The Man Who Remembered Today

  THE MAN WHO REMEMBERED TODAY

  Peter Cawdron

  thinkingscifi.wordpress.com

  Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2014

  All rights reserved

  The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published as short story by Peter Cawdron in the anthology

  From the Indie Side

  ISBN: 9781310213687

  US Edition

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental

  Chapter 01: Memories

  Kareem woke to the sound of coffee dripping from his brand new De’Longhi coffee machine. With each drip, the aroma swelled in his tiny apartment. For a moment, he just lay there savoring the smell, enjoying the absence of an alarm clock. Instead of the jarring sound of a fake car horn or faux-African drums or even a rock song shuffled from his smartphone, he woke to what at first sounded like rain falling gently on the windowsill. The soft hiss of steam reminded him not to drift back to sleep.

  Kareem opened his eyes and stretched, sitting up on the side of the bed. The clock read 7:20.

  Another day, another dollar. Living for the weekend. Huh, he thought, these were clichés, but somehow they defined his life. What day was it? Wednesday or Thursday? Damn, he thought, picking up his phone and checking the date. It was Tuesday.

  “Thank God it’s not Monday,” he mumbled to himself, vaguely aware he’d butchered yet another cliché in his drowsy state.

  Kareem got to his feet and staggered, reaching out for the dresser to steady himself. He felt dizzy, almost to the point of nausea. For a moment, he held himself there, holding himself still while the world swung around him.

  “Oh,” he moaned, feeling like he’d been kicked in the head. “I’ve got to lay off the hard stuff.”

  His mind was cloudy, hazy. He had no recollection of drinking alcohol the night before, but he must have been on liquor. Beer wouldn’t do this to him. Wine would leave him slightly dehydrated and a little dusty. Only whiskey knocked him around this bad. That was the worst thing about getting blind drunk, he decided: not really knowing the next morning whether it was worth the thumping headache or not.

  “Ha,” he said to his empty one-room apartment, smelling the fresh coffee wafting through the air.

  He poured himself a cup of black coffee and then thought better of it, adding some artificial sweetener and a drop of cream. Steam rose from the cup. He inhaled, savoring the rich smell. Closing his eyes, he sipped at the coffee, feeling better already.

  In the back of his mind, Kareem remembered something, something about yesterday. Damn, he thought. There was something he was supposed to do today, something he should have written down. It was important, he knew that much at least, but what it was escaped him. Maybe a hot shower would distract him and that memory would return naturally.

  Kareem walked around the bed toward the bathroom. It was autumn. It would take a couple of minutes before the frigid New York water became warm enough for a shower, so he figured he’d catch up on the news about the terrorist attacks crippling the country. With the flick of a button on the TV remote, his television started talking to him. A commercial for shaving cream came up on the screen. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Kareem ignored the ad and wandered into the bathroom.

  He glanced casually in the mirror in the cramped bathroom with its chipped tiles and moldy corners. A stranger stared back at him. It took Kareem a moment to recognize himself. Blood soaked through a bandage wrapped around his head. Numerous tiny cuts and scratches stretched across his face, all running from lower left to upper right. His eyes were puffy, as though he were suffering from allergies.

  “What the...”

  A packet of painkillers sat on the sink below the mirror. The label on the side had his name typed out, but he didn’t remember getting them. He didn’t remember anything that had happened yesterday.

  “How in the hell?” he said absentmindedly, slowly unraveling the turban-like bandage. The side of his head had been shaved. Stitches ran from his temple to behind his ear. Gently, he touched at the wound, trying to get a good look at the cut in the mirror. Had he been in some kind of accident? Perhaps he had amnesia, or was still in shock and was subconsciously blocking out painful memories. As a paramedic, Kareem understood that was possible. Car crash, he wondered? No, he thought, hit-and-run. The lines on his face were consistent with road rash.

  The TV blared in the background. Kareem turned on the shower and wandered back into his tiny apartment, struggling to recall any memories from yesterday. He had no idea how he’d been injured. He’d clearly been to the hospital. The label on the painkillers noted they’d been issued by the pharmacy at the Downtown Emergency Department in Lower Manhattan. In some ways, that made sense. That’s where his ambulance was stationed, but how had he gotten home? Getting back to the Upper East Side was a pain in the ass on public transport. Someone had to have dropped him off, but he had no recollection of any of it.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he flicked through the TV channels until he picked up the news.

  “...while later today,” a pretty young newscaster began, “President Addison will speak at the social justice reform program in Manhattan.”

  The president faced the camera. At first, Kareem assumed he was speaking from somewhere in Washington, D.C. He could have been in the White House, Kareem speculated, but the walls behind him were covered in photographs.

  In his groggy state it took Kareem a moment to realize that the president was standing in front of a memorial wall, the kind hastily erected in the aftermath of some tragedy. As the camera panned, taking in a scene of devastation beyond the makeshift wall, Kareem recognized the intersection. The windows in the buildings had been shattered, but it was the corner of State and Pearl; he was sure of it. He used to get coffee from there. President Addison had to be in New York.

  “We will not be intimidated by cowards,” the president began. “We will find those responsible for the attack on Battery Park and we will bring them to justice.”

  Battery Park. Yes, he remembered picking up a middle-aged man from Battery Park a couple of days ago. Or was it a week ago? The poor man had had a heart attack while walking to work. Kareem and his partner had saved the man’s life.

  This was the second attack Kareem had heard of in New York, after the bombing of the museum. Prior to that, there had been bombings in Los Angeles, Seattle and Chicago, but only ever one attack in each city. Hearing of a second attack in New York caused the hair on the back of Kareem’s arms to stand on end.

  “We will not have our way of life changed by extremists. We will not bow to their hatred of freedom.”

  The president kept talking, but the volume dropped as the reporter spoke over top of him.

  “President Addison has vowed to keep to his schedule in New York, speaking at the civil rights conference before touring the hospitals that are treating those injured at Battery Park. Police are asking anyone in the area who may have seen one of these two men to come forward to help with the investigation.”

  Some sketch artist had constructed two computer-generated mug shots. On the screen, both men looked sullen and morose. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties, and had the classic Arab look, with short-cropped dark hair and sharp jawlines, but really they could have been from any southern European country. Those dark bushy eyebrows could just as easily have originated in Greece or Spain as in Saudi Arabia, Kareem noted. Tweak a few of those features a little more and it could have been a sketch of either him or his brother.

  “What about the bomb at the museum?” Kareem asked the TV. Living less than four blocks from the first blast, Kareem wanted to know if the police or the FBI, or whoever was in charge, had any leads. Were the blasts related? Were they coincidental? Could it be a copycat was at work? Not surprisingly, the TV reporter didn’t respond to his question.

  “The stock market is in free-fall,” the anchor said. “Wall Street is in turmoil following the attack on Battery Park, with the SEC calling for the suspension of future put options as billions in losses pour into what the Fed is calling an economic black hole.”

  Steam swirled within the shower.

  As tempting as it was to sit there and watch the TV, mesmerized by the regurgitated news, Kareem felt he had to get clean. He’d have to avoid getting his hair wet, but his weary body cried out to soak beneath the warm jets of water. Anyway, he knew the networks would run these stories to death, although death probably wasn’t the appropriate term, given the gory subject matter. Anything he missed would be replayed over and over again throughout the day. Eventually, there would be something about the attack on the museum.

  The shower felt wonderful. Kareem stood there beneath the streaming jets for almost half an hour, soaking his body, relishing how the tension washed out of his muscles. There were bruises on his arms and chest, but his legs were fine.

  After he got out of the shower, Kareem gently sponged the wound on his head, cleaning away the blood. He dressed, shaved and brushed his teeth. He was a little strange in that regard. He’d brush his teeth before he had breakfast, even though that habit caused his Cap’n Crunch to taste of mint afterward.

  His coffee was cold so he dumped it out and poured another fresh cup from his coffee machine. The TV was still cycling through news stories about the
string of terrorist attacks that had rocked the country. The clip of President Addison repeated. His defiance seemed even more impressive the second time around.

  “Come on,” Kareem said to himself. “What about Manhattan? What about Central Park? Is it safe to go out?”

  Is it safe, he repeated mentally to himself. Terrorist attacks were sensational, but he knew more people would die on the roads that one day than had died in any of the attacks. Probably several times more, and yet he understood society had accepted road accidents as normal. Fatalities from car accidents were nothing compared to a terrorist attack, or so the news told him. Huh, he thought, realizing he was in more danger from his gas stove or while crossing the street than he ever was from a terrorist. And given his injuries, he’d apparently come close to dying while jaywalking or something.

  How many had died in the Seattle attack? He struggled to recall the number, but it was somewhere in the fifties. There had been hundreds injured but only fifty or sixty killed. Only. What a cruel word, he decided. And at the Museum of Natural History, just a few blocks away from his apartment, how many had died there? His memory was hazy, but he was sure it was only fourteen or fifteen people. And there it was again: only. Kareem decided he hated that word.

  How many people died on the roads each year? He should know this. He tended to enough motor vehicle accidents. From memory, he thought it hovered somewhere between thirty to forty thousand, so that had to be, what? A hundred a day, he figured, if his math wasn’t wrong. Damn, he’d come close to being part of that horrifying statistic.

  Kareem picked up his smartphone and sent a text to his work buddy, Deb Drysdale.

  Morning.

  Almost instantly, Deb replied. She must have been online already.

  Hey, how are you doing? Are you feeling OK?

  Yeah, Kareem replied, slowly typing out each letter, trying not to invoke the fury of autocorrect. I’m a little groggy, but I’m OK. What the hell happened?

  You don’t remember? came the reply. How did she reply so quickly? Damn, she was fast with her fingers, Kareem thought.

  No, he replied.

  Dude. You were caught in the blast.

  Kareem sat there on the bed, stunned, watching as more messages rolled in.

  You’re lucky to be arrive.

  Alive, alive - damn autocarrot!

  You were on standby when the bomb went off.

  Standby for what? Kareem asked, unable to recall even the most basic details about yesterday.

  Vets for Freedom March. They were supposed to leave from Battery Park.

  Kareem typed two words in response, his fingers moving somewhat autonomously as his mind struggled with Deb’s comments.

  Battery Park?

  Yeah. Do you remember?

  No, Kareem replied.

  What a fucking mess, Deb typed. 47 dead. 600+ injured. And you, you dumb fuck! You were thrown across the road by the blast.

  Me? Kareem replied.

  Wrong place. Wrong time, dude.

  You wouldn’t stay in the hospital overnight.

  You kept saying you were fine.

  Kareem sat there watching the messages roll in, hoping they’d trigger something in his memory, but his mind was blank.

  You said you didn’t want to take up an extra bed.

  You goddamn martyr. Ha ha!

  Kareem remembered the blast by Central Park, the blast he’d been waiting to hear about on the news. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why they’d only cover the blast in Battery Park.

  What about the museum? How many were killed?

  Museum? Deb replied.

  Yeah, the M of Natural History by Central Park.

  There was no reply. Deb had lightning-fast fingers when it came to working with her smartphone, so a few seconds felt like an eternity. Finally, a response appeared on Kareem’s phone.

  There was only one attack.

  At Battery Park.

  But Kareem could remember the first attack vividly.

  Are you OK?

  Do you want me to come over?

  Kareem shook his head, typing, I’m fine.

  How about breakfast at O’Malley's?

  Not hungry, Kareem replied. But will come for intravenous coffee.

  Ha ha. Good man. C U at 9.

  Bye, Kareem replied, switching off his mobile phone and sitting it on the bed next to him. His recollection of the blast at the museum was surprisingly vivid, and yet it came in fragments. He must have been there, but Deb was describing a different attack, the one on the news. Kareem was confused.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed memories to bubble to the surface of his mind. He could picture what had happened. He had crossed from Central Park. He was jaywalking, never a smart thing to do in New York. Had that been when he was hit by a car? Although Deb said he’d been caught in the blast in Battery Park, his mind still associated his injuries with a vehicle accident. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been hit by one of the yellow taxis that raced through the city.

  A delivery van had parked outside the museum; he remembered that detail vividly. He’d made eye contact with the driver as he crossed the road. That face! Kareem’s eyes flashed open, catching the same face on the TV screen in front of him. That face was the same one as the police artist sketch, he was sure of it. Only the cheeks were slightly narrower, and the nose was more square, but the eyes, they were identical. He’d seen one of the bombers!

  “Police are urging anyone with any information on the identity or whereabouts of either of these men to come forward. They are considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached. An information hotline has been set up by the NYPD.”

  Kareem already had his phone out and was dialing the number on the screen. The call was answered immediately, but he was met with an automated response.

  “This is the New York Police Department. You have reached the information hotline for the investigation into the bombing at Battery Park. Please hold, an operator will be with you shortly.”

  Music began playing.

  “Your call is important to us and will be answered by the next available operator.”

  “Son of a...” he cried as a pleasant jingle sounded from the phone.

  His phone began beeping, signaling imminent battery failure.

  “Shit!”

  Kareem kept the phone to his ear as he rummaged through his dresser, looking for his power cord.

  “Your call is important to us and may be recorded for training—”

  “Just get on with it,” he snapped, finding a cord to recharge the phone and plugging it into the wall. The cord was short, forcing him to crouch down next to the power outlet. Kareem went to switch the phone to speaker when a woman’s voice answered.

  “New York Police Department. You’re talking with Officer Kransky.”

  “I saw him,” Kareem blurted out, forgetting about the growing cramp in his leg for a moment. Adrenaline surged through his veins.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “I saw him. The bomber.”

  “Sir, I need to make you aware that the New York Police Department is assisting the FBI investigation into the bombing at Battery Park. Misleading an officer investigating this incident is a federal offense. Fraudulent claims constitute a serious crime and may be punishable by fines of up to ten thousand dollars and a prison term of up to five years. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, yes. I saw him before the bombing. The one on the right, on the TV, he was driving a delivery truck. The old sort, with a box cabin and the sliding side door.”

  “What can you tell me about the van? Did you get the license plate?”

  “No.” This was good. Talking with the officer was helping him to recall more detail.

  “Was there anything unusual about the van, perhaps a bumper sticker or a distinct dent?”

  “The logo was crooked!”

  Kareem was excited. He was remembering. He could see the logo in his mind’s eye.

  “What did the logo say?” the officer asked. “Was this a Fed Ex truck or UPS?”

  “No,” Kareem replied confidently. “It looked like a UPS truck, with a copper logo set on a dark brown background, but it wasn’t UPS. The initials were...”