Part Five
"Shut up, willya? 'Trying to sleep here, Jackass."
The thrown pillow him smack in the face, jerking him out of the nightmare and into a sitting position on the narrow bed. Ignoring his roommate, he did his best to remember the dream he'd just been pulled out of. In it he was swinging, hanging from his hands, he could feel the hard bar he was hanging from and remember how happy it made him feel. He could feel the air rushing past him, could feel his clothing move with him. It wasn't just a swing set it was, it was—high up. He was high up and he was swinging and he could hear people below him, a crowd of them.
It was an audience, a large audience watching him swing and he, he was letting go of the bar, throwing his body, letting his body be thrown by inertia combined with his own movements and felt the snap in his shoulders as his hands slapped into someone's hands. Someone, a man, had caught him and was smiling at him and he was smiling back, proud of what he'd done, heard applause from the crowd but the cheers stopped, transformed into screams and then he was on the ground looking at two broken people, bleeding on the ground.
Looking up he saw one of the bars hanging from only one rope, still swaying above them.
The people, they were—he knew them. They were, he knew who they were, they were—his parents.
He knew who they were and now he knew how his hands, the hands that were shaking now, had gotten callused. He worked in a circus and his parents were the people dead on the ground.
He shook his head. Jesus, stupid dream and where the hell did that come from? 'Probably something subconscious, a childhood fantasy to explain his hands, a romantic answer for something pedestrian.
Laying down, he went back to restless sleep.
* * *
Early Monday morning the garbage men were making their rounds, cleaning up after other people, cleaning up after the entire city. Normally they didn't bother to really look at what they were tossing into the truck but once in a while..."Check this."
"Wha?"
"A wallet."
He opened it up; good quality, newish and empty aside from a couple of the usual snapshots of family and friends. There was some more stuff laying around the wallet, stuff that had probably spilled out or been pulled out by whoever stole the thing 'cause it had to have been stolen then dumped. Reaching inside the dumpster (gross), he pulled out the cards and papers. A current AAA card, a registration for a motorcycle (a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14, no less), an insurance card for the bike, a health insurance card and an emergency contact card with no name, just a phone number in a different area code. They all had the same name, Richard J Grayson. Poor sap, having your wallet stolen was a pain in the ass, all those cards and stuff to replace.
"Any money?"
"Nah, no credit cards, either."
"C'mon, we hafta ta get movin'."
He tossed the wallet and the rest back into the dumpster and pushed the buttons which would empty it into the truck. By tonight it would all be in a landfill.
* * *
"Hey, man where's the new barkeep? He poured a bigger two fingers than you do, 'ya cheap bastard."
"And tried to drive me to the poor house while he was at it. He's just off for a couple of days, something about a family problem."
"Yeah, when you see him tell him that the department is recruiting again in a couple of weeks; didn't he say something about wanting to be a cop?"
"He mentioned it but that don't mean nuthin'. Talk is talk."
Later, at one AM, closing time, he sat down in the office and decided to see what, if anything, was on the security tape. Grayson hadn't shown up for a week now and something about that didn't sit right. The kid had been dependable, more so than the usual drifters who came through the place and didn't seem like the type to just take a hike but there you go. You just never knew about people.
The tape played in the background while he cooked the books, a black and white flickering image of nothing except a back alley used for deliveries and trash and nothing else. Checking the date and time on the tape, it was last Tuesday, the night the kid closed up the bar for him, the last night he'd been at work.
At about the fifteenth hour mark (played at four times regular speed and skipping an hour here and there) he saw the kid go out the back door with a couple cartons of empties for the recycling. He was bent over to put them down when another figure moved into camera sight, both men moving jerkily because of the fast forward. Hitting a button, he slowed the tape down to real speed, saw Grayson get slammed on the head by something—a pipe, maybe a tire iron—and go down like a ton of bricks. His wallet was lifted from a back pocket, emptied of money and credit cards and tossed in the trash then the thief disappeared, leaving Grayson still out for the count.
He hadn't still been back there Wednesday morning when he'd gone in to open up, he was sure of it. Grayson must have woken up and got himself home or someplace. And if he could move under his own power he had to be okay, right?
'Just another fly by night kid, looking to pocket a few bucks and then move on.
It happened.
Strange, though. He was usually pretty good at reading people; you had to be in this business and he hadn't pegged Grayson for pulling that kind of crap.
* * *
He was sitting in the social worker's office, the man explaining what would probably happen to him. "You have to understand, you've suffered a severe concussion and the problems that you're experiencing are simply part and parcel of what's happened. You may have problems for anywhere from three months or so up to a year."
The young man, the bruises starting to change colors as they slowly healed and the swelling went down. "But there has to be something someone can do. Are there any meds which could help?"
"For the pain, sure, for regaining your memory? Well, no. There are a few things which are experimental; lot's of research going on with an aging population and tons of people with Alzheimer's and dementia but a cure? Not yet."
He was frustrated, still confused and disoriented. He was also frightened; if he was a druggie or a dealer paying the price of a bad deal he wanted to know that but he had a gut feeling that just wasn't the case. He didn't feel like an addict, he didn't have any withdrawal symptoms and if he was a dealer, well, okay but he still wanted to know it so he could figure out how and why he was who he was.
"So what can we do, what can I do to regain my memory and my life?"
"Keep you eyes opened, look at everything, everyone, read anything you can get your hands on, watch the news, movies—anything could jog your memory. Usually what happens in this kind of case is that something will happen, you'll meet a person, see a picture or something and that will bring it back for you."
"But..."
"It could be anything and I don't what it will be any more than you do at this point because neither of us knows who you were, who you are."
"So what am I suppose to do while I wait for the clouds to part?"
"You can stay here for up to four weeks. Sorry, but those are the rules. When you're feeling better you might want to think about picking up some kind of job to bring in some money and it may well be the key to your memory. If you get back out there, interact with people, see what you have natural ability in, see what comes easily to you it could be something you used to do."
"That makes sense." He seemed more resigned than hopeful.
"Is there anything that you might enjoy, John?"
He gave a small shrug. "I guess I'll see." Standing he held out his hand. "Thanks."
"'You still need the pain meds?"
"Not really, no."
"How are you sleeping?"
"'You know..."
The social worker had heard that one before. "Dreams? Pay attention to them, they may be trying to tell you something."
* * *
Bruce went into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, surprised to find Alfred standing by the phone with an odd look in his face. "Problem?"
"I shouldn't think so, but I've been attempting to get a hold of Master Dick for two days now and he's yet to return my calls."
Taking a mug from the cabinet Bruce seemed unimpressed. "He's probably just busy or out with the Titans."
"I just left a message with Miss Donna and she told me that she hasn't seen hide nor hair of the lad in three weeks and I find it difficult to believe that tending bar is that all-encompassing."
The obvious was left unstated. "I'll see what he's up to."
TBC