Born Again

A dystopian tale

Born Again

As he sat with Ali, Roy and Dwayne in a corner of the warehouse and they tucked into their lunches, Cal wondered, for what seemed like the umpteenth time, what would those men think if they knew the terrible truth about him. Indeed, he wished that he could know the truth about the awful thing he had done.

Seven months previously, he had awoken in a hospital bed, with no memory of who he was, no memory of anything at all. He assumed that his memory would slowly re-emerge, but it did not. Hospital staff refused to speak to him. After two days his confusion and fear were assuaged when he was released into custody, and his reality was revealed.

A small, thin-lipped man sat behind a desk and spoke with a crisp, condescending tone.

“You can count yourself very fortunate, Mr D’Oliveira. A crime the magnitude of yours would normally receive a life sentence. Should you live that long. But you have been given a second, undeserved chance.”

Crime? Impossible! Cal stared at the little man, stunned. There was no way that he would ever commit a criminal act, let alone one as dreadful as the nameless man claimed. What was going on?

“Yes, a second chance. You are born again. Your memory has been surgically excised. As of two days ago you are a new man. Our program releases criminals back into the community under strict conditions, where they can contribute productively to society, instead of mouldering away in prison at taxpayer expense. Certain conditions must be met, and should you engage in any form of recidivism, however trifling, you will never see daylight again. So unless recidivism is hard-wired into the fabric of your being, you are made anew. You now begin your life of reparation to society.”

Cal was aghast. What could he have done? He had no memory of who he was but he was damn sure, deep within his self, that he could never do such a thing.

“What crime? What am I accused of? I don’t believe it!”

The little man snapped a disparaging smile.

“That is not for you to know. That crime was committed by the previous version of yourself. As Rousseau said: ‘True innocence is ashamed of nothing.’ Why should the new you feel guilt or remorse for actions done in your previous life?”

So, in this new, unfallen state, Calvin D’Oliveira, forty-two, now worked as a forklift driver in an electronics warehouse, commuted to and from work by bus, and lived in a small unit in a quiet suburb. He occasionally went out, alone, but constantly feared the shout of horrified recognition. He shaved his head and grew a beard. He was allowed newspapers but no access to the internet and no smartphone.

Three times a day he took medication to maintain the work of the operation, and was tested every week.

“If the tests show you are not taking your meds correctly you will never see daylight again.” The little man had been particularly compelling.

Now, for what seemed like the umpteenth time, he stood at the bathroom mirror and stared. As always, no clues or hints emerged as to who he really was. But he did know, absolutely, that this new improved reborn Cal version 2, was neither true nor real. This memory wiping was bullshit. Like hitting a reset button. I’m not some fucking device. If his memory had been wiped then why could he remember lots of stuff? All his language skills; his vocabulary was awesome. Was that a clue? He knew how to drive a car. Was that a memory? He must have been taught, got a licence, but he didn’t remember any of it. But the skill was still there. Hell, he handled that forklift like a race car. Was there some alchemy that turned memories into something else, some kind of knowledge? Then he should be able to drag it out and piece it all together. He could remember lines from Shakespeare, but his heinous crime remained hidden from him. Even his name didn’t sound authentic, but he knew he was forty-two without having to be told.

Staring did no good so he went out and stood on his tiny front porch, gazing at the setting sun. Maybe, in such moments of quietude, something might leak out.

So much for quietude. His handlers paid regular unannounced visits to “make sure he was okay.” Such magnanimous visits consisted of searching the unit. Pointless, as he had weekly meetings with the little man, blood tests, submitted all receipts for examination. His very basic phone doubtless included a tracking device.

Fortunately this evening’s search although surly as usual, was perfunctory. What could they be looking for? Maybe it was just intimidation, they chose the ugliest people to conduct it.

A few days later he had a clue.

*******

He alighted from the bus a few stops early to pick up a magazine. The owner had put in a new display of scented candles, and while he waited for other customers to be served, he wandered over to the display, picked up a candle, jasmine, held it up to his face and breathed in.

My god! A brief image of a fence and backyard flashed into his mind and he was astonished by the feeling of joy which flowed through him. On the edge of his perception was a person that he loved, the sun shone, someone was laughing…

Then it was gone. He felt weak, he’d nearly stumbled, but was exhilarated. Jasmine! That meant something! Just an image, just a feeling, but godammit, that was a real memory!

He bought the candle and walked home, reliving the experience. Memories wiped, my arse. They were in there alright. He placed the candle on the mantlepiece, leaned forward and breathed in. No images, but once more a feeling of a place more substantial, more alive, than anything he’d experienced since he’d woken up in hospital. But where to from here?

As it turned out, not far at all. At his weekly assessment he’d done his blood test, answered the usual tedious questions and was waiting, bored and cynical, while the little man perused his couple of receipts as though they contained evidence of degeneracy.

Perhaps they did.

“What’s this, a scented candle?” He paused for effect. “That’s rather effeminate, isn’t it?”

Cal’s cheeks coloured.

“It’s jasmine. I like the smell.”

Cal took in the little man’s disdainful gaze. What, you’d think I’d bought a porn mag or something. What’s wrong with this imbecile?

The little man had noted that in the last few meetings Mr D’Oliveira had been rather less reverential. Time for a show of strength.

“It simply won’t do. You do not need a scented candle. It is redundant. Superfluous. A waste of our money. Our team will retrieve it tonight.”

“You can’t be serious. It’s a fucking candle! What, too many sniffs and I turn into an axe murderer? Ridiculous! This is petty bureaucratic power.”

“A man with your record is in no position to complain. Please ensure that the candle is accessible to our team at eight pm tonight.”

At eight Cal waved the team in.

“My home is yours. As usual. You will find the offending item on the table. I suppose it’s too much to ask for a refund? Or receipt?”

The officer glared at him as he stomped out, candle in hand.

Cal closed the door and resumed listening to music. One of his few privileges.

After five minutes the doorbell rang.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what do you arseholes want now?”

He stormed to the door and flung it open. There stood a small woman with a package in her hands. Her head and face were covered by a hoodie. She did not look up, but thrust the package towards Cal.

“I’m from your sister. Take this and don’t let them catch you with it. Good luck.”

She turned and ran into the night.

Sister? What was happening? Amazed, he went back inside and placed the parcel on the table. Questions swarmed through his mind as he unwrapped it.

A photo album.

He paused, took a deep breath, then opened it. The album was new but the photographs were from their time. Two per page. The first photo showed Cal and two friends leaning against a car, yes, his hotted-up Ford. Those were his best friends – he knew their names, he knew them! They were just on the edge, just out of reach. He breathed hard as he stared at his youthful self. Short but athletic, smiling happily, living a life. Tears filled his eyes, his body wracked by spasms of grief at his loss. They didn’t wipe my memories, they maimed them. Tore out their tongue.

There were eight pictures in the album and as he turned the pages and both the familiar and the evasive, raw and intense, crashed into his mind, he felt as though he was being squeezed tighter and tighter.

On the last page was a photo of Cal as a young boy, dressed only in shorts, grinning and waving his arms. In the background was a fence covered in jasmine.

These were the real memories. His new life, in which he was becoming comfortable, was a fake. Cardboard scenery, two-dimensional characters, vacuous plot.

Eventually his pain passed and he was exhausted from struggling to fit the pieces that made sense into some coherent whole. Emma, yes, that was her name, had told him to hide the album so he put it in the bottom of the freezer inside and empty lasagne packet.

Cal was now even more convinced that he was no more a criminal than he was a cat. At work the next day Roy pulled him aside and asked, “Is there anything wrong mate? You look like someone shot your dog. You’ve been full of beans lately, it looked like you’d turned the corner. Do you need to talk?’

“No thanks, mate. Just a sleepless night.”

“Didn’t bring home a lady, did we?” Roy chuckled.

“No such luck. Just one of those things. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“No worries mate. We’re always here.”

Roy had been right. As Cal became settled into this new life he had found, not memories but qualities: a wicked sense of humour, sharp skepticism and casual irreverence. All of these annoyed the little man, an experience Cal found thoroughly gratifying.

Roy continued.

“You see, we’ve noticed that you’re a really smart guy. You should be a professor or something. What the hell are you doing here? I don’t wanna be nosey, but, well…”

Professor? That struck a chord. Again, a vague feeling, not memory but knowledge wriggled deep within his mind.

“I’m here for the company. I’m really a plasma physicist.”

“Like my girlfriend. She’s a fan of warm plasma.”

Both men laughed and Roy clapped Cal on the shoulder.

“That’s better. If you can’t laugh at a bit of smut then what hope is there for ya?”

Later that afternoon as he struggled through an office machine coffee, Dwayne called out, “Hey Cal! Do me a favour please? Our hands are full and that dickhead delivery driver parked the truck facing the wrong way. Can you turn it round and back it in?”

“I could, but I don’t have a licence.”

“No problem. Just do a three-point turn, stick the nose out the gate to straighten her up, then back her in.”

“No problem it is. You can watch a master at work.”

The delivery driver hadn’t either the skill or inclination to turn the truck around and had abandoned it. Re-aligning the truck, although it was small, was a tricky manoeuvre. Cal deftly manipulated it into place then crept forward, nose out the gate, preparing for the final move.

Which never came. Looking intently into his opposite mirror to align the truck with the loading bay, he didn’t see the meth-head in the stolen BMW fail to negotiate a perfectly straight road, drive up onto the footpath, and crash into the driver’s side of the truck.

Meth-head was uninjured thanks to German engineering but the truck was old and Cal sustained multiple fractures, including two broken legs. He was knocked unconscious, and it was with a sense of déjà vu that he awoke in the hospital the next day.

As he slowly rose into consciousness, a nurse bent over him.

“It’s lovely to see you back with us, Cal. Are you feeling any pain?”

He struggled to get tongue and lips to form the words. He meant to say, “Not Cal. George,” but it came out, “Nocl, grge.”

The nurse nodded.

“Not quite back with us yet Cal? Not to worry, I’ll come back shortly. Doctor will want a word too.”

Had he heard wrongly through the fog? She called him Cal. That was…no, he was Cal and he’d been in a truck. But hadn’t he been knocked unconscious before, standing near a doorway, someone had struck him from behind. He was George and he was attacked, he remembered that. So what was the truck? Why would George Catesby be driving a truck? No, that was when he was Cal.

Two people! His former life, stolen from him, was coming back. Images and sensations swept through him; he knew them but could not grasp them. They were his but it was as though they belonged to someone else. Some were joyful, some were sinister. Making no sense of the chaos, he began to impose some order, focusing on memories from childhood to begin with, then creating a chronology. A story began to cohere from the fragments. An outgoing, clever boy, happy and confident, making friends easily. Secure in a loving family. A brilliant student, daring car racer, numerous girlfriends. A university career of perpetual success, then a position at the country’s foremost physics research institute.

But brilliance became arrogance. Cynical, selfish, cruel, treating others, especially women, with disdain. He saw this person as repugnant, and was disgusted by what he had become. This was Cal’s perspective. Try as he might, he could not free himself from the man he had recently been. The character he had thought to elide in favour of his authentic self was still in control.

Other memories lurked, dark, brooding and ugly. George wanted them left sleeping, they were frightening, a threat. Cal wanted the bogeys brought into the light.

In the afternoon his friends from the warehouse showed up. At first he felt dismissive, they were an imposition, then he began to enjoy their company. When they left he realised that he’d been uplifted by the visit.

As he continued to piece memories together he experienced Geoge as the one with the memory, and Cal as the one to make meaning from them. He sided with George, he’d been George for over forty years, Cal just six months. George was the real one. He had struggled for months to take back what was stolen from him, now he knew who he truly was. Cal was just an appendix.

However, he was not. Duck or rabbit? George or Cal? Neither, and both. Cal was not to be denied and George’s defeat came suddenly and terribly. During the last year he had become a crucial member of a team developing a plasma weapon. He saw it in his mind, like an image from an Albert Robida illustration. He also watched as it was tested, and on whom. No one would miss, let alone care about, homeless addicts snatched from the street and used as experimental subjects. He watched in stupefied horror as men were incinerated, heard their screams, recoiled at the stench.

The little man had been right. He was a monster. In his determination to find out who he really was, then to identify with George he had looked into the abyss and the abyss had held a mirror.

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. If he had known how to operate the anaesthetic machine he’d have turned it up all the way. He rolled over in despair. Now every time he closed his eyes he saw men on fire.