Sarah

They've come for me.

I open my eyes and immediately shut them again. The light is so bright it makes tears run down my cheeks.

The bedsheets are cool to touch. My fingers search further but close around thin air: the mattress is too narrow.

I can hear voices coming through the wall. A cold knot is forming in my stomach. This isn't good.

It can only mean one thing. They've found me.

They must have tracked me down.

No idea who "they" might be, though.

Where am I, anyway?

Who am I?

The hospital room is small. Everything's white: the walls, the bed's footboard, the sealed window. Rays of sunlight fall upon the bed and the floor. One of them seems to point at a picture on the wall: a stern landscape of wooded mountains. If you take a closer look you can see that the picture is scratched. Four parallel scratches, like a claw mark.

Clenching the bed, I stagger to my feet. I'm wearing a loose one-size-fits-all blue hospital gown. I check the chair and a small locker for my clothes: nothing. No call button for the staff, either. Which is weird. Hospitals are obliged to have them in every room. I seem to know this somehow. Have I stayed in hospitals a lot?

I walk over to the window and look down. I'm on the third floor. Bare trees obscure the view. More squat red-brick structures rise outside. Puddles of rainwater glisten on the wet driveway, littered with waterlogged yellow leaves.

My temples begin to ache. Fear clenches my stomach. My fingertips prickle as if someone is sending an electric current through me. My ears are ringing: a thin, intense buzz.

I need to get a grip. How I got here is irrelevant. I've got to get out first.

I pull the door handle. It won't open. What's that, for crissakes?

I raise myself on tiptoe and peer through the glazed top part of the door. I can see a corridor lined with other doors, some of them open. Further on, patients in pajamas and hospital gowns amble about a small area with a few easy chairs and a TV.

A woman in pale-green surgery scrubs is busy dialing a number on her phone. She is tall and burly - LeBron James-type burly.

The place looks suspiciously like a mental asylum. Which it can't be. I'm not sick.

I just can't remember who the hell I am.

I knock on the glass. The nurse looks up from her phone, then turns her head to the sound. She's wearing a white face mask. Noticing me, she slides the phone down her pocket and walks over to the door, peering through the glass. Above her mask, her eyes seem to be squinting at me. Is she smiling? Her expression sends shivers down my spine.

"Open the door, please," I say in a loud voice.

She nods. "Just a sec, " she turns round and leaves.

What do they think they're doing?

"Wait!" I slap my hand on the door. Too late. She's gone.

My heart is racing. The ringing in my ears becomes a constant mosquito-like whine.

I take a deep breath. This is a hospital. Nothing bad can happen here. I'm having a panic attack - which will be over soon provided I breathe nice and deep.

The door lock clicks. The burly nurse enters the room, stooping slightly to prevent her head from hitting the door frame.

It takes all of my self-control not to push her out of my way and run for it. She must be sensing this because she closes the door behind her, once again cutting me off from the freedom of the echoing corridor.

"You've come round remarkably early," she comments.

Yeah, right. Is that why they locked me up, then? To prevent me from sleepwalking out of here? "What is this place?"

"This is Kings County Hospital."

Kings County. So I'm in Brooklyn, then. Okay.

"And," I gesture with my hands, "why?"

She peers at me. "Don't you remember?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have to ask you, would I?"

"What, nothing at all?"

"No!" I'm about to explode. My hands clench into fists. I hide them behind my back.

The burly woman nods, patient and attentive, as if my answers have explained a lot to her. But of course. Now it all clicks: the patients' stifled voices, the locked door with an inspection window, the nurse who seemed to evade answers to the simplest of questions...

I've been right all along. This is a mental ward.

No. No, no, no. I need to get out of here. All my senses scream danger. I need to ask someone to discharge me. This place isn't safe.

The nurse produces a syringe and points it upward, tapping her finger on a vial.

A shiver runs down my spine. "What's that?"

"Just a sedative. Don't worry. It won't hurt."

Did she just say Don’t worry? "I'm fine," I'm trying to speak calmly. A panic attack is the last thing I need. Then she'll be obliged to give me a sleeping shot in the backside. "I feel pretty good, actually. I don't need to stay. I'd like to leave now."

My voice does break. I force a smile. The nurse's eyes above the white mask smile at me. "Absolutely."

She didn't believe me, of course. She approaches me, syringe at the ready. I recoil, pressing my back against the window. I'm cornered. I can't take my eyes off the needle in her hand.

"This is a mistake," I mumble. "I need to speak to my family."

"You will. But first you need to have some rest."

Her burly frame looms over me. I cast a desperate glance around. The room's on the third floor, it's not that much of a jump, not with all the shrubs below. But the window's locked. The furniture's bolted to the floor. The table's bare - nothing to hurl at her. They've thought of everything.

The door clicks open. A young male doctor lingers in the doorway, raising his eyebrows in disbelief as he shifts his gaze between myself and the nurse.

Finally his stare alights on the syringe in her hand. "What are you doing?"

Come on, don't just stand there! Do something! Can't he pull her aside or something? Like call security?

I think he was going to. He just didn't have the time. Neither did I. I failed to warn him and equally failed to ask for help.

The burly nurse takes a swing and lunges at him, packing an almighty punch that sends the man flying across the room. His back hits the wall and he collapses to the floor like a broken spread-eagled doll. He doesn't move anymore.

The nurse reaches for the door and shuts it. The lock clicks. She turns to me.

My throat is seized with fear. I can't scream. I make a dart along the wall but in two bounds the nurse catches up with me. Her hand closes around my throat, pinning me to the wall. She lifts me until my eyes are at the same level as hers.

They're not smiling anymore, though.

I grasp her syringe hand with both of mine, kicking my legs in the air. I can't breathe. My vision ripples. The nurse points the needle at my throat. I try to force her wrist aside but she's devilishly strong. Is she human?

"Let me go," I croak.

Her hand freezes mid-air. The woman zones out for a while. Then she shakes her head.

"I have to do it," she says in a stifled voice.

The needle is close. It pricks my skin.

"Let me go!" I yell, using what's left of my lungful of air. "Stick it in your own ass, you bitch!"

I squeeze my eyes tight. A wave runs over my body. It's rolling from the soles of my feet upwards, clenching my stomach, then chest, then pouring out of me, filling the room.

The grip on my throat slackens. I drop to the floor. My legs are rubbery, my head spinning. All the sounds seem to be switched off: all I can hear is a nasty repetitive whining noise.

I lie on my side in a heap. The nurse towers over me. I watch her, uncomprehending.

She freezes, zoning out again. Moving awkwardly, she switches the syringe into her other hand, turns and buries the needle into her own body. Her thumb presses the plunger as she injects herself. Finally, she pulls the needle out. Her fingers relax. The empty syringe clatters to the floor.

Then she collapses too, thumping onto her back, and lies unnaturally straight.

Silence. The male doctor lies by the wall, the nurse next to me, her long body blocking almost half the room. A voice is humming a monotonous tune in the corridor.

I get up and hug my shoulders, staring at the nurse. She looks as if she might jump up at any moment and lunge at me again. Murderous bitch. The doctor is still K.O. from her punch. He looks dead as a doornail.

What a predicament. Could they accuse me of what has just happened? What if they say that I killed the doctor and injected the nurse with some nasty stuff? Okay, so she probably wasn't a nurse at all, but somehow I don't think anyone would want to look into that.

No one in their right mind would believe that this woman smoked the doctor, then injected herself with a sedative or whatever she had in that syringe. Could be poison. What if she wanted to kill me?

I'm totally nuts. Then again, this is a nuthouse. Ouch. Talk about predicament.

I glimpse a movement in the window and turn to it just in time to see a Jeep park up by the clinic. Three men in dark business suits climb out, followed by the driver. The car doors slam simultaneously. One of the men looks up, staring directly at my window as if he can see me. Fortunately, he can't: not from where he stands, not at this angle.

He's young. His face is pale with high cheekbones. His hair is as golden as the fallen leaves under his feet; the wind tousles it, blowing strands across his forehead and into his eyes.

He sees me, after all. For a few brief moments, our gazes lock. His face seems familiar. Do I know him? The whining noise keeps boring into my ears.

The guy lowers his head. He seems to be ordering the others around. They head for the clinic's entrance.

I have to get out of here. Now!

I peel off my gown and kick it under the bed. Then I rush toward the nurse. I pull off her hospital smock and pants and hurry to put them on. Her t-shirt is like a tent. You can barely see me in her clothes. This isn't a person, this is a freakin' dinosaur! Even the male doctor lying next to her looks small in comparison. But there's no way I'm gonna undress him.

I roll up the legs of the pants, then remove the mask. The face behind it is stern. She looks about forty, with sharp cheekbones and thin, tight lips. What an unlikeable face. She would have suited the police force better than any hospital staff. Then again, she wasn't staff, was she? At least I don't think so.

I discover a pass card in her shirt's pocket and swipe the door lock. It blinks a green light.

* * *

Freedom stinks of disinfectant. I close the door behind me. The green door sign sports a number 5. I walk quickly past identical rooms, following the bright strip of lamplight on the floor. Some of the doors stand open, others are closed.

Stolen novel; please report.

I thread my way past a man in pajamas who is staring at the ceiling, pensively picking his nose. His gray hair seems to glow, halo-like, around his bald patch. His gaze wanders; his lips are moving as he hums a song.

I use the card to unlock another door at the end of the corridor and leave the unit. A guard is sitting outside the door. His gaze slides over my masked face and my name tag.

My throat seizes. I don't seem to remember how to breathe. I keep going, trying not to look in his direction, suppressing the desire to dart off like a hunted hare. This is a big place, a large hospital with tons of staff including new workers and interns working all sorts of crazy shifts. He can't possibly remember them all. But those four men - they'll be here soon.

I expect the guard to shout after me, realizing that I'm not a nurse but the nutter from Room Five. He'd whip out his gun and point it at my back, then tell me to raise my hands slowly... I must have fake written all over me.

But no one's shouting, no one's pointing a gun at me. It's business as usual.

I walk past doctors' offices and staff premises until I reach the reception area: a small hall with a few easy chairs lining a long window and a vending machine stuffed with candy bars. A large U-shaped reception desk rises at the center, complete with a nurse on duty.

Her telephone makes a soft bubbling noise. She answers it, then continues to rustle though some paperwork. An electronic clock behind her back shows 3 p.m.

I might just walk downstairs, exit the building, then dart off. I could do, I suppose. Then again, where am I supposed to go? No idea what I can do once I get out of here. I need to find out something about myself first. They must have checked me in, right?

Watching the receptionist out of the corner of my eye, I steal toward a computer standing on the corner of the large desk. The woman doesn't seem to care. She's sitting there with her back to me, leafing through a magazine. That's what made that rustling noise.

She turns a colorful page; I can see the picture of Ben McAllister raising a champagne glass: a black suit, a pearly smile and the Stars and Stripes in the background. Picture perfect.

I hate myself at this moment. I can't remember my own name but I seem to know all about some stinking politician!

I reach for the computer and, casting constant glances at the reading receptionist, swipe the nurse's card through a reading device.

It opens some complex program in a blue window. The menu on top is way too small to read. I locate my room number and open my patient's card.

I see the picture and cringe. The girl - who is me, I suppose - is staring past the camera, her eyes bleary. They must have drugged me. Wet strands of hair cling to my skull, looking almost black against the light-blue hospital gown. My eyebrows, however, are surprisingly fair. My face is pallid with a smattering of freckles on my nose and sharp cheekbones. I have blood on my cheek.

Jesus. What on earth has happened to me?

I take a grip and begin to read the few available lines of information. My name is apparently Sarah Korski. Age, eighteen. Female. Single. No children. Admission date...

I glance at a wall calendar. I was admitted two days ago. No visits. Address: a Brooklyn apartment. The card ends with what's supposed to be my parents' names and their phone number.

Not much to go on. Why am I here? There's no diagnosis marked anywhere. All the card says is, "admitted in a state of acute psychosis". I may have lost my memory but I don't feel like bashing my head on the wall or whatever people with acute psychosis are supposed to do. They can say what they want but I'm perfectly fine.

Other clinic staff keep walking in and out the room. Voices echo in the corridors. An orderly is rolling a wheelchair with an emaciated old man. The receptionist's phone is ringing non-stop. She answers it without looking up from her magazine.

I have to get going. The men in black could arrive any moment. Once they enter Room Five, all hell might break loose.

I heave a sigh, point the cursor at the top menu and click Print.

Something starts to hum and buzz. No idea where it is. There's nothing under the computer nor on the desk. Only paperwork.

I look behind me. Nothing there either, only the vending machine by the opposite wall.

I turn to the receptionist and say matter-of-factly, "Excuse me, I can't find the printer."

Without looking, she waves her hand at a tall cabinet next to the water cooler.

And that's where it is, the printer, sitting behind the glass cabinet door. I pick up the printed sheet of paper and am about to close the door when I see a small pair of shoes sitting on the lower shelf. They look my size.

I cast a quick glance at the receptionist, stoop low so that no one can see me from the corridor and hurry to change out of my hospital slippers into the shoes.

"Do you know which room Sarah Korski is in?" a male voice asks behind my back.

I freeze. I'm too scared to turn round. They're here, right next to me! They're so close! If they look my way... the only thing that protects me is my hospital uniform. It's so thin and flimsy but it's thicker than a bulletproof vest against their stares. To them, I'm only one of the staff. Provided they don't realize who I really am, with any luck...

"She's in the observation room," the receptionist replies. "No visitors allowed. Are you family?"

"Actually, I am."

Are you really? Liar! I may have forgotten lots of things but I can sense when someone's lying. He's a stranger whoever he is.

My hands seem to have a life of their own. My head is throbbing. My heart is fluttering in my throat. I pretend I'm looking for something on the lower shelf while in fact I hang on their every word.

Then a strange thing happens.

"Give me the number of Korski's room," the man says pointedly, his soft polite voice ringing with steel. His words bore into your skull, hard and heavy.

"Down the corridor, first right, room five," the receptionist replies.

"Thanks," the man says.

His footsteps begin to fade. Cautiously I look up. The other four men are already heading toward the guard still standing by the unit's locked doors.

I knew it! I knew they had come here for me! God I'm so lucky I got out of the room in time.

I sneak out of my hiding place and hurry down the corridor. I walk fast but not too fast: that would be suspicious. I'm about to collapse. My knees are weak with anxiety.

I turn left and use my card to open the emergency exit door. Behind it lies a stairwell connecting the twin buildings of the clinic. The door clicks shut behind me.

The place is deserted. The silence is deafening. I hurry down the stairs: landings, passages, a dark floor below lined with closed doors... Faster! They're probably entering my room already.

Another landing. Another floor. Finally, the exit. I shoulder the heavy green steel door open and find myself outside. I'm free!

Shrinking my head into my shoulders, I walk past the hospital buildings. I scurry down the sloping driveway toward the gate, cross the road, turn right and scramble past a baseball pitch. A game is on. The ball hits the net just above my head, making me jump. I go past the pitch and hurry toward the highrises towering in the distance.

I can't bring myself to look back. I just might see the men in black following me.

Yellow leaves swirl in the air, floating onto a shriveled lawn behind someone's fence. The day is sunny but cool. A piercing wind blows right through my flimsy hospital scrubs. I have no money, no clothes, not even a MetroCard. The printout in my hand rustles in the wind. Marcus Garvey Bd. 421. Should I go there? It's not as if I have many options.

Then it dawns on me. I know everything around me. It's like hearing the sounds of a familiar old song carried on the wind. As if the sun has illuminated the gray brickstone Brooklyn at just the right angle.

For a brief moment, I can see him. He appears walking next to me - although of course I know he's not there.

Still, I can see him. A young guy, tall with broad shoulders and a delicate, chiseled face. Sunrays play with his crew cut. His dark eyes squint against the sun. I reach out to him, trying to touch him. With a smile he takes me in his arms and... and that's all.

I'm alone again.

Chris

For a brief moment, I still keep seeing the strange girl's silhouette in front of me. Sharp cheekbones, a pimpled chin, pale eyebrows and a smattering of freckles.

Then her face blurs and disappears, bringing reality into focus.

With a yelp, I step back. A lump of construction steel rattles onto the concrete from my slackened grip.

I'm standing by a brick wall next to some garbage cans. A man lies on the ground in front of me. You can see he's dead. As a doornail.

Dead as a doornail? Who was it that used to say that? I can't remember.

Then the world hits me like a ton of bricks: the bright light and all the sounds, the honking of cars, the muttering of voices, the slamming of doors and the shuffling of many feet.

My breathing seizes. I gasp soundlessly, clutching at my throat. It's late afternoon, I realize. I can see a busy street through the gap between two towers. It's bustling with traffic and passersby but this little place is deserted. Only us two. Me and the dead man.

Me? Who the hell am I, then? What am I doing here? Only a moment ago, I didn't exist. And now I've materialized right in this shady lane next to a garbage can. It's as if I've been dumped here by some unknown force; as if some giant hand had reached out from the sky and positioned the human figure - which happens to be me - on the ground. The soles of my shoes hit the tarmac - and here I am, large as life, even though I didn't exist only a moment ago.

Here? Which is where?

Bullshit. All wrong. I've always been here. It's just that for some reason I can't remember anything. Nada. Memory loss it's called. Amnesia in medical speak.

I look over myself. I'm wearing a faded pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a sports jacket. Can't for the life of me remember ever having bought any of it. Never seen it before. Ditto for the suede moccasins, the wristwatch or my wrist itself.

My aching temples throb. Gradually my breathing restores enough to allow me to take in the dead body and the lump of construction steel on the ground.

I pick it up. One of its ends is covered in blood. Did I kill the guy? WTF? Why would I do that? He must have attacked me. He probably hit me on the head with this lump of steel, that's why I hurt so much.

Of course. That's why I can't remember anything. I must have tried to defend myself, and then...

I feel like a landed fish after it's been pulled out of the water and slammed against a tree. Gulping incessantly, I look around me. One end of the lane is blocked by a steel fence with some wooden crates piled up against it. To the other side lies the street. No one has turned off into the lane... yet. If they do, I might have problems.

I turn the dead man onto his back. He's about forty, with cropped hair, dressed in a pair of dark pants and a matching coat over a pale blue dress shirt. His stomach is ripped open. Blood everywhere. He didn't have a chance.

I feel queasy. Can you even inflict these kinds of injuries with a piece of construction steel? It looks as if he's been gutted with a monstrous jagged hook.

A car is honking loudly nearby. The sound fills the lane, assaulting my eardrums. It has nothing to do with me - but I still jump. I shift the piece of steel to my left hand and shove it down the garbage can, wiping it on the trash. Finally, I pass it under my armpit and wipe it thoroughly before hurling it over the fence. This is a murder weapon, after all. I don't want anyone to find my fingerprints on it.

It comes down with a clang, reverberating against metal.

What do I do now? My head is empty - completely free of thoughts. Should I just leave? Just sashay out into the street, hands in pockets, without a care in the world? Never mind there's a gutted guy still lying by the trash cans.

Or should I investigate?

When I turned the man on his back, his right arm dropped to one side, revealing something on his wrist between his watch and his coat sleeve. I crouch next to him and pull the sleeve up.

It's a tattoo. A doubled-up two-headed snake, its coils resembling a horizontal figure of eight - the symbol of infinity.

Frowning, I rub my forehead. Still, the symbol refuses to trigger any memories. Should I check his pockets, maybe?

I reach inside his coat just as an alarm resounds outside. A police car screeches to a halt in the lane. The siren dies away.

The car doors jerk open. I spring to my feet and make a dash for the fence.

A voice shouts a warning. I leap onto the crates which disintegrate, creaking, under my feet, and vault over the fence, collapsing in a heap on the other side. Pushing my body off the tarmac, I scramble to my feet and keep running, past a stack of empty gas cans against which the lump of steel had struck seconds ago.

More shouting is coming from behind me now, followed by the sound of footsteps. I keep running toward the opposite street. At least there're no cops there.

I slow down, unwilling to attract attention. Readjusting my clothes as I go, I turn a corner and very nearly walk into a young mother pushing a stroller.

Mumbling my apologies, I walk around her and continue down the street hunched up with my head down as if engrossed in thought.

Casting inconspicuous watchful glances around, I walk as fast as I can without actually running. I'm taller than most people which makes watching the street rather easy. Nothing alarming as yet: just some houses, shops and cafes. The bustling crowd couldn't have cared less about me.

The autumnal afternoon is rather chilly. A bus drives past. Mechanically I pull up my right sleeve to check my wrist watch. Half past six. The watch is expensive. Having said that, all of my clothes are.

I reach a corner, steal a look around to make sure I've shaken off the cops, then duck round the bend.

I check my coat pockets and discover a ten-dollar bill and some loose change in one and a Chevrolet car key in the other. Have I parked up nearby? There's no way to tell, is there?

My heartbeat has calmed down somewhat. I can think straight again. I try to make some sense of what's just happened. The way I vaulted over that fence, then ran off... you'd think I'd have twisted an ankle but no, it didn't even hurt. Am I a trained athlete or something?

My past feels like a pitch-black wall behind me, with me as a clumsily chalked outline of a human being with sticks for arms and legs and a lopsided circle for a head. An empty head, mind you. A man without a past, with neither goals nor motives. Nor a life story. My mind is blank. My only memory is the face of the freckled girl.

Her face, as if on cue, fills my mental view - only this time it seems to be bleeding, bleeding all over the world. I suppress a yelp as my temples begin to throb.

Something bad must have happened to her not so long ago. To her - or to me? To both of us, maybe? I feel queasy again, this time with the debilitating fear caused by... by what? Can't remember.

I stagger along with my fists clenched, trying not to brush against other people and staring in front of myself unblinkingly for fear of collapsing. Gradually my heart stabilizes again. I feel slightly better now.

Finally I reach the street from where the cops arrived. It's broad and busy. An office building complete with a subterranean parking lot towers opposite the lane where I found the dead body. Might my car be there, by any chance?

Mechanically I press the button on the car key. A weak beeping noise reaches me through the noise of the traffic. It can't be coming from the building, surely?

I look around me and immediately get my answer. A sleek sports Chevrolet flashes its lights at me, parked up on my side of the road mere feet away from me.

I walk over to it, casting wary glances at the police cars waiting by the entrance to the lane.

Tucked under my car's wiper, a parking ticket is flapping in the wind. I crumple it in my hand, open the door and get in, very nearly bashing my head. I keep forgetting about my height.

I gingerly climb in. I really need to get out of here. Still, I need a couple of minutes to catch my breath. The cops are unlikely to check this particular car, anyway.

I look around me, then run my hand over the velvety cover of the steering wheel. Can't remember this car at all.

Warily I take a peek in the mirror. A bronzed clean-shaven face stares back at me. Hazel eyes... cropped black hair... That's right, my mother's father was from Corsica... it's his olive complexion, his aquiline nose and wide cheekbones.

The guy staring at me in the mirror is a total stranger. I've managed to remember my Corsican grandfather but that is about it.

I check the glove compartment and discover a fat wallet stuffed with bank notes. Must be at least a grand. Why didn't I take it with me when I got out of the car?

I rummage through the wallet. Two credit cards and a driver's license, issued to a Chris Brana.

My head explodes with agonizing pain. My eyes begin to water. What's going on, for crissakes? The wallet drops from my slackened fingers. Groaning, I press my hands to me temples.

Chris Brana. Yes, it's me. This is my name, my driver's license, my wallet, my car... my head... which is about to split open. Bouts of nauseating blood-red pain surge over me.

The pain doesn't last though. I reach down and fumble under the pedals, feeling for my wallet. I pick it up and give the license a closer look.

That's right. I'm Chris Brana, twenty-two. And this is-

This is New York.

Exactly.

My fingers shake as I check the wallet for any more clues. Nothing. I slide it into my pocket.

A third police car has just arrived and pulled up next to the other two. The longer I stay here, the bigger the chances are of them finding me.

I start the car. The engine purrs to life. I join the rush-hour traffic.

All these people must be going home from work. How about me? Do I work? Can't remember.

Where am I supposed to go to? The GPS satnav glows a dull green. When I touch the screen, it springs to life, revealing a complex grid of streets and buildings.

I open its address book. It's virtually empty. There're only three saved locations. One is "Apartment", which is on the other side of town. The second one is closer to here, marked "Sarah, Club".

Oh great. The name says nothing to me.

The last address is the closest of the three. Two-Face, whatever that's supposed to mean.

Questions questions. The whole world around me seems to be one big question mark. Still, this address is only five blocks south from where I am. Not a very long drive, even considering the crawling traffic.

I stop at the lights. Two-Face... It has to be a nickname. I must have coined it. That's right. An unpleasant name... unpleasant person. Dangerous even. Still, his address is too close to completely ignore it.

Having made the decision, I take a right turn, heading toward the mark on my map. Let's see what this Two-Face guy has to offer.

Or Chris Brana, for that matter.