Dirtier part 9
Dec. 3rd, 2008 10:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanIt felt good to sit down, to catch his breath. He'd come five or six blocks before he'd reached the schoolyard, and the ground had been rising steadily all the while. Another day, he'd have covered the distance easily, and even now he was a little surprised at how quickly he'd caught the rhythm of using the crutches at speed. Maybe he'd had them before... Maybe. But he was tired.
And he was being followed. Probably. It wasn't unheard of for a man to turn left and then right and then left again at three corners, but it wasn't very likely. The person following him was trying to be careful, ducking aside whenever the quarry turned back to look, but they kept making amateur mistakes, allowing a silhouette to be seen reflected in windows and car side mirrors. And it was the wrong silhouette to be Steed. Definitely the wrong silhouette to be Purdey.
He grinned to himself, the thought of Purdey's shape being enough to brighten even a day like this one. What have I got in my pocket? Oh, the most wonderful things I got in it. He couldn't remember much of the poem, just the illustration of the small boy that had decorated the page and the hole that was the only thing left at the end of it. Which brought him back to the torn bag he'd let fall from his hand. Hadn't he wanted to keep it?
"Mister?" He opened his eyes and found himself under the scrutiny of the tall thin boy who'd led him to the bench and two of the others, a younger boy with glasses and a bright-eyed girl. "You all right?"
"Mostly," he answered. "Just a bit winded."
"Have you really got amnesia?" the younger boy asked bluntly.
He saw the paper in the boy's hand, recognized it as the sheet that Steed had crammed in with the medicines. But it was easier somehow, hearing the question from someone outside his own head. "I'm not sure," he admitted.
"How can you not be sure?" The girl asked.
Good question. It wasn't like what he was feeling matched anything he'd ever read or watched in a film. "Well... I know who I am. I'm just not sure where..."
"You're in London, just at the edge. Kingston Station's over that way." The younger boy waved back the way he'd come from. "But that's not amnesia is it? Being lost."
"Probably not. But I'm not sure when I am either." He nodded at the older boy's armful. "Is that today's newspaper?"
The boy turned his head to read the date below the headline. "Wednesday second October 1976... yeah, that's today."
So much for that. He pinched his nose against the sudden headache, to keep back the tears that would only frighten the kids, and took a deep breath to hold until he was sure he could trust his voice. "Seventy six," he repeated, accepting it reluctantly. Not even Steed could have got to every kid in London.
"Has been all year," the girl said. "When'd you think it was?"
"1961."
That brought surprised whistles from all three of them. "I wasn't even born till 1965," the oldest boy exclaimed.
He couldn't help but smile. It was something, anyway, to have astonished even so small and scruffy an audience as this one. "Yeah. Well, at least now I know. Thanks. And thanks for picking up my stuff." He held out his hands to take his belongings back. He'd put everything in pockets this time.
"Wait," the older boy said, even as he began to hand things over. "Couldn't we help you? I mean, to get your memory back?"
"And how would you do that?" he asked, amused and a little touched by the children's willingness to help.
"Asking the right questions, and then deducing things. Like: Why 1961? What were you doing then that's so important that you've got to do it all over again?"
He stared at the boy, wondering why he'd never asked that of himself. But the answer was there, waiting. "I've got to save a man's life."
And he was being followed. Probably. It wasn't unheard of for a man to turn left and then right and then left again at three corners, but it wasn't very likely. The person following him was trying to be careful, ducking aside whenever the quarry turned back to look, but they kept making amateur mistakes, allowing a silhouette to be seen reflected in windows and car side mirrors. And it was the wrong silhouette to be Steed. Definitely the wrong silhouette to be Purdey.
He grinned to himself, the thought of Purdey's shape being enough to brighten even a day like this one. What have I got in my pocket? Oh, the most wonderful things I got in it. He couldn't remember much of the poem, just the illustration of the small boy that had decorated the page and the hole that was the only thing left at the end of it. Which brought him back to the torn bag he'd let fall from his hand. Hadn't he wanted to keep it?
"Mister?" He opened his eyes and found himself under the scrutiny of the tall thin boy who'd led him to the bench and two of the others, a younger boy with glasses and a bright-eyed girl. "You all right?"
"Mostly," he answered. "Just a bit winded."
"Have you really got amnesia?" the younger boy asked bluntly.
He saw the paper in the boy's hand, recognized it as the sheet that Steed had crammed in with the medicines. But it was easier somehow, hearing the question from someone outside his own head. "I'm not sure," he admitted.
"How can you not be sure?" The girl asked.
Good question. It wasn't like what he was feeling matched anything he'd ever read or watched in a film. "Well... I know who I am. I'm just not sure where..."
"You're in London, just at the edge. Kingston Station's over that way." The younger boy waved back the way he'd come from. "But that's not amnesia is it? Being lost."
"Probably not. But I'm not sure when I am either." He nodded at the older boy's armful. "Is that today's newspaper?"
The boy turned his head to read the date below the headline. "Wednesday second October 1976... yeah, that's today."
So much for that. He pinched his nose against the sudden headache, to keep back the tears that would only frighten the kids, and took a deep breath to hold until he was sure he could trust his voice. "Seventy six," he repeated, accepting it reluctantly. Not even Steed could have got to every kid in London.
"Has been all year," the girl said. "When'd you think it was?"
"1961."
That brought surprised whistles from all three of them. "I wasn't even born till 1965," the oldest boy exclaimed.
He couldn't help but smile. It was something, anyway, to have astonished even so small and scruffy an audience as this one. "Yeah. Well, at least now I know. Thanks. And thanks for picking up my stuff." He held out his hands to take his belongings back. He'd put everything in pockets this time.
"Wait," the older boy said, even as he began to hand things over. "Couldn't we help you? I mean, to get your memory back?"
"And how would you do that?" he asked, amused and a little touched by the children's willingness to help.
"Asking the right questions, and then deducing things. Like: Why 1961? What were you doing then that's so important that you've got to do it all over again?"
He stared at the boy, wondering why he'd never asked that of himself. But the answer was there, waiting. "I've got to save a man's life."
