Chapter Five.
George sat on the bed next to me.
“Are you comfy here, or would ye rather go somewhere more comfortable?”
“I’m not bothered, but a change of scene would be quite nice.”
I followed him down the corridor again to a small room that was pleasantly furnished in pastel colours and soft furniture. It was obviously a consulting/counselling room.
We sat in armchairs.
“So, tell me what you do know,” he said.
“I know I’m British, I mean, I don’t speak with a foreign accent or another language. I know I’m a girl and I’m roughly twenty. I think my first name is Rebecca, but the other doctor suggested loads of names beginning with R and that one seemed to fit.”
“Which doctor?”
“Um, Martin something, Penshurst, I think.”
“Go on, please.”
“Martin suggested some names as I thought my name started with an R, that’s all.”
“Why R?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure, but for no real reason I strongly believed that my name starts with an R, and then when he suggested Rebecca, it seemed to click. I may be totally doolally and wrong, but for the moment I like to think something in my brain is working.”
“I see. No surname?”
“Not yet.”
“How do you feel?”
“In what way, physically or emotionally?”
He stared at me, frowning slightly.
“Either, or both. Physically first, please.”
“Fine. No aches or pains. I did some exercises earlier and feel very fit. I have good vision, hearing and my bowels moved normally this morning. Most doctors are interested in the old bowels, aren’t they?”
He smiled. “It’s amazing what you can tell about a person from their bowels,” he said.
“Emotionally, well this is tricky. I feel frustrated that I can’t remember anything. It’s like a big black hole. I mean, I know I’m me, so logically I know that there has to be a past for me to get to be here. It’s like someone has just taken my past away and I’m left with what happened since I came round in hospital. I’m worried that someone somewhere is concerned about me, but not that much. It’s like I actually know there isn’t anyone, or that if there is, they won’t be worried about me. I’m told that someone may have tried to harm me and might attempt to once more, but again, it’s as if I feel that’s unlikely. I can’t explain it, I’m sorry.”
“Can you remember everything since you woke up?”
“Everything.”
“Do you feel dizzy or have moments of blank thoughts?”
“No. I have moments when I feel something is about to come into my mind, but it seems to be elusive.”
“I’m told you said something about a desert, tell me about it.”
“Oh, that was just before I woke up. It was a nightmare, I think. I was in a desert and someone was out to shoot me. That’s all. I woke up screaming, or so the nurse said.”
“Thinking about this nightmare, I’d like you to close your eyes and just try to concentrate on what you have as a mental picture. Describe what’s around you.”
“Rocks and sand.”
“Their colour?”
“Brown.”
“The sun, can you see it?”
“It’s behind me, for I can see my shadow.”
“Now, the person who is after you, can you see him or her?”
“It’s a him, and no, I can’t.”
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“A feeling.”
“You said shoot you, not get you, why did you say that?”
“A feeling. No, it’s knowledge.”
“Go on.”
“I know he’s going to shoot me, that’s his job.”
“Why?”
“He’s a soldier.”
“Why does he want to shoot you?”
“It’s what he does.”
“No, I mean, why you?”
“I’m an enemy.”
“Are you a soldier?”
“I don’t think so. Do I look like one?” I said, opening my eyes.
He smiled. “No, but then appearances can be deceptive. Do you like movies?”
“Yes, I think so. Doesn’t everyone?”
“What was the last movie you saw?”
I frowned, deep in thought. It was tough, as I actually couldn’t remember seeing any recently. I went to one with my son, some time ago now.
“I think it was a cartoon, with a big green person in it.”
“Shrek?”
I looked blankly at him.
“What do you remember about it?”
I frowned again, not having to pretend.
“Very little, was there a dragon in it?”
“Was there?”
“I think so, and a donkey.”
He made some notes. He then asked me many questions, all of which I parried and avoided.
“I’d like to try a word association game with you. I’ll say a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll start, - Tree.”
“Swing.”
“House.”
“Home.”
“Dog.”
“Ball.”
“Car.”
“Holiday.”
“Brother.”
“Sister.”
“Work.”
“People.”
“Mother.”
“Warmth.”
“School.”
“Games.”
“Food.”
“Pizza.”
“Father.”
“Suit.”
“Bed.”
“Sleep.”
He stopped, making some notes on his pad.
“I’d like you to think about your mother. For every other word, you associated them with an inanimate object, yet for her it was an emotion or feeling. Try to picture her in your mind’s eye. I know it’s hard. But try.”
It was very easy. I had adored my mother, so had been devastated when she’d died. My Dad and I got on fine as well. He had been so proud of me, he’d tell everyone in his office about me. He had been a civil servant, ironically working in the Ministry of Defence before retiring and dying of smoking related cancer within a couple of years of his retirement.
My mother’s image floated in my mind. I must have smiled.
“You remember her?”
I nodded, as the tears came unbidden.
“What is her name?”
“Mum.”
“No, I mean her first name?”
“Jane,” I said, before I could stop myself.
I looked at him. His image appeared strangely warped by my tears.
“She’s dead!” I said.
“Go on.”
“She died some time ago, just after my Dad. We lived abroad for most of my life. I don’t think I’ve been back very long.”
“Where did you live?”
“I’m not sure. All over, I think.”
“Go on.”
“I’m alone now, of that I’m certain.” I said. “There’s no one in this country for me.”
“Your father’s name?”
I recognised danger. My mother had been Jane, but I needed to tell as few lies as possible. I knew that the more lies one told, the harder it was to keep track of them all and the easier it was to trap the liar.
“I can’t remember. I just know I was very young when he died. But, I think it’s there, as if it’s just waiting to pop out,” I said, tapping my forehead with a finger.
“Well done. Now, can you remember your own name?”
I made a fuss of trying to remember, by frowning and closing my eyes. If nothing else, I could always become an actress.
“Rebecca Alison Carter!” I announced, triumphantly.
“And your father?”
“William, yes, William Carter.”
He’d actually been William Curtis, but what the hell.
He probed some more, and I made it as hard as possible for him, hinting that my father had been working abroad. I gave him glimpses of foreign parts, without being specific about giving clear landmarks that anyone could identify with a little time and effort.