John left Richard to his own devices for the rest of the day. There wasn't much to do; Richard at first moped around and watched a bit of television. He had no money so couldn't go out, and wasn't even sure if he wanted to anyway. The possibility of getting lost was too high. Instead, he tidied up the living room as best he could, then collapsed onto the green armchair and picked up that forensic book he'd spotted earlier. It was more fascinating than he could have imagined, hours slipped by as Richard immersed himself in the world of forensic criminology, the study into finger prints, footprints and fibres.
He'd lost track of time so when John placed a cup of tea beside him, smiling down at the man, Richard blinked, still lost in his book.
"What are you reading?"
"Oh, just about Deoxyribonucleic acid," he grinned, waggling the book between his hands. John playfully snatched it off him, idly flicking through the pages.
"Looks like you've learnt something. It's good to see that book being used again. It's getting late, I was thinking about dinner?"
"Sure, where do you want to go?" Richard leapt up, excitement rising at the prospect of going out. He sensed John's hesitation before it showed on his face, and Richard swallowed his disappointment.
"Uh, I was thinking we could order in. A nice takeaway, put the telly on, just kick back and relax."
"Sounds ideal," Richard told him politely. Perhaps it wouldn't be so boring stuck in the flat if he had John to talk to.
"Excellent! What do you fancy?"
"Um…Indian? "
"Ok, I'll go and call. We've got a whole stack of takeaway menus here, it was practically all we used to eat. Anything you like specifically or-can you not remember?"
Richard cringed and John blushed, looking as if he wished the carpet would split open and swallow him up.
"Anything's fine, John, I'll have whatever you're having."
"Ok," John said quietly, shame still reddening his face. "I'll go and-"
"Yeah."
Richard busied himself with setting out cutlery, plates and bowls. The kitchen was a mess but at least it wasn't as bad as the living room- John had made some effort to try and make it habitable. The dishes were clean but on one end of the counter were stacks of bowls, flasks and the occasional petri dish, most of which were covered in questionable substances. Richard wrinkled his nose at the green mould coating one bowl. He couldn't understand why John would have these in there.
When the doorbell rang and John rushed down to answer it, Richard's stomach growled and he settled down at the sofa, eagerly awaiting the food. It had to be better than the hospital cooking. John came in the living room with paper bags of steaming food, and Richard helped him set it down. When they were scarfing down hot Vindaloo, washed down with ice-cold beer, both found that they were too hungry to talk at that time, so for a while the only sound in the flat was chewing and the occasional rustle of napkins(Richard had found an ancient-looking pack under a Bunsen burner in one of the kitchen cupboards) but it was an amicable, comfortable silence.
"So, John," Richard said when he finally felt like he wouldn't drop down from malnourishment. "You never told me the specifics of how we met."
John froze, his fork hovering near his lips. Richard debated whether to change the subject, but John answered his question. In a manner of sorts.
"I know. I know. And I'm sorry for being so tight-lipped, I just- I don't want to overload your head with information. I mean, you don't actually have any way of verifying what I've said so far- I could just be a random stranger and be lying when I said that I knew you."
"No, I don't believe that. We knew each other before."
John slowly lowered his fork, his eye fixed on his plate. "And…what makes you so certain?"
A shrug. "Nothing specific. I just feel...I can't really describe it."
"Try. For me."
"Ok. When I woke up in that hospital, I panicked. I could see everything, but I felt so weak and all these nurses were running around me and calling me Mr Brook and I wanted to scream 'That's not my name!' because I didn't recognise it, but then I realised I didn't even know my name, nothing was recognisable anymore."
"Some people have it worse. They can't remember anything- street signs, family, even-" John twisted the aluminium utensil between his hands. "-how to use a fork."
"I know. Lucky, lucky, lucky. That's what they all said to me, at Bart's. But I didn't feel it and I still don't. I just wish I could remember even the tiniest thing…"
"Don't force your memories," Jon warned him, eyes narrowed.
"Ugh, you sound just like them. But if I don't try to remember, how am I supposed to remember anything?"
"Just let it come naturally, I suppose," John patted his mouth with a napkin and then hesitated. "You got in touch with my friend, through his website. You messaged each other on it. And then one day, all three of us…met up...at a swimming pool."
Richard nodded, gratefully drinking in the information. Perhaps it was all the food, the beer or the topic of their conversation but he suddenly felt light-headed. He got to his feet and excused himself to go to the bathroom. John's face was concerned but he let Richard go.
Richard ran to the bathroom, his legs buckling like a new-born foal and it was an effort to shut the door behind him and lock it. He splashed cold water onto his face from the tap, deliberately not looking in the mirror. He'd intently studied himself in it at the hospital, checking as his hollow cheeks gradually filled out. He'd gripped the hand mirror they'd given him, his eyes running over the unfamiliar face, looking for scars and wrinkles or anything that could tell him more about the man he was. With his thick, dark hair and clear skin, he knew he could be handsome, but he felt like he was operating a puppet, pulling strings to move each facial muscle and that his real face was waiting somewhere else for him.
But right now, his mind was on what John had told him. Had he been closer to John's unnamed friend than John himself? Now that John was loosening up, the beer and food making him more relaxed, he was a good dinner companion and Richard had enjoyed spending time with him. He wasn't sure that would be the case if they'd really had this 'business rivalry' John had fleetingly referred to before. He didn't think John was lying though- just smoothing over the truth. Euphemising what could have been a tense relationship. When John had said they'd all met, something inside Richard had clicked and he'd believed John as strongly as he believed the world is round. He couldn't explain how he knew they'd met at a swimming pool but he did.
He fetched a towel and pressed it against his face, closing his eyes. Trying to picture a swimming pool, the smell of chlorine, the signs, the still, blue water and the cold, damp tiles. He tried to imagine John, dressed as he was now, in a jumper and jeans and himself, in a suit like John had said he sued to like to wear. The only thing he couldn't visualise was John's friend. He wished he'd seen his face but John didn't seem to have any photographs of him in the living room. Richard reckoned if he had any, they'd be in his bedroom but he'd never betray John's trust by purposefully looking for them.
As he thought of the pool again, his head began to itch, then an ache but still, he persisted. Just one memory, please, anything…and then a flash, a flash of an image in his brain, a MEMORY.
John grabbing hold of him from behind, his arms so tight around Richard's waist…the pool water was shining and it was so quiet…Richard could barely feel the man's body though John's thick coat but his heart was racing anyway…
Richard's eyes snapped open and the image disappeared when a loud banging interrupted his thoughts.
"Yes?" he squeaked, his hand clamping down over his furiously galloping heart.
"Rich, you're taking a while, are you alright?"
He called me Rich. Like he knows me well.
"I'm fine, John."
Richard unlocked the door and smiled at the man he thought may well have been his boyfriend.
