Josh shook his "head -- it was getting to be a habit, he thought.
'Birmingham?'
'Not a sodding Brummie. Maybe it's better not to get my memory back if that's all there is to look forward to.'
'How old do you reckon you are?' said Kate.
Josh shrugged.
'You look about thirty.'
'I could be. I don't know'
'Married?' she asked.
Josh shrugged again. 'I can't remember.'
Kate laughed, raising her hand to her lips. 'I bet you use that line on all the girls.'
49
FOUR
Thursday, June 4th. Afternoon.
Josh lifted his head from the pillow. He kept his eyes closed, trying to cling on to the image that had been playing through his mind as he awoke. A man falling. A boy running. A shot. Then a shout.
The shout. What was he saying?
Josh squeezed his eyes tight shut, trying to hold himself in a state where he was half awake, half asleep. The shout, he repeated to himself. What the hell did it say?
No good.
The image had gone now, consigned to the dustbin, along with all the rest of his memories.
Josh opened his eyes. He took a long drink of water, looking at the clock. It was just after four in the afternoon. He must have slept for at least twenty-four, maybe twenty five hours. His body felt lazy and tired still, but the aching in his head was starting to ease, and the itch on his neck underneath the thick layer of bandages was getting weaker.
If there was a shot, was it my finger on the trigger?
Twenty-five hours, thought Josh. Whatever Kate jabbed into me must have been the strongest stuff in her locker.
A fly landed on the sheet. Josh slammed down his fist, squashing it against the white linen. Getting my strength back, reflected Josh. And my reflexes.
He levered himself from the bed, using all the strength in his elbows. Carefully, he put his left foot on the floor,
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pressing it against the cold tiles. The pain was still there, but it didn't scream up through his leg the way it had yesterday. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the red streaks running through his pupils were not quite so thick. And the fever heat on his brow seemed to be lessening. Gently, he reached out for the crutch and started to walk.
A gunshot rang out from the yard.
Instinctively, Josh ducked, his shoulders turning sideways, his hunched posture protecting both his head and his torso from any bullets that might come flying through the window. Looking around, he started searching through the room for something that could be improvised as a weapon. Nothing. The crutch might make a staff, but against a man with a gun it would be useless.
Another shot echoed across the empty landscape. Josh looked through the window. Marshall was standing in the yard, a pistol in his hand. Fifty yards away he had lined up a row of tin cans and was firing at them one by one.
A soldier, Josh thought to himself. They said they thought I was a soldier. And those were a soldier's instinctive reactions to the sound of gunfire. Shield yourself. Stay alive. And look for a way to fight back.
He watched Marshall from the window, noticing the ease with which the older man carried the weapon in his hand. A Browning, Josh noticed. A Browning Buck Mark field pistol, with its distinctive black metal barrel and polished walnut grips.Who are these people? he wondered to himself. Why have they taken me into this house? Why are they looking after me?
What do they want from me?
A tin can had fallen to the ground as one of Marshall's bullets tore through it.
'Nice shot,' said Josh, stepping out from the porch.
The heat of the midday sun was still beating down on the parched ground. It must be at least forty degrees, reckoned
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Josh. As soon as he stepped outside, he could feel the sun burning into the back of his neck, but the air was so dry and arid that it hardly raised a bead of perspiration on his skin.
'I'm not really any good,' said Marshall. 'I can fire a gun if I have to, but I was never really blessed with a natural aim. Only a few men are.' He looked hard at Josh, his eyes narrowing. 'How about you?'
Josh shrugged. 'I wouldn't know.'
Marshall smiled, walking across the dusty yard towards the back of the main building. Josh hobbled at his side, using the crutch to hold his weight as he moved forwards. He was dressed in just his gown, and the ground felt hot on the soles of his feet. 'Take a shot,' suggested Marshall. 'I think it might be good exercise for you. Get your senses working again.'
Josh just nodded. So far, he was uncertain what he should make^ of Marshall. Kate was a doctor, although even her motives were hard to figure out. But the old guy, thought Josh -- he was a puzzle without any clues.
The door swung open to reveal a storeroom full of guns and ammunition. There must have been a dozen hunting rifles stacked in rows. Josh ran his gaze over them, recognising a Saiga, a Kalashnikov, a Winchester, a Marlin and a Browning. They were all sporty, heavy-duty models with polished wooden stocks, designed to fell a deer or a stag at two hundred yards in the woods. Next to them was a range of pistols. .�
'Pick one,' said Marshall.
Josh looked at the weapons and let his instincts guide him. He took a Sig-Sauer P228 pistol, cocked it, then uncocked it and activated the firing-pin safety.
'I keep these loaded all the time,' said Marshall. 'Give it a go.'
Marshall held the gun for him while Josh hobbled outside.
52
ri
He walked across to the side of the porch, leaned his crutch against the wall and used the frame of the door to support some of his weight.
'Think you can hit one of those cans?'
'I have no idea,' answered Josh.
He released the safety, lifted the pistol and gripped the weapon in both hands, his feet positioned slightly apart like a boxer's. He raised the gun so that it Was level with his eye.
'The weaver position,' said Marshall.
'What?' asked Josh.
Marshall smiled. 'Never mind. It's a police term.'
Josh squinted, concentrating on the tiny sight at the tip of the barrel. The tin can was fifty yards distant, and only just visible. He lined up the pistol's barrel, then took a deep breath to steady the muscles in his shoulders and his forearms. Is this instinct? he wondered. Like a dog chewing on a bone. Or have I been trained to do this?
He squeezed the trigger gently, exerting only as much pressure as was needed to release the bullet. The barrel of the gun slammed backwards with the recoil but Josh had enough strength to control the kickback. Without thinking, he fired again. A double tap: two bullets in quick succession.
The tin can spun into the air, then shot forward as the second bullet punched through it.
'A shot,' said Marshall, standing two yards behind him. 'I thought so.' He paused. 'T,ry again.'
Josh steadied the pistol, took aim and fired. One shot, then two. The can clattered to the ground.
'Again,' said Marshall.
Josh paused, took a breath, then squeezed the trigger -- once, then twice. Another can bit the dust.
Marshall stepped in front of him. He took a swig of the beer bottle gripped in his right hand, emptying its contents
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down his throat. He glanced across towards Josh. 'Let's see if you can hit a moving target.'
With a swing of his hand, Marshall slung the bottle high up into the air. Josh followed it with his stare, tracking the arc of its movement. Wait until it peaks and starts to fall, he told himself. That is when it will slow down. That is when it will be easier to hit.
He squeezed the trigger. The bullet streaked high into the sky, hitting nothing. Almost instantaneously, Josh released the second round. This time he could hear the satisfying crunch of steel smashing into glass, sending a shower of tiny fragments of the bottle down from the sky.
'Like I said, a marksman,' said Marshall, stepping towards him. 'A soldier always fires twice. It's drilled into him.'
'You already said I was a soldier.'
Marshall nodded, his expression turning serious. 'Plenty of soldiers can't shoot straight,' he replied. 'Look at the way you always fire twice. Assault troops do that -- it's part of their training. If you want to kill a man, two bullets are always twice as good as one. Squeeze once, then twice, then drop your weapon.'
'Assault troops?' asked Josh.
Marshall shrugged. 'Special forces, maybe.'
Josh looked down at the ground. The shot. The memory he had woken up with. It was still there, struggling to emerge, like a worm trying to wriggle its way out of a hard piece of ground. The noise of it was vivid in his ears now: he could hear the echo of the bujlet spreading out across the empty scrubland.
Did I shoot someone?
'A beer,' said Marshall, reaching down into the icebox propped up on the front of the porch. 'You like beer?'
'Maybe. I can't remember,' replied Josh with an easygoing smile.
Marshall handed across a beer, snapping off its cap
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between his right thumb and forefinger. 'I never met a soldier who didn't like beer,' he said.
Josh put the bottle to his lips. The taste was familiar. The alcohol hit his bloodstream, sending a sudden rush of energy surging through him. He felt light-headed, giddy. But he could also feel the aching in his head starting to ease. 'I like beer, that's for sure,' he said, looking back towards Marshall.
The older man nodded, looking down at the ground, the beer bottle still in his hand. 'What do you want to do?'
Josh turned to look at him. 'I'll stay, if you'll let me.' He took another hit of the beer. 'Just for a few days, until I get myself straightened out. I can pay you from the cash that was in my pocket.'
'The money doesn't matter,' said Marshall. 'You're not costing us anything apart from a few scraps of food.'
'I could go to a hospital,' continued Josh. 'I've thought about it. But I don't know who I am, or what happened to me back there. Like you said, a man doesn't get shot for no reason. Maybe I was mixed up in something illegal.'
'You're worried that if you check into a hospital the cops are going to be looking out for you?'
Josh gripped the beer bottle tightly between his hands. 'I just don't know, do I?'
'You got no idea what you were doing?'
Josh shook his head. 'None.'
'Rest, that's what you need,' said Marshall. 'Give it a few days. A memory is like a woman. You have to let them come to you.'
'No.' Josh smiled, more to himself than to Marshall. 'I need to chase.'
'Meaning?'
'I'm a hunter. I like to track things down.Women, memories, whatever. That's who I am.'
'You don't know who the hell you are, boy,' answered Marshall.
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'But I do know that much about myself,' said Josh quickly. 'Like you said, I'm a soldier. We don't -wait for things to come to us.'
Marshall laughed. 'The clever ones do.'
Josh stood up, using the crutch for support. It still hurt, but he needed to push himself: he knew that until he started exercising his muscles again his strength was never going to return. 'Maybe I'm not a good one,' he said, looking back towards Marshall. Josh stretched his arms to relieve the pain in his shoulders. 'Take me back to where you found me.'
'What for?'
'It might trigger something,' said Josh. 'If I could see the place, then maybe I'll get a sense of what happened. Maybe I can find some evidence about who attacked me.'
He sat down again. The pain in his leg was growing worse, making it hard for him to stand for any length of time. 'Now,' he said. 'I want to go back now.'
Marshall shook his head. 'Too hot,' he answered. 'Maybe we'll take you in the morning. When it's cooler. And when Kate says you're strong enough.'
Josh caught the words on the lips, just as he was about to speak. An instinct was burning within him: to tell the older man that he wanted to be taken to the place where they'd found him, and he wanted to be taken there now. No, he reminded himself. Until I have my strength back, I have to depend on these people. I'm an invalid. / can do nothing for myself.
'Tomorrow, then,' said Josh stiffly.*
Marshall grinned. 'At dawn, before the bull snakes are awake.'
Josh looked out across the scrub. A truck was moving along the road, doing about forty miles an hour. Apart from that the landscape was as bleak and empty as it always was. 'What are you doing out here?' he asked.
'Keeping myself to myself,' said Marshall. 'Soldiering does
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that to a man sometimes. You might find that out one day for yourself.'
'Not too quiet?'
'Not for me, no. I like quiet.'
'What do you do?' asked Josh, looking across at the older man. 'It doesn't look as if there are any jobs out here.'
Marshall took another sip of his beer. 'Veterans from the war,' he replied. 'I run a website that helps keep vets in touch with one another. Gives them help and advice on their benefit payments, medical treatment, the rest of it. There are still a lot of men out there who are in pretty bad shape, both mentally and physically, and for many of them it gets worse as they get older. A lot of them live out in remote places like this because they don't like the noise and the sweat of the cities. So the site helps them stay in touch. Lets them talk. They pay a small subscription, so it doesn't make a lot of money, but it makes a bit. We get by'
'And Kate?' said Josh, nodding back towards the main building. 'She's a young woman, full of life. What's she doing out here?'
Marshall paused, and Josh could sense the older man growing tense: his hand was tightening its grip on his beer bottle, and his brow was starting to furrow. 'That's her business,' he said.
'Okay,' said Josh, backing away. 'I was just curious.'
'Listen,' continued Marshall. 'I don't mind you being here. You're a soldier, and I like soldiers. But just make sure you keep your hands off my daughter. That way you and I are going to get along just fine.'
The pizza felt sticky and heavy in Josh's hand. It had a thick layer of cheese on top, plus some wedges of ham and pineapple. I can't remember whether I like pizza or not, Josh said to himself. But I certainly don't like it with sodding pineapple on it.