How David Happened

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is NOT an erotic story.

***

Catriona Hamsun blinks and screws her eyes tight.

Chrissake.

It's morning, maybe even afternoon, and the sun is shining through a broken pane of glass up there in the roof - right into her eyes, a Gestapo desk-lamp. She should feel good about this. Isn't sunlight supposed to cheer you up? Catriona is fairly sure she read about this in some magazine, somewhere. Something to do with vitamins, wasn't it? Whatever. At this moment in time there is little to be cheerful about - sunlight or no.

For starters, there's the smell. Catriona Hamsun smells of stale perfume. It's not a particularly loathsome odour but it IS distinctive. She also reeks of dust and damp paperbacks. Catriona Hamsun is not unaware of this problem but there's little she can do to remedy it at the minute. The whole building smells of dust and damp paperbacks. Why should SHE get off lightly? (There is also, of course, David's characteristic fragrance but it's best not to dwell on that just yet.)

Now, Catriona can account for the stale perfume - she squirted it herself last night from that wee bottle of Medusa Mist over there on the ground - and the dusty smell can be explained by the fine powdery particles coating all the visible surfaces throughout the building but where did the stink of damp paperbacks come from? Perhaps this place was some kind of used-book storage at some point in the past. (Does such a thing even exist?)

Catriona Hamsun sneezes and wipes her watery eyes with the heel of each hand. Ach, well - at least she has a name now. That's something.

Here's how it started. Two days ago (or was it three?) a girl woke up in a warehouse somewhere in summertime. She had no name. The girl found herself to be dressed in rather an elegant (if somewhat grubby) black ballgown and a pair of uncomfortable stiletto-heeled shoes which were caked in thick dry mud. With the aid of a snapped metal coat-hanger, she was able to scrape most of the gunk off but that turned out to be a completely pointless exercise because, beneath the muck, the shoes were all scuffed to hell anyroads.

The girl - Catriona Hamsun - can not bear to be seen wearing such disgusting shoes in public whenever hunger, thirst and other biological necessities force her into the World outside but what else is she to do? It's not too sensible to wander around the city in bare feet, now, is it?

Anyways - apart from the dress and the evil footwear, Catriona's worldly possessions currently amount to:

~one dusty, battered, brown suitcase (sitting over there by the tractor wheel); ~the various bras, knickers, stockings, toiletries and miscellaneous items of make-up contained therein; ~one blue and purple paisley-patterned toilet bag; ~two bars of soap (Pears), a pink toothbrush, a half-used tube of minty toothpaste and a yellow face cloth; ~one horrendous, black, plastic purse; ~seven crumpled, brown Royal Bank of Scotland tenners; ~57 pence in coins; ~a set of house keys; ~a piece of folded, A4, lined paper featuring rough, scribbled directions on how to get from Edinburgh bus station to a flat in Liberton (the name 'CATRIONA HAMSUN' is printed in bold red letters at the top of this sheet); ~one small, black pistol and ~a Woolworths Pick 'n' Mix bag containing seven bullets. (No confectionary.)

These last items - the gun and the bullets - were discovered concealed beneath the disgusting, orange mattress which has acted as a make-shift bed/settee, ever since Catriona Hamsun's awakening.

To tell you the truth, she isn't even too sure that this is HER name - why would you bother writing yourself directions to your own flat? It has a nice enough ring to it, though - CATRIONA HAMSUN - and, what with all this memory-loss business going on, it's the only name available to her.

It's important to have your own name. If you don't have your own name, you're in real shite. Catriona has put a great deal of thought into this. A name gives you identity, individuality - it separates you from all the other things in the World such as crocodiles, helium balloons, carrier bags, ravens, chimney stacks or raspberry jelly. Catriona's name is a symbol of her separateness. Waking up in a strange warehouse, without an identity, has been a troubling experience. A name is one of the few things Catriona Hamsun has to cling to - a potent reminder of her uniqueness.

It took Catriona most of that first afternoon in the warehouse just to muster up enough courage to clamber out the faraway window into the World outside. (The door seems to be jammed shut.) It was the right thing to do, though. Ever since discovering the name of this city - NEWCASTLE - Catriona has felt a whole lot more secure about herself. It's good to know where in the Universe you're standing at any given moment.

This first outing also threw up another interesting nugget of information. Catriona is Scottish. The woman at the newsagent recognised the accent as soon as she spoke.

'I want a bridie, a packet of tomato sauce crisps and 2 cans of Irn Bru, please,' said Catriona - the words dancing easily on her tongue (seemingly snatched from her previous existence, before the awakening).

'You're Scottish, aren't you, pet?' said the woman, smiling strangely as she studied Catriona's person. 'Are you going to a fancy dress?'

Catriona shrugged by way of reply.

Scottish. Skkkawwttttishhhhh. This is useful information to know. It suggests our girl may be a stranger abroad. Just visiting. On her holidays. It's reassuring to know that Catriona Hamsun has a nationality to go with her name.

But there's more. The discovery of the folded scrap of A4 in the suitcase has given Catriona an address to add to these two prizes. To have an address - a place of residence - seems almost as important as having a name or a nationality:

'My name is Catriona Hamsun. I have travelled to Newcastle from Scotland on unspecified business. My home address is in the city of Edinburgh - Liberton, to be more specific.'

To lose important details like your name, your nationality and your home address is a bitch and a half, it really is, but surely the most disturbing thing about all this memory-loss business is not knowing how David happened..

David is the dead man on the floor and Catriona is not too sure how he died.. Well, actually, it's fairly obvious HOW he copped it. It can be reasonably assumed from the way he's slumped against the wall with that bloody, great, gaping hole in his chest, that he was shot. And, as Catriona is in possession of a firearm, it's likely that she herself did the evil deed at some point prior to her mysterious awakening.

What our girl really wants to know is WHY it happened?

Did this man, David, attack Catriona Hamsun? Perhaps he threatened to kill her. It's possible, is it not, that the gun and bullets were, in fact, HIS? He attempted to do our girl in and there was a terrible struggle, resulting in him being fatally shot through the heart.

Of course, there's also the other possibility - that Catriona Hamsun was motivated by some other darker urge than mere self-preservation.

On examining David's clothing (a tatty, dark grey suit and long black coat) for clues to HIS identity, Catriona discovered a hefty bundle of English twenty pound notes. Guilt or fear have prevented her counting these but there is certainly enough cash there to provide a motive for murder. Is this what happened? Did Catriona Hamsun lure this poor, middle-aged gentleman into the warehouse - perhaps on the pretext of companionship or 'easy sex' - then callously shoot him through the heart?

No matter how hard Catriona stares into his eyes, she can find no answers to these questions. The man's blue face seems to hold no trace of his dying thoughts, no clue, no meaningful epitaph, no hint of an emotion - fear, surprise or anger - that might help solve the mystery. He is DEAD. That's it. Lifeless. There's nothing left of the person he once was.

Catriona Hamsun's initial search of the body revealed the corpse's name to be David James Barrow. A native of Newcastle, seemingly. Possibly a bus driver. None of these facts say too much about who he actually was in LIFE, though. When you look closely at it, a name, an address and a nationality are just as meaningless as the empty body now crumpled there against the wall. All that remains of David James Barrow now is a shell. The real substance - the tortoise, if you like - has scuttled off.

It's just as important to know which impulse would drive you to shoot David Barrow as it is to know your own name, nationality and home address.

Once again, Catriona Hamsun realises that her quest for knowledge is being driven by a need for IDENTITY. She knows exactly what it is she has done - David's corpse is an all too constant reminder. However, in order to fully discover WHO SHE IS - the substance of her character - she must also examine her MOTIVE. You see, if Catriona Hamsun was in any way justified in firing a bullet into Mr Barrow's heart, then there may still be a chance for her - some glimmer of hope that she could still be proven a GOOD woman. A killer - yes - but a killer with a reason.

Catriona Hansun was a good woman driven to an evil act by forces outwith her control. That's what they'd say of her.

IS that who she is - someone only prepared to kill another human being if her own life depends on it? Or is she a very different sort of a character altogether? Is she the sort of Catriona Hamsun who would be prepared to murder purely for personal gain?

These two Catriona Hamsuns share the same name, same nationality, same address. They would, undoubtedly, be prepared to do many of the same things. But something separates them. What is this thing that separates them? Where does each woman's morality - or lack thereof - originate? Where does it come from, this sense of right and wrong? The personality? Her upbringing? A soul? Is this the very essence which seeped out of David James Barrow's shell when he died? His soul?

Is it a soul that gives Catriona Hamsun her identity? Or is it, perhaps, memory? Memory and experience?

With the loss of her memory, Catriona Hamsun seemed to lose whole chunks of identity - name, nationality, address, motive. What if she had lost even more - language; the ability to reason and plan ahead; memories of the food she's tasted, sounds she's heard, textures she's felt, sights she's seen, fragrances she's smelled and all those other things she has presumably learned since childhood?

If Catriona Hamsun lost enough of these memories would she then cease to exist as a person? Would she be little more than an empty carcass like poor David lying in the dust here?

This is a sickening thought. How can such an important part of a person's identity just disappear? Perhaps... and Catriona has put a fair amount of thought into this... perhaps these memories aren't lost at all. Perhaps they are hiding somewhere - jammed deep in the dark caverns of her subconscious.

Catriona Hamsun frowns, gets up and walks over to that discarded old dressing table. Kneeling down in the dust and grit she once again studies her reflection in the cracked mirror. The small, curvaceous, olive-skinned woman is a stranger to her. Catriona shivers. It is utterly bizarre to find yourself inhabiting an alien body like this.

She scratches the long, chipped, blue-varnished nails of her right hand through the strands of her burgundy hair, brushing it down over her shoulder. With two fingers, she traces the shape of her thin, cracked lips, and then - drawing these wide open - examines the well-formed, clean, white teeth and the red, slightly inflamed gums. She traces the tip of her tongue over the sharp edges of her incisors and grins. Her large, clear, hazel eyes swivel from side to side at her command and she sniggers out loud, wiggling her eyebrows like two dancing caterpillars.

Getting to her feet, Catriona Hamsun brushes the stoor off of the shiny black material of her dress and sneezes, noisily. She runs the back of her hand over her dripping nose and frowns.

It's time for a change. There are no more answers to be found in this warehouse. Nor here in Newcastle. And, besides, David James Barrow is beginning to stink. Dust, stale perfume and the odour of damp paperbacks is no longer enough to disguise the pungency of that particular fragrance. Tiny white grubs now wriggle openly across his shell - fattening their juicy bodies on his remains.

During the last couple of days, our girl has done a great deal of thinking but, at the end of the day, thinking doesn't really get you anywhere. What's needed now is a little action. It's time to go in search of the past - retrace the steps.

Time to go home, Catriona Hamsun.

***

AUTHOR'S NOTE: You can read my EROTIC fiction here on Lit, posted under the names "Alexander Tzara" and "Roger Simian". Remember to vote or email me your feedback.