Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
By Diandra Hollman
---
Day 6
---
An alarm shakes me into alertness. Was I sleeping? I don't remember falling
asleep.
As I am getting my bearings, the man beside me groans and rolls away from
me. The alarm is silenced.
'Henry,' I think as the fog of sleep recedes from my mind. 'His name is
Henry and he is my husband.'
I remember. The pill isn't making me forget.
I feel a rush of relief and, in my enthusiasm, give in to the impulse to
roll on top of my startled husband and muffle his protests with a kiss. We
both have morning breath - although mine is masked somewhat by that last cup
of tea - and bristle on our faces, but I don't care. I twist my fingers in
his hair and relish the tiny whimpering noises he makes.
"You remember," he gasps when I let up, blinking up at me in wonder.
I hum an affirmative and kiss along the curve of his jaw.
"Did you sleep at all," he asks, his voice hitching slightly.
I prop myself on my elbows over him, letting my lower body pin him to the
mattress. "Enough."
He groans and arches languidly beneath me. "I have to get ready for work,"
he murmurs between lazy kisses, utterly lacking in conviction.
"You can be late today."
He laughs lightly. "Oh, I can, can I?"
A furry head pops into view beside us just then and Grace makes a noise that
isn't quite a bark right in my ear.
I groan. Henry laughs and reaches to pat my hip. I take the direction and
roll from him.
Grace scampers away excitedly before Henry is fully out of bed and I eye the
bruises and scratches on his body fresh from yesterday as he pulls on
clothing, debating whether I should ask him to close the bedroom door and
finish what we started.
He leans over me and kisses my cheek. "I'll take her for a quick walk. If
you put food in her dish and refresh her water, I can meet you in the shower
in a half hour." He smiles naughtily at me before hurrying after Grace, who
I can hear pacing impatiently by the door.
---
The honey jar on the kitchen table may not be from the hive in the back
garden, but it is fresh and locally cultivated. The thick, sweet syrup also
nicely counters the bitter aftertaste of semen.
Henry gulps the last of his morning tea and loads his dirty dishes in the
washer. "I really am going to be late," he mutters. He bends to kiss my
forehead. "I'll call you later."
He starts to move away, but I catch his arm and pull him back toward me,
reaching to thumb away a bit of shaving cream he missed behind his ear.
He smiles. "You sure you're okay?"
"Wonderful."
He strokes my cheek, brushes his nose against mine and places a careful kiss
to the top of my head beside the scar hidden beneath my hair before pulling
away with obvious reluctance.
Grace follows him and sits by the door whining as his car pulls away
outside.
"It's all right, love. He'll be back."
She whimpers, obviously not content with this situation. I guess I know
where I rank in her world.
---
This new result in my experiment - while encouraging - doesn't necessarily
prove anything. The previous results I've noted in my journal are too
inconsistent with possible unknown variables. However, the only explanation
that seems to fit the data I have collected in my journals so far is that my
condition - bizarre as it may be - is real and all of my theories about the
drug causing my symptoms instead of treating them are the product of
paranoia or boredom.
I still don't know whether Gruener himself is a product of my delusions or a
real threat, but until my condition improves that distinction is relatively
unimportant.
No. He must be real. I wouldn't fake my own death and force an innocent
bystander to do the same unless the situation was truly dire.
As for any other discrepancies between the two versions of my notes, they
are most likely the result of my efforts to solve the case of my missing
memories.
As I am reviewing all the ways in which the journals differ, I realize I
have hidden the three pornographic videos I found last night on the memory
stick as well. This seems odd given that the reasoning behind hiding them on
my laptop was to prevent my neighbor from stumbling across them
accidentally. What reason could I possibly have to hide them on a drive only
I know about?
In comparing them, I realize one of the files is larger than its
corresponding file on my laptop. Only by a few kilobytes, but it is
significant enough that it cannot mean nothing.
It is the video of me wanking. I locate some headphones so I can properly
analyze the video this time and watch both copies with careful attention.
This time I can clearly hear Henry's words. He is directing me, encouraging
me, his voice low and dripping with sexual promise as he describes in lurid
detail the things he wants to do to me.
Once I have watched each copy of the video individually, I locate the video
editing software on my laptop and play them simultaneously. There is no
discernible difference between the copies. Nothing to explain the difference
in file size.
Unless the difference isn't in the video itself.
When I was a boy I amused myself with all manner of codes and methods of
secretly sending messages. At University I learned how to utilize those
skills in ways better suited to the digital age. There was very little
practical use for it, but I did once attach hidden text to the photos of
professors I found especially tedious on the University's website as a form
of catharsis. Whether this was how it was discovered that one of them was
having an affair with a student remains unclear.
A simple hidden text message would explain why the difference between file
sizes is so small.
There is no program specifically designed to attach message in this manner
on the laptop, but I wouldn't have needed one. The method of using a command
prompt to hide text in an image is crude and the result is inelegant, but it
doesn't require any non-standard software.
I open the video using a text reader. It takes a bloody age and generates a
dauntingly long document seemingly full of nonsense strings of characters. I
scroll to the bottom and am rewarded with a block of text in perfectly
legible English.
'I suspect John Watson is alive. I can find no evidence of his demise. No
official certificate of death, no copy of the coroner's report or obituary
besides my own. Moreover, the accident report does not seem consistent with
the sort of fatal injuries described in the coroner's report. I cannot prove
this theory, nor can I understand the possible motivation behind such a lie,
but the idea that I have run away from London and changed my name to escape
anything that might remind me of my old life because I blame myself for his
death seems absurd.
'Tonight I plan to test my hypothesis that the pill Henry gives me is
causing my memory loss instead of treating it. If I am correct, I hope to
confront him tomorrow and get some answers.'
I check the modification date on the file. Last Tuesday. The day my notes
say I hid the evening dose of my medicine in the linen cupboard. Wednesday
morning I woke up even more confused than ever and didn't find the memory
stick for more than twenty-four hours. And I didn't find this hidden message
for nearly a week.
Because I was wrong. The pill is not causing my symptoms. It can't be.
Am I sabotaging my best hope of getting my memories back with all my chasing
of conspiracies?
I close my eyes and rub at my temple, where a headache is beginning to form,
all the conflicting data from both journals swirling maddeningly through my
mind.
'I have lost control over everything. Even the places in my head.'
Did I say that or did I read it somewhere?
I won't have proof that the drug is not causing my symptoms until Lillian
finishes testing it, but it is looking increasingly like the data does not
support that hypothesis. Which makes most of the data I have collected on
this drive useless. Little more than desperate attempts to uncover the truth
Henry is keeping from me. The truth it turns out I have been keeping from
myself in order to keep everyone - including Henry - safe. I understand the
need for the lies, but this paranoia is the inevitable result. I have
started to question whether anything is true.
I review the coroner's report, all the relevant data in my notes and my text
message history. Even if I can't find an official copy of the coroner's
report, the proof of John's death is too overwhelming to ignore. I can't
imagine what would possess me to write that message. I text Molly,
requesting an official copy of the report, then go into my mind palace.
The entire front end of the car is caved in, the bonnet bent sharply
backward to expose the smoking engine. I walk around to the passenger side,
finding the battered door open and climb gingerly into the seat.
"You think you missed something," John says, appearing in the driver's seat
as I'm taking in the details, matching them against the insurance photos and
accident report.
"Maybe," I reply, even though it wasn't a question. "I just need to go over
the details. My notes say I've dreamt about this many times in the past few
months, but my dreams can't possibly be based on my memory of the accident.
My injury..." I feel the scar on my head gingerly. "I must have been knocked
unconscious by the impact."
"Even if you were conscious, you were concussed," John agrees. "Anything you
observed in that state could hardly be considered reliable. Do you remember
anything that came before the impact?"
I close my eyes and try to recall those brief moments. "Something moved. On
the road, beside us."
"A car?"
"Larger. A truck, perhaps." In my mind's eye, I see a blurry shadow moving
toward the car. Too fast. I lunge instinctively toward John. "Oh." I open my
eyes to find my hand clutching the steering wheel.
"You saw it before I did. You forced me to swerve to avoid it."
I turn to the passenger door, identifying the spot where my head hit the
window. "I tried," I murmur. "But it happened too fast. The impact threw me
back."
"So there was another car. Gruener was telling the truth?"
I look at John, sitting calmly in the spot where he was killed.
"Something is wrong," he prompts. "You can sense it. What is it?"
I scan the area around him, matching it against the data I've collected.
There is blood on the steering wheel and deflated air bag. I know there is
blood on the seat as well, but...
"There's not enough blood. You couldn't have bled out here."
"There's also nothing that could have caused the wound," John adds. "Didn't
your husband say I bled out on the way to hospital?"
Damn. He's right. That would explain both the lack of evidence and the less
than substantial amount of blood. But something else is wrong.
"The window," I blurt as I see it. "Gruener said he reached through the
window, but the window is intact!"
John looks at the open driver's door where the window is closed and -
despite an impressive web of cracks - too intact for anyone to have reached
through. "Maybe he opened the door," he offers.
"If he had he would have said that. He said he reached through the window.
He's too meticulous to have made a mistake that obvious."
"Unless he wasn't there."
I can feel my shoulders sagging at the thought. "He could uncover the cause
of death, but not the exact time. He's leading me on. He didn't kill
you."
"Assuming he really exists."
My head throbs. "He must exist! Even I could not construct a delusion this
elaborate!"
John's hand reaches to squeeze mine. "We've been through this," he says
gently. "You have all the answers. You just need to find them."
"And what happens then? Will I go back to London? Will I become bored and
start using again?"
John's expression doesn't change. "You don't want your condition to
improve."
He isn't asking. Merely voicing a theory that has occurred to me already.
I am interrupted before I can reply by Grace whining. I blink down at her,
slightly dazed by the abrupt shift in my surroundings, and she blinks back
expectantly.
"Time for another wee is it?"
She growls.
"Right."
---
My mobile rings as I'm watching her sniff the base of the tree. It is Henry.
I am only slightly surprised when I answer and his face pops on the screen
in a video call.
He smiles warmly. "Hello, darling. How are you feeling?"
I debate lying, but realize this is probably why I am on video instead of
simply voice. He will know. "Just a bit of a headache."
"Just a headache? No nausea? Dizziness?"
"No."
He relaxes a bit. "You're probably just working too hard then. Have you
tried anything yet? Paracetamol? Tea? Hot bath?"
"Not yet."
"Are you outside without a coat?"
"Just for a minute. Grace had to wee." I am beginning to shiver though, so
as she finishes I coax her back toward the house.
"Then I definitely recommend the tea or the bath to warm up."
I am too busy trying to get Grace through the door and take her leash off
without disconnecting him to respond.
"Do you have any new leads?"
"Just possible proof that Gruener isn't the prolific murderer he wants me to
believe he is."
"Oh?"
"He couldn't have killed John in the manner he described."
Henry sighs. "Well, you always suspected he was lying to you about that one
just to scare you. You don't think he was lying about all the rest, do you?"
"No. Maybe. The way he describes the killings...he has to have
killed before. But I cannot prove one way or another that he is responsible
for anything beyond what was sanctioned by the government. He could simply
be collecting data on accidental, violent deaths and using his previous
experiences as an assasin to concoct a fantasy that those people were his
victims."
Henry is beginning to look worried. "Darling, I think you should take a
break."
'You once stayed awake for three days...you had driven yourself half
mad.'
I am on the verge of a breakthrough on the case. I can feel it. But my
health - the treatment of my condition - is just as important a part of the
solution. Any setbacks could be devastating.
"I will."
"Now," he says firmly. "Go take something for your headache and call me if
it doesn't get any better."
I nod, biting back the instinct to say something snide like 'yes, sir.' His
concern for me may make him tedious at times, but it is genuine.
"Take Gracie for a walk next time. The fresh air would do you good."
"Mmm."
"And remember your coat."
'Yes, dad,' I think, then wonder if my parents know I'm still alive. Surely
they must if Mycroft does. Have they met Henry?
"Were my parents at our wedding?"
Henry blinks, thrown by this shift in the conversation. But only
momentarily. Like John, he seems to have accepted that my mind works at a
different speed than his and the resulting apparent non-sequiturs in
conversations are the result of a perfectly reasonable train of logic he is
simply not privy to. "Yes, they were witnesses. It wasn't much of a
ceremony, but your mother cried."
"So they know I'm alive?"
Understanding that borders on relief lights Henry's face. "Ah. Yes. But for
your protection as well as theirs that is the extent of their knowledge."
His voice is low, as if he is concerned he might be overheard even though he
appears to be in a private office. He doesn't need to clarify any further.
In order to maintain the illusion of my death, nobody can know who or where
I am now. Except Mycroft of course as he probably arranged it.
"I have to get back to work," Henry says reluctantly. "Call me if the
headaches get any worse?"
I nod and we both ring off.
---
I think about what John - or my subconscious wearing John anyway - said
while the kettle is boiling. Am I deliberately sabotaging my chances of
improving my condition? Am I afraid that if I get better, not only will
Henry lose interest in me, but I will have to return to London where I will
inevitably revert back to my old life before John?
No. John was singularly awful at keeping me from using. All he did was
provide me with an alternative. A steady stream of work interesting enough
to distract me. Henry seems to be serving the same function rather
competently...which brings me back to the inescapable conclusion that I am
terrified of doing anything that might compromise my life here. Of losing
Henry.
My mobile rings again as I'm pouring the tea and I can't help but be annoyed
at everyone's poor timing today.
"Yes," I answer somewhat tersely.
"Will, it's Lillian Taylor. Your neighbor. Sorry, is this a bad time?"
She has the test results. That must be what she's calling about.
Anticipation dispels my annoyance. "No, it's fine. I was just making tea.
Have the test results come back then?"
She makes a sound like she was preparing to say something else and has to
pause to regroup. "You remember giving me the tablets?"
"I read it in my notes."
"Oh...well...does it say in your notes why you wanted me to test
them? Did you have some theories about what they might be?"
"Can the GCMS not sort it out? I know it's an experimental treatment, but I
would think the basic chemical composition could be deciphered."
"It's...it's not a drug, Will. It has no active ingredients. It's a sugar
tablet."
For a moment I'm certain I must have misheard her. "That...that can't be
right." Even if I was wrong about it being a treatment, it must be something.
"I tested all four of the pills you gave me and the result was the same.
They were all inert. I thought you might be putting me on, but if you
thought they were some sort of experimental treatment...where did you get
them? Did somebody sell you a placebo?"
Time slows as my mind races. I never considered the possibility that the
tablets could be neither a treatment for my condition or a drug that mimics
the symptoms of that condition. It doesn't make any sense. Something is
affecting my brain functioning and if it isn't in the tablets...
"Will," Lillian calls, breaking my concentration. "Did someone sell the
pills to you as medicine?"
"No...Henry..." How does Henry get the pills? He must know what they are.
More importantly, if the pills are doing nothing and something else is
treating or causing my symptoms...
My eyes fall on the cup of tea I've just poured as I formulate a new theory.
It can't be anything that needs to be injected - I'm not using, so regular
needle sticks would be suspicious. Unless it is injected and I've forgotten
all those times I've...no. It's far more likely that whatever it is, it
needs to be ingested. Henry must have anticipated that I would meddle with
the pills - or perhaps he learned that sometime in the past eight months. My
history of sporadic eating habits would make putting it in food unreliable,
but tea...
"Are you at work," I ask, interrupting whatever Lillian was saying, if she
was saying anything (I'm not sure as I stopped listening).
"Yes," she says hesitantly. "I was just about to go for lunch..."
"Can you bring it here? I have more samples I need you to test."
---
I give Lillian samples of all the teas in the cupboard, including the ones
I'm pretty sure I've seen Henry drink in the past twenty-four hours, as well
as the DNA swab I found in a drawer in my study when I was looking for bags
to collect the samples. I doubt any of it will tell me anything I don't
already suspect, but I need to eliminate possibilities. Lillian apparently
trusts me enough that she doesn't ask questions.
Grace imprints on her immediately and becomes absolutely enamored when
Lillian feeds her some overly crusty bits from her chips. It occurs to me
that if Gruener is real and anything were to happen to me and Henry I should
make sure Grace is taken care of. I wonder if that's the sort of thing I
should put in a will or if a verbal agreement would suffice.
I don't know which tea is being drugged or what it is drugged with. So after
I drink the herbal, I start a new entry in the secret memory stick journal
to test my new hypothesis.
Whether it cures or causes memory loss, Henry would not willingly consume
it, so I can be reasonably certain it is not in the earl grey mixture I saw
him drink yesterday, even if that does seem the most likely candidate. If it
is a cure, it could be in the Ceylon I drank early this morning. If it is
the cause, it could be any of the others.
All of this assuming, of course, that it is in the tea at all and not being
administered in some other way.
I play the violin I found in my study while I think.
There are two main explanations for my current situation, but each has
several possible small variations.
The first main hypothesis assumes that the results of my previous experiment
were correct. I have amnesia, but the paranoia that comes with my condition
ensures that I cannot be relied upon to follow a treatment regimen. To
compensate, either Henry or I has devised a scheme to increase the odds that
I will ingest the medicine even if I refuse to take a tablet.
The second main hypothesis is that the drug is the cause of my symptoms. The
results of my previous experiment were inconsistent because I was focused on
the wrong variable. The problem with this hypothesis is that I cannot
satisfactorily explain why I would be deliberately causing my own
memory loss, much less why Henry would want to make me forget.
I stop playing the violin, frustrated. Both theories seem absurd the longer
I think about them and yet one obviously has to be correct.
I go back into my mind palace - this time to 221b. Henry is waiting for me,
lounging comfortably in my chair by the mantle, his long legs stretched out
and crossed one over the other. He is wearing the same "fuck me" clothes he
wore last night.
"You're still lying to me," I accuse.
"Am I," he asks innocently. "How so?"
"I'm not sure yet. But the more important question is: why? Are you trying
to protect me from a dangerous psychopath or are you trying to sabotage my
efforts to solve this case because you're afraid it will burst this little
domestic bubble we're living in?"
He licks his lips as he seems to consider that for a moment. "You realize
that both of those choices presupposes that your condition is real. Are you
not considering the alternative?"
"That I don't have amnesia and one of us has orchestrated a plot to lace my
tea with a drug that simulates amnesia so I will forget the past eight
months? Yes, I will address that possibility once I have ruled out the more
logical scenarios."
"Is it illogical? You've already suggested I might be trying to sabotage
your efforts to catch Gruener."
Something clicks into place in my mind suddenly. Andrew Gruener.
I take off my ring and look at the inscription on the inside. I thought the
"A" followed by a barely legible squiggle was supposed to be "Amberly". But
it could also be "Andrew". Which, given its proximity to the "G"...
Being a projection of my mind, Henry voices the thought as it forms. "You
have been questioning whether or not Gruener is real, but you've always
assumed you invented him."
I look up from my ring to find the man I know as my husband has been
replaced with the man from the photos in the Gruener file.
"What if Andrew Gruener, Josh Amberly and Henry Peters are all
fabrications?" He climbs gracefully from the chair and moves toward me, his
voice still familiar even if it is coming from the wrong lips.
I lurch backward and hold my hand out in an instinctive "stop" gesture. He
freezes mid-step.
No, this can't be right. Can it?
I give myself a moment to calm my nerves and lower my hand. "Gruener"
reanimates, but doesn't come any closer. "The inscription is how I keep
track of your identities," I say, thinking through the deduction out loud.
"The clearest inscription is the initials TS. That's your real name, isn't
it?"
His face melts back into the one I am familiar with. He stares at me
silently, patiently. An actor awaiting his cue.
I shake my head, trying to force the scattered bits of thought racing about
my brain into something like order. "Say this is true. Is my condition part
of the fabrication or are you simply exploiting it to keep me from finding
out the truth?"
"Your headache is gone." He says it flatly, simply noting something I hadn't
really been focused on until now. The headache that had been muted by the
paracetamol I took after speaking to Henry has now disappeared entirely.
Headache, nausea, confusion, paranoia. Possible symptoms of a chronic
condition, but also possible symptoms of withdrawal.
"Which is more likely," my husband asks. "That you have a rare form of
amnesia that can be cured as long as you drink the correct tea every day? Or
that you are taking a drug that causes amnesia-like symptoms?"
I shake my head again. "The accident was real. I remember it. I have a
scar..."
"Yes, you were knocked unconscious. Probably had a concussion. Isn't that
what I initially diagnosed you with?"
"The real symptoms could have been exaggerated by the artificial ones."
"A gradual reduction in dosage over time would explain why you are
exhibiting signs of improvement coupled with regular bouts of withdrawal."
I frown. "But why would you be reducing the dosage?"
He is thrown by this and seems to search for an answer as my mind struggles
to make sense of this data.
"Because you love me," I conclude. "Either you didn't intend for the
deception to go on this long, or..."
"Or I wasn't the one who wanted you to forget," he finishes. He steps closer
to me and this time I let him. Long fingers delicately frame my face. "I
want you to remember, but I can't bear to watch you suffer."
This makes sense. Assuming that whatever drug I'm being dosed with is
causing my memory loss, it would have to be a very specific class of
depressant. Likely a form of highly experimental benzodiazepine. If the
dosage was high enough or the addiction strong enough at the start, the
detox process could be dangerous and best performed gradually under medical
supervision. But which of us is responsible for getting me addicted in the
first place?
"Was it an accident," I ask. "Did you not know I was an addict when you
tried an experimental treatment? Or are you trying to save me from an
attempt at self-destruction?"
He tilts his head slightly. "Does it matter? The result is the same. And it
would explain why I would create such an elaborate lie - to keep you from
getting bored. I even made the perfect villain - one you cannot prove
committed any crime at all."
It is absurd. Baroque, even. And yet it makes sense.
"You were my doctor. You gave me the drug as a sort of treatment before you
knew I was an addict. Or I procured it myself while under your care. Either
way, you feel responsible for my resulting dependency."
"It was my neglect," he agrees. His hands rest on my shoulders. "But
somewhere along the way I fell in love with you."
"Lust," I correct.
He chuckles. "No. You know better than that."
"What happens when I get better?"
He gets the same passive look John had before - even though I know the real
Henry would display more emotion. "Is that what you're afraid of? That my
love is so intertwined with my sense of responsibility to care for you that
my interest will wane when you are well?"
Afraid? Why would I be afraid of the possibility that he might lose interest
in me?
"Because you're falling in love with me too," he answers.
I pull myself back to reality and sit quietly for a moment. Obviously none
of these thoughts are based on anything I haven't already deduced, but it is
still unnerving.
Grace bounds into the room suddenly and deposits her squeaker toy in front
of me, looking at me expectantly.
"Time to play, is it?"
She wags her tail and makes a noise halfway between a woof and a growl.
I pick up the toy and lob it back through the doorway, watching her give
chase.
Playing fetch with Grace turns out to be just as repetitive a behavior
conducive to thinking as playing the violin. For twenty minutes I am able to
debate how I should confront Henry with this new information - or whether I
should confront him at all. Obviously there is a reason I am hiding a
separate version of my journal on a memory stick in a bee hive and I don't
think it's out of paranoia. The two versions vary significantly enough to
suggest that the one on my laptop is being altered. Henry must be
the one altering it, otherwise why would I be hiding it in a place I alone
am sure to find it?
Unless I'm changing it once I realize the truth and discover what I have
written is no longer relevant.
Whoever is responsible, it is worth maintaining both journals in their
present state simply to preserve all possible data. Henry's ignorance of
this journal - as indicated by his ignorance of and utter lack of interest
in beekeeping in general - is a variable I cannot justify altering at this
point.
Once Grace grows bored of the game and settles beside me, I return to the
journals. I enter all the data on my current experiment and my plans to
confront Henry about the real purpose of the drug I'm taking tonight in the
secret one (without letting on that I know it isn't in the tablet as I
cannot afford to allow that variable to change). I enter some observations
about the hive and some general data about my condition in the journal on
the laptop, which I copy and paste in the secret one for redundancy, noting
that my memory seems to have improved with only minor setbacks today in the
form of a headache that I treated with paracetamol and herbal tea.
I debate the hidden message about John for a while. It is obviously one of
my less coherent theories based more on paranoia than reality, but simply
deleting it could eliminate some potentially useful data.
I begin a new text document to attach to a fresh copy of the video. Without
going into detail about Gruener, I explain that I became convinced for a
time that John had been murdered and have since - I believe - proven that he
wasn't. I suggest that this deduction may have led to wild speculation over
whether John was even dead at all, but as I cannot find any evidence to
support such a supposition this is likely a product of denial and wishful
thinking. I copy and paste the original message at the end and overwrite the
original altered file with the new, updated one. I may not find it again for
days, but at least now when I do I will find a more complete and coherent
message.
I finish and return the stick to the hive with plenty of time to spare. Not
having anything to do besides wait for my husband to come home from work so
I can confront him about the extent to which he is lying to me, I take Grace
for a walk.
We don't get very far. We stop in a patch of grass by the docks and I watch
the traffic on the channel as she rests for the return trip. It is peaceful
here. More suburban than I had envisioned the place I would spend my
retirement years, but somehow fitting. I can see how the thought of leaving
this place and going back to my work in London once my memory improves could
be less than appealing. But I can't go on like this indefinitely. I need to
get to the bottom of this mystery - wherever that might lead me.
---
Henry is already home by the time we return. He emerges from the kitchen
with a warm smile and Grace bounds over to greet him excitedly. After she is
satisfied with her efforts to wash his chin with her tongue, she disappears
into the kitchen to search for food.
Henry turns his attention to me, cradling my face gently and looking
intently into my eyes. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I say honestly.
His eyes move back and forth, either attempting to judge my state himself or
simply determine whether or not I am lying.
"Still aches a bit, but the paracetamol helped," I say carefully.
He smiles and kisses me in the sweet, familiar way one does to show simple
affection. "I was just making tea."
'I should have mentioned the tea,' I think frantically. What if he doesn't
realize I already drank the drugged tea and doses me again? "I had a cup not
long ago."
"Well, you made it clear to me yesterday that our non- caffeinated options
were rather limited, so I picked up some more from the shop today."
Damn. Is that why I'm remembering today? Did I drink the last of the drugged
variety over the week-end? I wouldn't think either of us would make the
mistake of letting the supply run so low, but maybe he couldn't help it?
The kettle whistles from the kitchen and I realize I have to make a decision
fast. I can't let on about my suspicions. "As long as you're making it, I'll
have whatever you're having."
He smiles, gives me another kiss, and turns to fetch the kettle. I follow
and watch him take a bag from a new box already tucked into the cabinet with
the rest of the collection. I can see at least two other new boxes.
He prepares another mug and sets it beside the one already waiting. The tags
on both teabags are identical. It can't be the one, but I should make a note
to add the new variables to the...
Right. I can't do that unless I retrieve the memory stick from the hive. Too
risky. I just have to trust I will realize the omission when I next find it.
At which point I will likely have already proven that the drug is in the
herbal I drank this afternoon.
"Any progress on the case since we spoke this afternoon," Henry asks as he
pours the water, startling me from my thoughts.
"Ah...no. Not really." There's really no point in beating around the bush.
If I'm right, I am unlikely to remember any of this. "I know that the
medicine's not really medicine."
He freezes for a moment. I can't see his face very well from my angle and I
wonder if maybe I should have waited a moment for that very reason. But his
posture seems to relax as he finishes pouring and returns the kettle to its
plate. "It's my fault. I was so distracted this morning, I forgot to remind
you to take the tablet." He turns to face me and leans back against the
counter.
"Is it your fault that I'm taking a drug that makes me forget as well?"
"Yes."
I stop prompting him and just wait silently for him to explain.
"You regained consciousness in the ambulance. According to one of the
medics, you tried to rip the IV out of your arm and roll from the gurney.
They had to restrain you. By the time you arrived at A&E you were
shouting and belligerent. I administered pain relief and a sedative." He
sighs and licks his lips. "You were confused and in pain for days, suffering
lapses of memory. I should have insisted you stay in hospital longer or made
sure to set you up with a therapist or a sponsor who could have properly
seen to your recovery. You continued using - experimenting with different
combinations of drugs. You claimed you were trying to 'delete' John Watson."
"And Gruener?"
Henry shakes his head. "I don't know. Even if he didn't kill all the people
he claimed to have murdered, you were convinced he was dangerous."
I meant to ask if Gruener was real, but that answer certainly implies that
he is. It still fits. Henry said Gruener first spoke to me when I was
already suffering memory lapses. The exact nature of the memory loss is
irrelevant.
"I've worked this out before, haven't I?"
"A few times. More frequently in the past month or two."
"Because you are lowering the dosage?"
"Yes."
It turns out getting answers from him is easier than I might have
anticipated.
"Why this ridiculous story about a rare amnesia then? Why don't you just
tell me the truth?"
"Because you and Mycroft believed it was kinder and more conducive to your
recovery if you didn't know you had done this to yourself. That if you knew
what your condition really was you would grow impatient with the slow
treatment of it."
This seems plausible, if only because Henry's devotion to me would ensure
his determination to uphold the plan in order to prevent me from simply
discontinuing the drug entirely and risking the potentially deleterious
effects of sudden withdrawal.
"I'm sorry," Henry says somberly. "I wish I could just stop the treatment. I
wish I could kiss you awake in the morning instead of having to introduce
myself and start from the beginning again as if I'm in that Bill Murray
movie, stuck living the same day over and over."
His analogy doesn't make sense to me, but his frustration with having to
remind me of who he is every day is clear. I close the space between us and
kiss him gently - just a soft brushing of our lips. He holds still and lets
me take control, his breath hitching as our noses brush when I change the
angle of my head slightly. He reaches to grip my shoulders as I lean back,
looking at me with such naked adoration and desire that I am emboldened to
press further.
"What is your name?"
He blinks and makes an aborted noise that could be an attempt at saying
"Henry" before catching himself or could simply be a random, helpless sound.
"Josh," he breathes.
"Your real name." I keep my voice even, soft. Not a demand, but a request
free of judgment. 'Please tell me the truth.'
His breath catches and I wonder how many times he has had to answer this
question. How many times has he lied to me?
"Thomas," he says so softly it is barely more than a breath. There is a pain
and vulnerability in his eyes that would be impossible to fake. He isn't
lying.
"Thomas what?"
He inhales sharply and there is a subtle shift to his gaze. As if he were
looking at something beyond the here and now and is only just returning to
me. "Could we sit down?"
He is stalling, I think. But I can't see the point of it. He can't avoid me
and he must know me well enough to realize I will get my answer eventually
and telling me now would save him a lot of time and bother.
He slips from my grasp and reaches to retrieve the sodden tea bags from the
mugs on the counter. I step back a bit, letting him dispose of them and
collect himself. He turns to me, handing me the second mug - the one I
watched him prepare - and nods to the kitchen table.
I sit slowly, not taking my eyes from him. He pulls the chair out beside me
and angles it to face me before sitting, setting his cup down on the table
and rubbing his hands nervously along the tops of his thighs, as if trying
to wipe sweat from his palms.
"My father's name was Hans Schlessinger," he begins. "He was a second
generation Scotsman, born of a very strict, cold German woman. He was just
as cold toward me, which I didn't realize until much later was a blessing."
Thomas Schlessinger, I think as he takes a breath and a calming sip of his
tea. TS. He has told me at least part of this story before.
"My mother protected me from his wrath, but she couldn't hide the evidence
of his brutality from me. I feared him. Right up to the day she killed him."
He pauses for a breath and licks his lips again. "The barrister tried to
convince the jury that she had done it in defense of both herself and her
child, but they didn't believe she wouldn't pose a danger to me. They were
probably right. She was too broken. Too damaged and unpredictable. She
killed herself four months after beginning her prison sentence."
It occurs to me that he could still be lying, but even I am not a good
enough actor to pull this off. The pain in his eyes, the quivering of his
lips, the warble in his voice. I've no doubt that he is telling the truth
now.
He smiles then - a sad, pained smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I spent
so much time trying to avoid becoming my father that I didn't realize I was
becoming my mother until it was almost too late." He glances down at his
lap. "You haven't asked about my scar recently. I assume that means you put
the story I told you in your journal - the one about a delirious soldier in
some African country?"
I am uncertain how to respond to this, so I don't, letting him take my
silence as confirmation.
His eyes fall away from me, as if he can't bear to see the look on my face,
to see my reaction to his sordid past. "It's an easy lie. Less humiliating
than admitting that I was stupid enough to walk into the arms of another
abuser. Of course, the nature of our relationship made recognizing the
warning signs all the more difficult. He was my Dom." His eyes dart in my
direction briefly and he twiddles his tea cup nervously, as if he is unsure
of what to do with his hands. "My Irene Adler. Except I was too naïve to
know what a normal submissive relationship should look like...feel like. He
was no less ignorant than I was. He thought he was a Dom, but he was really
just misappropriating a lifestyle to mask his need to control people." He
seems to realize he has slipped into a more passive vocabulary - as if
distancing himself from his past - and amends this last part. "To control
me."
My experience with the sort of relationship he is describing is limited
mostly to research on The Woman. But I can readily imagine how such sexual
practices could be used to mask abuse.
"He was very skilled in the art of inflicting damage that wouldn't leave
lasting marks. Until the day I threatened to leave him." He stops fussing
with the cup. "I'm actually lucky. He threatened to castrate me, but I was
able to beg him off it."
I flinch instinctively.
"I managed to escape eventually, of course. Changed my name. Joined MSF." He
takes a slow breath. "I lived in fear that he would find me for years. Until
I learned that he had died of a heart attack while I was away."
Something about this last part doesn't quite seem right, but I have no doubt
the rest is true. And I can hardly blame him for hiding this from me if it
meant avoiding having to relive this trauma.
He takes another sip of his tea. "You asked me why I would voluntarily go
into hiding with you - change my name and live in constant fear of being
discovered. It's because I've done it before."
I stare at the fading bruise around his eye and think about how he described
the incident that caused it in my journal. I was delirious with what was
obviously symptoms of withdrawal. I lashed out - mistaking him for Moriarty.
Certainly it was an accident, but how must he have reacted to being struck
by someone he loves?
And it wouldn't have been the first time, I realize, recalling my
descriptions of the days in hospital after the accident. He is probably
accustomed to me becoming violent when I am off my head. This knowledge is
not the least bit reassuring.
I have a brief flash of memory - shoving him onto the bed, pulling his hair
until he cries out. Am I enabling his masochistic tendencies?
He takes my hand suddenly with a soft "look at me." His eyes are pained,
tears hovering in the corners. "There is a reason I don't like telling you
this. You are better than any man I've ever known - kinder, gentler - and I
don't want you to treat me as if I am fragile or broken. I know it's not
fair for me to keep my past hidden from you, but this way I can pretend it
didn't happen. I feel like I can erase the memories and make new, happier
ones." His other hand reaches for my face, his fingers delicately brushing
my left cheekbone. "It isn't the only way I have taken advantage of your
condition to alter unpleasant memories."
"The altercation with the neighbor," I say, recalling the theory both
Lillian and I voiced in my secret journal.
He nods. "You rarely have cause to see him, so it was an easy lie. And even
though you forgave me, I couldn't bear to have you remember how I lashed out
in the heat of the moment." A tear breaks free and spills down his cheek. "I
couldn't bear the thought that a part of my father could still be ingrained
so deeply inside me that I can never escape it."
I pull him into my arms instinctively and feel his breath hitch.
"I love you," he chokes out, his voice strained. "So much that it hurts. I
couldn't bear it if I lost you."
He has told me his real name before. But I wonder if he has done it with
this much honesty. I have no doubt of the veracity of the story he has told
me - save perhaps for a small, possibly insignificant part of it. It is not
the sort of tale one would invent.
Grace woofs from close by suddenly, startling me. I didn't hear her
approach. Henry pries himself from me and looks down at her pawing at his
leg.
"What is it, sweetheart," he asks, his voice still raw. "Are you hungry?"
I watch her lick his hand, whining, and realize what she is really
communicating. "She senses your distress."
His mouth falls open a bit in surprise and he bends toward her, murmuring
reassurances.
Grace's reaction reinforces my instincts. While dogs may not have the higher
order thinking skills required to tell truth from lie, they can tell the
difference between artificial and genuine emotion. Grace was alarmed when
she believed me to be in pain, but as far as I can tell she was easily
reassured that I wasn't truly in distress. Now, even when Henry tries to
console her, she remains at his side, offering comfort the only way she
knows how.
"I should get started on dinner," he says suddenly, wiping hastily at his
cheeks.
"I'm not hungry," I protest reflexively.
He gives me a look I am not unfamiliar with. "Have you had anything besides
tea since breakfast?"
I don't answer.
"Right. I'm not terribly hungry either, but we should eat something. Why
don't we see if we can finish some of the leftovers in the fridge?"
I wonder if he would bother at all if it weren't for his desire to take care
of me. To prove to himself - if no one else - that he is nothing like the
men he is running from, literally or figuratively. There is no sense denying
him this small victory.
"All right."
---
While Henry is readying himself - and Grace - for bed, I return to my
laptop. I cannot compromise the data on the memory stick by retrieving it
now and risk revealing its location, but the hidden message on the video has
opened up new possibilities. No doubt, that was my intention when I created
the message.
Even though I believe him, I do a search to verify his story. Hans
Schlessinger was, in fact, the subject of a homicide investigation just over
twenty years ago. His wife Sarah was found guilty and sentenced to life in
prison, of which she served four months before fashioning a weapon and
slicing open her carotid artery.
How awful must her life have been to so violently orphan her young child? Or
was she too broken to understand the consequences of her actions? She had,
after all, spent at least a decade bearing the brunt of her abusers' rage in
order to protect her son, only to be handed a verdict that would separate
him from her indefinitely. Perhaps she believed it would be better he lost
both his parents than to feel obligations toward one society had judged a
monster.
There are no records of Thomas Schlessinger after that. No doubt he took his
adopted family's name. I wonder if he took his ex's name as well. Details of
that relationship are unlikely to be found as easily.
All of this explains the meager information I have on Josh Amberley before
his time with MSF.
I create a file with a brief summary of Henry's story and links to the
documents I have just found.
'His past has made him distrustful,' I write. 'Guarded. Lying may simply be
a familiar means of protection that comes as naturally to him as breathing.
But his fear of becoming his father is as genuine as his obvious love for
me.'
I realize with sudden clarity that his overly effusive declarations of
adoration make sense as well in the context of his past abuse. When one has
spent the majority of one's life suffering at the hands of those closest to
them, simple kindness can be intoxicating.
I attach the text to the second video - the one where I make him come
untouched. This too, I see in a new light. Does he want me to dominate him
sexually? Would he rather be the one in control? Is he already in control?
Or does his previous experience make such power dynamics repulsive to him
now?
It takes me longer to decide what to write in the official journal entry for
today. The one Henry might read. The one one of us might edit later.
'Henry told me about his past,' I write. 'The fact that there is nothing in
my previous notes about it I can only attribute to an effort to spare him
the pain of re-living it. But I now believe this to be based on faulty logic
that could potentially cause even more pain when I inevitably question him
about it.'
I will not stop trying to uncover the truth. If he knows me as well as he
claims to, he will realize this.
I hesitate a moment, then begin typing again.
'He is a survivor of abuse. He believes telling me this will make him appear
weak in my eyes or prompt me to treat him as if he has been damaged by his
abusers and is now easily broken. A victim. But he is stronger than he
thinks he is. What he experienced could easily and justifiably have left him
bitter and cynical - distrustful especially of the men closest to him. Yet
his love for me is whole-hearted and genuine. He clearly has complete trust
in me, which is probably why I instinctively trust him as well, despite
knowing that he is keeping secrets from me. He spoils me with all the love
which he was once deprived and expects little to nothing in return. He
deserves better than I can give, yet he has chosen me. And he fears the day
my memory improves enough that I will no longer need him as much as he needs
me. He hopes that by then I will love him as deeply as he already loves me.
But how can I love a man I cannot trust to tell me the truth?'
I save the journal and leave the laptop on the kitchen counter to charge.
I find Henry sitting in bed, wrapped in a dressing gown, reading, Grace
curled beside his hip.
"I see we've already given up the rule about her being on the bed," I note.
He glances down at her and smiles fondly. "She has been stuck to my side
since dinner. I didn't have the heart to say no to her."
Of course he didn't. Honestly, I'm surprised it took this long to break his
resolve.
I nip into the bathroom to wash up and strip down to my pants. As I am
brushing my teeth, I hear Henry's voice drift from the bedroom. I still and
practically hold my breath in an attempt to make out the words. All I hear
clearly is "daddy", but that and the tone is enough for me to know he is
talking to Grace.
When I emerge from the bath, he is laying down - his book returned to the
nightstand - one hand resting on her back. She lifts her head at the sight
of me and wags her tail. I try to crawl beneath the covers without
disturbing her, but she jumps up and scampers from the bed before I can stop
her.
Henry chuckles. "It's your turn."
"My turn for what?"
"To stand guard over me, I suppose. I assume she believes she has just left
me in your capable hands."
"More likely she thought the bed was too crowded with all three of us in it,
but considering her behavior these past few hours I suppose anything is
possible." I settle beneath the covers, facing him, close enough to feel the
heat of his body.
"I can always count on you to see things rationally."
"Sorry," I apologize instinctively. In this context, rationality usually
equals things like "cold" or "machine- like".
"No. I can sometimes be irrational. Too much of a romantic. We balance each
other out."
I stare at him as the significance of his words sinks in. He loves me for
who I am, not in spite of it. He turns what most people see as flaws that
need fixing into a strength that provides a valuable perspective.
I was wrong when I assumed I am getting more out of our relationship than he
is. It may seem imbalanced simply because the ways it is benefiting me are
more obvious and tangible, but that doesn't mean he isn't equally benefiting
in ways that are less tangible.
'We are perfect for each other.'
The sudden clarity of the realization I've been on the verge of for hours
stuns me. Henry is everything John was to me and everything he wasn't. A
doctor. A friend. A lover. A provider for the needs of both my transport and
my mind. I am happier and healthier than I have been in ages because of him,
despite the possible looming threat and all the lies keeping it at bay.
I reach to trace his features with light fingers. The faint lines at the
corner of his eyes. The arch of his cheekbone, still darkened by the bruise.
His lips part as I run my thumb over the small depression in his chin and I
lean in, brushing my lips against his softly. He makes a tiny, helpless
sound but doesn't move, content to let me have control.
He trusts me.
"What do you want me to call you," I whisper.
His breath catches and his lips quiver before he answers "Henry."
Of course. Why wouldn't he favor the name he chose when he went into hiding
with me? He is just as keen to delete the bad memories of his past as I
allegedly was when I started taking the drug that is making me forget.
Except I am proof that you can't escape your memories. All I have done is
make it difficult to form new memories.
I shift my body closer to his and kiss him again - a little deeper this
time, more confident. He reaches to cradle my head, his fingers twisting in
the hair at the base of my skull. But he doesn't try to pull me any closer.
Doesn't try to guide me or take even the smallest amount of control. He is
simply encouraging me.
A thought occurs to me suddenly and I pull away, leaping from the bed. He
whines a bit in displeasure.
"Hang on..."
I close the bedroom door in case Grace decides to try to return and arrange
my mobile on the nightstand. "I want to remember this," I explain as I tap
the record button.
His eyes darken a bit as his pupils dilate with arousal and he nods,
watching with rapt attention as I remove my pants and crawl back onto the
bed naked. I press him onto his back and run my hands over his bare torso,
feeling his ribs expand with his deepening breaths.
My lips follow my hands, mapping the ridges of muscle in his chest, tracing
over the scar on his abdomen. He remains quiet but for the occasional hitch
in his breathing. I move slowly, methodically, and by the time I reach his
pants the material is stretched over a prominent bulge that has to be
growing uncomfortable. I peel them off and toss them unceremoniously to the
floor. Then I take the head of his cock in my mouth without warning,
savoring the startled gasp and following soft groan he emits. I take him as
deeply as I am able and wrap my hand around the rest.
"Oh," he breathes periodically as I work him to full erection. "Oh,
fuck...yes...Will...yes..."
The noises he is making, combined with the feel of him swelling on my
tongue, the taste of his aroused emissions, the small, jerking motions of
his hips as he struggles to not simply thrust down my throat, all serve to
heighten my own arousal.
I pull off him slowly after a few minutes and sit back on my heels, rubbing
the insides of his thighs to calm him a bit as I take in the sight of him.
He is gripping the bed head loosely, having obviously been recently
clutching it far more tightly. His skin is flushed and he has a relaxed,
almost dazed expression on his face. His cock lies heavy on his abdomen, a
small pool of moisture forming beneath it. I pinch my thumb and forefinger
delicately around the crown, gently manipulating the foreskin until another
bead of moisture emerges from the tip. He squirms and makes a few choked off
sounds that might be aborted attempts at words, his fingers tightening on
the bed head again.
I could finish him like this. It wouldn't take very long if I've judged his
state of arousal correctly. Then he can return the favor. My cock twitches
at the thought of him sucking me off, all rumpled and exhausted but still so
eager and pliant.
Alternatively, I could fuck him. No doubt he would let me. Or...
I climb from the bed again and fumble for the lubricant I vaguely remember
seeing in the dresser. His eyes follow me as I climb back beside him, his
legs starting to come up to make room for me between them. I shake my head
and he stops moving. I squeeze a generous amount of lube onto my palm and
let it warm before wrapping my hand around him, giving a few careful pulls,
trying to keep my touch light.
He moans quietly as I straddle him and holds his breath as I guide his cock
into position. I relax and slowly impale myself, feeling my muscles twitch a
bit at the sudden invasion before giving way. I rest a moment when I can go
no further, giving my body time to adjust. Not that I really need it as my
body is clearly used to this, despite the substantial girth of his cock.
"Oh, god, Will," he breathes. He reaches for me, pulling me down so he can
kiss me hungrily. I let him for a minute, wondering if the video is picking
up the wet sounds of the kiss or the noises he is making that aren't quite
whimpers.
When I pull back, I guide his hands to my hips, silently encouraging him to
hold tight as I start to move. I brace my hands on his chest and roll my
hips slowly, languidly. Not really thrusting so much as creating friction.
Feeling the muscles surrounding his cock loosen and allow him deeper.
"Fuck," he mutters. "You are so beautiful." There is genuine wonder in his
eyes. As if he still can't quite believe we are doing this.
I sit up straighter and try to catalog everything about this moment. The
sight of him sweaty and breathless beneath me, his open and reverent
expression, the weight of him inside me, the heat, the fullness, the
building pressure as I move.
I chose this position deliberately. First, because I wanted to watch his
face and second, because even though he is the one penetrating me, I am in
almost full control. It was the only position I could think of (in my
admittedly limited repertoire) where the balance of power between us is
essentially equal.
I see his intention before his right hand leaves my hip to reach for my
cock. I stop him, silently returning his hand to position. He makes a small
noise of frustration, but doesn't resist me.
Obviously no longer content with remaining passive, he raises his knees,
bracing his feet on the bed, and starts thrusting up to meet me. My rhythm
falters and I brace my palms on his chest again, meeting his thrusts. The
slick noise our bodies make repeatedly on impact is so loud that the
microphone has to be picking it up. Thoughts of bruising and soreness from
too much sex flit through my mind briefly, but I shove them aside. 'Let it
hurt tomorrow,' I think. 'Maybe that will help me remember.'
I can see he is getting close but straining to hold back. The desperation in
his eyes is bordering on agony. "Let go," I gasp. "I want you to come."
He makes a half swallowed groaning noise that is almost a growl. It is so
primal that my body responds instinctively, shuddering, a tiny whimper
escaping my own mouth before I can stop it. I can't hold on any longer
myself, but I need to see him give in first.
It only takes a few more thrusts before his back arches, his face going
slack, his mouth open in a silent cry.
'I did this to him,' I think heatedly and I reach for my cock, pulling
frantically.
His eyes refocus on me as his awareness returns and I just see a flash of a
smile before my own orgasm overwhelms me and I have to close my eyes.
Grace is barking and scratching at the door and I realize too late that I
must have shouted. I groan, which doesn't exactly discourage her.
Henry carefully maneuvers me off of him and I swallow another groan as his
soft cock slips free wetly. "I've got it," he says between placating kisses.
I don't particularly feel like moving yet, so I don't protest. I close my
eyes and listen to him fumble about a bit before opening the bedroom door
and reassuring Grace that he's fine.
I shiver as the formerly pleasantly cool air of the room begins to feel
downright cold. I'm beginning to feel uncomfortably sticky. I should wash up
and turn the camera off.
The camera. I almost forgot about the camera.
I open my eyes and stare at the little lens of my mobile. Video can never
perfectly capture a memory. This video may have captured the look of wonder
on Henry's face, but it couldn't have caught the nuance. The pain and
gratitude in his eyes. The understanding that this was about more than just
sex.
Henry picks up the mobile as he returns to the bed, tapping the screen a few
times. I have a moment of worry that he is deleting the video, but I can't
see any reason why he would. Unless I said the wrong name during climax. I'm
pretty confident I couldn't have made that mistake.
He climbs on the bed, maneuvering me onto my back and spreading my legs. I
wonder if he's really going to try to have another go so soon.
"No," I mumble. "I can't..." That sounded more pathetic and whingeing than I
would have liked.
"Did I hurt you?" The genuine worry in his voice and the gentle fingers
prodding tentatively at my swollen anus confirm that he is just checking for
tearing.
I relax. "No. Just thought you were trying for another go."
He laughs. "No, I may be younger than you, but there are limits to my
stamina." He touches my hip carefully. "You're going to have a bruise here,"
he murmurs.
"Good."
He smiles and reaches for my hand, wincing as he realizes it is still
covered in lubricant and drying semen. "I'll get a flannel."
"I can..."
"No. Stay there. You look knackered."
I can't really argue with that, nor do I particularly feel like getting out
of bed.
As he disappears into the bathroom, I reach for my mobile with my relatively
clean hand. The video is intact. He was sending it to his own mobile. Of
course.
I set my mobile back on the stand and lie back, closing my eyes. I pop into
my mind palace just long enough to retrieve the wedding ring, reading the
inscription and trying to burn the letters into my mind. TS. Thomas
Schlessinger. Josh Amberley. Gruener.
No. I don't know that the G stands for Gruener. Nor do I understand its
presence here if Gruener proves to be real. I debate erasing the "G"
entirely, but there must have been a reason I put it there in the first
place. Maybe I will figure it out later. For now, I leave the letter
untouched.
I open my eyes as Henry returns to the bed, pressing the wet flannel into my
hands and sitting back while I clean them, taking the opportunity to take a
couple close ups between my legs with his own mobile. He hands it to me as
he retrieves the flannel with a cheeky "would you like a copy?"
The picture shows my swollen anus, wet with lubricant, a bit of semen
smeared where he pulled out hurriedly.
"A bit crude, isn't it," I note mildly as I send it to myself.
He hums an agreement as he cleans the mess. "I would have let you take one
of me covered in your come if we hadn't been interrupted. Think those were
your pants I used to wipe it off. Sorry. I put them in the laundry."
"Didn't realize I'd married a Neanderthal," I say, taking a picture of him
bent over me, tending to me, and sending that to myself as well.
"So dramatic," he teases. "Some would call that art."
"It's pornography."
"Obviously you've never been to the Musee D'Orsay."
"Well in that case, perhaps we should frame it and sell it to a gallery."
He crawls up to kiss me. "Mmm. I shall call it...'Mine'," he murmurs against
my lips. He smiles as he takes his phone back and retreats to the bath to
take care of the soiled flannel.
'You are mine.'
I shiver again and reach for the covers, pulling them up to my chin. When
Henry returns and crawls under them with me, I turn toward him and let our
limbs tangle together, more of less resuming the position we were in before
we had sex. The soft glow from the lamp neither of us has bothered to turn
off makes it easy for us to see each other. It will make judging his
reactions to what I'm about to say easier.
"I want to remember this."
Lines appear in his forehead and his eyes clearly broadcast sympathy and
pain. He has a very expressive face. I can see why I have always known he
was lying to me. "I know," he whispers. "You will, darling. You are getting
better every day."
"I'm not referring to these past months. I want to remember you. All of you.
My present condition is proof that trying to erase the past only takes a
toll on the present." I trace his lips with my fingers. "Your past
experiences have shaped who you are. I want to know who Thomas was so I can
understand who Henry is."
His breathing is tight and I can see the denial building in his throat, his
eyes growing damp.
"I want to love you," I add before he can say he words I know he wants to
say. Before he can say no.
It is perhaps cruel to leverage the return of his affections like this. But
it is not a lie. At least I'm reasonably certain it isn't. I am growing
attached. Dependent. Addicted. I don't know if I can call it love, but I
don't have a better word with which to define it.
His breath hitches and a tear spills from his eye, slipping down his nose. I
thumb it away and kiss his lips softly, gently.
"I want to know everything," I whisper into the intimate space between us.
His Adam's Apple bobs as he swallows. He sniffles lightly. He reaches to try
to tame one of my curls.
"Please," I add, imploring, even though I can see this effort is going to be
in vain. "I want to know the truth."
He smiles a sad, almost pained smile. "You will," he whispers.
There is a hint of finality in his words - something like fatalism in his
tone. As if he is certain that the day I remember everything will be the day
he loses me forever. I want to reassure him, but I cannot be certain he is
wrong in this conclusion. Especially as it has occurred to me too.
There is nothing more I can do, I realize. Either I will find all the data
again tomorrow or I won't. I am certain he will not reveal as much as he has
tonight again if he doesn't have to. My lack of ability to remember provides
him a perfect excuse to hide the past he doesn't want to discuss from me -
as he readily admits. I know he finds it shameful which, while absurd, is
entirely human. I cannot convince him he is wrong. Not when I have limited
time and incomplete data to work with on any given day.
I am struggling to stay awake. Now that I know what the drug is I realize
this is probably one of its effects. But fighting it is worse than trusting
that I will find my way back to this point. I have done it before.
I drift toward sleep with the feel of his lips on my brow and his whispers
of love echoing in my ears.
---
Day 7
---
I wake with John's name on my lips. The details of the dream I was having
fade almost immediately, but I remember a car swerving dangerously toward a
tree. It felt more like a memory than a dream.
I open my eyes, try to orientate myself and realize two things immediately.
The first is that I am not at 221b Baker Street, although my surroundings
look familiar somehow. The second is that I am not alone. The man beside me
also looks familiar, though I cannot place his name or remember how I came
to be sleeping in his bed. But as we are both naked and I can feel a
telltale ache when I shift my body it is obvious we had sex recently.
I slip from the bed carefully to avoid waking him and take care of the
pressing need to empty my bladder.
As I am washing my hands, I take stock of my physical condition. I have
hand-shaped bruises forming on my hips. My thighs are sore. My lips are kiss
swollen and I have an ache in my backside that might make sitting difficult
in near future.
I hold up my dripping hands and stare at the gold band around my left ring
finger, trying to remember how it could have got there. Is this for a case?
Am I undercover?
"Will," a sleep-rough voice calls from the door to the bedroom.
He is wrapped in a dressing gown and squinting in the light of the bath, his
hair rumpled alluringly.
Will? Is that the name I gave him? Why can't I remember last night?
He opens a cupboard and pulls out a medicine bottle, shaking some
paracetamol tablets into his palm and holding them out to me.
"Who are you," I ask as I let him press the tablets into my hand.
He takes a glass from the counter and fills it with water. "My name is
Henry, darling. I'm your husband."
END OF PART 1
Notes:
The method of hiding coded messages in pictures - steganography - as
depicted here is fairly rudimentary for Sherlock Holmes. Because I needed
it to be possible for him to do it with basic software that would come
with any laptop. If he needed to install extra software, it would be too
obvious. I tested the process myself when I was writing this chapter by
adding "#JohnLives" to one of the pieces Megabat made to go with the
story, leaving it as an Easter egg for anyone who cared to look before the
actual reveal. Obviously that was not enough to change the size of the
file, but it worked.
You can see for yourself if you can open
this picture as a text file.
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