“How do you know I’m not married?”
He blushed slightly. “One, I don’t think you’re old enough, and two, you’ve never had sex; unless you know different?”
I shook my head again.
“We have to call you something, have you any idea what your name is?”
“No, not really. I think my first name starts with an ‘R’, but I can’t be sure.”
“An ‘R’, like Rachel, Rowena, Rebecca, Roberta, Rhona, or something else?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, feeling more frustrated.
“Well, it’s something. If I had to guess, I’d say you were a Rebecca.”
“Why?”
“No reason, I think you fit my picture of a Rebecca. Rachel is dark and you’re very fair. Roberta is a bit stiff, more a school mistress type, Rowena is a vague and rather wimpy creature, so I think Rebecca is more you.”
“What type am I, then?”
“Sporty, fun, bright and the life and soul of the party.”
I laughed.
“You have a lovely smile. I’m sure you have a host of boyfriends, so if we run a press release, you’re sure to be identified.”
For some reason, I didn’t want this to happen. I have no idea why, it was just I didn’t want to make any splash at all.
“I don’t want to get into the press or TV,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, I just know it’s not a good idea.”
“Hmm, could you be running away from someone or something?”
“Perhaps. I would just rather wait before you start going to the media.”
“All right. We’ll wait until the police do what they have to do. If your memory hasn’t returned soon, and the police draw a blank, I’m afraid we may have to.”
“I understand.”
He stood up and ran through an examination, asking me whether I was in pain or discomfort as he poked and prodded me.
“Well, physically, you seem to be fine. So, apart from the old memory, we’ll just keep you in for observation for a couple of days. I’ll ask the duty social worker to come and speak to you.”
He left me alone and I was given something to eat. As I was finishing the tasteless shepherd’s pie, a rotund woman pitched up by my bed.
“Hello, I’m Mary Simons, the social worker attached to the hospital. The doctor tells me you’ve lost your memory.”
She clearly didn’t believe me, as she was probably so used to people trying to prise benefits out of the system, she had become hardened to all manner of such ploys. She sat down beside me and took a complicated form out of her briefcase.
She asked me questions and started to fill in the form. Most of my answers frustrated her, as they were either, ‘I don’t know’, or ‘I can’t remember.’ I became more frustrated and angrier, particularly as she started sighing and sucking air in through her teeth.
My temper broke.
“Look, you’re not fucking helping. Do you honestly think I’d be stuck here if I could remember who the fuck I was and how I came to be here?
“I’m as pissed off about this as you are, probably more. I didn’t ask you for anything, I’m just stuck here with no memory of what happened or who I am. They tell me I’ve been in a sodding coma for eight days. But I don’t even know if that’s true or not. So, stop treating me like some criminal and either help me or fuck off and be a pocket Hitler with someone else!”
Doctor Penshurst was passing the door as I was in mid-tirade. He stopped and looked in. The social worker was staring at me with her mouth open. At that moment, a uniform policewoman arrived and found us frozen in a strange tableau.
The outburst relieved some of my stress. Then, to my surprise and not a little consternation, I simply burst into tears, as I felt so frustrated.
It ended up with all three of them trying to comfort me. The doctor and social worker left, leaving the police officer with me to discuss clothing. She worked out my rough measurements, took my fingerprints and a DNA sample. She then went to talk to the doctor and social worker.
The doctor returned as I was washing my hands on some chemical wipes the police officer had left.
“Better?”
“No, I feel so bloody frustrated and angry. Why did she treat me like that?”
“Lots of people aren’t genuinely ill and seek to use the system to their advantage, so she’s cautious.”
“She’s bloody rude,” I said.
The doctor looked thoughtful.
“I first thought you were in your late teens, I may have been wrong.”
“Why?”
“You don’t talk like a teenager.”
“Oh. Is that good?”
“Yes and no. Your body is perfect for someone in their late teens, so unless you are copying the language of a parent or adult, you may have some problems. Teenagers swear, but not like that.”
“Can you take these needles out of me? I don’t think I need them any more.”
“If you like. I’ll get the nurse.”
Minutes later, I was free from catheters and drips.
I was allowed to get out of bed and stand up. The doctor was watching me.
“Well?”
“I’m a little dizzy, but otherwise all right.”
“The results of the scan have come back. You’ve no tumours or obvious signs of traumas in the head, or anywhere else, for that matter. You are a complete enigma.”
“When can I leave?”
He laughed. “Where would you go?”
I stared at him, as my predicament dawned on me. “Oh.”
“I think it will be wiser for you to stay here for a day or so. Your recovery has been so swift that I see no reason why your memory won’t return soon. I’d like to be here when it does, as there may be issues that need dealing with.”
He left me alone and I dozed off.
Chapter Four
The doctor had been perfectly correct. In my dreams, my memory came back in pieces, but they made no sense.
I spent the next day scribbling furiously on my piece of paper, but none of it helped at all.
The doctors and nurses came and went, while the police were obviously doing what they could to find out who I was, as everyone left me alone. I watched a bit of TV and read a magazine. Without the catheter, I ventured to the loo several times, supervised by one of the nurses. I was so weird staring at my own reflection and looking at a stranger. The nurses were great and encouraged me by telling me how nice it would be to forget all one’s troubles for a while. They all hoped I didn’t dream bad dreams.
I went to bed the following night, unsure whether I actually wanted to know who I had been. Part of me was afraid and I wondered if I had been a bad person. I felt good in myself, and had got over the silly feeling that I wasn’t really a girl, as I clearly was and always had been. I hoped that there weren’t too many people worrying about me.
I went to sleep.
I remembered everything.
I remembered my name, I remembered the Gulf and everything I’d done in the army. I remembered my childhood, my parents, my pets and my wife. Then I remembered my son.
I remembered the strange facility I infiltrated and I remembered being knocked unconscious and waking up being discussed like a side of meat.
I knew I was Rob Curtis, late of the SAS Regiment, known as Curly to my colleagues.
I knew I wasn’t a twenty-year old female.