It might not make much sense, but it can be worked on. You know how it is, the words come from nowhere, the story writes itself in your head at the awkwardest of moments, then if a free moment as soon as possible…

Write:

…

The next day I didn’t wake feeling nauseous.  Perhaps they’d lowered the pain medication.  I’d heard that morphine could have that effect.  Then, how could I know that, but not who I am?

I knew now Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something very bad.  She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning.  This morning, “You do not need to be afraid.  Everything is going to be fine.  The doctor tells me you are going to recover with very little scarring.  You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future.  We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed, and walk out of the hospital any time soon.  I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy.  I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones.  I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But, there was something else.  I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance.  It sent another chill through me. 

This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time sleep was restless.

There were scenes playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse.  Me.  Others, people I didn’t know.  Or perhaps I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All her knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, who life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first tie she met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords, if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open, and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression the he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

It might not make much sense, but it can be worked on. You know how it is, the words come from nowhere, the story writes itself in your head at the awkwardest of moments, then if a free moment as soon as possible…

Write:

…

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity.  Every morning I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests.  I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender.  My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

I also believed she was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived.  Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed?  It would explain a lot.  A chill went through me.

The next morning she was back.

“My name is Winifred.  We don’t know what your name is, not yet.  In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions.  You were in an accident, and you were very badly injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then, when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t.  Not for a few minutes more.  Perhaps this was how I would be integrated back into the world.  A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes.  “You have bandages over your eyes and face.  You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes.  We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days.  Your face will take longer to heal.  It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accident, plastic surgery.  By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen.  It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations.  The second was the fact I could not remember the crash.  Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, and only vague memories after. 

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself.  After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse.  Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse.  I would remember tomorrow.  Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

It might not make much sense, but it can be worked on. You know how it is, the words come from nowhere, the story writes itself in your head at the awkwardest of moments, then if a free moment as soon as possible…

Write:

…

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake.  That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.  Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time under water.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak, but couldn’t.  The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me it felt cool.

It was very quiet.  No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent.  Or perhaps that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent.  It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow I knew not to.

A previous bad experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and very quiet footsteps slowly come into the room.  They stopped.  I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life, until he was diagnosed with lung cancer.  But for years before that he had emphysema.  The person in the room was on their way, down the same path.  I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed.  A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said.  “You’ve been in a very bad accident.  You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me.  I am a nurse.  You have been here for 45 days, and just come out of a medically induced coma.  There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

I felt her fingers stroke the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought.  I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

…

© Charles Heath 2020