Chapter IV: A Warm Welcome
Michael explained to the Superintendent his theory about his past. He didn’t know much, if anything, about the fine (though woolly) art of psychology, so Roger took over when that aspect was discussed. Michael described to Mr. Andrews how he had no memories prior to the hurricane, and that the suspicious nature of the hurricane could provide clues to who he really was, if not Mr. Michael Cunningham.
“Interesting. If it is correct, that would explain quite a few things,” Mr. Andrews stated simply once they were finished. “Now, do you have any way of testing this theory of yours?”
“Well… yes,” Michael said. “I was hoping that you could help me.”
There was a short pause. Mr. Andrews looked slightly annoyed.
“Dammit, Michael,” the Superintendent complained. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.”
Michael wasn’t deterred. He simply added, “So… will you?”
The Superintendent scrutinised Michael for a moment. He could tell he was considering his answer; weighing his options. Michael had a shrewd idea that Mr. Andrews desperately didn’t want to go through another bout of interrogations, but felt obligated to do so at the same time. After all, he was supposed to help people in need being a police officer “ no, a Superintendent “ of the New South Wales Police Department, Inner Metropolitan Region.
“Fine,” he agreed heavily. “I suppose I should have seen this coming. I had gotten so used to questioning you, it was positively alarming when I handed you over to this psychologist here. It will be quite welcoming to lock you in my office again,” Mr. Andrews finished with a wry smile. Michael could tell it took the Superintendent great effort to agree to that.
“Thank you,” was all Michael could say.
“Don’t mention it. Now, Roger?” the Superintendent said to the psychologist. Getting his attention, he continued, “I don’t mean to insult your intelligence, but I think that I would be better suited to this task. I’ll let you know if I need you, though.”
“Oh, that’s just grand,” Roger said eagerly. “I’d love to help if you need me. Just give me a call, and I’ll be there.”
“Okay, that’s enough…” there was a pause. “Actually, Roger? Could you perhaps do a scan of Michael’s brain? You mentioned something about brain damage a few minutes ago.”
“I guess I could,” Roger replied. “However, I am a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. I may not be the correct person to do that.”
Michael had no idea what the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist was. Mr. Andrews seemed to know, but caring about it was a different matter.
“I’m sure you’re perfectly qualified,” Mr. Andrews said with finality. “Now, Michael… I have work to do at the moment, but I guess we could have a little chat later. Does three o’clock Tuesday afternoon sound good?”
Michael agreed to the time, and was dismissed back to his room. Only then did he realise that he had actually been asked for his opinion about the scheduling of the interview, rather than having the Superintendent make an appointment for him. It was a good feeling.
Two days later, Roger took Michael to a public hospital to examine his brain. There was a large x-ray like machine that wrapped around Michael’s head, scanning it from multiple directions. Michael and Roger waited about half an hour for the doctor to return with the prints, showing Michael’s brain in both black and white and what looked like infrared colours.
The doctor did most of the explaining, and Michael and Roger spent most the time nodding to whatever the doctor was saying. Apparently, Roger the Psychologist was in fact a psychologist, not a psychiatrist… whatever the hell that was.
Though both Roger and Michael (mostly Michael, however) only understood about half of what the doctor was saying, they found out that Michael’s brain was perfectly fine and functioning. There was no sign of damage from any kind of concussion, so that was a comforting fact. However, as the brain-damage theory was now void, Roger had to figure out how Michael managed to wipe his own memory and give himself a new name.
The next day was Michael’s appointment with Mr. Andrews. It was strange, walking to the Superintendent’s office on his own accord. He was used to being flanked by several police officers, or Roger the Psychologist, or the Superintendent himself. He approached the door, with the brass plaque and knocked.
Michael heard a muffled “Come in,” through the door. Michael turned the knob and opened it.
The scenery still hadn’t changed. There were still two police officers at the back of the room and one guarding the door. Michael took a seat in the chair in front of the desk.
“So, Michael,” addressed the Superintendent. “According to this theory of yours, you are former British Army personnel who happened to witness a rather traumatic freak hurricane that wiped your memory and implanted into you a new identity.”
“Well, yes. However, I believe that the hurricane could have been more of a battle than an actual hurricane.”
“Because of the bullet holes and military hardware scattered about?”
“Precisely, but I don’t think there was an actual hurricane to begin with. Why would the British Army storm into some West Country town and shoot up the place? Perhaps the hurricane was just a cover-up for some kind of fight the government was embarrassed about.”
Mr. Andrews’ eyebrows rose with his characteristic expression of scepticism. “I’m not questioning you to hear any conspiracy theories,” he stated firmly. “I’m here to see whether you were in the British Army or not. If you are, that would explain a few things, namely your proficiency with shooting and close-quarters fighting.”
With that said, Mr. Andrews pulled out a thick stack of pictures from a drawer and placed them on top of his desk.
“You’re not going to have me interpret colourful splats again, are you?”
The Superintendent smiled. “No. Unlike your chum Roger, I’m not a psychologist, so I have no idea what that’s supposed to accomplish. I actually think you might enjoy this.”
He pulled out the first picture in the stack and showed it to Michael. “Let’s play British Army Pictionary! Tell me, what military rank is this?”
It was a picture of two downward-pointing, olive-coloured chevrons. Michael instantly recognised it, and he wasn’t surprised that he had the knowledge.
“Sergeant,” he answered.
“Good. Now, what kind of rifle is this?” Mr. Andrews said next, displaying a picture of a rather blocky assault rifle in bullpup configuration.
“That’s easy. It’s an L85A1,” he said, stating the incredibly obvious… to him, at least. Michael then proceeded to explain the various details of the weapon, such as ammunition type, maximum effective range, and such.
“Good. That’s enough. I can see that you recognise it. Now, what about this?” the Superintendent asked while showing another picture… and another…
“…Challenger Main Battle Tank… Lieutenant General… Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier…”
Needless to say, Michael easily passed, as he did with every subsequent test over the next few days. “Well, unless you had a rather unhealthy obsession with the workings of the British Army,” Mr. Andrews declared, “I would say that you were indeed a soldier before the hurricane, Michael.”
Michael suspected that was the case, but it needed to be “official.” Later in the week, the Superintendent presented Michael a sheet of paper.
“Now, Michael, I have homework for you. Please look over this list and let me know if any of the names look familiar,” he said before leaving Michael alone again in his room.
The sheet was a list of people in the West Country who died or went missing during the freak hurricane over the summer. Michael flipped through a few pages until he got to the list of British Army casualties.
…Stanley D. Brown, Private; dead
Jonathan L. Clynes, Lance Corporal; dead
Thomas L. Donavan, Private; missing, presumed dead
Geoffrey A. George, Lieutenant; missing, presumed dead…
Michael didn’t recognise any of the names. He was disappointed by the lack of a sudden burst of understanding. Previously, he had suddenly remembered information when presented with related material, but there was no such luck with the list. There were about thirty names in all, arranged in alphabetical order.
…Charles T. MacDonald, Private; dead
Archer R. Price, Sergeant; missing, presumed dead
David M. Smith, Corporal; dead
Morgan G. Williams, Private; missing, presumed dead…
Michael noticed that all of the names were either dead or missing (i.e., also dead). Not a single name was listed as having been wounded or injured. He found that distinctly odd…
Michael figured that if his name was on the list (which it probably was), he would be classified as missing, presumed dead. This category took up a little more than half of names on the list. Unfortunately, Michael still didn’t recognise the any of the names of the sixteen lieutenants, sergeants, corporals, or privates listed as “missing.” Just wonderful. I’ve thoroughly forgotten who I am. And how many of those “missing” men ended up in the mess I’m in now?
The Superintendent had mixed feelings when Michael told him that he didn’t recognise any of the names on the list. He was disappointed that Michael hadn’t come any closer to discovering who he was. He was also relieved that he didn’t have to do any more questioning, so he promptly handed him over to Roger the Psychologist.
Unlike Mr. Andrews, Roger was eager to resume working on Michael. He could tell the psychologist was overly keen to solve the very complex puzzle that was Michael’s predicament.
“The way I see it,” explained Roger to both Mr. Andrews and Michael during a meeting in the Superintendent’s office, “is that the majority of Michael’s memory hasn’t disappeared, but has instead been locked away. Over the last month or two, we’ve discovered that things relevant to the memories act as keys that can unlock them, so those memories resurface.”
“So what exactly are you suggesting?” asked Mr. Andrews.
“I’m suggesting that I take Michael on a trip to England, to the scene of the hurricane. Hopefully, visiting that place will act as the correct key to release Michael’s memory, so we just might find out who he really is, if not Mr. Cunningham.”
The Superintendent nodded. “While you’re at it, you should look into the British Army records to see if anybody matches Michael’s descriptions. The resources we have here are quite limited, you see.”
With that, Mr. Andrews agreed to Roger the Psychologist’s proposal. Three days later, Michael and Roger packed their bags and took a taxi to Kingsford Smith International Airport and waited a few hours before they boarded the lower deck of a Qantas Airways Boeing 474-400.
Michael took a window seat, and Roger sat in the seat next to him. Michael pulled out the safety manual for the aircraft. The laminated pamphlet detailed passenger crash positions, how to use the life vests, unloading procedures, and every other emergency protocol that optimistically assumed that everyone would survive to abandon the plane if it crashed. Realistically, the best thing to do during a crash would be to pray for a quick death when the airliner became an exploding fireball.
Nevertheless, Michael read the pamphlet all the way through and spotted the emergency exits closest to himself. It was always good to have an escape plan, even if it was no good; Michael suspected this instinct was a carryover from his forgotten years in the military.
“Nervous?” asked Roger, seeing Michael reading the pamphlet.
“No, I’m not,” he responded.
“That’s good. Did you know that flying is actually the safest way to travel?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, now you do,” said Roger, starting to irritate Michael again. He continued, talking about how the trip to Britain could finally help solve the fascinating puzzle of Michael’s memory, but he wasn’t listening to him, and he didn’t notice when Roger stopped talking.
The passenger in front of Michael reclined his seat, and the back of the seat pressed painfully against Michael’s knees. You git, he thought to himself. You’re only supposed to recline once we’re airborne. Plus, you’re hurting my legs.
The seat pushed firmly against his knees, and was starting to make his legs feel a little numb with the reduced circulation. Michael sat there annoyed for about a minute or two, revelling in his revulsion for the bane of humanity occupied in the seat in front of him.
Then he had a sudden spurt of inspiration.
Smiling maliciously, Michael reached his hand up to the overhead air-conditioning nozzle and aimed it at the top of the chair-leaning offender’s bald head. He twisted the nozzle until it was on full blast.
Amused (and now sufficiently distracted from the aching in his knees), Michael watched his handiwork in action. The passenger in front of him started shifting slightly, clearly uncomfortable. He tried jamming his head against the headrest, or tried hunching over. Though Michael felt the tiniest twinge of regret for causing the man discomfort, it was the perfect revenge. Finally, after a few vain minutes of trying to ignore the chilling breeze on the top of his shiny head, the bald passenger returned his seat to its upright position.
A few more uneventful minutes of waiting passed in boredom until the engines of the plane accelerated to full power. The 747 lumbered down the runway, picking up speed. Michael looked out the tiny window, watching the other planes and terminals hurtle pass, and soon enough they were airborne. The plane climbed south over Botany Bay, and the hundreds of sailing boats in the clear blue water were an amazing sight to behold. Michael wanted to see Sydney from the air as the plane made its turn northwest, but saw only ocean, having been seated on the starboard side.
The view of the ocean was pristine and picture-perfect, but got boring pretty quickly. Michael reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of The Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring that he had bought at the bookstore earlier. He opened to the first chapter and started to read.
He only got through ten pages before he put the book down.
When he started reading it, he had a strange feeling that he already knew everything about the book. In fact, he did. He already knew who all of the characters were, and what happened to them. He also knew that Frodo finally threw the ring into Mount Doom in the third book, and everyone lived happily ever after. Apparently, Michael had read the series before, but forgot he had done so when he lost his memory. Now that he had the book as the reminder, all of the details came flooding back into his mind; just like how the Ents flooded Isengard, Michael thought wryly to himself.
He makes another brave attempt to read the book he had read before in some forgotten past, but he didn’t get far. It was boring, being so familiar. Besides, he already knew the entire plotline for the entire series, and nothing could surprise him. Disappointed, he marked his page and put the book away, pushed the seat recline button (without thinking of how the passenger behind him was suffering), and fell asleep… for a bit.
The 747-400 stopped in Bankok for about an hour and a half to refuel before taking off again. Michael drifted from eating appalling aeroplane food to lazily watching in-flight movies to sleeping intermittently. His legs were numb yet restless for exercise, but he couldn’t do anything about that aside from walking down to the toilets and back. He couldn’t do anything about his sore arse either. Fading into semi-consciousness hardly nullified the unpleasantness, but hours later he was brought back to reality by the captain announcing their descent. Half an hour later, the plane landed at London Heathrow Airport.
Jolly old England, Michael thought to himself as he looked through the window, watching the gloomy fog go by.
There is little daylight left by the time Michael and Roger rent a rather ugly Vauxhall Vectra for their drive to Taunton, Somerset. With Roger driving, they take the M4 motorway west towards Bristol, and then turn southwest on the M5. It is a very long drive, being a distance of a good 150 miles, or about 200 kilometres, Michael mentally calculates.
Michael very quickly finds himself annoyed with Roger’s driving. The psychologist drives ten miles per hour slower than the speed limit, so consequently cars and trucks and every other kind of vehicle zip past them.
They finally get off the M5 and pull into Taunton after dark after almost three hours of monotonous driving “ almost as bad as the agonising flight, but just shorter. He had unfortunately been fully conscious for the car ride, kept awake by the “easy listening” music humming from the radio.
Roger parks the car and the two of them get out. Immediately, Michael is hit by a wall of cold air. The weather is dark, morose, even ominous. A thick, impenetrable fog clings to the earth, smothering everything it touches.
Michael now understands perfectly why he had wanted to move to Australia.
The two walk in the direction of the devastation caused by the mysterious freak hurricane several months before. Soon enough, Michael encounters the first signs of its impact.
“Anything coming back to you, Michael?” asks Roger the Psychologist.
“No… not yet,” he mutters in response.
The area doesn’t look like it had been hit by a hurricane. Sure, there are uprooted trees and some houses with their roofs ripped off, but the damage is strangely localised in certain areas. Single houses or rows of houses are completely obliterated (with new houses under construction to replace them), but other houses and rows are left completely intact. Hurricanes are supposed to be indiscriminating…
The brass cartridge cases he remembers that were scattered about had all disappeared. However, the marks left by their bullets remain. Here and there walls are pockmarked with bullet holes. There are also fresh stretches of asphalt in parts of the roads, covering what Michael suspected had once been craters.
They arrive at a street that Michael remembers walking down after the hurricane. He beckons for Roger to follow, and the two hustle down the lane, drawing their coats tighter to keep out the cold. Michael follows the path excitedly, hoping it will lead to some sort of clue, any kind of evidence proving who he is.
And there it is: the dark, secluded corner where Michael Cunningham’s life began.
“This is it,” he tells Roger the Psychologist.
Michael walks into the space, wondering why he had been there to begin with. His oldest memory of himself dated only a few months back to the “hurricane.” He had been in that very corner, wiping something off his face and examining the uniform he was wearing“
“Christ!” Michael exclaims, cursing his horrible memory.
“What?” asks Roger, alarmed.
“How could I have forgotten? I was in a uniform! A British Army uniform!”
“You were? What did the name tag say?”
For the life of him, Michael can’t remember, and he informs Roger about that unfortunate fact. He at least remembers concrete proof that he is, in fact, former British Army personnel. However, it is aggravating, having come so close, yet still being so far from the answer to his identity. With this realisation, Michael is suddenly aware of how cold and foggy it is.
And it is just getting colder.
There is a rattling breath, a something that is sucking the very life out of the air. Impossibly, the air bites even colder and darkens. The mist condenses. There is a descending pall of gloom, as if all sense of happiness had simply ceased to be.
The rattling, sucking breath gets louder; it is closer, and Michael finds himself unable to move. It is as if very bones in Michael’s body had turned to ice. He is paralyzed with terror.
“Michael?” says Roger, concerned.
He hears laughter in his head, but it is not his own. They are jeers, cries of amusement towards pain, pain that is… his. The ghost of a memory in the far reaches of Michael’s mind tauntingly shouts CRUCIO! Inexplicitly, Michael’s body erupts in agony, tortured by the dwindling recollection of terrors long past.
He collapses from the pain of it all, both physical and mental. His eyes close shut as he opens his mouth, screaming. His mind is an explosion of a multitude of forgotten terrors. He sees friends he never knew slaughtered; sees himself tortured by laughing, hooded, and masked men, whose faceless faces alone are horrors to behold.
“MICHAEL!” says Roger’s alarmed voice. “What’s wrong? What’s happen“”
Roger doesn’t finish the sentence, because now he is screaming too.
It is cold and his head only knows horror, but the Psychologist’s cries are even more terrifying. Roger’s scream pierces through the thick night, but it is unexpectedly cut off.
Roger’s shrieks are replaced by the terrifying, rattling breath. There is startling rasping noise, as if all of the air is inexorably being sucked right out of him. The sound is so terrible that Michael can not help opening his eyes, ignoring the pain his own soul is suffering.
As soon as he opens his eyes and sees Roger, he immediately wishes he hadn’t. He knows the sight will haunt him for the rest of his life.
Roger is thrashing on the ground, his eyes wide open. His mouth is agape too and he appears to be screaming, but the only noise is the rattling breath and the appalling gasping sound of all the air, or perhaps his very essence, being brutally ripped from his lungs. Roger’s body convulses in agony and his limbs flail helplessly, but he suddenly “ inexplicitly “ falls limp. His neck slackens and Roger’s head rests on its side; his mouth open and his blank, unseeing eyes staring vacantly in Michael’s direction.
Roger didn’t move at all after that.
The rattling breath gets louder and louder, nearing Michael. His head is tortured and his brain convulses with the echoes of mad laughter, screams, and the horrific sight he had just witnessed. The pain intensifies as his ears are filled with the deafening din of the rattling deathly breath.
Michael turns his head away, desperate to avoid the sight of Roger’s statue-still body. He scrambles and stumbles blindly, trying to distance himself from the incoming invisible… thing.
His body backs up into walls of the dark corner, and his limbs go limp, their strength stolen by the disembodied breath. Michael wills himself to try to escape, but his body betrays him. The rattling gets closer.
Screaming. Laughing. Agony. Roger twitching and then lying still.
The nightmarish echoes strengthen, and the ability to think independently is easily brushed aside. Michael is left only with the worst reminiscences of a life he never knew. Why couldn’t it just end? If he could only think of one thing, it was that very question.
What feels like cold, firm hands grip Michael’s face and force his head upwards, but there is nothing there supporting him; just the night and the fog. The rattling breath is booming; he could feel the cold air against his face being sucked into the invisible void, directly in front of him.
The air from Michael’s lungs is stolen from his body by rattling breath. He soon feels numb, his mind and thoughts empty.
Just then, there is pain on the back of his head. The thing; that horrible, rattling breath drops him back to the ground. There is a faint silver glow at the edge of Michael’s blurred vision, growing brighter and closer, and the cold subsides by the tiniest margin. Is that hope? his numb brain wonders.
Whether it is or not, he doesn’t find out; the fresh horrors and the pain are too much to bear.
Michael Cunningham yields to the suffocating darkness.
Notes
The U.K. began its metrification process in 1978 as a condition for membership in the European Economic Community, which has since become the European Union. Under the terms, the U.K. was to replace imperial measurements for things like packaging and such with metric units. However, road distances and speeds were allowed to continue using the imperial system, simply due to the vast cost of changing the measurements for every road sign in Britain to metric, and not to mention maps, car speedometers, etc. That is why the measurements in this story have been predominately metric, with the exception of road distances.
When I was first writing chapter three, I used the terms “psychology/psychologist” and “psychiatry/psychiatrist” interchangeably. After a little bit of research, I found out that they are in fact two separate things. Roger the Psychologist is a psychologist because he interviews people and tries to figure out their problems through counselling and doing those weird mind test things that I don’t understand. A psychiatrist, on the other hand, studies the actual brain of the subject person, and prescribes medication and such.
I would like to thank reviewer witch1561 for letting me know that a flight from Sydney to London takes about a full day and incorporates a stop in Southeast Asia. I have since changed the story to incorporate that.
Anyway, thank you very much for reading the fourth chapter of this story. I really appreciate any reviews for this story, so please do so if you have the extra minute. Thank you.
Tim the Enchanter
''OBLIVIATE!'' by Tim the Enchanter
Chapter Notes: Wow. I’ve actually written four chapters all the way through. That must be a record.
Anyway, thank you kind reader person for putting up with the completely magic-lacking previous two chapters. Without spoiling too much, that trend ends in this chapter. The plot thickens!
I hope you don’t get bored of me saying this, but once again, I don’t own Harry Potter. I just happen to like the series and vent my creative frustrations into writing fanfiction. As always, I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it, and please review if you have the chance. Any reviews are greatly appreciated and will receive a response.