Restoration Read Online Free Page B

be – I'm batting for the right team."
    Â Â "It's just…" Alan found he didn't even have the words, "it's hard to get the head around."
    Â Â "It gets worse," Ashe admitted, "but we have to discuss it nonetheless. There's stuff that the others don't know… haven't asked. And for the most part I'm grateful for that but I need you to be on the same page."
    Â Â "But isn't it bad to know your own future? Another paradox…"
    Â Â "You and I are beyond paradox, let's face it. You – we – were born in 1915, vanished into the House at the age of eighteen only to end up back in the real world, no older, found on a roadside in 1976. That's forty three years later…"
    Â Â "I don't really remember."
    Â Â "I know. You then end up back here, aged fifty-two…"
    Â Â "Fifty."
    Â Â "Fifty two … all people knew was your name, not surprising they got your age out by a couple of years is it?"
    Â Â "I…" Alan waved his hands in the air, this was too much to get his head around, far too much.
    Â 
    For Alan Arthur life had begun on a roadside. He had been born covered in dust and grass stains, then weaned in a hospital room, plied with hot drinks and sympathy. In his pockets there had been nothing but a short note – handwritten – that said "I'm Alan Arthur, please help me…" And they'd tried – after running the name through a bunch of police checks, naturally, nobody had been willing to take that note on face value, including Alan.
    Â Â The nurses and doctors had flitted around him, drawn by curiosity as much as the urge to help. Who the hell was he? How did he come to be just lying there? Of course their first assumption had been drink or drugs and they were quick to run blood tests. By the time the results came through though it told them nothing they hadn't already guessed, after a few minutes talking to him you could tell he wasn't high; confused, yes… borderline delirious, but not caught on the tail-end of a bender.
    Â Â But beyond that… nobody knew what the hell to do with him. There seemed nothing wrong with him physically – beyond the odd bruise at least, certainly nothing that could account for his condition – and that was all they were set up to deal with.
    Â Â One particular nurse had taken only five minutes to pronounce – out of earshot of the patient – "That guy's shrink food." And she had been right. Once the police had run their identity checks he had been dumped into the hands of the Florida Department of Health and Rehabilitative Services.
    Â Â But even the shrinks didn't really know what to do with him. He was a mystery with no clues and that swiftly becomes irritating rather than intriguing. His state-assigned psychotherapist was a chain-smoking stick of a man named Whilcott who had been in the business of therapy long enough to hate most people on principle. "Humans suck," he frequently announced. Particularly when sat on his usual stool at Frankie's trying to scrub his brain clean with rum and coke after a long day of psyche-digging. Not that he wasn't good at what he did, he could turn a broken mind into a healthier one sure enough, you didn't have to love cows in order to make burgers.
    Â Â In all fairness, the kid didn't bother Whilcott as much as his usual clients, he was a blank slate and there was much to be said for that. Their meetings were devoid of the usual sexual outpourings and childhood hangups. But then, they were devoid of pretty much anything… The kid would just stare at the walls of Whilcott's office, not unwilling to learn but unable, and it wasn't long before Whilcott had to admit there was little that could be done for him. Amnesia just didn't tend to work the way it seemed to have done on Alan Arthur – whatever the movies might lead you to believe – it was usually partial and temporary. To be faced with someone so completely empty… there was