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The Man With the Missing Past by libertyelyot [Reviews - 4]

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“Aye, I do,” said the Ward Sister grimly. “And if you’re thinking of having a word with him, I’ll give you fair warning. He’s the living definition of the word ‘crabbit’.”

Jemima shrugged as she looked over his notes. The Psych Registrar had been up already but had not left a report as yet.

“I don’t suppose I’d be deliriously happy in his situation,” she commented. “Waking up in a strange bed with a faceful of strangers and no memory of how I got there. Talk about random.” She looked vaguely down the ward, most of the beds obscured by garish floral curtains. “Which one is he?”

“Third on your left there. I’ll wish you the best of British then.”

“Thanks,” Jemima smirked, thinking that Sheila was bound to be exaggerating. She strolled up to the bay and twitched the curtain warningly.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“If you must.” A low, striking baritone vibrated over from behind the ugly drape, its tone loaded with ennui. Not the most unequivocal of welcomes but…Jemima forged onwards, shimmying through the fabric and standing at the side of the famous Patient X’s bed. He was sitting up frowning at a crossword in the newspaper, an exceptionally ill-tempered expression on his face. When he looked up, the crossness flitted away for a second, replaced by something that could be interest. Then he registered the sheaf of notes clasped to Jemima’s chest and plastered a sneer across the pale visage.

“Not another shrink, I hope,” he said disdainfully.

“No, a neurologist,” said Jemima briskly. “Jemima Pepperdine.”

“Jemima Pepperdine?” He snorted rather rudely. “They could make a good cryptic crossword anagram out of that.” He set the newspaper aside and stared at her. Jemima felt a slight stab of alarm on looking into his eyes. They were actually black. Nobody had really black eyes, did they? Were they contacts?

“Erm…mind if I sit down?” she asked, thrown into mild confusion. Those eyes. Odd hairstyle for a man of his age too.

“As long as you aren’t going to be like the last one. ‘I’m Gina, see me empathise.’” Jemima’s lips twitched upwards at the cruel mimicry of the Psychiatric Registrar’s drippy lisp. “I’ve had to spend almost half an hour answering a set of the most asinine questions imaginable. ‘Are you experiencing low mood?’ Actually, no, doctor, I’ve just woken up in hospital with no memory of who I am or where I come from, an unexplained wound in my neck and a pain in my head the size of Africa. Obviously I’m euphoric.”

Jemima snickered guiltily at the patient’s wounding sarcasm. She could get to like him, she thought, especially if he kept the Gina McCrae jokes coming.

“No, I’m not going to make any attempt to empathise with you,” she reassured him. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m the neurological consultant assigned to your case. I thought you might appreciate an explanation of my role.”

“You’re some kind of nerve specialist, I’m assuming? A Healer of sorts?”

“A…healer. That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” She smiled uncertainly at the man, who seemed impatient with her reaction for some reason. “Well. Anyway. As you know, there are ongoing tests to determine the reasons for your memory loss. One such reason might be a problem with your brain, perhaps due to an injury, or a chemical imbalance of some kind. Our scans don’t pinpoint any obvious lesions on your brain…but you mentioned a pain in your head. Do you have any idea what might be causing it?”

The patient shook his head in annoyance, hair flipping around his face as he did so.

“Not the foggiest,” he maintained. “It’s as if I was born here and I’m in the first few days of my life. I can’t remember a thing.”

“Can you describe the pain for me?”

“Constant. Nagging. Acute.”

“Is it located anywhere in particular?”

“More to the left, I’d say.”

“Right.” Jemima hesitated as she realised she had no name to call him. She could hardly call him ‘X’. ‘Sir’ was too servile; she wanted to establish a relationship of equals. She decided to try a few questions.

“What’s your favourite food?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is this apropos of anything?”

“I wondered if you remembered.”

“Oh. I thought you might be asking me out to dinner.”

Jemima flushed deeply, not sure how to respond to such a blatantly flirtatious remark. She remembered reading that amnesiacs often had difficulties understanding the boundaries of socially acceptable behaviour at first and could be sexually aggressive.

“Uh…no. Sorry. Professional ethics and all that.” She smiled uncomfortably.

“Pity,” he said, leaving the ensuing silence to linger for a moment. “I know what my favourite food isn’t,” he resumed. “That bland, overcooked filth they served me for lunch. Is there any chance of an edible meal at some point?”

“I’m not involved with catering,” said Jemima icily. “I’m a doctor.”

“Well your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” said the man waspishly. “You’re about as comforting as a glacier. Why so uptight?”

Jemima almost leapt off her seat and stormed away. Who the hell was this insufferable bastard? He couldn’t know it, but he had touched a very raw nerve. She rallied every ounce of her professional detachment and quashed the urge to run.

“We’re not here to discuss me,” she said sweetly. “We’re here to sort you out.”

“Sort me out, eh? Or sling me out? You think I’m playing you, don’t you? You think I’m making all this up.”

“You can’t possibly know what I think.”

“Can’t I?” Jemima suppressed a shudder at the intense gleam in the man’s eye. He was frightening. Unpredictable, frightening, with a vicious tongue. How on earth was she supposed to create any kind of friendly footing with him? Okonedo had been wrong about her being the right person for this. He needed a bloody lion tamer.

“So you’re a mind reader, are you? Well, there we are. You’ve remembered something about your past,” said Jemima brightly.

The man sniffed haughtily. “Most amusing,” he said.

Jemima fidgeted with the television monitor above the bed. “Have the nurses told you how this works?” she asked.

“They told me how to operate it,” he said. “They didn’t tell me what it was though. What is this keyboard for?”

Jemima looked at him curiously. “It’s an interactive multi-functional media console.”

“What? Can’t you speak English?”

“A television, computer keyboard, telephone and radio all in one. You know what they are, don’t you?” She halted, fascinated by the man’s clear confusion. This was a new development. Retrograde amnesiacs were usually at least familiar with the world around them. To have forgotten what a computer was…this was interesting.

“You’re….Muggles,” said the man.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing. Not important.”

Muggles?

“I think I need to speak to my colleague. Thanks for your time. I’ll see you later, Mr…” She hoped he would fall into the trap without thinking, but no.

“Mr Nobody,” he supplied.

“Mr Nobody.” She nodded at him. “Good afternoon.”

“Hurry back,” he called sardonically from beyond the curtains. She narrowed her eyes and made a beeline for Okonedo’s office. He was going to relieve her of this stupid duty and that was that.

*



“I don’t think I’m the right person for the job,” objected Jemima, standing her ground in the face of Okonedo’s legendary charm offensive.

“Of course you are. You’re by far the best-placed person on the team to calm his fears and alleviate his anxieties. You can explain things to him clearly and unpatronisingly. You can converse with him on the level he expects.”

“He’s a…” She caught herself. She had wanted to add ‘horrible man’ but she knew this would cut little ice with Okonedo, who maintained there was no room for judgemental attitudes in medicine. She sighed.

“Besides,” said Okonedo with a glimmer in his eye. “He likes you.”

“What? He does not!”

“He asked Sheila when you were coming back.”

“Oh. Right.” Jemima blushed, taken aback. “That means he likes me, does it?”

“Count yourself lucky. He reduced Gina McCrae to tears.”

Jemima smirked. Okay. Perhaps he did have his good points.

“Okay then. He didn’t know what a computer was.”

“Really?” Okonedo’s eyebrows hiked upwards. “Interesting. Perhaps some damage to the linguistic processing areas.”

“Or he’s lying.”

“Or, indeed, he’s lying. Next time you consult with him, I’d like you to take these.” He took two objects from his drawer and laid them before Jemima, who studied them with bemused interest. “They were the only objects found on his person.”

A slender long black stick, like a conductor’s baton, but with elaborate engraving at the top, and a stone of some kind. Jemima picked them up and inspected them from all angles. “Intriguing,” she said. “He doesn’t carry any ID or a mobile, but these….”

Okonedo shrugged. “See if they bring anything up to the surface. At least he might be able to tell us what they are.”


The Man With the Missing Past by libertyelyot [Reviews - 4]

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