(1995) By Any Name (4 page)

Realizing he’d been silent long enough to raise the doctor’s suspicions, he murmured. ‘I suppose I do prefer the country.’

‘What kind of country?’

‘Woodland and lakes,’ he lied, settling on a landscape divorced from his vision. He didn’t know why he should hide what little he knew about himself but, until he discovered exactly who he was, and the cause of his memory loss, he decided it might be prudent to conceal the crumbs of knowledge he gained from her probing. ‘When am I going to get out of here?’

‘To go where?’

‘How in hell should I know?’ he showed signs of anger for the first time. ‘Out is out. I’m not sick, and you can’t keep healthy people in hospital.’

‘I’ll grant that you look fit enough. But illnesses of the mind are as real as illnesses of the body. Just because there aren’t any obvious injuries, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.’

‘I feel well,’ he countered stubbornly.

‘You have no money, nowhere to go, and don’t even know your name. You need help to put you back where you belong. And we’ll keep you here until we find out where that is.’ She joined him at the window.

‘There are people waiting to interview you.’

‘People?’ His head ached with the stress of trying to remember who he was.

‘Army officers. One’s a psychiatrist.’

‘I’m in the army?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But they think I am?’

‘They are considering the possibility.’

‘Have you tried looking for someone who really does know me, instead of hazarding wild guesses?’

She handed him a clipping she’d cut from the second edition of a tabloid. His photograph had been printed above the headline; DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN. She hadn’t included the article beneath the photograph which had mentioned that he’d been covered with someone else’s blood. ‘No one has called in so far.’

‘Perhaps I’m the black sheep of the family, and they’re delighted I’m lost.’

‘I can think of a more plausible reason why there’s been no response.’

‘You can?’ He questioned sceptically. And she saw it again; that peculiar expression that sent a chill down her spine. She made a resolution to keep her imagination in check. She’d allowed the thought of murder to interfere with her professional detachment.

“John West” was a patient and as such he was entitled to the best care she could give him. Besides, with a policeman standing guard outside his door he was less of a risk than some of her other patients. And – she touched the fake pen in the top pocket of her white coat – she carried the added security of a personal alarm connected to the switchboard that overrode all incoming calls. Standard issue for every member of staff who worked on Ward 7.

‘Your family could be on holiday,’ she suggested.

‘And all my friends and colleagues?’ he challenged.

‘Where do you work?’

Just like the mountain scenario, a sudden vision of a room flooded his mind. A spartanly furnished, white-painted, clean and orderly office with computers, filing cabinets and desks – but the more he tried to focus on the details, the quicker the room faded. ‘It didn’t work that time, Dr – I know we’ve been introduced, but I can’t recall your name.’

‘Elizabeth Santer.’

The sound of footsteps in the corridor was followed by a sharp rap on the door. Dave walked in with the lieutenant-colonel and Major Simmonds.

Although both officers were wearing civilian clothes, John rose to his feet, snapped to attention and saluted.

‘That leaves little doubt.’ Major Simmonds addressed the patient. ‘It looks like you’re one of ours, Mr West.’

‘Or was one of yours,’ Dave amended.

‘I’m Major Simmonds.’ Simmonds walked across the room and held out his hand. John West shook it.

‘This is Lieutenant-Colonel Heddingham. And as you’ve already surmised, we’re army.’

Elizabeth monitored the frown on John’s forehead; a frown she already recognized signalled intense concentration – one that boded ill for the interview to come. The trivial advances she’d made in discovering John’s taste in food and scenery had come from sudden surprise questions, tossed off when he’d been least expecting them.

‘I’m in the army?’ John asked.

‘Judging by your professional salute, it looks as though you’ve had military training,’ Simmonds replied cautiously. He looked around the small room.

‘Five people in here are at least three too many,’

Dave said. ‘Perhaps we could leave the major and Elizabeth here and go and have a coffee, Lieutenant-Colonel?’

‘If it will help discover my identity I’m happy to talk to all of you,’ West offered.

‘Is there another, larger room we can use?’

Simmonds asked.

‘The day-room,’ Elizabeth proposed. ‘We encourage the patients to rest after lunch so it’s usually free.’

‘I’ll show you where it is.’ Dave opened the door.

‘Just to be sure, give us five minutes to clear any stragglers before you bring John along, Elizabeth.’

‘Ever get the feeling that you’re about to be discussed behind your back,’ John murmured.

‘At least we now have some idea what you do – or did – for a living.’

‘Who are those chaps?’

“Chaps” She made a mental note of the military expression. ‘Major Simmonds is an army psychiatrist.’

‘And the lieutenant-colonel?’

‘I know his rank, but not his function.’

‘Then he’s probably in intelligence. They’re always sticking their noses where they’re not wanted.’

‘You appear to know a great deal about the army.’

‘What are they going to do?’

‘I guess the same things that I have been doing.

Try to kick start your memory by reference to familiar things. But as the five minutes is up, shall we find out?’

He tried to quantify his reluctance to leave the room. Possibly it was the result of the lieutenant-colonel’s abrupt manner. But there was no getting away from the fact that he had identified the army

“civvie” uniform of blazer and grey slacks, not to mention the regimental ties. He had recognized both men as officers the moment they’d walked through the door. Did that mean that he, too, was an army officer?

The ring-marked coffee table in the centre of a circle of scuffed, vinyl-upholstered, hospital chairs was littered with brochures of military equipment and vehicles.

‘And this one?’ Major Simmonds moved on from tanks, Land Rovers and assault vehicles, all of which “John” had correctly identified, to weapons. ‘Enfield L85A1 SA-80.’

‘What can you tell us about that gun?’ The lieutenant-colonel questioned smoothly.

‘Known as the bullpup SA-80. Assault rifle, calibre 5.56mm, weight 4.89kg, including full magazine and sight. Effective range 300m, rate of fire 650-800 rounds per minute, muzzle velocity 940 metres per second… ’

Dave scribbled a note on the pad resting on his lap, and slid it towards Elizabeth.

HE SOUNDS AS THOUGH HE’S SWALLOWED A TEXT BOOK.

‘Have you ever fired a bullpup SA-80, John?’ The question came from Simmonds.

‘If I have I can’t remember.’

‘Are there any problems with it?’

‘There were in the early days.’

‘Tell us about them.’ The lieutenant-colonel leaned forward in his chair.

‘The magazine catch was badly positioned on the prototype models, causing the magazines to fall off when soldiers ran with them slung across their chests but the advantages of this particular weapon have always outweighed the disadvantages, which was why the army stuck with the design.’

‘Advantages?’ Heddingham pressed.

Elizabeth realised that Simmonds and his superior had launched into a well-planned, rehearsed interrogation, and she wondered if Simmonds was the only one with qualifications in psychiatric medicine.

‘It’s light. It has low recoil and excellent sights.

It’s versatile, capable of semi or full automatic fire… ’

John spoke quietly yet his voice filled the room as everyone present gave him their full attention. ‘It’s easy to handle in the confines of urban situations and the limited space of air and ground troop-carriers, making it an ideal weapon for guerrilla and anti-terrorist warfare. The CRW… ’

‘What do those initials stand for?’ Simmonds interrupted.

‘Counter Revolutionary Warfare.’

Elizabeth glanced at Dave, wondering if he’d picked up on the lilt in John’s voice, but Dave’s attention was fixed on John.

‘And this?’ Simmonds pushed another illustration across the table.

‘Franchi Spas 15, semi-automatic, 12 gauge, weight 3.90 kg without magazine. Range 50m, single shot. Can be loaded with various cartridges, capable of both pump action and semi-automatic fire. A grenade-launcher can be fitted to the muzzle, and there’s an optional extra of a scattering device which produces an instantaneous spread of pellets. Useful in hostage-rescue situations… ’

‘Used by special forces?’ Dave suggested.

John looked at him through cold, expressionless eyes. ‘It’s used by forces specializing in hostage-rescue situations. It’s a good all-round multi-purpose weapon that can blow door hinges, and fire tear-gas and smoke rounds into buildings prior to storming, as in… ’

‘And this?’ Simmonds interrupted, glaring at Dave for daring to interfere.

‘SSG 69 Sniper rifle.’

‘There’s no need to discuss its uses. This?’ he overlaid the illustration with another.

‘Milan anti-tank gun.’

‘This?’

‘Stinger.’ The frown had reappeared on West’s forehead, and Elizabeth sensed he was struggling to put his comprehensive knowledge into a framework that would explain his situation.

‘Are you tired, West?’ The major softened his voice; it was quiet, suggestive, almost hypnotic.

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to return to your room and rest?

We can resume this later.’

To the major’s irritation, John looked to Elizabeth.

‘Would you like to return to your room, John?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll ask a porter to bring a wheelchair.’

‘There’s no need.’ He rose to his feet.

‘Hospital regulations, I’m afraid.’

Elizabeth accompanied John to his room, steeling herself against the squeak of the wheels as they turned on the vinyl tiles of the corridor. A police officer opened the door to John’s room for them.

She closed it as soon as the porter wheeled out the chair. John went to the window and resumed his study of the dismal urban scene spread out in front of them.

‘Looks like you know a great deal about the army and its equipment,’ she commented.

‘With emphasis on the weapons used by the Special Forces.’

‘Special forces as in SAS?’

‘Contrary to public belief, they aren’t the only special forces.’

‘You think you’re a member of one of the others?’

His eyes were dark, anguished when he turned to face her. ‘I don’t know. I don’t fucking know!’ He slammed his clenched fist on the wooden sill. ‘I performed like a trained seal. I barked in the right places, but I still don’t know my fucking name.’

‘You will.’

‘You guarantee it?’ he enquired cynically.

‘When you stop trying so hard to remember and when you least expect it, your memory will return.’

She glanced at her watch, ‘meanwhile, I suggest you try to rest. I’ll ask the nurse to bring you tea. Not that tea is any more appetising than anything else that comes out of the canteen, but there’s generally a cake or two hidden away in the fridge. What’s your preference?’

‘I don’t like sweet things,’ he replied automatically.

‘Then you’re more of a savoury man.’

‘Apart from dark chocolate. Give me a bar and it’s gone. Everyone complains they can never leave one in sight… ’

‘Who’s everyone, John?’

His eyes clouded as he fought to remember.

‘It’s a thin veil,’ she reassured. ‘We’ll soon tear it down.’

‘I prefer your type of questions to the ones I got from those two monkeys.’

‘If that was meant as a compliment, thank you.’

‘But I won’t be left to your tender loving care much longer. They’ll lock me away in a military hospital.’

‘If you prefer to stay here, we won’t turn you over to them.’

‘After my performance just now you won’t have any say in the matter.’

‘We’ll see.’ Elizabeth opened the door. ‘I’ll rustle up a bar of plain chocolate – and some tea. Rest, even if you can’t sleep.’ She glanced around the room. The newspaper clipping she’d shown John had disappeared. Someone had given orders to keep the room clear and empty. She wondered who.

Elizabeth heard the murmur of voices when she retraced her steps along the corridor. A notice had been pinned to the door of the day-room; PRIVATE MEETING IN PROGRESS. Dave looked up when she entered.

‘You took your time, Dr Santer,’ Heddingham reproved.

‘John was distressed. I stayed with him until he calmed down.’

‘You have a special interest in this case?’

‘No more interest than I have in any other patient’s welfare,’ she replied defensively.

‘Dr Santer,’ Major Simmonds lectured as though he were giving a tutorial to slow-witted recruits, ‘we didn’t ask you and Mr Watson to sign the Official Secrets Act as a routine measure. This case has alarming aspects, which could threaten the security of this country.’

‘At the moment we don’t even know who John West is.’

‘Precisely.’

Dave moved to the edge of his seat. ‘The lieutenant-colonel and Major Simmonds want to take custody of our patient.’

She recalled the conversation she’d just had with John.

‘If you’d prefer to stay here, we won’t turn you
over to them.’

‘After my performance just now you won’t have
any say in the matter.’

‘Custody?’ she repeated. ‘You’re arresting John?’

‘We can’t do that until we find out who he is and what – if anything – he’s done,’ the lieutenant-colonel stated baldly.

‘Given his knowledge of the equipment used by British forces, I would have assumed that your files would be an obvious place to start looking for clues to his identity,’ Elizabeth suggested.

‘After an exhaustive search through our files and computers, we have found no records of any missing servicemen, from our own forces or those of other nations stationed in the UK,’ Heddingham asserted.