(1995) By Any Name (19 page)

‘No thanks, I haven’t finished this one yet. It takes some eating.’

‘You don’t like it.’

‘I think it’s an acquired taste.’

The film premiere cut to a studio shot of a newscaster. She was about to change channels when the newscaster was replaced by an interior shot of a Bedouin tent. A group of Arabs were sitting on beautifully woven rugs and cushions in front of a television which looked ludicrous surrounded by the trappings of nomadic life.

‘I wonder if they carry that around on a camel,’ she murmured.

‘More like a four by four these days.’

The Arabs, all men, were talking simultaneously, their words almost, but not quite, drowned out by the voice-over of an interpreter as they discussed the implications of the forthcoming peace and disarmament conference on the Arab nations and Islamic fundamentalist groups.

‘Fundamentalists of every creed are the biggest threat to world peace since Hitler,’ John declared authoritatively.

‘You’re interested in politics?’

‘And distortion by the media. Look at that silly bugger,’ he broke a second piece of chocolate from the bar for himself. ‘He’s only translating what he, or officialdom wants us to hear. That old Arab sitting in the corner has just said there are only two parties, God’s and the Devil’s, and it’s plain to see what side he thinks all Westerners are on. Bloody politically correct newsmongers, they lean so far over to give everyone equal opportunities, they make it look as though the fundamentalists are democratic. God help us all if the religious extremists take over any more countries. First thing the bastards do when they’re in power is emasculate every other political party, put a stranglehold on freedom of speech and round up every liberal in sight.’ He stared at her. ‘What’s the matter?

You disagree… ’ he looked back at the television set.

Leaning forward he turned up the sound. There was no doubt about it. He could understand every word the Bedouin were saying.

‘You’re ordering me to storm this flat on the evidence of “information received” yet you won’t divulge the source, sir,’ Chaloner said evenly to Lieutenant-Colonel Heddingham.

‘I am CO of this operation, Chaloner,’

Heddingham barked.

‘I don’t need reminding, sir. Just checking. It will be my men who will carry out the operation.’

‘Our information is accurate, Captain Chaloner.

That is all you need to know. I am not at liberty to tell you any more than I already have.’ The lieutenant-colonel placed a roll of plans and maps on the desk in front of him. ‘Muster your men and we’ll begin the briefing.’ For a single anxious moment he wondered if Chaloner was going to obey him. In all his years in the army he had only heard of one case of insubordination, and he did not want to go down in 187

regimental history as the officer at the receiving end of the next.

Chaloner obeyed because army discipline was ingrained in him, but force of habit and training didn’t stop him from silently damning the CO when he rose to his feet, opened the door, and called to his sergeant.

‘We know you speak Arabic, German, French, Italian and Spanish.’ Elizabeth replaced her coffee cup on the tray. ‘I wish I’d travelled more. You might speak Russian, Chinese and Serbo-Croat too.’

‘We have no idea how well I speak any of those languages.’

‘Only that your knowledge of all of them is a great deal better than mine, and I spent three summers working in Paris perfecting my French accent.’

He looked down at the remains of his coffee. It was cold. ‘Do you want more coffee?’

‘Yes.’ She reined in her irritation with him for seeking refuge in domestic trivia. He picked up their cups and carried them into kitchen. She followed, watching as he poured the dregs down the sink and refilled the coffee pot.

‘We’ve just added knowledge of languages to your list of skills… ’

‘I want you to promise you’ll do something for me,’ he interrupted.

‘I’ve already told you that I’ll do all I can to help you.’

‘I’m leaving first thing in the morning. I want you to stay holed up here for a few days. There’s plenty of food in the freezer. You have the television. You can 188

keep up to date with developments. Stay out of sight until… ’

‘You turn up dead.’

‘This is my show, not yours.’

She finally put her greatest fear into words. ‘You can’t believe you’re a terrorist?’

‘What do you expect me to believe?’ he demanded savagely. ‘I’m an expert on small arms, breaking, entering and stealing cars, a linguist, a man who can outwit the police and armed forces – just tell me, who beside a terrorist would need to acquire those particular skills?’

‘Someone working for the Intelligence Services?’

‘If that was the case, I’d have been hauled in by now.’

‘I suggested that to Heddingham and Simmonds, but they insisted they’d checked all the records and no personnel were missing from any of the services.’

‘You’ve proved my point.’

‘Only as far as British services are concerned. You could be a member of some other service.’

‘What country do you suggest I look at? America, Australia, France, Germany? I rather think the scope is limited by my accent, don’t you?’

She recognized despair beneath the sarcasm. ‘I think it’s time we went into the bedroom.’

‘You want to grant a doomed man a last roll in the hay?’

‘I want to try hypnosis.’

‘And if I try to kill you while I’m under the influence?’

‘I can look after myself.’ She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

‘I’m not a good subject for hypnosis.’

‘It’s all we have left to try.’

‘Aren’t you being rather foolish to take the risk?’

‘Not if you give me your gun.’

‘Now that’s an idea, if I come up with bad news you can shoot me.’

‘I couldn’t squash a worm much less kill a man.’

‘You’d be surprised what you’re capable of, if you’re pushed into a tight corner.’

She took a deep breath and braced herself. ‘Did someone push you into a tight corner?’

He lifted his shirt and produced the gun from his trouser waistband. ‘I’ll go into the bedroom. Put it somewhere where I can’t get hold of it.’

He walked down the corridor and opened the door of the bedroom he’d slept in. Sometime, probably when he’d been changing, she’d made up one of the single beds with clean sheets, pillowcases and a duvet.

He stepped back to the double bedroom. She’d made up the bed in there too.

‘Which bedroom are you sleeping in?’

‘The one with the single bed,’ she replied.

‘Good idea, it’s further back, safer, more secure.’

He sat on the double bed. ‘What do I do now?’

‘Lie down, relax.’ She joined him.

‘On the bed?’

‘People do it every night.’

‘I’d feel vulnerable.’

‘You can’t always be in control.’

‘I warn you I’m not a good subject for hypnosis.’

‘So you keep telling me.’ She drew strength from her professionalism.

He took the keys from his jeans pocket and handed them to her before kicking his shoes off, and his legs up on to the bed. ‘If I go crazy, lock me in here, run downstairs and bolt yourself into the cellar. Or even better, take the bike and get the hell out of here.’

She slotted the keys into the lock on the outside of the door. ‘Now relax. Nothing is going to happen… ’

‘I hope something is.’ He locked his hands behind his head.

‘Place your hands by your sides.’ For the first time she saw fear etched in his eyes. ‘I’m not threatening you, just trying to create a safe, sheltered, secure environment.’

‘I feel like I’m about to be caged.’

She looked at his shoes on the floor. ‘Console yourself with the thought that you were brought up properly.’

He glanced at her quizzically.

‘No shoes on the bed.’ Having finally succeeded in diverting his attention, she began. ‘Sink your head down deep into the pillows, push the palms of your hands against the mattress and relax.’

‘I need half a bottle of brandy, not a couple of glasses of wine and a cup of coffee inside me before I do this.’

‘You’re doing just fine. Close your eyes. Relax…

Relax… Relax… ’ She didn’t take her eyes off him for an instant as she slipped into the familiar routine.

But no matter how slowly she spoke, or how soothing the tone, he persisted in lying rigid, every muscle in his face and body tensed. She debated whether to linger over the introduction before deciding to proceed in the hope that he would become more responsive with fewer interruptions. ‘… you’re standing in front of a door… the front door to a house… ’ Normally she suggested patients visualize their own front doors, but she made the reference to the door deliberately vague, forestalling any comment from him that would destroy what little progress she had made.

‘… you’re standing in front of the door… you’re holding the key in your hand… you’re moving towards the door with the key in your hand… slip the key into the lock… push it in gently… quietly… there is no noise… none at all… ’ she continued to watch him. He was beginning to relax; the gain was slow but perceptible. ‘… the key glides smoothly into the lock… it fits… you are turning it slowly… feel the key turning… ’ he was quiet, apparently restful but she sensed he was still fighting her.

‘… now you are floating… floating gently upwards… ever upwards… the sky is light blue…

there are a few clouds… soft white billowing clouds… you are floating among them… they are soft… downy and warm… you are floating through them now… rising above them… you are warm…

warm and comfortable… totally relaxed… so relaxed… slipping gently down among the clouds…

relax… ’

She saw his muscles finally loosen. ‘… float…floating backwards… hours are floating past you… a day is floating past… let it go… let the hours pass…float backwards… time is flowing gently past… and another day… release it… allow it to pass and float…float… floating… ’

It took twenty minutes of soft, rhythmic chanting before Elizabeth felt confident enough to move on to the third stage. Shoulders tensed, fingers closed into fists she turned slightly to check the key was still in the outer lock of the door. If John became violent, all she had to do was dive out, slam the door and turn it.

But what would she do if he smashed the door down? It looked flimsy. Pushing the thought from her mind, she concentrated hard

‘… the air is moving… flowing… and with the flow we are floating back in time… the clouds are getting heavier… you are drifting… drifting downwards… ’

He thrashed uneasily on the bed.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Running.’

‘To where?’ She wished she had a name she could use. Something other than the anonymous John.

‘Don’t know. Have to run… faster… faster… ’ his voice grew faint and he drew in great gulps of air.

‘Who are you running from?’ She asked quietly, at this crucial stage it would take very little to break the hypnosis. ‘Who are you running from,’ she repeated slowly.

‘Don’t know.’ His body continued to thrash uncontrollably from side to side.

‘We’ll drift back up to the clouds… you are floating among them again… time is flowing past…

just an hour further… the clouds are drifting… the hour has slipped past… you are floating downwards again… ’

His movements became wilder, more agitated.

Then he screamed hideously. The blood froze in her veins.

‘In God’s name no!’ His screams turned to harsh rasping sobs, agonizing in their intensity.

‘John?’ she called out swiftly. Unable to bear his suffering she fought to bring him out of the trance.

He opened his eyes and stared at her.

‘Where are you?’

He remained still.

‘Where are you?’ she repeated urgently.

‘Lying on a bed in a flat in Brecon.’

She breathed out in relief. ‘John…’

‘That’s not my name.’

‘What can you remember?’

He sat up, his movements jerky, stiff like those of an arthritic old man. ‘Pain,’ he murmured.

‘Excruciating pain. I never want to feel anything like that again. Did I say something?’

‘Nothing new. You talked about running, but you didn’t know to where, or who from. I think you returned to the time you were found on the motorway.

When I tried to take you further back you became hysterical. I agree, you’re not a good subject for hypnosis.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, swung his legs to the floor, bent his head forward and rubbed the back of his neck.

‘We might have done better if I had your name.’

‘Sorry, I can’t supply it.’ Rising to his feet he stretched his limbs. They ached as though he’d just raced a marathon. ‘I didn’t say anything else?’

‘I only wish you had. You remember nothing?’

‘A hand holding a gun, a Browning fitted with a silencer.’

‘Was it your hand?’

‘No. There was a scar on the thumb. A puckered scar with small red lines leading away from it, like a centipede. You’re the psychiatrist, where do we go from here?’

She recalled his distress. How his torment had terrified her. ‘I don’t think we should try hypnosis again for a while.’

He sank down on the edge of the bed again. ‘I honestly believed that once I reached here I’d find the answers. That I’d discover who I was, and what had happened. That I’d be able to do something… ’

‘Something?’ she prompted when he fell silent.

‘People are dead because of me.’

‘That’s ridiculous! You didn’t kill Dave or that ambulance driver.’

He looked into her eyes. ‘Did I kill the guards outside my room?’

She threw the question back at him. ‘Did you?’

‘If I did, I have no memory of it, but then I have precious few memories of anything, including how I became covered in blood before I was found on that motorway.’ He lashed out, slamming his fist into the wall behind the bed. She watched an angry red stain spread beneath the skin across his knuckles. ‘I don’t know anything… ’

She left her chair and crouched on the floor in front of him. ‘You will remember. When you least expect it, everything will come back.’

‘Unless the trauma of whatever caused me to lose my memory is so great, it permanently blocks my past.’ He slipped his fingers beneath her chin, lifted her face and looked into her eyes. ‘I am right, aren’t I?