- II -
Glasgow was noisy. Really noisy. Though rationalising a bit, everything seemed noisy in comparison with the peace and quietness of the Highlands. Mac treaded evenly past the streets. It was his first time in the city and he felt he had to be careful. He had no ID whatsoever. Any detainment would lead to a murdered man at the door of a hostel whose owners had helped a man who didn't know who he was.
He felt a pinch of guilt. He had taken all the money he could find from the kind MacIntyres, and escaped, leaving behind a headless corpse and a mess inside. It was no payment for them. But he couldn't stay there anymore. They wouldn't understand.
Just as he still didn't understand. He had expertly outmanoeuvred the man, snatching the sword and beheading him with a single blow. The mere memory of it made him sick. Then lightning bolts had struck him and he had felt something so strange but at the same time so familiar overpowering him.
He crossed a street and halted. He glanced at both sides. He saw a hotel sign, two streets away. He moved towards there, trying his best not to draw attention. Though such preventive measures were unnecessary. The lane was devoid of people.
"Give me your money, arsehole!"
The deep voice startled him, and he turned. A dishevelled man bearing a beard of at least a week, dirty rags and a sports cap was a few steps away, threatening him with a Swiss-army knife. He grinned, completely unaware of why.
"I have none..." He stammered.
The thug thrust at him. Mac arched his waist backwards, avoiding the blade. He quickly glanced around and found a large piece of pipe. After avoiding a clumsy chop, he got hold of it.
"You want to try to keep your money, arsehole?!"
The man seemed under the influence of some drug, or at least excessive amounts of alcohol. Mac didn't hesitate about it. Here he was coming again. He lifted the pipe up and let it fall sharply over the thug's shoulder. The noise of cracking bones unnerved him. The thug fell over him and then he felt the pain.
An acute, cold feeling invaded his side. As the thief fell, he realised the knife was stuck below his left rib. He trembled, the pain numbing him. He traipsed toward the corner, hoping to be able to cry for help. But he did the former only. He fell unconscious before he could do the latter.
---
He opened his eyes slowly, feeling drowsy. The sudden exposure to light was harsh to him and he shut his lids instantly. Once adjusted, he dared see again. It was a neat white room. To his left, there was an elder lady with dyed red hair and ample stomach and hips grinning at him.
"He's awake." She said, glancing at his right, where a bald man in light blue clothes was entering through a door.
"Mr. Nash... are you feeling OK?"
"I... I... guess."
"Good. It wasn't a deadly wound, but you lost a lot of blood."
"What...?"
"What what, sir?"
Slowly, Mac's mind began to rationalise. He had heard the doctor calling him a name. Nash? Was that his name? How could this man know?
"My name..."
"You hit your head hard against the floor. You may be suffering temporary amnesia."
"Temporary...?" It wasn't temporary. But he wouldn't waste time explaining. "What's my name?"
"You're Russell Edwin Nash. Born in Pittsburgh in the United States in 1945."
Russell Nash? The name bore a slight reminiscence. But he couldn't place it. He was American? But he didn't sound like one. God, so many things out of place.
"How did you... find ... out?"
The doctor grinned. "Your fingerprints. They match the records. Though allow me to say you're in a very good shape for being 62."
Mac grinned. "I do my best." He was 62?
"That thug will spend some time behind bars. After he leaves here, of course. You made a bloody mess out of his shoulder."
He remembered the assault. He tried to recall his very movements then. He couldn't. He had acted upon instinct yet with knowledge. He reached for his side. He found a bandage. He stirred, feeling a little pain.
"Keep it for a week. Then return here, or visit another hospital, to have the stitches removed." The woman, obviously a nurse, said kindly.
"The police is here..." Mac/Nash felt short of breath. "They'll take you to your residence."
"Residence?"
"Aye. You have a house in Glasgow. The best of lucks."
The doctor left and two constables walked in, nodding at the nurse and at Nash. They helped the patient up. His clothes were next to him. Everybody left so that he could dress up, which he did. He opened the door and the nurse pointed him to a wheelchair. He rode it and one of the officers pushed the chair towards the exit.
He felt renewed upon having a name. He grinned a little. Would he have a wife? Children? They might help him find his identity and gone memories. The hospital was a fuss of people coming and going.
His eyes posed on a man, a practitioner probably. He was going nowhere. He had been checking a prescription when he had noticed Nash, and had stared in rapt amazement before he realised he was being too obvious and returned to his chore. Would he know Nash? Russell would never know. He was leaving the hospital now, and entering the car...