French for Grapefruit

Although I hadn’t remembered anything specific about my past on the phone with Doc Torring, the second that call ended was the same as the one in which my repressed memories flooded back. I remembered working for the Agency. I remembered taking the lives of guilty and despicable men and women. I remembered benders that lasted for weeks while Calmar and I had tripped on drugs the Agency provided to keep us sane. I remembered the multiple times I kicked my neighbour’s cat because it was in heat and wouldn’t stop yowling.

That last one wasn’t something the Agency had made me do, but I’d asked for it to be removed because it had always made me feel guilty.

Most of all I remembered the Agency suggesting Calmar and I undergo regression therapy to keep us hidden and safe after the debacle that was our last mission.

Having all those memories, all that knowledge, return in a rush felt as if someone was beating me about the head and shoulders with an angry badger while at the same time someone else was dousing me in ice-cold orange soda. I felt abused, confused and most surprising, sticky. I’d consider this an interesting sensation it hadn’t been so unbelievably unpleasant.

The thing I was having the hardest time processing was that up until five minutes ago my forced amnesia had allowed me to live a life of induced, blissful ignorance. In the last three years I’d managed to build a successful life for myself. I had a wonderful girlfriend, a mild drinking problem, a few close friends and a job my superiors didn’t know I wasn’t qualified for. If I weren’t Canadian I’d be living the American dream.

But with one phone call Doc Torring had taken that life away and replaced it with a long forgotten one that had been occupied by espionage, murder, deceit, consumption and animal abuse. No one should have memories like these, and if they did have them but had had their memory erased by a super secret government Agency they should never have to remember them, again, all at once.

However, it would be a unreasonable to say that this flood of memories was one hundred percent negative. The fact that I now fully remembered my past meant that some of the stranger events of last three years came into focus so sharply it should have left a cut above my right eyebrow.

For instance, every Wednesday at six-thirty in the evening for since two thousand and four I’ve had to fight an honest to goodness ninja (meaning a Japanese ninja) to the death. If this happened to most people they would eventually be killed. I wasn’t. Over this three-year period I’ve killed around one hundred and fifty-six ninjas. But killing one hundred and fifty-six ninjas had led me straight into these questions:

• Why had I been targeted by an ancient brotherhood of assassins from Japan?
• How is it that that every week I manage to survive a surprise ninja attack?
• How was I able to kill ninja after ninja until it seemed mundane?
• Why do I know how to properly dispose of a body?
• Whom did I piss off?

Not having answers to these questions lead to a “Who am I really” type of existential crisis. That existential crisis had lead to my nice little drinking habit. At least now I was able to answer questions two, three, four and five. I’m guessing my liver would thank Doc Torring if it ever gets the chance.

My concentration turned outwards when I heard Baguette turn off the shower. As she walked out of the bathroom only wearing a towel I though to myself that I didn’t care what kind of crisis I was facing, that chest could bring me back from the brink of death in a pinch. I also noticed that I had sobered up quite a bit since hanging up the phone, which was disappointing because my comfortable, warm buzz had been replaced by a cold, hard fear.

I tried to keep things casual and failed by forcing a smile that ended up a terrifying rictus.

“How was your shower,” I asked.

“Who was that on the phone,” she replied. I got the impression she could tell that something had happened while she was in the shower.

“What? That’s not the correct answer to ‘how was your shower’.”

She laughs a little and says, “My shower was fine. Now please, stop starring at my chest and tell me who was on the phone. Maybe you’d also like to explain why you were drunk when I got home.”

“Well, you’re really not going to believe this but…” she interrupted me before I got the chance to finish.

“You got a call this afternoon from a man named Doc Torring. He used the first of two sequences of keywords the Agency had programmed into you during your memory regression conditioning. This first sequence of keywords begins the process of unlocking those repressed memories you’re struggling with right now. After that conversation you responded by getting obnoxiously drunk. This is a protection mechanism. You see, if anyone accidentally used this first sequence of keywords in conversation then you’d feel the urge get so drunk that you’d be unable to maintain a conversation. If the second sequence isn’t triggered shortly after the memories would bury themselves again and you’d remember nothing. But I’m guessing that Doc Torring called again while I was in the shower and used the second sequence of keywords. That second sequence can only be used when you’re good and drunk, and now that it has you’ve got a whole bunch of questions. Does that about sum it up?”

I stared at her, projecting a stunned silence. I’d always known Baguette was smart, and I’ll be the first to admit she is much smarter then I’ll ever be. I know she’s a reporter by trade, which puts her investigative skills and instincts far above the average persons. She knows how to find information. She knows how to follow a lead. She knows how to put two and two together. But how could she know about my past? How did she know about the Agency, Doc Torring and my regression therapy? Hell, her knowledge of the keywords was information that even I wasn’t aware of.

“What the fuck is going on here?’ I asked, ‘How do you know all of this?”

“Muffin, this is going to be hard for you to understand, but I’ve known about you and Calmar since before we started dating. I know everything about your past, and I know you better then you or your parents do. I know that not all of your memories have returned, even though you think they have. But this isn’t about what I know, it’s about what you don’t, and it’s time I filled you in,” she had said all of this in the most matter of fact tone that I knew there was no way she was fucking with me.

I was beginning to get a little nauseous, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Yeah, that’s probably from all the booze.”

“How do you know all of this?” It was hard to get the words out with a huge lump of bile rising up the back of my throat.

“I know all of this because I’m your Agency appointed overseer. I keep an eye on you and try to keep you safe on behalf of the Agency. I’ve been doing it ever since they blocked out your memories.”

I threw up right then and there, all over the carpet. It wasn’t pretty. When I was finished I looked up at Baguette, who was kneeling beside me and patting me on the back. She seemed the same, yet different. Not bad different, but the kind of different where a person you share a deep and mystical connection with tells you that her favourite movie is the one film that you can’t stand. It doesn’t change how you feel about the person; it just changes your perception of them.

“I don’t understand? We’ve know each other since we were teenagers and…and…oh god,” I threw up again. This time it was mostly bile. All the real solids and liquids had been evacuated the first time around.

“We can talk more once you’ve settled down a bit. Let’s clean you up and have a cup of tea. Then we’ll hash everything out, okay?”

I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t get the word out on account of the severe dry heaving. When I finally managed to gain control over my gag reflex I uncurled from the hunched over position my body had forced itself into and stood up. As I headed for the bathroom I passed a mirror in our hallway where I caught a glimpse of myself.

I was a mess.

My face was damp and pale. My hair was damp and stringy. My breath stank of wine and bile. I’d ruined my clothes. Of course, they’d already been ruined when I’d spilt wine all over them so the vomit didn’t make that much of a difference. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror for the second time that day, only this time I did ask my reflection “Who am I?”. I figured it was warranted, considering the situation.

Baguette asked if I needed any help before she started making some tea and I said I was fine. Deciding that a shower was in order I started the water to warm it up while I brushed my teeth. When I finished brushing I stepped into the shower and let the warm water carry away some concerns and vomit splash back. I emerged ten minutes feeling refreshed, but still shaken.

I was towling off when Baguette called out to let me know the tea was ready and to ‘get my ass on the couch’. I went for the door but hesitated. I was afraid to leave the bathroom. The last ten minutes had been so normal that I’d almost forgotten that I was a highly trained and lethal operative who worked for an Agency that the world was blissfully unaware of. But the training that coursed through my veins asserted itself then, reminding me that fears exist to be faced and that hidden truths require revealing.

Baguette was sitting on the couch, holding a steaming cup of tea. She looked at me with an ocean of concern on her face. I got that look a lot, but it was warranted. Like I said, 156 ninjas and many, many other odd incidents had familiarized me with that look.

“I guess I have some explaining to do,’ she said, ‘but I want you to know that I’m telling you the absolute truth here. I promised myself that if this day ever came I’d tell you everything because I couldn’t bear to see you get into a ’situation’ without all the facts you’d need to survive.”

“You’re being pretty matter of fact about this. That’s not really you y’know.”

“Yeah, but the Agency recommended that it go this way. They told me that you, specifically, were trained to face a situation head on. Apparently you deal better with crisis then most people, even though you have a tendency to get worked up.”

“Did they say I’d throw up?”

“Yep.”

“Alrighty then,’ I paused, because asking this question would change everything, ‘So, how do you know all of these things about me, about the agency. These are things that, by all accounts, you aren’t even supposed to know. Some of them are things that even I don’t know.”

“It started for me just before the Agency wiped you memories. You and Calmar were completing you last assignment, and as I’m sure you remember there was the incident with the child.”

“How could I forget?’ I interrupted myself, ‘wait a minute. Strike that, it was a stupid thing to say.”

“Anyhow, the paper got wind of the incident with the child and that someone who couldn’t be identified was trying to cover it up. I was assigned to the story, but I was stonewalled almost immediately after starting my investigation. The police wouldn’t comment. I couldn’t get ahold of the childs name. No family would come forward. Anyone who was geographically near the scene of the incident swore it never happened. I spent three weeks digging for information and following up dead end leads, but my editors moved me off the story when nothing turned up. About a month later I received a letter. The letter contained some information I’d been unable to find, and the note was signed Doc Torring. The information in that package led me to the safe house you shared with Calmar. I saw some, things, which I hadn’t been prepared to deal with and I left in a panic. I was unsure what to think of it all, so I didn’t tell the paper anything because I wanted the chance to talk to you and Calmar about what I’d seen, but before I could do that, the Agency contacted me.”

“Are you serious? The Agency contacted you? What for? You aren’t trained, and they don’t deal with citizens.”

“No I’m not trained, and your right, they normally wouldn’t deal with a normal citizen. But one of things you haven’t remembered yet is that part of your training is to find those who have a civilian skill-set that can be useful to the Agency, without Agency training. Well, apparently I met that criteria and the Agency thought it was time to bring me into the fold.”

“Doing what exactly? Watching me?”

“That’s part of what being an overseer is. You see, any agent who’s undergone memory regression treatments has to be watched by an Agency approved overseer. The Agency needs to protect its investments, of which you are one, so that job falls to an overseer. I also regularly report to the Agency, keeping them up to the date on your goings-on. We also try to keep ‘blanked’ agents out of trouble. The Agency makes sure the overseer has the tools necessary to control and protect a blanked agent, which can sometimes be problematic,’ she pauses and smiled a knowing smile, ‘according to the Agency they’ve never had a blanked agent that got into so much trouble after having his or her memory wiped as you have. They’re actually pretty proud of me for keeping you alive.”

“Well, I’m very happy for you that the Agency is proud of you. I’m also very happy that you’ve kept me safe. For some strange reason I’m glad I have these memories back. It’s funny; if I was anyone else I’d say this is all too much to believe…” I trailed off, knowing that it wasn’t too much. The truth never is.

I was about to continue when a Ninja crashed through the front window, spraying shards of glass everywhere.

Was it Wednesday already?