Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

The group of four large teenagers were taking turns pushing and shoving a young man, who was trying desperately to protect his even younger girlfriend. Michael shrugged Lisa off and made a beeline for the trouble, leaving her watching, open-mouthed, as he sped off in the direction of the group. The youths were using the obligatory taunts and profanities.

“Is she a good fuck?” One of the group gestured with his hips. “You probably can’t satisfy her. She looks like a dirty little bitch to me,” he continued. “You need to try a real man, baby.” He grabbed his crotch.

Then their prey tried to make a break for it. Pushing the smallest member of the group to his knees, the boyfriend slung his girlfriend through the new gap, as if throwing a hammer expertly, letting her weight pull him free of the hateful mob. The bemused tormentors immediately sprang to life, chasing the fleeing pair, teeth bared, eyes wild. The gang hurled themselves into the hunt with shouts of laughter and a plethora of aggressive taunts.

“Get the bastards!”

“Get the little whore!”

The crowd rushed toward Michael, giving him little time to decide on a strategy. Letting the fleeing pair past him, a well-placed foot took the first of the gang members out, launching him into the air, his skull cracking hard against one of the Underground’s supporting pillars. The second didn’t fare much better; a straight left arm caught him full in the neck, Michael’s wrist crushed into the youth’s laryngeal prominence, better known as his Adam’s apple. The thyroid cartilage surrounding the youth’s larynx hammered into his neck, sending him into the foetal position, gasping for air. The largest member of the gang was able to stop his forward momentum before reaching Michael. The flash of a blade in his hand caused Lisa to scream Michael’s name.

“MICHAEL, look out!”

From her standpoint, she thought the youth had landed a blow. Michael sank back onto his right leg, and, bringing both arms up to form a cross, he blocked the swing of his attacker’s arm expertly. Trapping the knife hand, he pushed himself back upright, pressing the youth back and bringing his right knee up forcefully into his attacker’s groin. The youth let out a guttural cry, as Michael grasped his wrist. Twisting and ducking under his arm, the youth performed a forty-five degree fouetté, before landing hard on his back. Michael had the knife and sent it spinning onto the nearby tracks, before landing a precise punch to his victim’s solar plexus. Finished, the yob rolled up into a ball, the air lost from his lungs together with any last bit of fight he may have had. The final gang member watched all of this, aghast, unable to believe the speed and brutality of his friends’ demise, searching quickly for an escape route before taking flight down the platform. Michael stood for a second, assessing the situation. The bloodlust rose in him like a fury, and he was about to take up the pursuit when a uniformed guard flew past him. Lisa was at his side, her mouth working frantically to get him to answer her questions. Watching her curiously, he was able to hear her words, but totally unable to understand them. It was as if she were speaking a foreign language. The girl and her boyfriend were also back, together with more uniforms. But all this escaped him as Michael struggled to get a grip. He found himself stranded, unable to communicate with the people around him, rooted to the spot.

Perhaps one of the gang did land a blow, and he is hurt? Lisa worried.

Guiding him to a bench, she made him sit. His eyes were still staring straight out of the centre of his head, looking down the platform at something invisible to the rest of them.

“He is probably in shock,” the boyfriend offered by way of explanation.

A policeman appeared and knelt down in front of him, looking deep into Michael’s eyes. Gripping both his arms, he gave him a small shake.

“Hello, sir, are you all right? Have you been hurt?”

He searched Michael for wounds, but the gang had been no match. Michael watched the people milling around him, detached, separate—it felt like an out-of-body experience. As the fight began, something had taken over. An instinct inside him had guided his actions, and that was still in control.

“We should take him to Hospital,” the policeman said in Lisa’s direction.

“No!” Michael was back.

Still unsure of himself, he was certain of just one thing. No hospitals.

The call came at 6:00 am. Reichard reached over for his mobile on the bedside cabinet. His hand groped the cabinet top, searching in vain for the device. The ringtone continued in ever-increasing volume and tempo, dragging him out of his semi-conscious state. Swearing under his breath, he opened his eyes and propped himself up on his right arm, spying the phone, hidden behind the base of the bedside light. He had been long convinced that small devils lurked in these devices, and delighted in these annoying games. Hiding keys, twisting cables, and helping delicate items crash to the floor.

“Reichard,” he announced.

Von Klitzing was on the other end.

“Turn on the news.”

“What has happened?”

Von Klitzing knew not to bother Reichard unless it was important. Opening the bedside cabinet drawer, he pulled the television controls out and stabbed them in the direction of the television opposite his bed.

“What channel?” he demanded.

He need not have asked. The morning news show was reporting live from the entrance to the Underground at Prince Regent Place. A half-frozen reporter, holding her scarf and coat tightly under her chin, was reporting on another disturbance in the Munich Underground.

“Police are, this morning, blaming right wing factions for another attack on passengers of the Munich underground service. Last night, shortly before 11:30 pm, a group of youths known to the police assaulted a young woman waiting to board the train at the Prince Regent Place Station. Despite her boyfriend’s attempts to protect her, it appears she received several lacerations to her arms and legs. Were it not for the heroism of a passer-by, an Englishman called Michael Jarvis, there could have been a very different ending to this story.”

Michael’s picture was being shown in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. Reichard ran his fingers through his hair, and let out a large sigh.

“Has he been hurt?”

“Our sources say he had an episode at the station, but refused hospital treatment.”

“Thank God for that! Where is he now?”

“He’s back at the apartment with his wife. They have not had breakfast yet, but he is moving around the apartment. Probably having problems sleeping. Should I go up?”

“Are you at the apartment building?”

“Of course I am!”

Reichard’s tone became concerned.

“We do not know how he will react to the recollection process. This action was totally out of character for him, but completely in character for Hofmann. Hofmann is starting to break into his consciousness. The first few weeks are always unstable, until the old memory starts to dominate. He should be given the next session as soon as possible.”

“Nobody has ever done this before.”

“I know, but he is a second-generation candidate; his own persona is far stronger than ours were. The host memories are buried deeper. Get him to the office as soon as possible. Maybe Ecker can treat him today?”

“I will keep you informed.”

With that, Von Klitzing rang off. Reichard stared at the television as pictures of the suspects were put on the screen. Then the reporter summarised:

“Our gratitude goes out to Mr Jarvis; his civil courage distinguishes him as a role model. Would more people stand up to these hooligans, our city would be a safer place. We are expecting a comment from the mayor’s office within the hour. Until then, this is Karen Weger, ARD News.”