The Lost Crown of the Knights Templar

3 Patient #1312

In the wards of King George Hospital, the light murmuring of visitors entwined with the footsteps of medical staff and members of the public, trolleys, and general announcements. Sam was anxiously waiting outside OR1, seated on a cold, steel bench next to a plastic potted plant. Inside the operating room, the doctors were trying to save the life of the woman he had rescued from the streets of Barking less than two hours before.

When asked to furnish details of the incident that had caused the patient such injury, Sam had kept his answers vague. Not only would it serve as an alibi for his own legal transgression, but it would give him more insight into the truth of what happened before he took action. In truth, he really didn’t know much about the cruel act of the gang of immigrants, only that he’d had to interrupt an interview with one of Barking’s new business owners to help the woman.

Parked off the side street from the gruesome crime, Sam had a bag in the boot of his car containing stun grenades, two handguns, some teargas, and a few gas masks he’d prepared for a riot he filmed earlier that day. The firearms were licensed in his name, but he feared that the mob may have discovered them and used the serial numbers to determine his identity. At the time, Sam did not appreciate how spot-on his intuition for trouble really was.

“Mr. Cleave?” a doctor said from the swinging double doors that led to the operating rooms. “Are you Mr. Cleave?”

Sam jumped to his feet. “Aye, that’s me. How is she?”

“I am Dr. Lindemann. I operated on your lady friend. She will live,” the doctor replied while wringing his wet hands into a paper towel. “But there is significant damage to her brain due to the blunt force impact. She is conscious, but I’m afraid she has no recollection of anything.” He hesitated. “Do you know who she is?”

“I don’t. She is a complete stranger. I just helped her escape the gang of attackers and brought her here. I have no idea who she is. I’m sorry,” Sam explained.

“That’s a pity,” the doctor lamented. “Neither does she. For now we’ve issued her a number, 1312, to identify her until she remembers.”

“Wait, do you mean to tell me that she is suffering from amnesia?” Sam asked.

“That would be accurate, yes,” the doctor replied. “We’ll let her rest for now, and I suggest you get some rest too. Come see her tomorrow. Perhaps she’ll be able to remember something about the incident.”

“I’ve already reported her assault. An officer from the precinct came down to take my statement while I was waiting,” Sam informed him. “So please make sure to include every bit of medical observation in your report, Dr. Lindemann. We shouldn’t let these monsters get away with attempted murder.”

“Absolutely. You can count on that, my friend,” the doctor agreed. “I’ve seen way too many of these cases lately. They used to come in once or twice a month, but now they’re escalating to an alarming consistency.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Sam said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

After spending the night at a local hotel, Sam forced himself to get up after no more than three hours’ sleep. Insomnia had tormented him with the unsettling replay of the violent incident the day before and he found it impossible to stop the whirlwind of thoughts that incited more anger and helplessness in him.

The assignment was for the Edinburgh Post, a quick freelance job about the new businesses popping up everywhere in Barking to inject new economic life into the local job market. He’d elected to take it since he was here to cover a political riot in another part of London — to do both stories in one trip. Sam hadn’t expected to find himself right in the middle of a primitive killing ritual hiding behind religious approval. All he could do was to react.

He sat up and sank his unshaven face into his hands, making the room dark for a long moment before throwing his head back and exhaling heavily. “Yesterday everything was business as usual. Today I’m in deep shite again. Jesus, Sam, how do you manage to get yourself into these situations time and again?” he asked as he fumbled in his pockets for the last fag in a crumpled packet.

No smoking in this hotel, his mind recalled the sign he saw downstairs. Sam hesitated to ponder the magnitude of such an offence before popping the cigarette into his mouth. “Fuck it.”

He lit the cigarette and walked toward the window. Around his waist, his unzipped jeans slumped down under his chiseled abdomen as he moved. His muscular body gleamed in the morning light that permeated through the curtains as he sat down with one ass cheek on the windowsill to enjoy the smoke before checking in on the injured woman.

While looking down on the hotel courtyard, Sam could not help but think the worst of the day was to come. After visiting the woman in hospital, he should probably travel back to the site of the mobbing to recover his car and all his belongings inside. Thankfully, he’d had his wallet and cell phone on his person, otherwise he’d have been stranded. But still, the thought of having to go back made him nervous.

Not even the local police went into those areas anymore; the blatant attacks put their lives at stake. Sam could hardly ask for a police escort to accompany him to the site where he’d hurled illegal weapons at the locals and had been an accomplice to the yuppie Mad Max, who in all probability had killed a few men yesterday.

Electing not to think on things not yet happened, Sam tried to hope for the best. There was no use in overthinking, in analyzing the psychology of a herd and still expecting the worst outcome. The deal was simple. The bottom line was, he had to go back to collect his car, regardless of the consequences. It had to be done. It had to be done swiftly and the sooner the tedious, dangerous task was completed, the better. There was no reward in procrastination.

With this in mind, he decided to collect his vehicle first, before checking on the unknown woman in hospital. Sam flicked his cigarette butt out and got dressed. From the cupboard top in the corner, he brewed himself a heavy caffeinated cup of black complimentary java and drank it down with two sugars.

“Perk up, laddie,” he rasped as the hot liquid punished his throat. “This may well be your last cup of coffee.”