Lost - Part 2 by Dave Rigby

 

(Part 1 was on the Blog on the 10^th April)  

I wait a while and press the apartment bell again. The street is very quiet, apart from a man walking slowly along the opposite pavement, singing a Richard Anthony song, loudly and badly.

How come I can remember the song, but not my own name?

The door opens. A tall, slim woman stands there, long hair, long dress, long fingernails. A small tattoo on a bare forearm. It must be Simone, but the memory is hazy. She reaches out and kisses me on the cheek. Not on the lips. What does that mean?

    “You don’t look good Liam! Where have you been?”

Liam! That’s good to know. She makes no move to invite me inside. No lip-kissing, no invitation. There’s a message here.

    “I got lost and ended up sleeping at the bus station,” I lie. “I have your key and wanted to bring it back … and to see you, naturally.” I’m struggling to talk in sentences. “Could I perhaps come in?”

    “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m expecting The Brewer.”

    “Who?”

    “The man you upset yesterday.”

I have no idea who this man is, or how I upset him.

    “Is it money that you need?” Simone asks.

I have money, quite a lot. The money brought with it a problem. But I can’t remember what that is.

    “No thanks. I just want to talk.”

A ringtone. Simone reaches into a pocket and pulls out her phone. She says, hello, listens and looks worried. I stand there waiting.

A sudden memory.

I’m with Simone and a man with a big beard, in a café. He’s wagging his finger at me. There’s something I need to do, but my brain’s too fuzzy to work out what it is. The man stands up, pushes his chair back and strides round the table towards me. I rush out of the café and run to the river. The man follows me. I manage to hide. A small gap in the stone wall on the quayside. I stare at the Seine for ages and watch a passing pleasure boat, lights twinkling, passengers drinking, talking, laughing. I try to wish myself onto the boat.

Coast clear, I emerge from my hiding place and walk upstream. Two men are suddenly very close, either side of me. Neither is the man from the café, but they are not nice. ‘Wallet and phone,’ they demand. I hand them over. They don’t frisk me. They don’t find the envelope with the money.

I walk away from the river, very tired. Too tired to care about anything. On a quiet side street, there’s a patch of grass. I lie down to sleep.

Simone is shaking my shoulder.

    “Liam, you are not listening! You must go. That was The Brewer. He’s on his way. If he catches you here, it won’t end well.”

    “Who is this man!” I say, far too loudly. She retreats a few steps.

    “I want you to go Liam.” She closes the door.

I haven’t even given her the key. It goes through the letter box. I begin to walk back to the river. In the distance there’s a short stocky man walking towards me. A man with a large beer gut and a big beard. Shit! The Brewer.

The story comes back to me.

The money in the envelope was his. But he owed me. That’s why I took it. However, he’s unlikely to it see that way … or give me any time to explain. And despite the gut, he can move worryingly quickly.

Just as I’m beginning to panic, a car pulls up beside me, driver’s window down.

    “Do you want a lift? No charge.”

It takes me a few seconds to take in the taxi sign and to recognise Marcel. A few seconds during which The Brewer gets near enough to realise it’s me. He breaks into a run. A bit like a rhino. Fast and heavy. I jump into the back seat of the taxi.

    “Move!” I shout. Marcel grins in the mirror and the taxi shoots off down the street.

    “That man makes a bad enemy,” he says. “How about we head off somewhere nice and quiet?”

    “That sounds just right,” I say. “I’m Liam, by the way.”

    “So, you’ve remembered! That’s a good step forward. And what about the young lady? What did she say?”

I explain.

    “Not so good then. Are you staying in the city or moving on?” Marcel asks. “If you want to stay, I can get you work. You remind me of me when I first arrived here.”

I think about this and wonder if I’ll remember anything else that happened before today. Or failing that, anything that might explain why I can’t remember. It’s hard work thinking like this.

    “My passport was stolen last night. Would you be able to get me a carte de sejour?” That would at least allow me to stay in the country. Give me time to try and retrieve my past.

    “As long as you have money, I can get you most things,” Marcel says as we cross the Pont de Sully in the morning sun.

He pushes a cassette into the old deck. This time Richard Anthony sounds perfect.