‘And what did you tell them, for Chrissake?’
‘I’d rather not say, Sheriff. Nothing more than the truth.’
The Sheriff shuddered. If the truth was anything like what he’d heard at a thousand decibels up near the lake, Wally Immelmann would have to get the hell out of Wilma but fast. Either that or be lucky to die in the Coronary Unit.
Chapter 30
Two days later Wilt was sitting in a chair explaining what it felt like not to know who he was to a doctor who seemed to find Wilt’s symptoms quite common and of rather less interest than Wilt himself.
‘And you really don’t know who you are? Are you quite sure about that?’ the psychiatrist asked for the fifth time. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’
Wilt considered the question very carefully. It wasn’t so much the question as the way it was put that concerned him. It had a familiar tone to it. In his years of teaching confirmed and convincing liars he had used that tone himself too often not to recognise what it meant. Wilt changed his tactics.
‘Do you know who you are?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do. My name is Dr Dedge.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Wilt. ‘That is your identity. But do you know who you are?’
Dr Dedge regarded him with a new interest. Patients who distinguished between personal identity and who they were came into a rather different category from his usual ones. On the other hand, the fact that Wilt’s notes mentioned ‘Police inquiries following head injuries’ still inclined him to believe he was feigning amnesia. Dr Dedge took up the challenge.
‘When you say ‘who you are’ what exactly do you mean? ‘Who’ surely implies personal identity, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Wilt. ‘I know perfectly well that I am Henry Wilt of 45 Oakhurst Avenue. That is my identity and my address. What I want to know is who Henry Wilt is.’
‘You don’t know who Henry Wilt is?’
‘Of course I don’t, any more than I know how I came to be in the ward.’
‘It says here that you suffered head injuries–’
‘I know that,’ Wilt interrupted. ‘I’ve got bandages round my head. Not that that is proof positive but even the most overworked NHS doctor would hardly make the mistake of treating my head when I’d broken my ankle. At least I don’t suppose so. Of course anything is possible these days. On the other hand, who I am is still a mystery to me. Are you sure you really know who you are, Dr Dredger?’
The psychiatrist smiled professionally. ‘My name happens to be Dedge, not Dredger.’
‘Well, mine is Wilt and I still don’t know who I am.’
Dr Dedge decided to go back to the safer ground of clinical questions. ‘Do you remember what you were doing when this neurological insult occurred?’ he asked.
‘Not offhand I don’t,’ said Wilt, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘When would that be, this neurological insult?’
‘When you suffered the head injuries.’
‘Bit more of an insult being beaten over the head, I’d have thought. Still, if that’s what you call it…’
‘That is the technical term for what occurred to you, Mr Wilt. Now do you know what you were doing just before the incident?’
