Chapter 8
‘Paul. Sit down. Please.’
‘What happened Alec? What the hell happened?’ Paul Foster stopped his angry pacing and turned to face the other man standing there in the office.
‘I don’t know. I wish I did, Paul. Here,’ Alec Freeman handed a glass to the young man who perched himself reluctantly on the corner seat, ‘you need this.’
Foster looked up, eyes drawn and bewildered. ‘Not Ed. It can’t be him Alec. They’ve made a mistake. Surely.’ he gulped down the liquid in the glass heedless of its taste, its strength. ‘Someone else.. someone..’
‘Paul. It was Ed. I saw him. Ed Straker. The DNA test confirmed it. Beyond any doubt. I know,’ Alec Freeman placed a hand on Foster’s shoulder in understanding and sympathy. ‘I know how you feel. He was my friend as well. We’d know each other for a long time.’ he paused, looking up at the changing rainbow of colours that illuminated the wall. ‘Do you know, Ed and I used to talk about what we would do when there was no longer a need for SHADO. I don’t think either of us ever imagined that after this long we would still be fighting aliens. Still battling to protect the world. I always thought he would be here for SHADO, for us, working here at his desk. But he is gone.’
Paul set his empty glass on the desk, and placed one finger on the glass sphere. ‘Alec, I … I..’
‘I know Paul. I know.’ And Alec Freeman looked at his young Colonel with regret, with understanding and sympathy. ‘but SHADO needs your help right now. Don’t let Ed Straker down. Whatever you do, don’t fail him. He deserves better than that.’
Paul Foster stood up, tugged his jacket, straightened his shoulders as he had seen his teacher and commanding officer, and friend, do so many times. A thin, forced smile that was more like a grimace appeared on his lips. Eyes bright with something that was not pride, or excitement, he faced Alec Freeman.
‘Commander Freeman, what are your orders?’
When, a few hours later, the Pathologists report arrived, couriered by special delivery, Paul was engaged in rescheduling the SHADO staff rota. A mind-numbingly and tedious task, but it had to be done as soon as possible now that Alec Freeman would longer be available to supervise the Control Room. Foster knew that Straker would have approved, would have nodded and maybe one of those very rare smiles would have flashed across his face. And Colonel Foster, his heart aching at the loss of the man he considered to be his mentor, the man who had risked everything, even his own life to prove that Paul Foster was worth saving, clenched his fist, but worked on, knowing that he was honouring Straker in the only way that the SHADO Commander would have wanted. To carry on regardless of the loss of one man.
He watched anxiously as the file was taken by Ford into the Commander’s office, other operatives following the Communications Officer with quiet, saddened eyes, as if that folder contained the very essence of their missing leader, not merely a mundane and clinical account of the manner of his death. There was silence, stillness in the control room when Ford came out from the Commander’s office and sat at his console, head bowed, eyes closed for a long moment.
There was an air of tension, of waiting. That secret hidden belief that it was all a mistake, that the file, that innocuous beige folder, would somehow provide irrefutable proof that it had all been a cruel and bizarre practical joke.
‘Lieutenant Ford, ask Colonel Foster to come to my office please.’ The voice broke the silence with a suddenness of a sharpened axe. Foster nodded his acknowledgement and headed for the room, not with eager strides, but neither with a hesitant dread. He wanted to know the answer, but at the same time he feared it. The thought of what Ed Straker might have suffered, might have had to endure before his death filled him with horror.
The door was open, Alec Freeman sat, elbows on the desk, chin resting on interlaced fingers, as if he was trying to emulate his friend. He looked up, grim-faced, the file open in front of him. ‘Sit down Paul. I’m afraid it’s bad news.’
Oh God, Ed. What had they done to him? How had he met his death? Paul Foster forced the words out, past his pounding, racing heart, his dry, swollen throat. ‘Ed. How did he die?’
‘They don’t know. There are no explanations. Nothing. No cause of death, no injuries. Nothing that would explain how he died.’ Alec Freeman stared with unseeing eyes at the file. ‘It’s as if he simply…….stopped. That’s all the pathologist could say. As if he switched off. One moment alive, thinking, breathing, and the next; just ….nothing. Gone.’
‘People don’t just die for no reason. There has to be some cause of death.’ Paul Foster picked up the report and leafed through it, his brow furrowed as he too read the details. He threw it down on the table, angered, but in reality more distressed. His mind raced through possibilities.
‘Aliens?’ Foster raised an eyebrow at his commanding officer. ‘Might it be due to alien intervention? We still don’t know what they are capable of doing. Ed could have been captured by aliens and killed. That might explain the spacesuit. They may have been intending to take him back with them, but something went wrong.’
‘I’ve already considered that possibility Paul. I want Moonbase and all tracker Stations on Maximum Alert. If a UFO did get through our defences in the last couple of days then it will have to leave Earth’s atmosphere pretty soon. Get everything we have at full readiness. If there is a UFO on Earth, I don’t want it getting away. Got that?’
‘Yes sir.’ Foster stood to leave, ‘ but, Alec, it won’t bring Ed back will it?’
The answer held an infinity of sadness, ‘No Paul, it won’t but at least the bastards that murdered him won’t get away.’
Chapter 9
J. Shepherd.
That was now the name on his file. John Shepherd. Age: approx 40yrs. Previous address; Unknown. Relatives; Unknown. National Insurance Number; Unknown. Unknown, unknown, unknown.
He felt as though he should be worried by his lack of memory, by his absence of any past, but in actual fact he was, in a strange and uncomfortable way, at peace with the situation. It was as if he had stepped away from that past life and past experiences. As if he had packaged up the fear of that figure stepping out to face him and had locked it away, to be opened at a later time when he felt able to deal with the consequences. Right now he was happy to deal with this world and leave his sealed past unopened and undisturbed.
He was still sitting in the office, the interview all but over, and no questions answered but he now had a name, and a place to stay, for as long as he needed it.
And with that realisation came acceptance of his situation here, wherever ‘here’ was. The shelter would be his home for the foreseeable future, until he had built up a new life and a new start. But, as the police had, with casual confidence stated that if he had been listed as missing his description would come up on their database. It was just a matter of time. Though suddenly he knew without doubt that he was dead to them. They, whoever ‘they’ were, would not be looking for him. He was on his own. He had been abandoned and no-one would find him here.
How many people had been through this he wondered. To have to start afresh with no hidden past, no ties to anyone or anything. There was an infinitesimal thrill of freedom, of release, though the thought of any family that he might have and who might be mourning him caused him no small pang of regret.
Now he would have to get used to this environment, this alien world in which he had found himself. He still had no idea of where he was. It was somewhat amusing; he could recall places, could visualise and recall the geography of the world, but had no notion of where he had lived before last night. It was of no immediate concern though. He was warm, well-fed and safe. And that was all that he wanted at the moment. To be safe. To be protected. Though from what he needed protecting, he had no idea.
Closing his eyes for one moment, the image flooded his mind again. That tall figure stepping out of shadows, a sudden cold sweat of terror rushing through him, and then, as he tried to grasp the recollection, to hold onto the picture that swirled in his mind, it exploded and was gone, leaving only a faint tenuous trail that faded into the distance It was the same memory replaying itself time and time again, as if his damaged mind was trying to expunge the whole experience. He knew with a shudder of revulsion, that it would keep reoccurring, until…. and the thought of recalling .what had happened, of seeing the face of that spectral figure, made him shiver.
He drew in a deep breath, composed himself, looked across the cheap desk at Rebecca Steel and smiled.
‘So what happens now? What am I supposed to do with myself?’ He leaned forward, hands resting on the edge of the desk, the scuffed edges of his sweatshirt still pushed up to his elbows. He noticed a paler band of skin on his left wrist, from a watch no doubt, and he wondered what had happened to it. Who had taken it from his wrist?
‘Nothing.’ the response startled him. Rebecca Harper smiled at his surprised expression. ‘There’s very little you can do for a few days by which time your family or friends will no doubt have contacted the police. I don’t see you being here for long.’
‘But what happens to me if no-one comes forward?’ He seemed quite calm as if he was prepared to be unclaimed, to be abandoned by those who had once known him.
Rebecca looked at him. ‘In that case, which, as I said is unlikely, we will look at supporting you to become independent. You are lucky the council allocated the bed for you, because without a National Insurance number you can’t get any housing benefit. But we have twenty-eight days to get things sorted, plenty of time. I’ll get a Project Worker to organise hardship benefit for you as soon as possible, then hopefully Big Issue might be able to help.’
His brow furrowed. ‘Big Issue?’ It was obvious that he had no idea what she was talking about. She wondered where he had been living until yesterday. Perhaps he was a tourist, but, even so, his absence would be noticed and reported. It was no matter. He would be claimed soon.
She reached into one drawer of her desk and passed a leaflet over to him. ‘Here, take this, and one of the Project workers will go through it with you to explain everything. Oh,’ she paused, ‘you can read, can’t you? I’m sorry. Very few of our residents are literate, or numerate for that matter, but you seem to be more..’ she broke off, unsure how to continue.
‘Educated?’ he smiled at her, blue eyes amused at her embarrassed look, ‘yes, I can read. Although I am not sure what else I can do yet. Thank you, I’ll look at this. Now. What else do I need to do?’ He seemed more confident, more assured, as if his acquisition of a name had focused his mind, provided him with a grounding, security, a sense of belonging.
‘We need to find you something else to wear, so that you can get those clothes clean. Then, well, just relax. Sit and watch television. Read. That sort of thing. Give yourself time to get to know the set-up here.’ Rebecca led him out to the reception area, ‘Barry,’ she called over to a tall dark-skinned man who was making notes in a folder, ‘this is John Shepherd. New resident. Possibly only for a few days. Here’s his file. He’s yours now. Sort him out with some spare clothes and show him round.’ Her tone was efficient and professional and the older man immediately stood up and took the file she handed to him.
Shepherd watched as Rebecca Steel headed back to her office, then turned with an apprehensive look towards the unfamiliar man behind the desk. He waited there, quiet and patient, not in any hurry, just observing the people in the reception area as the Project Worker leafed through the file, disregarding him as if he did not exist.
It gave Shepherd a chance to study the middle-aged woman who was also sitting behind the desk typing, tapping with painstaking methodical movements as if thinking about each individual letter and wary of making any mistakes. She too, ignored him as if he was of no importance, not worth considering. And, with a pang of dismay he realised that was probably true. He did have no worth, no value. What could he offer anyone right now?
The door buzzed and he turned, intrigued to see who was coming down the stairs. He remembered walking down those same stairs not that many hours ago, accompanied by the police. A frightening experience, entering an unfamiliar and strange world. A place that held unknown terrors. And still held some fear. He had no experience of places like this, no idea of what was expected of him, how he would fit in. For all his loss of memory, his inability to remember his past life, he was sure of one thing. He had never been in a situation such as this before.
‘John.’ Shepherd turned back to face the other man. ‘Miss Steel wants me to find you some spare clothes. You’d better come with me.’ There was a hint of disapproval in the older man’s voice, as if he resented the effort it would take and he didn’t speak again as he led the way through a maze of corridors to yet another small room. A store room this time. Shelves piled with assorted clothes, footwear, towels.
Barry looked him up and down. ‘Hmm. Not an easy size. You’re pretty much taller than most of our regulars. And thinner as well. This might be difficult.’ He rooted through piles of second-hand and donated jeans, one or two pairs falling from the disturbed piles onto the floor disregarded by the older man. Shepherd bent down to pick up the rejected items before folding them and replacing them on the shelves as Barry, heedless, moved on to another pile.
‘Here, you’re in luck. These should fit you. And brand new. Not many guys as tall as you, or if they are they’re heavier.’ The project worker handed over cheap denims, still with price tag attached, then quickly found t-shirts and sweatshirts to add to the pile in Shepherd’s hands. ‘Put these on and I’ll show you the laundry room. You can wash your own stuff and have it dry by tonight.’’
A short time later, wearing new jeans, a cheap, plain t-shirt and a slightly shabby but clean sweatshirt, Shepherd emerged from his room. The clothes fitted well enough. Not exactly ideal, but anything was an improvement on the garments he had been wearing. His soiled clothes had been folded with a neatness and precision that amused the worker who had waited as Shepherd had changed.
Barry had begun to explain, in measured, patient terms, how to do his washing, but Shepherd had assured him that he was familiar with doing the laundry, though he had not realised that fact until he saw the machines. His admission earned him his first nod of approval from the Project worker. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ Barry told him, and left, heading back to the indolence of reading the morning’s tabloid newspaper and drinking his coffee.
The room was deserted. There was no need to hurry. John Shepherd placed his stained clothes on one machine, and picked up the jeans. Muddied, bloodstained, scuffed in places but otherwise undamaged and not well-worn. He wondered how the bloodstains had got on his jeans. And expensive jeans as well. He checked the pockets. Empty. Nothing to give him any clue as to who he was, what he was. The sweat shirt, marked across the front with a faint spatter of what looked like blood, was plain, undecorated. He put the socks and underwear from yesterday into the machine, added powder, selected the programme without conscious thought and switched it on.
Almost on instinct he moved to leave the room, as if he had other things to do, as if he had to be somewhere else, the process of washing his clothes just another task to be completed. One more job in a long line of mundane jobs. But he had nothing else to do. Nowhere to go. Yet.
He sat down to wait, wondering what this day would bring. It was calm in the room, with the rumbling of machinery and swishing of water the only disturbance and the hypnotic sound lulled his mind. It was peaceful and a random spark of déjà vue flared in his memory; that of standing impatiently in a busy room as machinery buzzed and people worked at consoles. But then, as every other recollection, it dissipated into splintered fragments that tantalised his mind and left him wondering, with some degree of inexplicable anxiety, if he was safe.
If they would find him here.
But he had no idea who ‘they’ were.