Forgetting
by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel
Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
He could hear water. Just water, lapping against a surface. And gulls, screeching overhead. Somewhere in the distance, there were cars, racing back and forth with a faint swish. But closer still were voices, calling to one another over the background din. He eased his eyes open, just a careful bit, and groaned. His head was splitting, and his mouth was impossibly dry. He tried to turn over, but that made his head hurt more, so he lay still and focused on opening his eyes, bit by agonizing bit, until he could see the blue skies, and the white slips circling above him, which his fevered brain identified as the aforementioned gulls.
Eventually he felt well enough to turn his head, and that let him take in his surroundings. There were crates, big ones, surrounding him, effectively hiding him from any onlookers. He rolled onto his side and groaned, somehow found his way onto his hands and knees, head ducked, paying no heed to the tie that was dragging in the dust. After a few deep breaths, he felt ready to try standing. It turned out to be a bad idea, and one collapse in the dust later, he was upright and clinging to one of the crates for dear life. Five minutes later he tried free-standing again, this time with more success. He found himself staggering through the crates and out into the sound. It was a pier.
He wandered aimlessly down it, passing men operating machines and loading boxes. Obviously this dock was for shipping, imports. And merchant seamen. He felt comfortable here, for some reason. He didn't have anything else to do, so he let his mind drift along with the shouted conversations.
"Bit to the left, mate!"
"No, supposed to be number five."
"Check in the back!"
Without warning, pain stabbed through his body, and he collapsed to his knees, clutching his abdomen. There were shouts, and suddenly a hand on his shoulder. "You all right, mate?" He waited a moment, felt the pain subside, before looking up into the craggy features of a kindly older sailor.
"Yeah," he grunted. "Yeah, I'm okay." He let the man help him to his feet, and over to one of the smaller crates to take a seat. "Probably just heartburn." He didn't believe that, not really, but something made him lie. "Thanks."
The sailor waved him off. "Anything for a fellow mariner."
The head of his charge snapped up. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, you're a sailor yourself, aren't you? Don't get that walk living on land most of your life."
He thought about that. "No, I guess not," he murmured, then stood tentatively. "Thanks again."
The older man looked concerned. "You sure you're all right, mate?"
"Fine. Really," the man in the suit assured, before hurrying away. The truth was, he wasn't all right. He'd only just realized that there was a greater mystery to be solved than where he was and how he came to be here.
He didn't have the slightest idea who he was, either.
Amnesia. That's what they called it in the films. That meant he wasn't completely blank. He remembered how to walk and talk and fragments of old movies. He just couldn't remember anything about his life. His family, his friends, his own name. It was frightening even to consider, but he fought down the building panic. The old man had provided him one clue. He did walk with a sailor's rolling gait. He checked his hands. A pinky ring, but the skin itself wasn't rough enough for a man who was still serving. Unless he was an officer. It would explain the suit and tie. He checked his watch. It was fairly expensive too, and the suit was tailored for him alone. Something moved against his chest, and a quick check revealed the pendant. A St. Christopher. That clinched it. He had been a sailor at some point, although something told him he no longer was now. That wasn't particularly helpful. Sure, there'd be records somewhere, but walking in and asking "Who am I?" would attract attention, and he knew that wasn't something he wanted. He just wished he knew why.
Wallet. Of course! His wallet. He patted his pockets frantically. Wallets meant names and receipts and unflattering driving licence photos. Your wallet was you, compressed into a piece of leather. He found it in his inside pocket, withdrew it hastily. Yes, this would provide some answers. He opened it with shaking fingers, and felt despair set in at what he saw.
Not one piece of ID. Not one. Just money. Bills of varying denominations. And coins in the change section. He scrabbled through, desperate for any other clue, but there was none. What sort of man was he, that he didn't carry any identification at all? Had he been mugged? But why leave the money? Was he some sort of criminal? Did that explain the dosh? But a quick count revealed a sum good for a few meals and bus fare, but nowhere near that of a haul of a successful criminal. In frustration, he tipped the envelope over and shook it desperately.
A single piece of paper fluttered to the ground.
He fell upon it like a starving man at a feast, shaking fingers smoothing it from crumpled to readable. It bore only one word.
Cunningham.
He frowned. Cunningham? Who was that? Was it him? Something in the hazy recesses of his mind told him 'no,' but somewhere else a tiny, faint bell was ringing. He tried to follow it, but it disappeared just as quickly. No, let it come. If he forced it, he'd get nowhere. Just give it time.
He checked through the rest of his pockets for anything else, but other than a ring of keys, he was unsuccessful. Keys to what? Presumably a home and a car, but he didn't have the foggiest idea where to find either. There were no addresses in his blank mind, nothing but—
A flat.
It had come. While he'd been wondering about where he lived, he'd seen a flat. A flat in a building. It wasn't his—he was certain of that. But Cunningham. It could be his. Maybe Cunningham knew the answer. Maybe he could explain to the man in the suit who walked like a sailor who he was and where he'd come from. It wasn't as if he had any other leads.
Charged with purpose, he strode off toward the sound of cars. There must be a bus, somewhere…
He stepped off the bus at a large brown monstrosity. He'd let himself go, let his mind guide him from one street to another as he went. Now he was certain he'd come to the right place. Cunningham. Somewhere, there was a connection between this building and that name. He sighed and closed his eyes, willed his mind to open. Which flat, which flat?
276, came the reply, in a voice that wasn't his, spoken by a man whose face he could not see. He sighed and opened his eyes. 276 it was, come hell or high water.
Inside, the building was humble, in every sense of the word. Not downright seedy, but there were certainly many, many posher dwellings in London. Cunningham was either a man of limited means, or cheap. There was no doorman, and the carpet was in need of a change or a clean. The lift wasn't out of order, surprisingly, and he stepped inside and found himself choosing the right floor automatically. He'd been here before. He must have. That was a hopeful sign, at least. If he'd been here, someone must know him. And his name.
The lift opened into a drab hall, complete with more fraying carpet, and taupe walls. He followed the doors, watching the numbers tick upward in increments of two, found himself finally at 276. And answers. He raised his fist to knock…
…and dropped it again.
The door was open.
He stepped back a pace, unsure of what this meant, and why it worried him so much. An open door. What did it matter? Sometimes people propped their doors open on purpose. It didn't mean anything.
Except that someone is there. And they might have it in for the next someone who strolls inside. Oh, the instinct was strong now, had been strong from the start. For whatever reason, he was guarded and on the alert, like a man who was used to being hunted. Nothing was innocent in his eyes. It all meant something. This meant something. He found himself reaching automatically beneath his arm, but there was nothing there. He paused and stared at the odd gesture. What had he hoped to find? His fingers itched to close around something solid. He withdrew his hand slowly, swallowed hard. This was strange. No, beyond strange. Weird. Bizarre. Madness. And the only clue he had was this door, this room. Cunningham. He couldn't afford to walk away. He had nowhere else to walk to.
Gently, carefully, he prodded the door open, and peeked inside. The flat was sparsely appointed, a table and chairs and a lamp with a bare bulb providing the only ornamentation. He pushed the door open a bit more, and noticed a figure to the right of the lamp, pondering the faded wallpaper. His heart leapt. Perhaps this was Cunningham! Suspicions forgotten, he pushed the door open all the way, calling out as he did so. "Hello?"
