I am pondering taking the story into the realm of self-publishing. This means that I will continue to write chapters but I won’t post them to this blog at least until I decide if the story will be novel worthy. I will periodically keep you updated. Until then, feel free to ask questions or leave comments.
For some reason, I was unable to think. My brain felt as if it were mired in quicksand. What I needed to do should have come so easily to me, after all this was my dream job, one I have been successfully performing every day for many years. Yet, here I stood, staring blankly out the shop’s front window. The street below virtually unseen, the glittering sea beyond a blur melding with the sky.
A rude jangling and buzzing sound startled me out of my thoughts, bringing with it awareness of the sounds of hammering and sawing. My mobile phone lay on the counter next to the cash register. I glanced down at it, saw Abby’s number. Heaving a sigh, I answered.
“Hey.”
“You sound terrible,” Abby said matter-of-factly.
I realized at that precise moment I indeed felt terrible. But, not in an illness way. What could I say to that? One can’t exactly brighten one’s tone and quip, ‘Nah, I’m brilliant.’ Instead, I said, “It’s good to hear your voice, Abby.” And I meant it.
“I know what you need,” she said brightly.
“Yeah?”
“Ma’am, you need a drink. I need a drink. What say you take a break from roof repair and meet me at Seaside?” Abby offered.
“I’d say, you’re a dream.” That made Abby laugh, and the sound of her laughter gave me hope.
Seaside Tavern was aptly named. It sat between the shoreline and Old Coast Road where it was a haven for tourists and locals alike, including the dozen or so species of birds that made this archipelago their summer home. Now that autumn was upon us, with the equinox only weeks away, the birds would soon be flying to warmer climates.
The house-like exterior of Seaside Tavern was simple, whitewashed stone with a heavy oak door and a pitched gray roof, while the interior was an unexpected old-world mix of heavily polished walnut and gleaming brass. Outside a gravel courtyard was lined with sun-bleached boulders that separated the property from the sand. I was surprised that Abby had reserved an outside table, but also glad. The sounds of seagulls and crashing waves soothed me as we sipped our beers. Abby regaled me with all the current news of her daughter, Ellie, who had recently been accepted into a private grammar school, and her husband Christopher’s latest travels.
“Spill,” Abby demanded, wiping away a bit of beer foam from her upper lip.
“You won’t like it,” I responded.
“Won’t be the first time,” she said, a smile hovering around her mouth softened the words. This was her way of saying she supported me unconditionally. I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I squinted at the bright waves of the sea and swallowed hard.
“I did what you asked me not to,” I began. “I got involved.”
“How involved?” Abby asked.
I took a deep breath, “I met with the head nurse and a doctor at Wallace’s. I did say I didn’t really know him, that he was a customer in my shop.” I glanced over my shoulder to see if there were any people in earshot, then lowered my voice. “What I didn’t tell them is that I had, erm, inadvertently looked at his medical chart …”
“You what?” Abby leaned forward, her face incredulous.
I squirmed. “Curiosity got the better of me, Ab, and it’s what I saw there that made me want to hear more, so, I …” I stopped, unable to believe I’d dug such a deep hole for myself. “I agreed to take temporary responsibility for him,” I said, and as Abby began to interrupt with what I was sure was an admonishment, I quickly added, “but only until they find his actual family. There’s a police investigation, so that will likely come sooner rather than later.”
“Wow,” Abby stated. “Just, wow.” She shook her head then drained the contents of her beer glass. “What was in his chart that made you do that?”
“That he had head trauma and retrograde amnesia. I really just wanted to understand how that happened to him. I know it isn’t my business, and I inserted myself where I don’t belong, but he asked for me, Ab. If he has amnesia, how could he ask for me?”
Abby didn’t answer, she rubbed at the condensation on the outside of her beer glass. Then she looked up and asked, “So, what happened to him? Who attacked him? You said there is a police investigation.”
“All the nurse could tell me was that he’d been attacked at Saint Labre’s. Five men assaulted him.”
Abby grimaced. “What was he doing at the homeless shelter?”
I shook my head. “No idea. But he was beat up pretty badly. He has numerous fractures, a broken rib, and a fractured skull. Plus, he had a seizure. They are speculating that the seizure and amnesia are caused by the head injury, but they want to watch him for a few days. I was allowed to visit him, but I barely recognized him for all the cuts and bruises.”
Abby raised her eyebrows. “You talked to him?”
“No, he’s being sedated due to the seizures and all.”
Abby sat back. She had finished her beer, but I could tell she was contemplating another. She shook her head, bewildered. “I can’t imagine, Jo, why you would get yourself involved in all that.” Abby laid her hand on mine. “I want you to know, though, that I will help any way I can.”
“Really?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know what kind of help I need,” I trailed off as Abby’s face split into a smile.
“Besides mental help, you mean?” she quipped, and we both laughed out loud.
“God, yes, I need that,” I murmured. I shook my head, and then lowered my voice to a mere whisper, saying, “There’s more.”
Abby stared hard at me, her eyes narrowed.
“They said he has burns on his body,” I whispered.
“Burns from what?”
“Lightning.”
Roddy Quentin sat behind the wheel of the black BMW, his left hand gripped the steering wheel tightly while his right hand carried a lit cigarette to his mouth. As he blew smoke out, he let his hand dangle out the open window and flicked ashes to the road below. Ahead a traffic jam threatened to make him late, and he cursed aloud.
“Cursing won’t make this lot move any faster,” Detective Sergeant Brooke Anderson said, waving the smoke away from her face.
“Yeah? What will?” he countered and took another drag. He had, at least, the common decency to not blow his smoke directly in her face. Instead, he turned his head and blew it out the window, which was only marginally better in her opinion.
Just then, his mobile rang. He answered the call, “DI Quentin.” He listened momentarily and then said, “We’re on our way, sir.”
“What’s up?” Brooke asked when Quentin ended the call.
“That new assault case that came in this morning, the director of the homeless shelter came forward with CCTV footage,” he explained. He fixed his sergeant with a side long gaze.
She thought he looked particularly tired today. His wavy brown hair was sticking up on one side, and his normally trim beard and mustache verged on shaggy. And his blue eyes were bloodshot. If he took better care of himself, Brooke thought, he might actually be handsome. At the very least, his clothing bordered on tidy. Brooke shifted a little in her seat. It annoyed her to no end that his somewhat passable appearance would go unnoticed by the upper echelons, while she had to work hard to stay impeccably groomed or else earn a black mark. That was actually saying a lot, given the past two months of unusually hot weather.
“That ought to help make this cut and dried,” she responded at last.
“Yep, but we still need the vic’s statement,” Quentin said.
“Where to first?”
“Incident team meeting first,” Quentin rolled his eyes.
When DI Quentin and DS Anderson strode into the Shorehaven Police Department’s incident room some twenty minutes later, their Superintendent was already speaking before a small team of officers. While Superintendent Jerry Whitcomb talked, a junior officer affixed photographs to the incident board: five suspects, together with a newly acquired photograph of the victim, presently a John Doe, supplied by Wallace Hospital’s Victim’s Processing Unit. The large photograph showed a bloodied man with numerous facial lacerations and a great deal of swelling and bruising. His eyes were closed.
“ … currently awaiting the results from our fingerprinting unit. Ah, here is DI Quentin, I’ll turn this meeting over to him,” Whitcomb said. He handed a file to Quentin and said, “You look like hell.”
“Thank you, sir,” Quentin responded with a grin and watched his superior exit the room.
“Alright, everyone, I’ll make this quick. At approximately 3:40 this morning, our John Doe was asleep at Saint Labre’s when he was violently attacked by these five suspects. We have all of them in custody at the moment, they’ve been processed, but I need to assign at least two of you to conduct taped interviews.” Quentin began handing out copies of stapled reports to each of the officers. “Detailed questions are included in the reports. Furthermore, ambulatory services were called to the shelter at approximately 4:00 a.m. and our victim was duly transported to Wallace Hospital. I’ve just handed you their preliminary report. Preliminary, because several tests are still awaiting results. As you can see, John Doe has multiple injuries including head trauma that has caused retrograde amnesia and seizures. He has not yet been interviewed; however, Detective Sergeant Anderson and I are scheduled to meet with the attending physician today to get an update and hopefully conduct the interview. As Superintendent Whitcomb stated, fingerprint reports of the suspects and John Doe are pending, as is DNA testing. DC Carter, get the fingerprint reports to me the moment they come in, and follow up on the hospital tests,” DI Quentin said indicating the young ginger-haired officer in the front row.
“Sir,” Carter replied.
“DC Collins, you will be in charge of witness statements, I’ll expect you to go to Saint Labre’s and get as many as you can, report by end of day. DC George, you will take perps one, two and three; and Johnson, you’ll take perps four and five,” DI Quentin reviewed his notes for a moment. “Perp one, a Mr. Oliver, according to the statement taken at the scene, is the primary. Take his statement first. DC Carter, review the CCTV footage from the shelter, report by end of day. Any questions?”
Detective Constable Liz Johnson raised her hand, and DI Quentin nodded at her. “Requesting permission, sir, to perform preliminary database searches on our suspects,” DC Johnson said. She was a no-nonsense woman with deep brown eyes and short blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Roddy recalled she currently held a sharpshooter’s certificate and was a tech whiz.
“Granted. Make a note, as well, if we get a positive ID on our vic, to pull any personal data, employment, address, et cetera. Anyone else have anything to add?”
“One further question, sir,” DS Anderson raised her hand and waited for her superior to acknowledge her. When he nodded, she indicated the report in her hand. “The medical report from Wallace, sir, there is a photograph of John Doe with burns they say are likely caused by a lightning strike. See page five, sir.”
There was a rustling of paper as everyone in the room flipped to that page, including Quentin.
“Yes, I see that, continue,” he said.
“Would you like me to pull recent meteorological reports, sir?”
DI Quentin frowned. “Let’s put that on a back burner for now. However, your question reminds me of something else,” he flipped to a different page in the report and read for a moment.
“Reach out to the lab, find out how soon we can expect the analysis on John Doe’s clothing.”
“Sir?”
DI Quentin ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but Wallace’s report fails to acknowledge any blood on the victim’s clothing, yet as you can see from that photograph, the victim is bleeding quite a lot.”
I arrived at Wallace Hospital at half past noon, where I was then required to check in at security.
“Nature of your visit?” the guard asked me, his eyes flat. How many people did he process in a day, I wondered.
“I have an appointment with Head Nurse Tara Macrae.” I was given a visitor badge to clip onto my clothing. It bore a poor quality, grainy photo of my face, my name, and surprisingly, a bar code.
The security guard directed me to a bank of elevators, saying I should go to the sixth floor and the West Critical Care wing. Finding my way through the maze of the hospital made me feel a bit like the proverbial lab rat. When, at last, I found signage that designated the correct wing, I then navigated my way past metal carts stacked with stark white towels and bedding, rolling carts holding various medical equipment and some with fancy computer screens attached, gurneys, and an occasional nurse in uniform, face mask, and paper-booted feet. The cacophony was punctuated by ringing telephones and crying children. The sounds of suffering made me feel queasy. I approached the nurses’ pavilion. There were two men and a woman sitting behind computer screens, working busily.
“May I help you?” a nurse asked me. He seemed unconcerned that a non-staff person had entered into what is clearly a patient-doctor domain. His name badge identified him as “Steven Wiley, Trauma Nurse.”
“Hi, I’m JoAnne Edmunds, I’m here to meet with Tara Macrae and Doctor Cooper.”
Nurse Wiley glanced at the woman sitting in the desk chair next to him. She was on the phone, and upon overhearing me say her name, she looked up over her glasses and gestured “one minute,” by holding up one slender finger. “Yes, yes, thank you so much,” she smiled into the receiver. “No, I fully understand, sir.… Understood, sir,” she nodded as if the person on the other end of the line could see her. Nurse Macrae hung up the phone and blew out an exasperated breath. “Wow,” she said, looking directly at Nurse Wiley, then at me. “Could you excuse us just a moment Ms. Edmunds?” she asked me.
“Of course,” I said. I watched the two of them cross to the other side of the station and speak inaudibly to one another. Nurse Wiley reacted to whatever Nurse Macrae said by widening his eyes and mouthing what appeared to be what the fuck? I turned my back to them in an attempt to not eavesdrop any further.
“I am so sorry,” Nurse Macrae said to me after a moment or two.
“It’s no trouble,” I responded with a reassuring smile, although inside I was eager to get this business over with.
“If you could just follow me,” she began, glancing at her watch. “I believe Doctor Cooper is with a patient at the moment.” Nurse Macrae led me to a tiny office outfitted with a gray metal desk and a small round table that had two plastic chairs pushed haphazardly under it. “Have a seat and I’ll be back with Doctor Cooper in a few minutes.” As an afterthought, the nurse asked if there was anything she could get me. “Water, coffee?”
I said, “no, thank you.” I did not wish to be there any longer than I had to be.
She closed the door and suddenly I felt like an errant child awaiting a talk with the school headmaster. I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair and tried to relax. But as the minutes ticked by, first five, then ten, and then fifteen, I realized that this was like any other doctor visit where you arrive timely for your appointment and end up waiting a half hour for the doctor to show up. Your only sources of entertainment are old fly-fishing magazines and even older copies of People. When I had exhausted the slim supply of reading materials, I pulled out my phone and glanced at it. Did I actually expect to have any service in the middle of this concrete and steel fortress? Exasperated, I slid the phone back into my purse and began to pace, making a promise to myself: five more minutes. If Doctor Cooper didn’t show, I would slip out that door and quietly exit the building.
I stared at my watch. It was now ten past one. I groaned aloud. The roof repairmen would be back on the job by now. I heaved a sigh and steeled my resolve. I twisted the door’s knob and opened the door, peeking out. The hallway was empty. I stepped out, but then hesitated, pondering my next move. Did I want to retrace my steps and walk past the nurses’ station? Or should I try to find another way out? I decided on the latter and began walking in the direction that I hoped would lead me away from the nurses’ station.
The adjoining hallway was punctuated with a half dozen rooms, all with closed doors. Each bore a number and a letter, such as 6A, 6B, and so forth. Mounted next to the door frames were metal holders. Some were empty, but others held red folders. I wondered if they might be patient charts. I glanced around but saw no one. Impulsively, I pulled one of the folders free and opened it. I had my answer in a split second. Indeed, patient charts. As I replaced the folder, a thought burrowed into my brain. Did one of these rooms belong to Even?
Moving quickly, I began to check the other folders. I had reached room 6F when I heard footsteps clacking on the shiny linoleum floor, accompanied by voices. Just then, Nurse Macrae and (I assumed) Doctor Cooper turned the corner and appeared at the opposite end of the hall.
“Oh, there you are,” Nurse Macrae cried, and I felt color stain my cheeks. I just barely managed to slip 6F’s folder behind my handbag but couldn’t be certain they hadn’t noticed.
“Yes, sorry, I am hunting for the ladies’ room,” I managed to say, my heart pounding.
Nurse Macrae frowned, but said, “Take the next hall to your left, first door on your right.”
“Thank you, I won’t be a moment,” I said, and quickly turned in that direction, carrying the patient folder hidden under my handbag. I found the ladies’ room and locked the door behind me. I stood there for a moment, willing my heart to calm down. I looked down at the folder in my hand and sighed. Damn me. Against my better judgment, I opened it. At the top, scrawled in one corner it read John Doe. Could this be Even? I scanned the page trying to read the scrawling handwriting. Obviously John Doe was male, but how old would Even be? I pegged him in his early to mid-thirties. Unfortunately, the line next to “age” was blank. I found I couldn’t make heads or tails of the coded information on the form, except for two things: head trauma and amnesia. I grimaced. The idea of that poor man experiencing a head injury made me feel sick inside. If he had amnesia, though, how did he remember me?
Realizing I had already taken too much time, I closed the folder, flushed the toilet, and then washed my hands. I tucked the folder under my handbag and carried it out of the restroom. As I walked back to the meeting room, I tucked it back into its slot, saying a word of thanks that no one saw me.
The sterile white laboratory was excessively cold, and the man shivered in spite of the warm clothing he wore. A white robotic arm appeared from somewhere behind him. It twisted and placed a shiny golden cube into his bare hands. It was small enough to fit on his palm but was far more heavy than its dimensions would indicate. Not only that, but the metal felt alive. The man could feel it breathe and pulse against his skin. The sensation was terrible and wonderful at the same time. Lightning flashed abruptly and the air around him crackled with electricity. He then felt a searing heat that began in his hands and radiated rapidly in all directions, encompassing his entire body, all the way to the tips of his toes. Another flash and everything went entirely black. Then, a tiny pinprick of hazy white light appeared, burning as if it were a star hundreds of light years away. The star moved closer and closer. Bazigh! A voice called in his mind. Bazigh!
Even awoke from the dream with a gasp, but almost immediately he was gripped by involuntary spasms that wracked his battered body. Alarms began to sound, a shrill beeping that overwhelmed his senses. He slipped into unconsciousness, as his body continued to quake.
When Even next awoke, he was lying on his side. He squinted into the dim light and focused on understanding what his eyes were seeing. Equipment of some sort, tubes running from it to his hand, held in place with strips of white. Another snaked its way into his nose. He blinked slowly and tried to remember. Bazigh! A high voice echoed in his mind. And then flashes of the remnants of a nightmare. But no matter how hard he tried, the images refused to solidify in his mind. Only the name.
His name.
Bazigh.
And a white room.
A wave of nausea consumed him, and he thought he would vomit. His head swam and the blood roared in his ears. The machine next to him had begun to beep loudly. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing.
A woman dressed in a pale blue uniform entered his room. She touched a button on the machine, and it went blissfully silent. Gently, she lay a cool hand on his fevered brow. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said softly. “I am Nurse Debbie, and I’m going to check your vitals now, please don’t be alarmed.”
Nurse Debbie, he thought as comprehension dawned slowly. I am in hospital. Is this the white room? No, that’s not right. Where am I now? I smell water. A strange almost salty scent. The sea.
His eyes closed involuntarily then, and unconsciousness claimed him once again.
“He’s been like this since he arrived by ambulance. For now, we are keeping him sedated,” Nurse Macrae told me.
I stared at the broken man lying in the hospital bed, a multitude of tubes and things attached to his hand and chest, and an oxygen tube in his nose. His face was almost unrecognizable, it was so swollen with numerous cuts and bruises. His hair had been cut and a white bandage wrapped the circumference of his head. One shoulder and arm were encased in plaster, and his chest was also wrapped tightly. Two fractured ribs. Doctor Cooper told me that he had been attacked in his sleep at a homeless shelter. What was he doing there? Why didn’t he go to the Inn?
“He looks like he’s lucky to be alive,” I said, feeling helpless.
The nurse nodded her head in agreement. “At least five men have been brought on charges of assault,” she said. She then picked up his chart and flipped through the numerous pages there. “He had a seizure approximately one hour ago. It’s likely related to his head injury, but I’ll know more after Doctor Cooper checks him,” Nurse Macrae said.
I looked at her and sighed. I had really dug myself in deep this time. I had no idea who this man was, where he came from, or anything else about him. Yet, here I stood, agreeing to help him. I shook my head, at a loss to explain it to myself, much less to anyone else. Certainly not to Abby.
“You have him well in hand,” I said to the nurse. “I’ll be back this evening to check on him. Hopefully, Doctor Cooper will have an update.” I opened the door to leave.
“The police said they plan to run his fingerprints,” Nurse Macrae said.
This news brought me a measure of relief. I turned to the nurse and asked, “will you keep me posted?”
“Absolutely,” Nurse Macrae responded, then rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She hurried to a cabinet and withdrew a large plastic bag. “These are his things, except for the clothes he was wearing during the attack – the police kept those,” she said, handing the bag to me.
I grimaced. I felt the hole I had dug for myself grow ten feet deeper.
Dear readers, Jo and Even return in this draft chapter four, but note that I’ve made at least one modification throughout. I’ve changed Jo’s friend’s name from Hannah to Abby (primarily because Jo’s full name is JoAnne, and that was far too similar to Hannah.) Enjoy!
Chapter Four
Even awoke with a start. In the gloomy darkness, all he could discern was a dark figure bent over him, someone who surreptitiously tugged at the bundle that Even clutched against his body. The bundle that was his overcoat.
Even grasped the man’s arm in a vice-like grip, but then the man suddenly struck Even in the face with the balled fist of his free hand. The next thing Even knew two more men pounced on him, began pummeling him with their fists. They dragged him off the cot and kicked him with booted feet, all the while pounding him with their fists. Even curled into a ball in the floor, pain exploding all over his body. He struggled to keep the coat tucked under him. All around him, men began shouting “fight, fight!” He thought he could hear the voice of Bill shouting, “Stop! Get off him!”
“Enough!” a new voice bellowed loudly. “Get off him!” Amid the clamor there was a blinding light as the overheads were switched on, and a shuffling of feet. The attackers were pulled away one by one. “What’s the matter with you lot, are you crazy? The police will arrest all of you!” someone shouted. Even could only writhe in pain. Someone touched his shoulder, leaned close and said, “fuck, he’s in bad shape.” Over the painful roar in his bloodied ears, he could detect a high-pitched wailing sound, but then the world went blissfully black.
In spite of my brief, tortured sleep, I awoke with the rising sun and literally hit the ground running. After a short but much-needed jog, I showered and dressed in jeans and a soft grey turtleneck. While tying my long wet hair into a ponytail, I made a mental note to get it cut. I stared at my reflection, noting the tiredness around my eyes and the stress around my mouth. Ordinarily I was not one for makeup, but today my skin looked parched, as though I’d spent the night pounding whiskies at the pub. I relented to the need for self-care and slathered moisturizer onto my tired skin and dabbed concealer under my eyes. I then added a hint of rosy color to my cheeks and a touch of mascara to my upper lashes. I still looked bleary, but it would have to do.
Winston padded into the bathroom and rubbed his tawny body against my leg, meowing loudly.
“Hey, Win, ready for breakfast?” I said, bending to pet his sleek fur. Win meowed again in response and shot away towards the kitchen.
After tending to Winston’s food and water bowl, I grabbed my bag and strode toward the door. I looked back at my cat. He sat in front of his food bowl looking offended. “I’m sorry Win, roof repairs today but I promise to spend some time with you tonight. You and me and an episode of Shetland, okay?” But Winston had already turned his back to me, ignore button engaged.
It was a chilly gray morning out, and the misty wind blew the remaining cobwebs out of my head. However, I felt the tendrils of fatigue gripping my body as I rode my motorbike into town. There was only one thing that would keep me going this morning: a Face-Stomper Double Quad-Shot with a splash of coconut cream. I parked my bike at the shop, then walked the one block to my favorite coffee shop. As I stood in line waiting to order, I checked my phone and found I had a missed call. I didn’t recognize the number, so I did what I always do: ignored it and slid the phone back into my handbag.
I sipped my coffee slowly as I walked back to the bookshop. I arrived to find the roofer waiting for me on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. He was an older man with thick black hair shot with silver. His large, round stomach strained against the buttons of his uniform shirt. A sewn-on name tag read “Carl R.”
“Good morning,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m JoAnne Edmunds.”
“Carl Rogers, Ms. Edmunds,” he said with a smile and flicked his cigarette into the street. “I’m here to work on your roof.”
“Right this way,” I said, and unlocked the front door.
Carl made small talk as I showed him to the upstairs room where the hole was located. “I heard about your water damage from Monday’s storm. It was sure a freak occurrence.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “If there is anything you need from me, I’ll be in my office downstairs,” I said. My mobile rang from the depths of my handbag.
Carl said, “Yes, ma’am,” and looked at me somewhat quizzically as if to say, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
I fished the phone out and saw the number was the same as the previous call. “Yes, excuse me,” I said and ducked out of the room, leaving Carl to his work, and headed downstairs.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, ma’am,” a woman said pleasantly. “This is Head Nurse Tara Macrae at Wallace Hospital. Is this Jo Edmunds?”
“Yes, this is she,” I said. I reached my office and closed the door.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but we have a patient here who, erm, has no identification and he requested I call you,” Nurse Macrae said, pausing at this point.
“Me?” I said, somewhat flummoxed by this news. “I mean, I’m sorry, who is the patient?”
“I can’t go into the particulars with you over the phone, it’s against hospital policy you see, but we could discuss it with the administrator if you don’t mind coming here.”
My mind reeled and I wondered if this were some sort of prank. A deep sense of foreboding began to weigh heavily on me. I finally said, “Would it be okay if I phoned you back?” I thought at the very least I need to ask Carl how long he thinks the repairs will take.
“Yes, ma’am, that would be fine,” Nurse Macrae responded. “If you call this number, anyone at the nurse’s station can summon me.”
“Thank you,” I said and ended the call. I sat down in my chair and sipped my coffee again. I racked my brain trying to figure out who this mystery person might be. I knew it could not be any of my family. My older brother lives in London and both our parents were on holiday in Italy. Then a thought struck me.
I quickly dialed Abby’s number. When she picked up, I said, “Hey, it’s me, do you have a sec?”
“Yeah, hang on,” Abby responded. I can hear her close a door. “Okay, what’s up?”
“I promised I would call you if he came back,” I blurted out.
“If who came back?”
“Even,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know exactly if it’s him.” I trailed off.
“Jo, darling, you aren’t making sense. Calm down and start at the beginning.” I could picture Abby in my mind, her cool blonde head the personification of dignity.
“I know, I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath and recounted the phone call I received. “They can’t tell me over the phone who the patient is, but who else could it be?” I asked.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jo! Why would he ask for you? You’ve only just met him!”
“Very good question, and obviously I won’t know the answer unless I go there. I don’t know what to do.”
“Do not go there!” Abby replied sternly. “You don’t know this guy from Adam, and you owe him nothing, don’t forget that.”
“I, I know that, I do, but,” I rolled my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“I know you, Jo, you take in every stray cat and wounded bird. But this is one stray you must avoid, trust me,” Abby insisted.
I smiled, in spite of Abby’s tone. It was true, I thought. I do always bring in strays, and except for keeping Winston, I always find good homes for them.
“How about this,” I began, “I’ll just go speak to the staff and tell them I don’t know him, or his real name. They will have to locate his family or whatever.”
Abby sighed audibly. “Be sure that’s all you do, and believe me, Jo, I won’t rescue you if you get yourself into a mess.”
First let me say thank you to all who have endured the first two chapters! I appreciate all the views. I am now ready to post the draft Chapter Three and a reminder that these are just drafts in their initial stages. I hope you continue to enjoy them!
Chapter Three
Nightfall
I admit I’m having a hard time concentrating. My laptop teeters precariously on a desk cluttered with handwritten notes, ledgers, stacks of unbound manuscripts, and the cold dregs of a latte. Upon my return to the bookshop, the first order of business had been to assess the damage: forty-three books ruined by the rain. Because the vast majority of the books available for sale at A Tale in Time are written by local authors who provide only a limited number of copies – each I uniquely hand bind – the damaged books would have to be replaced at my own expense.
I spent the majority of the afternoon manning the cash register, assisting customers, and calling clients to explain what happened to their books, and giving them assurances that I would indeed have the roof fixed. I even rang the repairman and committed to it. They would begin first thing in the morning. Now I sat before my accounting ledgers, trying to work out a budget that would enable me to absorb the losses and pay for roof repairs. Online sales were strong and the holiday season was fast approaching. Would it be enough? What could I trim from the budget? Exhaustion tugged at my eyes and my mind continued to blur. Giving in, I shut my laptop, locked my office door, and headed out. I yawned deeply as I boarded my motorbike. The chill night air jolted me awake but made me long for a hot shower and the warmth of my bed.
3:00 a.m. I startled awake for the second time. When I had finally climbed into bed only a few hours prior, I fully expected to sleep deeply. Instead, I was plagued by bizarre dreams set in an enormous, interconnected city in a strange barren land.
Rolling over, I willed the images to leave my mind. I envisioned instead a cool green forest, a stream edged with snow, a gently falling rain – anything to rid my consciousness of the dreams’ disturbing images.
Even sat along the shoreline. His clothes were wet and caked with sand as a result, but he did not mind. In fact, he had removed his boots and dug his bare feet into the sand. The dark waves would rush in and cover them, much to his delight. All the while, he gazed above him, the sky now bright with stars and a waning moon. The night sky was familiar somehow and made him think of home. Memories teased at the edge of his consciousness but remained elusive.
“Oi, mate,” a voice called out. Even turned his head toward the voice. An old man in tattered clothing approached him, walking somewhat unsteadily through the deep sand.
“Coppers headin’ this way, best clear out,” the man said to Even.
Even could just make out two men in the distance with yellow vests. They were shouting at people and gesturing. There was something threatening in their behavior. He scuttled quickly to his feet and picked up his boots.
“Ya got a place to stay, mate?” the man asked Even as they trudged through the sand toward the footpath.
“Yes,” Even lied.
The man looked at him dubiously. “Well, if ya change yer mind, there’s a shelter ’bout a mile that way,” he gestured ahead of them. “Hot food and all.”
Even’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. The man wagged his shaggy eyebrows at Even. “Just sayin.”
“Thank you,” Even replied, and summoned a smile. As much as he wanted to avoid involving himself with other people, he conceded that he needed a meal.
“Follow me,” the old man said. “Name’s Bill.”
“They call me Even,” he replied.
Bill led Even to a ramshackle, single-story structure situated not far off the main road. Inside there was a man sitting behind a table. Even thought he had a kind face.
“Evening, Bill,” the man said with a smile. “Who’s your friend?”
“This here’s Even,” Bill said.
“Welcome to Saint Labre’s, Even,” the man said, handing him a cloth bundle tied with string. “Soup kitchen is to your right.”
“Come on, I’ll show ya,” Bill said, taking his own bundle. “All they gonna have is cold sandwiches and coffee though, at this late hour.”
Even followed Bill into a large room where groups of ragtag men sat at round tables, talking and laughing. Along one wall were several long tables lined with mostly empty trays. A few held wrapped sandwiches. At the ends of each table were big silver urns of coffee, and towers of paper cups. Bill picked up a sandwich and filled a paper cup with the dark brew. Even followed suit and then they walked over to an empty table to sit down. Even watched Bill unwrap his food. He tore the sandwich into smaller pieces before stuffing those into his mouth. Even noticed the old man didn’t have many teeth.
He looked at the curious brown liquid in his cup, the color reminding him a little of the tea that Jo had served him earlier this same day. That moment seemed like a lifetime ago now. Even bit into his food, found the outside was dry, unlike the soft cake Jo had given him, but on the inside, there was something that oozed a little liquid. He stared at the sandwich and saw a slice of something red and looked as if it had seeds. What is that?
He was about to ask Bill, when a young man walked into the room pushing a metal cart with wheels and loaded with bottles of water. He handed a bottle to each of the men. Even looked at his, turning it around in his hands, studying it. He watched Bill twist off the top of his and drink half the contents in large gulps. Even followed suit, and as he did so a memory roared to life in his mind. He was so startled by it that he choked.
“Ye alright?” Bill banged his hand against Even’s back.
Even coughed several times, then gasped. “Yes, thank you,” he managed to say in between coughs.
Bill studied him for a moment, curiosity written on his weather-beaten face. Even ignored Bill’s gaze and continued to eat, not because he liked the food but because he wasn’t altogether sure when he might get another chance. When he was finished with the sandwich, he drained the cup of brown coffee. It was bitter and only slightly warm. He sat back then; a somewhat satisfied feeling washed over him.
Bill yawned hugely. “Come on, I’ll show you where to bed down.”
Even followed Bill into a nearby room where there were numerous rows of individual cots spread over the center of the room. Some were empty but most were occupied by men either asleep or sitting up talking to one another. The lights were a faint orange glow and there were no windows to let in light from the street. “We are lucky, aye? Empty beds,” Bill said. He pointed, “grab those two, will ye? I’m gonna hit the head.”
Even did as instructed and sat on one of the two beds Bill had requested. He looked down at the bundle he’d been holding since he arrived. He removed the string and lifted up a folded blanket. A tiny rectangle wrapped in paper and a tube clattered to the floor. He picked them up and studied the tube a moment before figuring out that it opened by pulling the two ends apart. Inside was a smaller tube and a small brush with a narrow handle. The rectangle had the word “soap” printed on it.
“Think of everything here, don’t they? Go through that door there,” he pointed. “You can brush yer teeth at the sink if yer so inclined.” He smiled then, revealing what was left of his.
Even found his way to the “head,” went inside and closed the door. There were facilities for relieving oneself and a white basin with a silver tap. On the wall above the basin, Even was startled to see his own reflection. So, this is me?The man staring back at him had unruly, curly hair around a dirty face, pale green eyes, and shadowy stubble along his jaw and upper lip. Even had a vague sense of his own age, close to forty he guessed. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he swayed unsteadily. His head had begun to pound furiously. Quickly, he finished his business, including washing his face and teeth, and headed back to the cot.
“Oi, mate, ya okay?” Bill asked. “Yer look a bit peaky.”
Even removed his overcoat and folded it up. He placed it under the pillow on the cot before answering. “Yes, thanks, just very tired.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but them’s some fancy clothes yer wearin,” Bill remarked. “Who are you?”
Even frowned. He looked down at his clothes, saw black, close-fitting trousers and a long-sleeved tunic. There was a small gold emblem on the left side of his chest, in the shape of a leaf. His head swam again, and he swayed, nearly blacking out.
“Oi, ya better lay down before ya fall down,” Bill said, grabbing his arm. He helped Even lay down, boots and all, and covered him with the blanket.
Even murmured his thanks, rolled over onto his side, and pulled his overcoat from beneath the pillow. He tucked it against his stomach, hugging it tight. His fingers touched the solid shapes inside, a reminder that they were still there. He still had not looked at them. Exhaustion overtook him then, and he fell asleep, oblivious to the men chatting around him.