The Green Dragon by Dorothy Dixon. Part 1.
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Somewhere a telephone was ringing. Howard could hear it in his dream, but it didn’t wake him up. It was dark in his dream, dark and terrible.
He was running, but it was like running through deep water. There were trees all around him, trees which tried to stop him. They reached out with their branches. And it was behind him. It was coming nearer. He wanted to shout for help. He was opening his mouth wide. But there was no sound. He could hear the noise it was making behind him – the heavy feet, the heavy breathing.
He was terrified. He looked behind… He could see it! He could see the burning eyes, the yellow teeth. Oh, no! It was coming nearer. A few more steps and then…
The telephone was still ringing. ‘Don’t answer it,’ Howard shouted.
Suddenly he was awake. His body was hot and wet. The bedclothes were nearly off the bed. He was awake and safe. It was only a dream! He tried to pull the bedclothes back onto the bed. But something was wrong. His arm felt strange. He lifted his head, and looked. Beside his bed, there was a metal pole.
There was a tube coming from it. His arm was tied to it. He let his head fall back on the bed. Then he knew what it was. He was in hospital. But why?
He was probably a patient. He was ill, or hurt. Maybe he’d been in an accident. He tried to think, but he couldn’t remember. This happened sometimes after accidents, people said. You forgot what had happened just before, but… Howard felt cold around his heart.
He couldn’t remember anything… not the accident (but was it an accident?), not the hospital, not his home, or family (did he have a family?). He couldn’t even remember his name.
Who was he? He didn’t know.
He lifted his head again and looked to the right. He was in a hospital ward, a long room full of beds and other patients, men who were sleeping or reading. At one end he could see a nurse. She was speaking into a telephone. Was that the telephone he had heard?
He looked to the left and he became still with fear. A man was sitting on a chair just by his bed. There was something in his hand, a magazine or a book. His head had fallen forward and he was asleep. Who was he? What was he doing here, beside Howard’s bed? Was he a guard? The man seemed to feel Howard’s eyes on him, because he lifted his head, stood up and looked down at Howard.
‘So you’re awake, Mr Blake,’ he said, and his voice was ugly. ‘Have you had a good sleep? How’s your head? Is it still hurting?’
Who are you?’ said Howard. His voice was very quiet. ‘What am I doing here?’
‘You’ve had a little accident,’ the man said. ‘There’s someone here who wants to speak to you.’
Howard closed his eyes. Yes, his head did hurt, but it hurt inside more than outside. Why couldn’t he remember? What was happening? He didn’t understand.
When he opened his eyes, two people were standing by his bed, his guard and another, older person. It was a woman with brown hair and cold grey eyes, wearing a dark blue suit. They were both looking serious, almost angry. But why were they angry? Were they angry with him? They closed the curtains around his bed and came inside.
‘The Inspector wants to speak to you, Mr Blake,’ said the guard.
The Inspector? Then these two were police officers. Had he been in a road accident? No, Howard knew this wasn’t right. Police inspectors didn’t worry about road accidents. They were too important. Then it was a crime! Perhaps… perhaps he had been attacked by a thief!
‘Now, Mr Blake,’ the Inspector began. Her voice was pleasant but it sounded cold.
Why do you call me “Blake”?’ said Howard. He had suddenly felt this was wrong. ‘My name isn’t Blake. It’s… it’s…’
‘Come on, Mr Blake,’ the Inspector said angrily, ‘we know all about you. Why don’t you just answer our questions? You’ll have to, in the end.’
Howard was feeling more and more worried. He wanted to answer their questions, but he could remember nothing.
‘What do you want to know?’ he said weakly.
‘What time did you arrive at the house in Primrose Avenue?’ the Inspector said. Her voice was now hard and quick. ‘How did you climb to the window? What weapon did you use to hit the old lady? What were you going to do with the green dragon?’
‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Howard. He felt sick. He couldn’t breathe. He could only hear those last words, ‘the green dragon, the green dragon’.
Howard groaned. The green dragon! Those eyes… those burning red eyes! And then he remembered more. Red eyes, red blood. A pool of blood on a Chinese rug… But he was the one who was hurt. He was the one who had been attacked, violently.
The detectives – of course, they were detectives – began to ask their questions again. They were hard questions. They were impossible to answer.
‘I can’t… I can’t…’ said Howard. ‘It’s no use. I can’t remember.’ He felt like a little boy. He wanted to cry.
You climbed into the old lady’s house in the dark. She heard you and went to look. You hit her when she got to the stairs,’ the guard said.
And then the nurse was standing beside them. ‘That’s enough,’ she said angrily. ‘He’s too ill to answer any more questions. You’ll have to leave.’
She did something to Howard’s arm. He felt himself sinking into sleep. The green dragon, the telephone, the pool of blood, the old lady… What had happened? He didn’t know. But he was certain about one thing.
‘My name’s not Blake,’ he said, loudly and clearly. Then he slept.