Blackout, p.5
Blackout, page 5
“I didn’t say that you were. But something has happened, and I want to help you separate fact from fiction.”
“You think I’m making this up?”
She thought for a moment about what she was going to say before answering. “In my professional life, I experienced things you would never believe possible. Is it possible that when I hit you with my bike, you blacked out and have these memories now? Yes, it’s possible.”
“But I was only at that spot, outside that building, because our friends live there. I came looking for them, as I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I left them a note.”
“You have friends living in this building?” she asked.
Evidently, they were still in the same building, given what she just said, something that he didn’t know. The kitchen layout was very different to the one in Nick and Carol’s home. He nodded.
“What number do they live at?”
“They are on the ground floor, the blue door on the left,” he said.
She stood up, Marcus following.
“But they weren’t home earlier, when I knocked.”
They walked down two flights of stairs, Piret living on the third floor. They arrived at the blue door.
“Your friends live here?” she asked sceptically. He nodded. “What are their names?”
“Nick and Carol. They’ve lived in Tallinn for about a year. Until recently, we always came here to hang out. Our home was being renovated.”
There was no sign of the note from earlier, suggesting that someone had since arrived home after he had left it there. She knocked.
An old Estonian man opened the door. Piret and he talked for a while, Marcus glancing in, the house unfamiliar, his confusion growing.
When their conversation was finished, the man closed the door, not even glancing at Marcus after the initial greeting.
“He’s an old man who has lived here for twenty years, Marcus. He doesn’t know anyone called Nick or Carol.”
“No, that’s impossible. They live here. I’ve been here. We all have.”
“I think you are confused. Perhaps you are in the wrong building?”
His monitor beeped. She looked concerned.
“Let’s get you back upstairs. I think my son can help.”
They climbed the stairs in silence.
Chapter
Seven
They still said nothing to each other, not until getting back into Piret’s kitchen, events growing more confusing for Marcus as the hours ticked by. He shook his head at the offer of another drink.
Piret’s mobile phone ringing gave them both the space they needed, Marcus with far more to think about than she did.
She chatted away on the phone for a few minutes, all in Estonian, Marcus not understanding a word. When he’d first arrived in the country, he couldn’t even hear the gaps between words in the seemingly constant sound. He’d thought it surely couldn’t have been an actual language?
She ended the call.
“I’ve given my son the names of your wife and daughters, Marcus. He works for the border agency. It’s a government department. He’ll be able to find their details on the system, give you an address for them.”
He looked up at her, speaking for the first time since getting back from downstairs. “I know where I live, Piret. I’m not crazy.”
She stared at him for a moment before saying. “Marcus, nobody is saying you are crazy.”
He held his head in his hands. Piret looked across the kitchen at him with concern, though there was empathy there, too. She felt safe, in no danger from him. She wanted to help. She also still felt a little guilty for her part in knocking him over. She was certain now that this was what had caused his confusion.
“Marcus, why don’t we take a drive and visit your home?”
“They aren’t there. I’ve checked.”
“Why don’t you show me, anyway? Besides, it’s been a while. Where else would they go to wait for you?”
He nodded slowly as the idea took root. He could see her point. They stood and without saying anything more, headed to the door.
Marcus was in the front passenger seat as Piret drove, giving her the occasional direction. The slow traffic allowed them time to talk.
She asked. “Tell me about your family.”
“You know most of it already. My wife’s name is Tiffany. We have two daughters, Jenny, who’s seven, and Millie, who’s five. We moved to Tallinn three years ago. She works at an international school here in Tallinn.” He was pointing with his hands. “Take a left here…”
“Which school is it she works at?”
“We’ll pass it in a moment. It’s close to home. It’s the reason we chose the house when we discovered it.”
“And do your daughters go to this school also?”
“Jenny does, yes... it’s the next right.”
They soon pulled up alongside a building with construction work taking place. There was scaffolding all around it, white sheets covering most of the walls. Rubble chutes were in place in various spots, bringing debris down from the higher floors. They could see several dozen builders on site, most up high, others going in and out of the portable cabins that were in place. A large crane was lifting what looked like materials for a new roof from the back of a long trailer. A sign in Estonian at the metal gates gave the name of the school as Gymnasium Number 4.
Piret was looking out of the car window, taking this all in, pointing to the building. “Is that the school that your wife works at?”
Marcus was suddenly even more confused, bordering on frightened. “It was new... I don’t understand. It’s an international school.”
“But, Marcus, this is an Estonian school. It’s been here for years. I’ve known friends who went there. They sent their children there, too.”
He screamed.
Loud and fast and sudden.
This startled Piret, initially. Though she had been around such patients for decades. Men and women who were on the edge. Many were so far over the edge that recovery became impossible.
She watched him closely.
She was wondering if she was witnessing the beginning of his breakdown.
“Where is your home from here?” she asked, moving the focus away from the school. She didn’t have high hopes of locating his home, either.
Taking a moment to compose himself, he pointed further down the road they were on.
“Drive to the end, then right, first left, and continue until the road finishes.”
She pulled away seconds later, Marcus taking in the sight and activity at the school, watching it until he couldn’t see it any more.
It was less than a three-minute drive before they pulled into the kerb outside the traditional wooden home that Marcus had pointed out to her.
Piret, first out of the car, stood on the pavement, waiting for Marcus. They took in the house before them. There was no obvious sign that anybody lived there, though Marcus had said that much as they drew close. He had talked about his plans for the front garden.
Piret had seen him come alive more in that minute of talk about the plants than she’d seen him at any other time since running into him on the bike.
Kirsten, the old lady from next door, was there again, standing in her front garden. She came slowly towards the fence as Piret and Marcus stepped forward.
Kirsten called out in Estonian.
Marcus and Piret, who had not noticed her as they neared the door to his home, both turned once she called them. Marcus said quietly to Piret.
“She’s our next-door neighbour. I only just met them both. She’s unwell with dementia, I believe.”
Kirsten was still speaking to them from across the fence. Piret was silent as she listened. Piret turned to Marcus.
“She says the house is empty.”
Piret pointed to the front door, to his home, though Marcus understood that much already.
Piret added. “She says that nobody lives here.”
“Like I said, dementia.” Marcus was tapping his head with his index finger.
Piret, leaving Marcus at the front door, went over instead to speak to Kirsten.
Marcus knocked on the door anyway, peering through the front window once more, though he couldn’t see in. The windows were old, something they had not replaced yet.
It was in the plan.
That, and the front garden.
There was also no access to the side of the house from the front, something that was an initial concern when they looked at the property. When it came time to fix up the back garden, everything would need to come in through the house. That, or lift it over the building with a huge crane, which wouldn’t be easy on a minor road like that one, with little space to turn around.
Marcus looked over from his front doorstep, the two women still speaking at the fence. He called to Piret. “Ask her if her husband is home.”
“He’s working,” Piret confirmed, evidently having been told that by Kirsten already.
“He’s a postman.” Marcus didn’t know why he shouted this to Piret. Anything to make her believe him.
Before they said much else, Piret’s mobile phone was ringing. She took it from her bag, looking at the screen. “It’s my son.”
She answered the call, glancing twice over to Marcus, then decidedly fixing on him with a stare that he couldn’t hold. He knew it was not good. She finished the call, pocketing her phone slowly.
She was calculating what to say next.
“Well?” he asked.
“Marcus, there is nobody by those names in the Estonian database.”
He was shaking his head in disbelief, baffled. “What? That makes no sense. We have ID cards. We’ve been here for three years.”
“My son confirmed you aren’t on the database either, Marcus... if what you remember is your proper name.” She headed towards the car, phone in hand. “We’ve taken too much of this dear lady’s time already. This isn’t your home, Marcus. It’s empty.”
“No! That’s impossible. We live here. I live here!”
“No, Marcus, you do not.”
She was firm now.
She looked at her phone again, pressing a button, the phone to her ear.
“Who are you calling now?”
“You need help, Marcus. More help than a retired woman can offer you right now.”
She spoke into the phone.
Marcus ran, Piret calling after him, phone dropping to one side for a moment, but he was gone before she knew it.
Chapter
Eight
Eight Years Ago
Local Supermarket—London
Marcus was standing in the middle of the aisle. He had a basket in hand, the basket half-full of items, most of which were on his shopping list.
It was his hearing that became muffled first. The background murmurs of the other shoppers. Gentle music played over the speakers. The announcement for another cashier on checkout nineteen. All going mute.
Silence
Then his vision blurred. Things went dark.
The next sound he heard was that of heavy braking. A car’s horn. Sound and light came bursting back into his head.
He was no longer in the shop.
The fresh air against his cheeks told him he was outside, long before his eyes opened to confirm the fact. The shop was fifty metres away.
Marcus was standing in the middle of a road.
There was a call from behind, a security guard running his way. Shouting. He looked angry.
In Marcus’s hand, as he became fully conscious, taking in all that was happening to him, he was still holding the half-full basket of shopping.
The sound of the driver, whose car had nearly just hit Marcus, came loudest to him next. He was shouting at Marcus, who was hardly taking any of this in. Get out of the road, you idiot!
Marcus felt dazed. Stunned. He didn’t know why he was there, or how he got there.
He hadn’t moved by the time the guard caught up with him. The guard took a firm hold of Marcus, leading him back towards the store seconds later. He grabbed the basket from him, Marcus letting it go.
Back at the store, the guard led Marcus into the security office, his basket placed on a table. His guilt was clear. There were no windows in that room, just a wall of monitors watching the shoppers.
Marcus could only imagine what they made of him leaving with the basket in his hand.
They left Marcus sitting in a chair for a while. Then the police arrived.
The officer asked for his driver's licence, which Marcus took out from his wallet. He showed it to them.
They noted down his details.
“Is there somebody we can call for you, Mr Caine?” they said to Marcus.
Marcus thought for only a moment, his full senses restored to him. “My wife, Tiffany. She’ll be at school right now, though. She’s a teacher.”
Marcus showed them the number from his phone. The officer made the call from the landline.
“Mrs Tiffany Caine, please. It’s PC Raf Jenkins from Bromley Central police station…”
There was silence for a while. Marcus was hanging his head in shame. He didn’t know what Tiffany would make of it.
She would be shocked, of course.
She would be worried, too.
“Mrs Caine? Hello, my name is PC Raf Jenkins... yes, your husband, Marcus Caine, is with us... no, he’s okay… Yes, he needs your help... It’s better if we discuss this in person... I understand... We’ll see you at the station shortly. Thank you.”
The officer hung up, passing the phone back to the security guard, a man now looking smug, as if to say, Another one caught.
“You’re arresting me?” Marcus asked the officer, in surprise, but having just heard where they had told Tiffany to meet them.
“Mr Caine, you walked out of this supermarket with a basket of goods worth over £20. Not to mention then nearly causing an accident for good measure. But no, we are still assessing what happened to you. Your wife will help us.”
“She will?” Marcus asked, hopeful yet not understanding how she could help. They had caught him red-handed, hadn’t they? Not that he meant it.
Perhaps that was the point?
However, it had never happened before. Was that a good thing, or did it work against him?
They escorted Marcus from the room, leaving his last question unanswered. He was not in handcuffs, the three merely walking calmly from the store, a few glancing their way, but soon they were out of the front door.
They placed Marcus in the back seat. He looked out of the window, lost, as the car pulled away.
The police station was not somewhere Marcus had ever been inside before. It was large, with lots of concrete, not enough windows. Something thrown up in the 1980s at great expense, praised then for its architecture, but four decades on, now only looking like the hideous thing it had always been.
The same two officers who had been at the supermarket were sitting with Marcus. Tiffany entered the room, Marcus standing, embracing her.
She sat down next to him. It was the officer who spoke first.
“We’ve reviewed the CCTV footage from the supermarket. Your husband claims he has no clear recollection of walking out without paying for that basketful of food.”
“I don’t, I’ve told you this,” Marcus pleaded.
“Oh God, babe, it’s started, hasn’t it?”
“It’s not that, Tiff.”
Both officers were taking in this twist in the conversation with interest. They turned to Tiffany.
“Mrs Caine, what’s started?”
Marcus was shaking his head slowly, knowing this was not a good idea. Tiffany was only looking at the officer.
“His father had these. Absence seizures, the doctors called them. Little moments where he just wasn’t there. I never knew my husband’s father. He died before I met Marcus. It was sudden. Genetic. Afterwards, they tested Marcus. They discovered he had the same risk. However, before today, nothing has ever happened.”
“This wasn’t that,” Marcus pleaded again.
This time she turned to him, her eyes moist, voice raised. She was at the end of herself. Didn’t want to lose him. She swore. “Then what was it, Marcus?”
He could not answer her. Didn’t know how to answer her. Had no answer.
“This is on the record, I take it? The tests, I mean. You can verify the story?” The officer was looking at Tiffany. She nodded. Both officers looked at each other. Her acknowledgement had seemed to confirm something for them.
“We will not charge you with shoplifting, Mr Caine. Besides, most thieves don’t just stand in the middle of the road when they leave the store.”
“I wasn’t stealing.”
“We know,” the officer agreed, a small smile on his face. It soon went away. “But you need to speak to your doctor. You might have been killed today.”
This caused Tiffany to gasp, Marcus looking at the officer as if he was being overly dramatic there.
“I wasn’t, though, okay. It’s really nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Speak to your doctor. They can help.”
The officers both stood up, the sign that the interview was over, Tiffany and Marcus both rose as well. They held the door open for the couple, Tiffany walking through first. They could hear Marcus saying.
“This isn’t that, Tiff.”
Two weeks later.
Marcus was walking through his local park, passing a playground. He was wearing his heart monitor now, something the doctors had given him after the supermarket incident. He still felt it was stupid. An overreaction.
The monitor was an early warning system.
It felt nothing but a needless distraction, bulky. It made him feel like there was something seriously wrong with him. He still thought they had blown the whole supermarket incident out of all proportions.
Sounds became muffled, but he could still see things this time. Only the happy screams of the child playing on the see-saw were gone.
