‘Go on – ask me anything,’ he persisted. ‘I can even tell you the name you’re planning to give your new drug. It’s—’

  ‘Tridopamite,’ interrupted the imposter.

  ‘How … how do you know that?’ spluttered Stephen, his head spinning now.

  ‘Because Professor Mandelson told me during our extensive email correspondence in recent months.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t him,’ cried Stephen, desperate now to gain control of this rapidly unravelling situation. ‘It was me. Richard, you must remember … you even told me how you came up with the name. It was because the medication acts on—’

  ‘The dopamine D3 receptor in the brain,’ cut in the other man.

  Stephen was stunned. ‘Th-that’s impossible … how could you possibly know …?’

  ‘Because I am the real Stephen Lewis,’ said the other man. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to Professor Mandelson, ‘I think this charade has gone on long enough. Do you have any security here? I think this guy needs to be escorted out of here.’

  Mandelson just stood in silence, mouth agape, as he witnessed this verbal sparring between the other two men.

  ‘Professor?’ prompted the imposter.

  This seemed to shake Mandelson out of the stupor which had enveloped him. ‘I … uh … yes … we do have security staff on campus, but—’

  Stephen made another desperate attempt to convince the professor. This was something the other man just couldn’t possibly know.

  ‘Richard, wait. You told me about your family … your two boys, Brady and … and …’ Dammit! Although he knew the names of Mandelson’s boys, the second name just wouldn’t come.

  The look on the pretender’s face was something akin to pity, as he watched Stephen struggling to recall the name. ‘Mason,’ he said, calmly, ‘… Brady and Mason.’

  Professor Mandelson shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘Look,’ continued the imposter, ‘why don’t you ask him for some I.D.?’

  ‘This bastard knows full well that I don’t have any,’ muttered Stephen, his fists clenched at his sides in frustration. ‘When I was attacked, all my things were lost or stolen.’ He turned his head to one side and parted his hair to show the shaved patch and the stitches. ‘I was in a coma for three days.’ He paused for a moment to allow the professor to absorb what he was saying. 'Look … my memory is still pretty screwed up, but I know who I am, and I know who he’s not.’

  The doubt and confusion evident in Professor Mandelson’s eyes at least seemed to show that he hadn’t dismissed Stephen’s story out of hand.

  ‘Wow,’ said Mandelson, shaking his head, his eyebrows raised and his cheeks distended as he blew air through pursed lips, ‘this really is a totally bizarre situation …’ – something of an understatement in Stephen’s view – ‘I certainly have not been corresponding with two Stephen Lewises, yet somehow you both seem to know all about my research.’ He fell silent, stroking his chin, as if carefully considering his next words. After a few more seconds’ silence, he turned towards the other man, his tone apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but do you have some I.D. you could show me?’

  The other man raised his eyebrows, giving a slight shake of his head as he considered this request. ‘Well, I don’t actually have my passport with me just now, but—’

  ‘You see,’ said Stephen, stepping forward, ‘he’s lying.’

  ‘But,’ repeated the imposter, glaring at Stephen as he reached into his inside jacket pocket, ‘I can show you my driver’s licence … and credit cards.’

  As he opened his wallet, Stephen stepped forward so that he could see just what this man was actually going to produce. To his utter dismay, the driver’s licence looked completely authentic … apart from the photograph, which was not his, but that of the smug bastard standing in fr
ont of him.

  ‘Th-that’s impossible …’ stammered Stephen. ‘He’s … I don’t know how—’

  ‘And somewhere here I have some credit cards …’

  As the man turned over a central flap in his wallet, Stephen felt a wave of nausea flood through him. There was Emma; the photograph in the transparent pocket was exactly the same as the one he used to keep in his own wallet, except for one thing: the man clasping Emma’s hand was not him, but his nemesis: the man standing right in front of him.

  He felt the blood drain from his face as he struggled to get to grips with what he was looking at. His vision began to go blurry, and a dark veil descended. The last thing he registered was his knees beginning to buckle, unable to support him any longer, and then … nothing.

  Chapter 10

  As he turned into the alley, he heard what sounded like a woman’s voice, pleading and sobbing; he couldn’t make out what she was saying. But moments later a man’s voice cut in, loud and threatening.

  ‘You think you can just walk away, bitch? Well, I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry.’

  Stephen quickened his step, straining to see what was going on ahead, but his eyes had not yet adapted to the gloomy light level in the alley. But then he saw it, silhouetted against the brightly-lit street at the far end of the alley: a woman pinned against the wall by a man with his forearm jammed under her chin. With his other hand, he was wrenching her skirt up around her waist and clawing at her underwear. She struggled to try to tear his arm away from her throat, finally succeeding in letting out a piercing scream.

  Stephen looked over his shoulder to see if any help was at hand; there was none. He wasn’t a particularly brave man, but faced with this situation he acted instinctively.

  ‘Hey, you – what the hell’s going on here?’ he yelled, breaking into a run.

  The man let go of his hapless victim and whirled around to face Stephen, who pulled up a few yards short of the attacker. The woman backed away, awkwardly pulling up her panties with one hand while massaging her throat with the other.

  ‘What the fuck’s it got to do with you, asshole?’ growled the man.

  Up close, the attacker did not look so threatening. He was a small, wiry man, dwarfed by Stephen’s muscular, six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame. Stephen thought he saw fear and uncertainty in those small, dark eyes.

  ‘Just leave her alone and go home,’ said Stephen. ‘There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.’

  The fear in the man’s eyes vanished, as his face twisted in an ugly scowl. He reached behind his waist and produced a wicked-looking knife.

  ‘So nobody’s gonna get hurt, huh? Well I’ve got news for you, you interfering fucker.’

  He advanced on Stephen, step by step, waving the knife slowly and deliberately from side to side ahead of him. Stephen began to back away, unsure whether to turn and run, or try to defend himself somehow.

  Suddenly the man lunged forward, holding the knife aloft before sweeping it diagonally across in front of him in a vicious cleaving action. Stephen tried to defend himself with the only thing he had to hand. He held up his briefcase with both hands, shoving it forward to deflect the strike. He heard a ripping sound as the blade sliced through the leather cladding of the lid, but the case had saved him … for now at least. As Stephen continued backing away, his attacker looked to be tensing for another strike, murderous intent in his eyes.

  Suddenly, he caught sight of movement in the dim light behind his attacker. The woman had stepped forward and thrust her hand in the air, pointing urgently towards Stephen. She cried out in a pronounced accent, which could have been South American.

  ‘Look out, there’s another—’

  He felt a crushing blow and a searing pain to the back of his head, and then … blackness.

  ***

  He could hear voices – muffled and distant. The words seemed to meld into an amorphous continuum with no form or reason. Gradually, though, fragments of comprehensible dialogue began to penetrate his dark, fuzzy world.

  Eventually, he was able to distinguish a male voice: American accent, warm tones.

  ‘We should never have let him out so soon … always a possibility … or a complete relapse.’

  ‘But what could you have done?’ came a soft female voice. ‘… hospital, not a prison. You really had no option.’

  He realised where he was.

  With a considerable effort, he forced his eyelids open. His vision was blurry and indistinct. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and, as his vision cleared a little, he registered the familiar surroundings of the very same hospital room where he had previously been treated. He tried to call out, but his throat felt like sandpaper, and all he could manage was a feeble croak. No-one responded. He remembered the call button alongside the bed and, twisting sideways, he reached out and pressed it.

  Seconds later, Kelly, the nurse who had been so kind and generous, came into view, followed a few seconds later by the tall figure of Doctor Holt.

  ‘Stephen? Can you hear me?’ said the nurse, pouring some water from a jug on the bedside table into a tumbler and lifting Stephen’s head, helping him to drink.

  As the cooling liquid coursed down his throat, he finally found his voice. ‘What happened? How did I end up back here?’

  ‘An ambulance brought you in,’ said Doctor Holt, moving forward to stand over Stephen. ‘Do you remember where you were before that?’

  The memory came flooding back. He propped himself up on one elbow, taking another long swallow of water before replying.

  ‘Yes. I was at Professor Mandelson’s lab, but this other guy who’s impersonating me was there. I tried to convince the professor who I really was but … but I didn’t have any papers. And the other guy … the bastard, he had—’

  The words were spilling out on a feverish rush until the doctor placed a gentle, restraining hand on his arm. ‘OK, take your time, Stephen. It’s good that you have a clear memory of what happened, but—’

  ‘Did I pass out? I remember everything going sort of blurry, and my legs … they felt weak … but then, I don’t remember anything until I woke up back here.’

  ‘You did, indeed, pass out. As luck would have it, the ambulance crew that picked you up was the same one that brought you here previously. They recognised you and brought you straight back here.’

  ‘But Doctor,’ continued Stephen, excitedly, ‘I’ve remembered a whole lot more about what happened to me before … I know how I got this head injury …’ He instinctively reached for the back of his head, to feel the stitches which had become increasingly itchy of late. He was surprised to feel nothing more than a carpet of stubble surrounding a raised, slightly tender ridge of skin.

  ‘We removed the stitches while you were unconscious,’ explained the doctor.

  ‘Oh … well, anyway, I know what happened. I took a short cut through the alley to try to get to a dinner appointment with Professor Mandelson, and came across this girl being attacked by some young thug. I tried to help her, but there must have been another guy there, because I got whacked over the back of the head. That’s how I ended up here in the first place.’

  ‘The fact that so much of your memory of events just before you were assaulted is coming back is excellent news but—’

  ‘And I know who the girl is … I know her name and where she works. If I can just get her to talk to me, she may be able to shed some light on what’s going on.’

  The doctor once again placed his hand on Stephen’s arm. ‘I’m delighted to see that your short-term memory is returning, but … well, we need to understand much more about the longer-term picture which … well … which is in your mind.’

  The realisation hit him like a blow to the stomach. ‘You don’t believe me. You don’t believe I am Stephen Lewis.’

  Kelly, who had said practically nothing so far, intervened. ‘Stephen, please … listen to what the doctor has to say.’

  He sank back into
his pillow with a weary sigh.

  ‘You have suffered a severe trauma,’ said the doctor, ‘and it’s clear that some of your mental faculties have been affected.’

  ‘But I’m remembering so much more now: my flight here, the girl in the alley, the attack, the conference, Professor Mandelson … Surely, it’s obvious that I’m gradually recovering?’

  ‘Yes, all of this is excellent,’ agreed the doctor, ‘but this business about another man impersonating you … it’s very difficult to find a rational explanation for such a situation.’ The doctor paused, appearing to be choosing his words very carefully. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I believe we have to consider the possibility that you are suffering some sort of delusion about your former life.’

  Stephen let out a long, slow sigh.

  ‘I know it sounds incredible, Doctor; I can hardly believe it myself, but … well, if I’m not Stephen Lewis, how do I know so much about him?’

  ‘I don’t know … maybe you met him sometime. You could have read about his research. Who knows?’

  Stephen fell silent as he considered Doctor Holt’s words. Could I? Could I really know all this just from meeting him or reading about him?

  ‘I … I don’t know. It just seems so …well … improbable.’

  The doctor nodded, pursing his lips slightly. When he replied his voice was calming, conciliatory. ‘Stephen, you have to appreciate that the human brain is an extremely complex organ, about which there is much we still don’t understand. The effects of a severe blow to the head, such as you suffered, are very unpredictable.’

  ‘But my wife … I remember our marriage, holidays we went on together. I can even remember having sex with her …’ He checked himself, suddenly conscious of Kelly’s presence, but when he glanced at her, she seemed unfazed by his remark. ‘I … I’m sorry, but it all seems so real.'

  ‘As I said,’ responded the doctor, ‘the brain is an incredibly complex organ. If you have met Stephen Lewis at some time, it is entirely possible that you have met his wife too. From what you have said, she is a very attractive woman. It wouldn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility that your brain is creating fantasies about her.’