The Remnant

Chapter 2

Chapter Two (The first day of a new life)

Under normal circumstances, Mark Fisher would have regained consciousness in a strange garden and asked himself why he was lying flat on the grass. But these were not normal circumstances, and he was not Mark Fisher; he was Angel Sirius, and he knew the garden and house were his. The only mystery that occurred to him was why he was lying outdoors on the grass. He sat up slowly, rubbed his head, noticed that he had a feeling of extreme wellbeing coursing through his veins and an inexplicable sense of happiness. Why the latter should be the case, at the moment, he could not explain. He sprang to his feet, snatched up his backpack and groped in his pocket for the key ring.

Entering the back door, he stared at the familiar objects with the strange sensation that he could not recall buying them, but with a certainty that they were his. He paused at the mirror in the hallway and stared at the handsome features grinning back at him. He turned his head slightly to check on the stubble on his chin—not bad for an eighteen-year-old, he told himself. He pulled his blond fringe from over his eyes and considered a change of hairstyle. He would have to chat with his barber, maybe he could suggest something more suited to his perfect oval face.

He went to the fridge, where he took out a bottle of sparkling mineral water, his favourite drink. Sitting at the table, he wondered what to do. His brain told him there was an urgent project on the back burner, but what was it? It wasn’t school or university. He pursed his lips, certain that with sufficient effort, he would recall it. But as he sipped his water, nothing occurred to him. His eye settled on the rucksack. He didn’t remember packing it so, with some curiosity, he unbuckled it, then unlaced the bow of the drawstring. Inside was a photograph album. It contained prints of himself as a boy, a small, cheerful-looking scamp, playing with a football in the garden, probably of this house. He turned the page and there was a pretty woman, his mother, cuddling him in an armchair. She had wavy, auburn hair that fell over her shoulder. In the next photo, a man, his father, was tackling him to win the football on the grass. His father was tall and athletic-looking in the photo.

The next page contained the bombshell. It was a newspaper cutting: a road accident had happened on the Laceby bypass years ago. A drunken van driver had invaded the lane occupied by the Sirius’s Opel estate car, killing husband and wife instantly. The young boy, Angel, aged four, had been belted into his back seat and survived the crash, physically unscathed. The van driver responsible for the accident had died, too, but a high level of alcohol had been found in his blood, post-mortem—way over the legal limit. The report stated that young Angel would be taken into council care as he had no close relatives in the county. The next photo showed a pleasant suburban house that must have blended perfectly with the neighbouring properties. In other words, nothing marked it out as a council-owned children’s care home.

Angel remembered the other four occupants of various ages in care like him. They had become his friends: Marcus, Amanda, Alan, and Frances. Of course, he had left the house on Gloria Way right after his GCSEs. At nearly seventeen, the Social Services couldn’t prevent him from striking out on his own. The first thing he had done was to reclaim the family home and redecorate. Now he remembered! It also came to mind what he had planned for this week ahead. Before he thought about that, he needed to check the envelope with his exam results inside. He knew he had done well, but even he did a double-take when he saw that he had obtained A-grades in all ten subjects. Was he a genius then? Why wasn’t he intent on an academic career, in that case? Undoubtedly, the next stage would be to sit some Advanced-level exams.

Why didn’t he want to do that? He pinched the bridge of his nose and thought hard. That was it! He had always wanted to be a professional footballer—and why not? He knew that he was the most talented footballer who had ever lived. This conviction was in his head, nowhere else. There was no proof that he could think of.

Snatching up the album again, he rifled through the pages but found nothing that told him he had had a brilliant career in any team at any level. Despite this, he knew that he was superior to anyone else at that sport. He rummaged through the rucksack and almost missed the envelope. He took it out, read the neat handwriting in perfect script, written in an archaic style. The two words, Angel Sirius, leapt out at him. He stood up, feeling energetic: he would have to go for a run soon. Striding over to the dresser, he pulled open a cutlery drawer to select a knife to slit the envelope open. That done, eagerly, he read:

Dear Angel,

You will be asking yourself who wrote this letter. It doesn’t matter; let’s say that it’s from a well-wisher who knows you better than anyone else in the world. Now that you are settled back home, you must enter your chosen profession. Leave no one in doubt that you are the best at it anywhere on Earth. Dedicate yourself entirely to it, single-mindedly, but never forget to be humble and to accumulate as much knowledge about the planet around you as you can.

My very best wishes, dear Angel – remember that your life is an ongoing mission. Never lose sight of that concept. But for now, go out and enjoy yourself.

Best Wishes,

Nammu

Angel replaced the letter in its envelope. Who was the mysterious Nammu? Why hadn’t they declared their relationship to him? Still, the words seared into his brain as if they were some Gospel: they tallied absolutely with his desires and convictions. But now he must go upstairs to change into a tracksuit and running shoes.

Outside, he set off at a remarkable pace, reaching the main Clee Road, which he recalled ended at a roundabout, which would take him down Grimsby Road towards the twin-town of that name. As his sweatshirt grew damp and clung to his muscular chest, he failed to notice the admiring glances of female shoppers. Instead, he concentrated on the wonderful sensation of his perfectly coordinated limbs carrying him along the footpath at a remarkably brisk pace. He didn’t feel any deficit of lactic acid; instead, his speed increased slightly, whereas another runner would be slowing at this stage. He noticed the floodlights towering over the buildings across the road to his right. Blundell Park, the home of the local football team, Grimsby Town FC, sadly recently relegated from the Football League, but now proudly ensconced at the top of the Conference Premier League.

He slowed to a walk, crossed the road and walked down Blundell Avenue. The black and white painted exterior in the club’s colours with red trimmings pleased him, but he asked himself, If I am the best footballer in the world, should I start in such a lowly club? The answer came in a flash as if implanted in his brain, which it was. Of course, he would take Grimsby Town back from nowhere to the very pinnacle of English football.

But how? He had no football curriculum: nothing! All he had was the brazen certainty that he could do anything that he liked with a football and that he was the fittest man in the country. How did he know these things? He knew because his head told him so. For now, he needed to run home and shower. Then, he would go out to buy the best set of football boots that he could afford. Now that was a point. Money? Did he have any? Of course he did, he was rich! He knew that—his head told him so. Still, he didn’t have any money to hand. He would need to search his house.

He raced back home, unlocked the front door and grabbed the rucksack, somehow knowing that the answer would be there. It was. Previously, he hadn’t checked the side pockets of the bag. That was the first thing he did. He found a current passport with his photograph, issued just one year ago and valid for ten years, inside one. In another pocket, he found a wallet, and it contained a medical card, credit and debit cards, plus many banknotes totalling six hundred and fifty-five pounds. So, no problem as far as football boots were concerned. What about food? He checked the fridge-freezer. The freezer was crammed with food, essentially ready-made meals that just needed heating. Funny, he couldn’t remember stocking up. Strange how he was only remembering things as he went along, as if he had suffered amnesia and was now awakening memories piecemeal. For example, he now knew which bank his cards belonged to. If anyone had asked him ten minutes ago, he would not have been able to answer, but strangely, he had known all along!

“So, what’s the plan, Angel?” he asked aloud. “I should get the boots, call into the bank to see how my funds are, then find out what I can about the football club. And what about transport? There’s no driving licence in my wallet. I can’t run everywhere. Damn it! The other pockets of the rucksack are empty. I don’t have a phone, either.” He walked into the hallway, stared at the mirror. “Right,” he told himself in the looking glass, “first, the barber’s then the bank, then a mobile phone, then the boots.”

A worrying thought struck him; maybe there were lots of bills to pay. Why couldn’t he remember? A bank statement might help with that. No phone meant no taxi, so public transport would have to do. He took a bus to what the locals called the top town and strolled into the barber’s shop.

“Hello, Mr Gregory,” he called cheerfully, but the young barber stared at him, open-mouthed.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just that Mr Gregory died about ten years ago. Have you been abroad or something?”

Angel frowned; he remembered coming in here as a little boy and liking the affable proprietor. He had wrongly assumed this to be his son. “Abroad? Yeah,” he lied; it was easier than explaining his time in child care. “I was in New Zealand for fourteen years. I just assumed you were the younger Gregory.”

“Strange coincidence that, mate.”

“What?”

“Daniel Gregory sold up here after his dad died and emigrated to New Zealand. I wonder you didn’t bump into him.”

“You’re joking. It’s a big country.”

“And what did you do out there?”

“I studied. I’m only eighteen.”

“So, what did your dad do?”

“Marine engineer.”

Luckily for Angel, the barber’s curiosity ended there before he got into deep water. The young man knew his trade, though, and Angel left the premises with a trendy cut, short all the way round, but longer on top. It suited his oval face to perfection and drew even more appraising looks from the opposite s*x. He tended not to meet their eyes and failed to respond to provocative smiles.

He also received a friendly smile from a bank clerk, especially when he told her his name.

“Right away, sir,” she replied when he asked for a printout of his bank statement. He blinked hard when she slid it to him under the glass screen.

“Two hundred thousand pounds? Isn’t that rather a lot for a current account?”

“It would be, sir, but don’t forget that you have three investment portfolios, each with a considerable amount invested. Don’t you use our online app?”

“I must download it. The fact is that I inadvertently destroyed my phone. I must get a new iPhone today.”

“Then you’ll be able to check the state of your accounts from home, without coming in specially. Try Diamond Media on Grimsby Road. I always go there for my phones, and I update them regularly.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He headed out of the bank feeling a mixture of foolishness and confusion. He had known inherently that he was well-off, but had no idea about the portfolios. He wondered how much they contained. Where had the money come from? Was it to do with the fatal accident? Had he inherited an insurance pay-out and had somebody invested it on his behalf? After all, he had been a minor until a few weeks ago. Straight in and out of the shop, without dithering, he bought the latest model of iPhone using his debit card: no problem about paying for it. When he got home, he’d download the app and study his bank statement. He didn’t want problems with things like outstanding council tax on the building. Possessing three portfolios suggested he was wealthy rather than comfortably off. Besides, he only had himself to care for. Everyday expenses shouldn’t add up to so much for a single man without any bad habits such as gambling.

As he rode home on the bus, Angel Sirius did some careful thinking. There was a growing list of priorities. First, he needed to sort out his future by going to the football ground. He needed to find out when the Reserve team trained. Well, now he had a mobile, he could phone the stadium and ask. He’d been able to choose a provider and activate the line in the shop. How come he didn’t have a phone before today? There were so many gaps in his memory; or rather, no gaps, because the memories were there. He smiled wryly; his brain was like a phone with no sim card. Once he activated the memories, they were there all right.

He remembered his bus stop perfectly well and the way home from there. Inside the house, he downloaded the bank app and soon understood how to navigate it using the provider. To his amazement, his bank statement showed a regular direct debit for his council tax. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t recall organising that. Equally perplexing was the satellite TV debit. When had he done that? There were no hire-purchase repayments on the new furniture, either.

“For Heaven’s sake, it’s like a fairy godmother waved a magic wand in this house,” he said to the Wilton stair carpet. The burgundy leather three-piece suite in the lounge must have cost a pretty penny. Why wouldn’t those memories reactivate? Did he have—no! Fairy godmothers didn’t exist!

He rang Grimsby Town Football Club and got through to a polite switchboard operator, who told him what he wanted to know. The following afternoon at three o’clock, the Reserves would have a training session, except it wasn’t open to the public. They played in the Central League. He would find out about them online since his phone had wi-fi, and he could see that there was a router next to the TV. He spent the best part of an hour searching for a password until he had the idea to look on the underside of the router where the password was printed. Having connected to that, he discovered that the Grimsby Reserves had beaten their Scunthorpe counterparts 2-1 in their last derby outing.

His idea was to gain admittance to the club at that level, then force his way into the first team on merit. After all, he was convinced that he was the best player in the world.

Only a few streets away and at about this time, Darren Fisher, on compassionate leave from work, comforted Betty. “Look at it this way, darling: the boy can’t have disappeared into thin air. There was no trace of him or his bike on his usual route.”

“But don’t they say that the longer a person is missing, the more likely—” her voice choked, and she sobbed.

“Every case is different, Bet, love. He held her tightly. “Our Mark’s a bright lad. There’ll be some explanation, and he’ll be all right, I’m telling you.”

She sniffed and nodded against his broad chest. “He’s alive. I can feel it. Mothers know these things. But why doesn’t he get in touch? It’s not like my son.”

“As I said, it’ll all come out in the wash, you’ll see.”

She nodded again, forced herself to back away, looked into her husband’s concerned eyes and managed a weak smile for him. She knew that he was suffering, too.