Mind Games, by Michael Gouda

He woke from the blazing darkness that was filled with incomprehensible dreams, to find he was in an alien world - alien yet in some ways very familiar. He knew the language but couldn't understand the context. For a start, he had no idea who he was. Yet the white ceiling, the curtains around his bed, the metal bedhead, the plastic bag with a drip line leading into the back of his right hand immediately triggered the idea – hospital. And when a nurse came to see him, blue uniform, starched cap pinned precariously to a jumble of red hair, and a face which looked care-worn and job-harassed, he wasn't surprised at all.

"Where am I?" he asked – or thought he asked. Perhaps the first question should have been 'Who am I?' but he felt a little scared about asking such a question which so obviously betrayed his own vulnerability. In any case the question when it did come out was so distorted and blurred, even to his own ears, that it made no sense. And the nurse just smiled and laid a cool hand on his forehead.

His lips were dry, his throat parched, and his head hurt. He made sounds and the nurse held a glass of water for him. He sipped and swallowed painfully. The liquid cleared his head a little, the light from the window seemed to become brighter - and hurt his head. Sounds became sharper: someone was coughing, a door slammed, a radio was playing some pop music in the distance. He found he was aching in other places: his ribs, his left arm (a dull pain), his left leg (sharp stabbing). He groaned. The amnesia was terrifying but the pain was worse.

"Hurts," he managed, his tongue thick in his mouth.

The nurse nodded. "I'll get you something for it," she said.

Well at least he was making himself understood to some extent. He shut his eyes until the nurse came back. "Drink this," she said. "It'll help the pain."

Liquid, cloying, viscous, tasting slightly chemical behind the sweetness, it stayed for a while in the back of his throat. He waited impatiently, worrying at the pain, willing it to be gone. "It's not working," he said, and then felt the pain ease. "Thank you," he said opening his eyes, but she was no longer there. Perhaps he had slept again.

He lay there, momentarily comforted, his body relieved and soothed by the drug. His mind, though, was not affected. It probed into that incomprehensible darkness… well, more a blankness. He knew there must be something there, something concrete, something he could grab hold of which would tell him who he was, why he was in the hospital, what had happened. But the more he tried to explore, the more tenuous it became. There was nothing there. No hint of a childhood, a family, not one familiar face – not even his own. He wondered what he looked like, how old he was. Reality had started perhaps just half an hour ago. He found himself accepting the inevitable. Perhaps if he slept, he would wake and remember all. But sleep would not come and the outside world impinged on his consciousness.

There were voices in the corridor outside. Well, he assumed it was a corridor. The voices had that quality which suggested a long room with echoes. A yell from down the corridor. Shouting, voices raised in anger or pain, harsh sounds. Shouting. Words shouted in passionate rage, abusive noises, jealous fury. A shout from down the hall. Now it echoed down the hall from the door opened to reveal all.

"Eddie, you fucking bastard." The man stood there at the open doorway, dark face twisted in appalled rage, twisted almost out of recognition so that it became a gargoyle of a face, the words wrenched out through the anger, the betrayal. And the street clothes of the man made their own nakedness more shameful, the act they had been surprised in, degrading and humiliating.

"I'm sorry, Fergus. We were going to tell you."

"Sorry!" The voice was almost a scream. Impotence. Inexpressible rage. "And that makes it all right?"

"No of course not… Nothing makes it 'right'. It just happened..."

But the man at the door, Fergus, wasn't listening, his hands clenched into fists, his mind choked with the enormity of the discovery. "And with that one…"

That was him Fergus was talking about, pointing at. His heart beating with the suddenness of their discovery, naked in the act, his penis losing its erection, lying flaccid against his thigh.

"It wasn't Toby's fault…"

He was Toby. That must be his name. And Eddie, the man he was with.

The shouting went on, the two voices joining, competing. Threats of violence while he lay there covering himself with his hands, with the bedclothes, aware of his own vulnerability until the door slammed, the sound echoing through the room, through his head and the voices growing fainter. Another door slammed further away and his head pounded though the cotton wool of the drug cushioned the violence of the blow. A door opened. Was he coming back, his coat long and buttoned down the front but this time white – unsuitable for outdoors. And a stethoscope in his side pocket, the ear-pieces projecting. Lined face, moustache, grey eyebrows. Must be a…

"Doctor," he said, the word more distinct now, the idea clear in his mind.

"How are you feeling?" Sounding solicitous.

"Head hurts," he said. "Arm… leg." He found another pain. "Ribs…"

"I'm not surprised. Your skull is cracked. Some broken bones. Painful bruises on your ribs." The words were spoken gently, but the extent of his injuries bewildered Toby. He wondered who and what had caused them.

So did the doctor. "Can you tell me anything about how you got them? They seem as if they were possibly caused by someone hitting you with a heavy object. Have you any idea who did it to you?"

He shook his head – then wished he hadn't. The pain slashed through his brain.

"Amnesia," said the doctor. "Not surprising. Do you know your own name?"

"Toby," he said and couldn't go on.

"Nothing more?"

"No."

"Rest now," said the doctor writing something on the chart at the foot of the bed. "The memory will come back eventually, I'm sure. The police will want to talk to you later."

The police! What could he tell them? That he had been caught in bed with a man called Eddie? That they had been discovered by another guy called Fergus? He remembered Fergus. His dark face, flushed with anger, black glossy hair, short with a hint of waviness. Thickset body almost brutal. Hands clenched into fists, ready for attack. And what did Edward look like? He suddenly realised that, in the brief glimpse of memory that had returned to him, he hadn't looked at Edward, only at that irate, threatening figure at the doorway. He had no idea what his lover looked like. A male lover! Was the fact that he was gay a shock? It was one of the things he knew about himself. Instinctive things, like that he was male. Or things so solidly implanted that they were part of him: that he could speak and understand English, that he could recognise his surroundings.

Eventually he slept and plunged into those frightening but transitory dreams which left no trace by the time he was awakened by the routine of next morning.

A male nurse shaved him with old-fashioned soap and water, gently, solicitously – almost professionally – and he felt a sensuous enjoyment as the lather was brushed into his cheeks and chin. The man, young, intense, queer as a fruit cake, blond eyebrows set in a frown of concentration, sat by him on the bed and shaved away his stubble with a safety razor, the warmth of his thigh against his body. Safe under the sheet and regulation hospital blanket, Toby felt an erection forming and hoped the man wouldn't notice but then decided it probably wouldn't matter if he did.

When the nurse had done, he held up a mirror for Toby to inspect himself. He saw a stranger staring back at him under the white turban of bandage around his head. Brown eyes set under a worried forehead, straight eyebrows, high cheekbones and sensual lips. Possibly mid to late twenties. Difficult to tell more precisely without the hair showing. The features put together though did not displease him, though he was disappointed that he did not recognise the face.

"What do you think?" asked the nurse.

"I thought I was older."

"I meant about the shave."

"Excellent," said Toby.

He felt better, fresher after the shave, though tired out. And pleased when the doctor, on his rounds, said he could have the drip out of his hand. His head nevertheless still ached. The morning passed and he dozed to wake suddenly when the fluorescent strip light above his bed started to flicker.

A regular flashing which triggered off some other occasion where lights flashed, though these beat in time to music. Harsh pounding rhythms with the bass notes on drums and bass guitar, the melody sharper, more intense, weaving in and out of the throbbing pulse. Coloured beams of light which lit up sweat-slicked bodies. Maleness and sex. Contorted limbs sharpened by the rampant rhythms, dancing to the strident disharmonies of the lights. The persistent, insistent thump had given him an erection.

That and the whirling, athletic body of the guy with the golden hair.

"Who is he?" he asked his friend.

"That's Edward Kemble. Eddie."

"He's beautiful."

The words were out before he could stop them but perhaps lost in the music. Or perhaps he didn't even say them, for his friend didn't comment. Perhaps he too was spellbound, for Edward Kemble was indeed beautiful. And 'Edward' was such an appropriate name for one with such Saxon blond hair and looks, though clichés like 'Apollo' ran through Toby's mind as he watched. There were many blonds in the Gay Club – blonds bleached almost white, dirty blonds, blonds with hair the colour of old gold, gilded youths back from expensive holidays in the tropics or expensive sessions at the hair stylists – but none matched the rich sunshine gold that caught and reflected the laser lights in a way Toby had never seen before. The man had taken his shirt off and his chest gleamed in the disco lights with a faint sheen of sweat. His skin was the colour of burnished copper and he had obviously spent a lot of expensive time out in the sun. His regular features, straight nose, eyes of – surely – the most rain-washed, heavenly blue; lips so perfectly formed that they demanded to be kissed, white teeth exposed in a smile of such seductive attractiveness that Toby was immediately entranced, besotted, infatuated.

"Is he free?"

"You mean available?" His friend obviously heard him this time for he answered. "What do you think, looking like that? No, that's his lover." He pointed to a dark, misshapen thing which hovered in the background, a monster in comparison, Toby thought. "That's Fergus Linford."

"Must have money," Toby said.

"Or a stupendous cock."

Eddie's dark jeans hung low, just hooked on the jut of his hip bones to show off his compact body with the white waistband of his underwear showing seductively above the top of his trousers as he moved his pelvis in time to the music. Toby felt an almost irresistible urge to throw him down to the floor – even here in the Gay Club – and kiss him from head to toe pausing at strategic locations. He didn't think he had ever seen such a truly beautiful male before – yes, attractive ones, even handsome – but Edward Kemble was something so special, so extraordinarily exceptional that almost without thinking, certainly without pondering on the consequences, Toby stepped forward into the throng, the sweating cacophony of sound and seduction…

... and the fever engulfed him, drew him in, spinning him into the vortex of whirling bodies with the smells of desire and the touches of naked flesh so that his senses whirled. And the vertigo spun him round and round until it was only the mattress and the pillow and the sudden steadying of the light above his bed that brought him back to the present, remembering – and finding...

... someone sitting beside his bed. A man, brown-haired, youngish, mid thirties, patiently staring in front of him. Waiting. Toby moved slightly and the man turned his head, focused on him.

"Toby," he said, his voice slightly Cockney, the vowels flattened. "How are you feeling?"

"OK," managed Toby.

"Detective Constable Peter Lippet," said the man, introducing himself. Toby felt a slight feeling of apprehension and then was not quite sure why… a policeman beside his bed. But then the doctor had said he should expect an interview.

"The doctor says you have amnesia. I wondered if there was anything at all you remembered about the attack."

"Nothing," said Toby.

The policeman looked disappointed. "No names which might give us a clue as to you are, sir?"

Toby thought of the two memories which had returned to him. There was no concrete evidence as to who had attacked and injured him, but all the same he felt this great anger towards the dark man, Fergus Linford. He tried to push his mind into the blankness, to explore it and find something more but nothing further came… Except the nagging, throbbing pain in his head. Would it be dangerous to give this policeman the name?

"I have one name," he said, making up his mind. "There's nothing definite against him except a vague feeling of threat. Fergus. Fergus Linford."

The policeman wrote it down. "Have you any recollection of the face that goes with the name?"

"Dark," said Toby. "Dark complexion, black hair, stocky build, short. Mid twenties, I suppose. Nothing very distinctive. I think of him wearing a dark overcoat."

"Where have you seen him?" This guy was no fool. "Can you picture him in some sort of setting?"

A Gay Club, thought Toby. Standing staring through the darkness and the flashing laser lights at the Golden Boy. Then framed in the doorway of a bedroom, fists clenched, shouting, face twisted in a rictus of anger.

"No," he said. "It's just a vague impression I have of him – and the feeling of menace."

The policeman nodded, made a note and got up. "I'll probably be back in a couple of days," he said. "Perhaps something more will have returned by then."

Toby's head pounded.

The pain a throbbing, thumping agony. In the darkness someone waiting, a thick weapon in his hand and the unaware victim coming round the corner. The weapon raised and falling, hitting an arm raised in defence, the sound of a bone cracking, then another blow on the unprotected skull, the body falling, kicking the ribs in jealousy and rage. Crumpled figure on the ground, arms and legs sprawled, one leg bent upwards and a final satisfying strike so that another bone shattered. A mist of consciousness, warm blood pulsing out and the pain.

"Do you need some more pain-killer?" The red-haired nurse had arrived, cool, efficient, angel of mercy. Toby looked grateful, and she brought eventual relief with her magic potion.

In the afternoon he was allowed up and, on legs (one in plaster) which felt weak and wobbly, hobbled across the ward to collapse into a chair. The doctor came to visit him.

"Any memories coming back?" he asked.

"A couple. They're mixed up though. I think I can remember the attack but it almost seems as if it's happening to someone else. As if I was standing watching it happen. But thinking about it brings on the headaches."

The doctor nodded. "Don't try to force it," he said. "If they're coming back then the odds are everything will return, but in their own good time. Little things will trigger them off. Above all don't worry."

There were no dreams for him that night and he awoke with an erection. He held himself with the hand on his uninjured side and suddenly realised he must be left-handed. It felt wrong doing it with his right hand, almost as if it was a stranger stroking his cock.

Erotic feelings in his loins. The build-up of an orgasm somewhere deep inside him and everything centred in his groin. The desire to come, the urge to prolong the feeling as long as possible. A body next to him, warm, male, hard muscle but soft skin. A smell of healthy masculine sweat, the salty taste of it on his tongue. Licking. Tasting. Finding out what the stranger felt like, what things excited him, aroused him.

A strange hand held his cock and then a warmth enclosed the head, taking his prick inside, swallowing him while a warm palm caressed his balls, felt between his legs. He opened them wanting to be entered. Wanting the warm mouth to continue and a hard cock against his lips. His nose pressed into the other's ballsack, smelling Eddie's musk and excitement. He was in bed with the Golden Boy.

He remembered how they had come in from the grey day outside, from the Wine Bar where they had been drinking, and almost before the door had shut behind them, the fire of lust in their loins, wrenched off their clothes, leaving them in a trail all down the hall to the bedroom at the end. Panting, laughing, kissing and stroking, the feel of his skin, golden even on this dull November London day. Looking down at that laughing smile, the golden curls on the pillow.

"Edward Kemble," he had said, "you are beautiful."

And Eddie had replied, "Toby Dalton, stop talking," and had pulled him down on top of him. That was his name: Toby Dalton.

The kisses of his mouth – he could taste the wine they had been drinking – and his tongue, exploring, then licking a path down his chest.

They sank onto the cushions, their mouths joined, breast to breast, hip to hip, loins to loins. Then Eddie moved down Toby's body again licking under his arm pits, tracing the line between his pectoral muscles down to his navel and finally following the track of hair which led to his prick. He took it into his warm, moist mouth and at the enclosure Toby nearly came, such was the ecstasy of the feeling. But Eddie seemed to realise how close to orgasm Toby was, and, determined to hold it off for as long as he could, he stopped his sucking and moved his body round so that his groin was opposite Toby's face, his prick pointing towards Toby's mouth.

The invitation was obvious and Toby did not hesitate, first washing it with his tongue and then taking the member in as far as he was able. He took hold of his lover's buttocks one with each hand while his fingers found the crack between and probed deeply. He heard Eddie's long audible breath expressing longing and felt his own member swallowed by that rapacious mouth. He could no longer hold himself back and, with a cry, discharged again and again.

As he came, the door was flung open and a figure stood there, but nothing, no interruption could stop the pulsing emission.

"Eddie, you fucking bastard!"

He came onto the hospital sheets. He tried to catch it in his hand but there was too much. And the embarrassing patch of semen grew cold as, trying to avoid it, he had the breakfast brought to him by the red-haired nurse.

But it was the male nurse who came to change the sheets after Toby had got up.

"I'm sorry," said Toby. "I'm afraid I…"

The nurse smiled. "You must be feeling better," he said as he whipped off the sheet with its tell-tale stain. "They don't do that if they're really ill!" He patted Toby familiarly on his shoulder – the uninjured side – and gave him a wink as if they were sharing a confidence. "I do it all the time," he said. "Were you dreaming of me?"

He was off with the soiled bedding before Toby could think up a suitable answer.

Toby dozed in his chair, remembering Eddie, the golden boy, remembering his smell, his taste. Had Eddie come before the door had been flung open and the dark figure appeared. He couldn't remember that.

He must remember more. But the doctor had told him not to force it. Toby tried to relax. Sitting with the sunshine coming through the window, he closed his eyes, listened to the sounds, but the hospital was quiet this afternoon. He could, though, hear sounds from outside. The monotonous cheep, cheep of London house sparrows in the guttering, a child's cry, a car in the road, revving up, powerful engine roaring.

The memory wasn't quite like most of the others. Like the recollection of his attack, it was as if it was happening to someone else but the details were crystal clear in his mind. The pavement with the uneven slabs, over the road the row of disused and boarded shop fronts. A brick-built railway bridge casting a dark shadow ahead of him and behind him the noise of the traffic from the High Street.

A car aimed at someone in a dark coat. There was a feeling of hate and then one of great release as the bonnet hit the man, tossing him into the air, arms and legs flailing, the mouth open in a soundless scream of pain. All mouth so that the face itself was unrecognisable and then the body – a puppet with the strings cut – thrown against the side of the bridge and falling slumped and boneless into the shadow.

Toby shivered as the sun went behind a cloud.

The policeman returned later that afternoon.

"Didn't expect you back so soon," said Toby. "I'm afraid I haven't remembered much more. Except that my name's Dalton, Toby Dalton."

"Well that's something. We can make a search for the name now." He paused.

"So did you find Fergus Linford?" Toby asked. "Did you speak to him?"

"Well that's the odd thing, sir," said the constable. "You see Fergus Linford is already on our files. He's dead. He was murdered. His body was found three days ago. Brutally battered."

Toby felt a shock, almost like a physical blow, jolt through his body. His mind raced. Eddie! Eddie could have done it. To escape from Fergus' jealousy. He could have done it for him, Toby, so that they could be together.

"The thing is," said the constable, "that he couldn't have attacked you, seeing as how he was dead before." He looked closely at Toby as if he was trying to fathom the genuineness of his amnesia. "Are you sure there are no other names associated in your mind with this Fergus Linford?"

Edward Kemble! Eddie, the Golden Boy! his mind shouted. But he couldn't give him away.

"No one," he said and wondered whether his voice carried conviction.

After the policeman had left, he worried about Eddie. There seemed to be no way he could get in touch with him. Though he could recall in detail the flat where he lived, the long hallway from the front door with rooms leading off, a living room, kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms, he had no idea where the flat was. He remembered coming in from the Wine Bar but could recall neither the name of the place nor the street.

Don't force it, he told himself. It will come back of its own accord.

The male nurse came by to see how he was. Toby realised that he didn't even know the man's name and wondered, if he asked, whether the nurse would think he was interested in him.

"There's been someone asking for you," said the nurse. "At the Reception. Asking for Toby Dalton."

"Who was it?"

"Wouldn't give his name. Just asked if you were here, how you were, and then went off."

"What was he like?" asked Toby.

"Didn't see him myself," said the nurse. "But Reception said he was a cracker. With bright gold hair… and a lovely body. Quite taken with him, she was." He paused, then said with a grin, "You're a lucky fellow."

Was he, wondered Toby. The caller must be Eddie. Eddie with the bright gold hair. Eddie who might be wanted by the police. If he was hanging around the hospital, he was in danger. Toby knew he had to warn him but could not figure out how to find him.

In bed in the middle of the night he woke and suddenly it was clear. He cursed himself for his stupidity. The obvious, obvious thing. He hadn't even looked in the phone book. Of course Edward Kemble might be ex-directory. There might be hundreds of E. Kemble's but Kemble wasn't all that common a name surely. And another thing had flashed into his memory, the name of the Wine Bar, a French name, Les Deux Amis. He wanted to find a directory immediately but that of course, was impossible. Even in the morning he was told to stay in bed, wait until the doctor’s round was over.

"Could you get me a telephone directory?" he asked. It wasn't the red-haired nurse, nor the male one. She promised but did not return.

At last the doctor arrived, with the Ward Sister and a nurse in attendance, and unwound the bandage from round his head. He examined and seemed pleased with what he found. "No need for that any more," he said. "Now what about the other bits? Arm, leg, ribs?"

"Much better," assured Toby, and indeed they were. He scarcely felt any pain and, with the aid of a stick, he was walking quite well.

"Memory?"

"Odd bits," said Toby, not wishing to give too much away.

The doctor nodded.

"Where was I found?" Toby asked. "I mean someone must have picked me up and brought me here."

"Not too far away. Stoke Newington High Street. Does that ring a bell?"

Toby shook his head and realised that it wasn't hurting.

"Get him up," said the doctor to the Sister. "Keep him moving as long as he doesn't feel pain or get tired."

They went out and a little while later the male nurse came in.

"I'm to help you get dressed," he said. "Don't get too excited."

"Can you get me a telephone directory?" asked Toby.

"Outer London Area? Sure."

Dressed and sitting in his chair, a small dressing rather than the turban of bandage on his head, Toby searched for Kemble E. There were no entries in the Stoke Newington area, though half a dozen in London overall. He wondered whether it would be worth while ringing all of them. But then he had a look for 'Les Deux Amis' and found it in Stoke Newington High Street. Immediately he could see in his mind the way from the Wine Bar to Eddie's flat. Surely it would be much better to go there himself rather than phoning. He considered his position. He was dressed, had a stick to help him to walk. Probably there would be a bus to the High Street which the doctor had said wasn't far from the hospital anyway. The dressing on his head could have been covering anything from a slight injury. All he had to do was walk out. It was not as if there was any watch kept on him.

He got up, testing his leg. It seemed OK. The corridor outside his room was empty and a sign on the wall pointed to Reception. A woman was sitting behind the counter when he got there.

"You need a 12a," she said in answer to his question about the bus. "Stops just outside the Hospital." She didn't even give him a curious look. He wondered whether this was the same woman who had been so smitten when Eddie had called.

It was all so easy. The bus came. A helpful passenger helped him on and the drive promised to give him a nod when they reached the High Street. Even before he did, though, Toby recognised the wine bar with its crossed tricolour French flags. He got off and then, remembering how he had walked with Eddie, took the first turning on the right.

He walked down the pavement and almost tripped over an uneven paving slab. It was a dreary, sadly rundown area. Over the road was a row of disused and boarded-up shop fronts. Graffiti artists had done their best to cheer up the façade but even these did not seem to have put their hearts and minds into it. Ahead of him a brick-built railway bridge cast a dark shadow. And behind him the noise of the traffic from the High Street.

Out of the darkness came the roar of a high-powered car heading straight for him. At the wheel a shock of bright gold hair. It was at that last moment that the memories came sweeping back in all their horrifying detail. Eddie! Golden Eddie, who had regretted the one-night stand almost immediately afterwards. Golden Eddie whose lover, Fergus, he, Toby had waited for outside that pub, beaten savagely until he was unconscious – dead! And now he realised at this, the last moment, this was Eddie's revenge ...

... because he, Toby, had murdered Fergus, waited for him round the corner, hit him again and again, battered him with fury, insanely jealous that Eddie – in the event – actually preferred Fergus.

The car caught him on the left side. He felt arm and leg break and pain run the whole length of his body. He tried to scream as he was flung through the air, his head crashing against the stone pilaster of the bridge. Pain dissolved into oblivion.

He woke from the blazing darkness that was filled with incomprehensible dreams, to find he was in an alien world – alien yet in some ways well known. He knew the language but couldn't understand the context. For a start he had no idea who he was. Yet the white ceiling, the curtains around his bed, the metal bedhead, the plastic bag with a drip line leading into the back of his right hand immediately triggered the idea – hospital. And when a nurse came to see him, blue uniform, starched cap pinned precariously to a jumble of red hair, and a face which looked care-worn and job-harassed, he wasn't surprised at all ...