Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“If I fail whatever test you’re about to give me—”

“It won’t end well,” she says, being honest, “for either of us, I’m afraid.”

“Have they threatened you?” I ask.

She smiles. It’s honest, too. “I’m afraid I’ll simply be caught in the cross fire. Perhaps used as a shield—again.”

I look around the apartment. I don’t see any cameras or listening devices, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. “Is this a private conversation?”

To my surprise, she nods. “There are ears nearby, behind thick doors. They will hear me if I scream, but if we keep our voices low, no one will hear us. We’re not being actively monitored.”

“Why not?” It seems like a poor security choice.

She clears her throat. “As you might have noticed, as unpredictable as your behavior might be, there are some situations in which we are able to quite accurately predict your behavior.”

“How? Or is that a trade secret?”

She smiles. “It’s your moral compass. Your fearlessness makes you erratic, but it’s your sense of right and wrong that guides you. Having Big Brother in the room with us is not a good way to regain your trust.”

“You never had it.”

“Right.” She motions to the apartment. “You’re welcome to check, if you like.”

Not sensing any trace of a lie, I decide to trust that this talk is private. “And if I decide to not have this conversation? If I decide to leave?”

“Well then, you’ll have to deal with Betty and Sue.”

“Betty… and Sue?”

She raises her fists. Shakes the right. “Betty.” Shakes the left. “And Sue. Now, choose your fate. Have a pleasant chat or be emasculated by a cheeky British tart.”

I smile, open my arms, and bow my head in mock subjugation. “I’m at your mercy.”

“Now then,” she says, “first question?”

“I’ll go first,” I say, then ask my question before she can argue. “How did they find me?”

She ponders this for a moment, perhaps already questioning her commitment to honesty. Then she says, “The… woman has a GPS tracker embedded beneath her skin.”

I nod, believing her, mostly because it’s not an answer she’d give if she were trying to win me over. I open my hands, motioning my readiness.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. “Any dizziness? Headaches? Nausea? Hallucinations?”

“That’s five questions,” I point out.

“Try to hear it with commas instead of question marks.”

I take stock of my body. “I’m a little sore. The hallucinations have faded.”

“So you were hallucinating?”

“That’s two questions,” I say. “My turn.”

She groans and sighs. “Go ahead.”

“Who is Simon?”

She lowers her drink toward the edge of the table. Her face is a frozen mask of shock. The glass slips from her fingers, twirls along the table’s edge, and falls. I lean forward, catch the glass and put it on the tabletop. When I lean back and look Allenby in the eyes, she gives me a one-word answer. “Bollocks.”

Allenby, head dipped toward the kitchen table, appears to be in the midst of an argument with herself. She whispers occasionally. Shakes her head. Subtly gestures. It’s like my question, which I think is a fairly simple one, has triggered some kind of mental glitch.

She suddenly takes a deep breath, shakes her hands through her gray Muppet hair, and groans. “Fine. If that’s what it takes. That’s the road we’ll go down first.”

“Are you talking to me now?” I ask.

“No. Yes. Ugh!” She pauses to collect herself. Folds her hands on the table. Puts on a smile and looks me in the eyes. “Where did you hear that name?”

“The woman,” I say. “Shiloh.”

“You spoke to her?” I didn’t think Allenby was capable of looking more stunned, but her face is quite pliable. “And she spoke to you ? What did she say?”

I decide to skip her accusations about me being a liar and keep this conversation on track. “She told me to find Simon.”

Allenby’s expression freezes. “Find… him?”

I nod. “Is he someone important?”

“He was,” she says.

“Was?”

Allenby crumples in on herself. She folds her arms on the table and puts her fluffy head down. When she lifts her head again, she’s got tears in her eyes. “This isn’t going to be easy for either of us.”

I knew Allenby before I lost my memory. There’s no doubt of that now, unless she’s lying, but I’m not getting that vibe. She seems truly upset. Not upset… disturbed. “We were friends?”

Allenby thumps her head against her arms three times and then sits back up. “More than friends.”

This makes me flinch. “We weren’t…?”

Allenby laughs hard, releasing some of her pent-up tension. “Heavens, no!” After a moment of silence, she asks. “Shall I just come out with it all? I want it to be your choice. Do keep in mind that you, the man who feels no fear, decided to forget all of this.”

“Why?”

“You might not feel fear, but you sure as hell feel pain—perhaps more poignantly than most, and some pain can conquer even the strongest of us.”

“That’s why I have no memory?”

She nods. “At your request. The operation was performed here. Not that I was present for it, mind you. For all your fearless bravado, do you know how you told me? How you asked to keep your secrets and let you be? An e-mail. A God-damned e-mail.”

Her complaints about my past actions flow through the colander of my mind. But some of the message gets stuck. “ Here? Was I a prisoner?”

“Not remotely.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t feel right.

“Some part of you remembers,” she says. “That you trust me.” She points to the cupboard. “Where the glasses are kept.” She waves her hand in the air, dismissing the topic. “We’ll come back to that later.”

“So,” I say, “who are you?”

“I am… was a friend of your mother’s.”

“I can’t remember my mother.”

“You knew what you were giving up.” She looks at me with hard eyes.

I have nothing to say to this. I can’t remember the me she’s talking about.

“We met at university,” she says. “Your mother and I. We became like sisters, and then we were when I married her brother.”

“You’re… you’re my aunt?”

Tears slip from her eyes, and she reaches a hand out across the table. I’m not sure why, but I take it.

She works hard to control her voice. “I’m nearly the only family you have left.”

“ Nearly the only family?” I ask, and then something twists in my gut. Some strange discomfort, like I’ve eaten something rotten. My mind may not remember, but my body does, just like it remembered where to look for a glass. The sensation moves through my torso and neck, squeezing my brain until the realization snaps into focus.

The missed detail.

“The toothbrush.”

“What?”

“In the bathroom,” I say. “There’s a pink toothbrush.”

She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Incompetents.” Allenby squeezes my hand. She looks around the room like she’s afraid someone could be listening. But then, believing her own claims of privacy, continues. “There’s no going back from this. Not again.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going to tell you your name.”

I nod. “Please do.”

“You’re not Crazy. With or without a capital C .” She pauses, unsure. Whispers, “Bollocks,” and then says, “Your name… is Josef… Shiloh.”

“Shiloh.” I release her hand and stand. My first name holds little interest. But the last name… “Shiloh.” An unfamiliar rush of emotions makes me feel uncomfortable. Is this what fear feels like? I lean on the table for balance. “The pink toothbrush. It belongs to…”