It's bloody glary and my head hurts. I was staring out to sea, no, it's a big bay, over a low sand-hill and right in front of me was a four-lane, lightly trafficked highway. The glare was a bit much for me so I closed my eyes again and listened to the hum of the traffic. “Hoy, young feller, yer gunna miss yer bus if yer don't look out.” “What?” I opened my eyes and saw an old codger in front of me. “The bus'll be along in a minute. Yer gotta flag it down.” “I want a bus?” I asked. “Well, yer sittin' at a bus stop. Yer won't be gettin' a sailing ship, yer know.” I looked around. The old boy was right. I was sitting in a bus shelter. Where was I going? I was blanked out. Wait a minute. Who am I? Don't be stupid, you've got to know your name! Total blank! Bloody hell! I went cold all over and grabbed for my wallet. Not there! Damn! It was usually in my hip pocket. Patted myself down. Breast pocket. Thank heavens. I started to breathe again. Opened my jacket and pulled out my wallet, fossicked through it and found my licence. Gees, the ID photo showed I was an ugly bugger. Read my name. Kevin Murphy. Kevin Murphy? Never heard of me! A Parramatta address. The old codger was still standing in front of me. “Mate, where's Parramatta?” “The other side of town.” “Oh. Okay. Where in the hell am I now?” I asked “Yer either takin' the mickey, yer stupid or yer drunk. Which is it?” “Dunno, me head hurts so it might be a combination of all of those.” I told him. “Mate this is Brighton, that's Botany Bay in front of you and I can see a bus comin' down the road. Do you want it?” “Will it take me to Parramatta?” “Yer can't get there from here!” He told me. “What?” “That's an Irish joke, young feller. The joke is ---” I wanna swat the old fool. Calm down, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Can you help me?” “Okay. I'm gunna flag this bus down and put you on it. It'll take you into Central Railway Station in Sydney and you can catch a train from there to Parra-bloody-matta.” “Thanks mate, yer true blue.” ---- I got myself on a train to Parramatta and tried to review what I knew of my situation. I knew nothing much except my name, age and address. Oh yes, I'm an ugly-looking lout. All of this from my licence. It doesn't tell me if I'm married with kids. What sort of work do I do? Do I even work? Do I drink with mates? My head hurts. I can feel a bloody big lump. I calm down a bit, at least I've probably not got dementia. I've had a knock on the noggin. That'll pass, I hope. I eventually got off the train at Parramatta and showed a taxi driver my licence. “Mate, could yer tell me where that address is, please?” “Piece a cake. Thirty minute walk that way,” he pointed, “or a three minute taxi ride the same way.” I've got over fifty dollars in my wallet, my head hurts and everything's still glary. Bugger it, I'll splurge. We whizzed up the road at a death-defying speed, did a U-turn and he told me, “There yer are, Ace. Number twenty -seven.” “Ta, mate. Yer did well.” I walked over to the front gate. I was looking at an old brick, double-fronted cottage. A small neglected front yard with an overgrown lawn and dying shrubbery. A bit sad. Hang about! I was probably the gardener. Stop, take a deep breath. What am I going to find? Have I got a drop-dead gorgeous wife? A dozen grubby kids? A million dollars worth of debt? Ah well, faint heart never won the heart of a fairy princess. I opened the squeaky, rusty, old gate, marched up the path, heart in mouth and knocked. Somebody was coming. I heard heavy footsteps clumping up the hallway. That ain't no fairy princess, I thought. A large, heavy-featured woman opened the door. “Yeah?” I was aware that I was staring. My wife, if she was my wife, was wearing what appeared to be a washed-out, olive-coloured tracksuit that she got either from an army disposals store or maybe it's prison issue. Definitely not chic despite being acessorised by a run-down pair of pink slippers. Surely not my wife! Maybe I'd run away and tripped over thus hurting my head. “Hi! Don't you recognise me? Has it been a while? I'm Kevin! I'm not sure but I think you're my wife.” “Bloody what?” “Look, I'll show you.” I pulled out my wallet and showed her the photo-licence. “Kevin, Kevin!” she screamed but not at me. A bloke about my age, thirtyish, looking like the photo in my licence lumbered out and grabbed the wallet. “Hey hang about, Mate.” I said. “Yer thievin' bastard, you've got me jacket as well.” Then he started punching me, I backed up as far I could go. I've got the the verandah post in my back. “Call the cops, Ethel.” He was roaring, “I'm gunna give this thief a bit of a touch-up.” I was ducking from side to side, he hadn't got a good punch on me yet, then he punched the verandah post. That slowed the maniac down. He was screaming and holding his hand. Using the same post as a brace at my back, I kicked him in the knee. Down he went screaming even louder. I kneed him in the face as he went down and continued to kick whatever part of the violent bastard I could reach. His wife piled onto me scratching and biting. I gave her a bloody good slap and her and her denture parted company. Then I was overwhelmed by what I assumed to be his neighbours. The other Kevin was laying in a moaning heap, not moving much at all. Somebody was saying the cops are on their way. I was laying still, can't do much with all these yobs sitting on me. I relaxed, taking deep breaths slowly. If the yobs relaxed, just for a moment, I'll dismantle them one by one. I heard a siren and then the cops arrived, thank heavens. They can sort these loonies out. And they did. “Witness' over there. Activists over here and everybody shut up!” A fat old sergeant cop yelled out. A relative peace settled over the battlefield. Then she, who I'm pathetically grateful wasn't my wife, gummed. “That thief there tharted it! He wath kicking and punthing my Kevin.” “Hey wait a minute. He hit me first! “ I said. “Bloody oath, he did, you thief.” She lisped. “And therve you right.” The cop asked. “So your Kevin got the first punch in?” “Damn right, he did. And a few more for good measure,” Mrs Murphy said. The cop turned to me, “Is that right, Sir?” “Yes Officer. He came at me like a mad dog. I was just trying to defend myself.” “I suspect your defence was excessive.” “Officer, I was terrified, I didn't know what I was doing. I was defending myself against a violent, mad man, hoping he'd go away.” I didn't say that I remembered somebody telling me, if you get someone down, make damn sure they can't get back up. Well Kevin can't. There was a couple of paramedics looking at the remnants of him now. “Well, it certainly sounds like self defence," The cop said. "His wife clearly stated that 'her Kevin' swung the first punch.” “Yeah. I didn't want to hurt anyone,” I told him. “I thought it was my wallet and I was him-er-he.” “Where's this afore-mentioned wallet and where's yours?” The cop asked me. We looked about and couldn't see it until the medics rolled Kevin onto a stretcher. It had been under him, in a pool of blood. One of the medics squirted it with something and went to hand it to the sergeant cop. “Hang on.” The cop said, put on a pair of latex gloves and opened the wallet. “Yup, Kevin Murphy alright. How did you get this?” He asked me. “Dunno, Sarge, here's the thing. I've had a bang on the head and I don't know who I am or what happened to me. I've got a complete loss of memory. “Seriously?” The cop looked incredulously at me. “Well, maybe you did steal it.” “No! Fair dinkum, I thought the wallet was mine and the photo in the licence was me.” “And Mrs Murphy here, was your wife?” I looked at her and shuddered. Visibly! “Hey, you're very rude as well as being a thief.” Mrs Murphy told me. “Sorry, Missus. I'm a bit shook up. Hey, it'd help if you put your teeth in.” I pointed at her denture down the verandah a bit. She put her hand over her mouth. A bit embarrassed? She inserted her teeth. “Lookin' good, love.” I told her with a winning smile. I think she nearly blushed. Does Kevin ever tell her she's lookin' good? “Mrs Murphy, it would seem that this gentleman was trying to return your husband's lost wallet.” the cop said. “Hmph! A likely story. He was tryin' to crack on to me as well. He still is.” The cop struggled to keep a straight face and asked. “Mrs Murphy, did your husband tell you where he lost his wallet?” The lady looked evasive and shook her head. “Would it have been at the pub?” The cop asked. “Nah,” she shook her head again, “he don't hardly drink.” “Odd that. It's nearly mid-day and he's reeking of alcohol,” the cop commented. “Has he been drinking this morning or is the stench from last night?” “Alright! He came home late last night drunk and collapsed. This morning I asked him where his jacket was and he didn't know. His wallet was in the pocket and that was missing too.” She glared at me. “And that's Kevin's jacket yer got on! See Officer, he's a klepto. Kevin's jacket and his wallet. Yer a bloody big time thief.” “Watch it, Luv,” I told her. “I'm gunna steal his wife, too.” “What! Bloody what!” She squawked. “As if. Never, ever!” Mrs Murphy's getting very red in the face. “That's enough of that, Sir.” The cop instructed me - no ordered me. “Sorry Sarge, I sensed that she's angry with me. Would you ask her for me if she'd like to kiss and make up?” “What the hell's wrong with you?” He growled as Mrs Murphy glared and prepared to squawk again. “ If you don't shut up,” he told me, “I'm going to get the constable to cuff you pair together and bundle you vigorously unto the patrol car.” “Yes Sarge, sorry Sarge.” I replied and winked at an outraged Mrs Murphy. “If you're quite finished, Sir.” He was glaring at me so I shut up and let him rabbit on. What was wrong with me? Why was I teasing this poor woman? She defended her husband and tried to protect him while I was kicking the tripes out of him. If I had a wife would she stand up for me? Maybe she'd take the opportunity to slip her boot into me too. On top of all that, I'd reckoned that Kevin was probably a handful for her. And here was me dumping on her. I tuned in to the cop. “Mrs Murphy, when did Mr Murphy become aware that he had lost his jacket?” he was asking. “Dunno. The fool knew he lost his wallet.” “For the record, did he come home wearing the rest of his clothes?” “Yeah. Hey, just a minute! What are you suggesting?” One of the witnesses chortled, “Hey Ethel, what about when he goes to that gay pub.” “He does not go to gay places. I'm gunna belt you one, Ernie.” The cop stepped in. “Enough you pair. Now listen everybody. The constable here will take statements from you all. Mrs Murphy can go to the hospital in the ambulance and help look after her hubby." As Mrs Murphy turned to go, I took her elbow. “I'm sorry about all this.” I told her. Not sorry that I nearly slaughtered her husband, but that I had upset her. She looked at me for a moment, said. “Smart-alec,” and shuffled towards the ambulance. “You've just been told, Sir.” the cop told me. “Come on, we'll go to the station and you can make a statement. Then we'll try and find out who you are.” The cop turned to me and asked, "Did you think to look in a mirror to see what you looked like?" "Nah, my head hurts and I s'pose I'm not thinkin' clearly." ---- “So Sir, where did you get Mr Murphy's jacket?” The sergeant asked me. “Dunno,” I told him with a shrug. “Look Sarge, I don't know anything. All I can remember is being woken up at a Brighton bus stop by an old bloke this morning. Incidentally, my head hurt then and hurts now. Here, feel the lump.” He did. “Oh yeah. Dried blood too.” He peered closely into my eyes. “I think your pupils are dilated. I wouldn't mind betting that you're concussed. We better get you to the hospital. I'll call another ambulance and while we wait, I'll take a photo of you so I can fax it around to other police stations. “Hey Sarge, here's a thing, why don't you show it around Kevin Murphy's pub. Somebody there might remember me. Yeah, maybe a perky princess, if I'm lucky.” “Well, we can probably rule out your being gay,” the sergeant said, “and that's about half of the population these days.” “Yeah. And I'm not female. I checked. That brings the odds down yet again.” I told him. ---- The doctor at the hospital inspected me and said I'm definitely concussed and insisted that I stay overnight for observation. There goes me social life! Mind you, I don't know if I had one. I wonder how the cops are doing at Kevin's pub. Does anyone remember me? Did I win a heart? Did I get into a punch-up with a jealous husband? I don't think I'm violent. Wait a minute! I made short work of Kevin. But I was bloody angry, Was that because of frustration? ---- I slept well. I think the doc slipped me a mickey. But it's toilet time. I rolled off the bed and wobbled over to the bathroom. I'm sure the quack drugged me. I think I've been asleep since mid-afternoon yesterday and it's nearly mid-day now. I turned to the sink and the vision in the mirror hit me. Hard! Me! I didn't recognise my reflection. I was staring, trying to remember. Nothing. I was absorbing me: Short fair hair. Reasonable looking. I don't think I'd frighten the horses. Mind you, I don't think women would swoon at my feet. Oh yeah, Kevin's missus didn't. I shrugged off the hospital gown and saw that I'm sturdy. Not heavy. No obvious fat- or muscle for that matter. I wondered how tall I am? I'd guess that I'm a bit under six foot. I'd also guess that I look like mister average. ---- I was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed wracking my brain trying to figure who or what I was. A brilliant intellectual in some field or maybe an evil axe murderer? I had a wicked little shiver, I bet I was a highly paid gigolo in great demand. Yup! I could live with that! The doctor discharged me into the hands of the sergeant cop. He asked me if my memory had come back. “Anything at all?” I shook my head. “Nothin' Sarge.” “Well Sir,” he said, “You drink at Kevin's pub now and then. The barman remembers seeing you munching on a pizza last night. He thinks some of the patrons called you Joe. But that's a start.” “Yeah Sarge, we're certainly narrowing it down. I'm not gay, remember? And not female. Hey, maybe I'm not real. Maybe I'm just a figment of your imagination.” “No Joe, you exist alright. You're a real live smart-alec. Now shut up and listen,” the rude cop told me. “If you drink in that pub you're probably a local.” “Unless I live in Brighton. All that I can remember is waking up in a bus shelter, hours away in Brighton. Maybe I live there and I'm here paying court, so to speak, to a pretty Parramatta princess.” “In that case, I would say, a pox upon you, Joe. Think of the work you could've saved me if you stayed in Brighton.” “Yeah, sorry about that.” I told him. “But you know that love has no bounds and even less when it comes to a bit of the other----”. “Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted me. “There's more to come, Joe. This part of the story explains a lot. You got in a fight in the pub toilet. Apparently the gent was a little wobbly and in the spirit of manly fellowship, he turned to you to say something and accidentally dampened your booties. You didn't see the humour in the incident and struck out while he was trying to apologise. Your victim escaped with his life as he tells it.” “Nah Sarge. I'm a pussycat. I wouldn't do that.” “You took a wild swing at him, missed, slipped over on the damp floor and landed on your head.” The cop told me. “He staggered out to the bar and complained to the publican. The publican said that you're both barred. Well my boy, you're not looking good at this stage. Firstly, you've put Kevin in hospital. He started it so you're not charged. Secondly, the wobbly bloke may be said to have provoked you by peeing on you but he doesn't want to press charges,” the sergeant says. "Besides, you didn't actually hit him." “Hey, Sarge, if we did go to court can I insist on the other party re-enacting the crime scene?” “No, for God's sake. Now shut up and listen.” I was almost too frightened to ask him what the hell I did next. But I did. “Sorry, go on.” “OK, seeing as you asked me,” the sergeant continued. “The publican sent the security bloke into the toilet to get rid of you. He found you flat on your back apparently unconscious. It was obvious to him that you slipped over on the floor that your last opponent dampened, landed on your head and knocked yourself out.” “Right!” I replied. “Hence my sore head.” “Well done, Sherlock! To continue. The security bloke got you on your feet and walked you out the back door into the laneway and as he was about to tell you to bugger off, you asked him to get your denim jacket that was draped over your bar stool. Which he did. He then left you sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall nursing your jacket. Sorry, Kevin's jacket” “He gave me Kevin's jacket!” I said. “That explains a lot. But not all.” “Yup, Kevin was playing pool and had left his jacket with his wallet in the pocket hanging over the bar stool.” “Pretty dumb, ay?” I sneered. “Joe, where did you leave your jacket and wallet when you went to the toilet?” “Oh yeah.” I was aware that I was grinning sheepishly. “Probably draped over a stool. So the security bloke picked up the wrong jacket. That explains one part of the puzzle. But what happened to my jacket and wallet? “I suspect somebody else fancied it.” The sergeant told me. “Bloody thievin' bastard!” I said. “Now, how did I get from Parramatta to Brighton and why?” “Simple! The pub security bloke had taken up his usual position at the front door to stop undesirables entering and saw a taxi stop in front of the pub to drop off a young couple. You lurched around the corner and climbed in. The cabby wasn't too happy, you had a certain odour about you and he thought you may have been drunk. But you gave an address in Brighton. Parramatta to Brighton's good money for a cabby. The security bloke saw and heard all this. Hey, are you remembering?” I shook my head. “ 'Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice'.” The cop mused. “What?” I asked him. Bit of an odd-bod, this cop. “It's like a jigsaw puzzle, Joe. We've got some of the pieces fitting together but there's still a few pieces missing,” The cop continued. “Here's one. An old boy couldn't sleep so he took his wee doggy for a walk through the wild streets of Brighton around midnight. He came across a stationary taxi, an irate taxi driver and you. You and the cabby were having a punch-up and a screaming fest. The contentious point was the cabby took you to the wrong address. The cabby denied it. You told him the proper address was all houses. This street was full of high-rises. The old boy, complete with dog, approached and told you the houses were pulled down twenty years earlier. You turned on him and told him to bugger off or you'd pick up his wee doggy and beat him to death with it. The cabby was demanding more money You threatened to beat him to death with what was left of the same wee doggy. There was a short skirmish according to the old bloke, the cabby got a good punch on you, and escaped in his cab. The old doggy bloke bolted off home and rang the cops. But you'd disappeared.” "You know, Sarge this'd make a good story, I'll call it Death By Wee Doggy. I bet that'll sell." "Listen to me, you ranting smart-alec." "Sorry Sarge," I said. "Maybe I used to live in Brighton when the world and I were young.” “We believe you did.” My cop mate told me “Really? That means that you know who I am.” “Nearly. We faxed a photo of you to police stations all over the state. The Brighton cops thought the description that Dog-man gave them matched our fax so they went looking for him with your photo to see if he could identify you. They couldn't find him or his wee dog. We think they went into hiding, I wonder why, Joe?” The cop's giving me one of those hard cop-type stares. “The Brighton cops were looking for you as well. It seemed as though you had gone into hiding too.” “I bet they didn't look in any bus shelters.” I told him. “Evidently not,” the cop said. “Now, I've got you a bed in a charity shelter until we get you sorted out. Stay there! Don't go out! No pubs! Right?” “Thanks Sarge, but after all we've been through, I was rather hoping you'd take me out for dinner and a show.” He stomped off muttering. Sour old bugger's got no sense of humour, I thought. --- “Good morning Joe.” My favourite copper and his offsider turned up at my shelter. “Hi Sarge, any news?” “A mixed bag, Bugger all but then we got a response from our very own Parramatta police station.” “Here? The local cops know me?” “Oh yes!' The cop told me. “Oh oh, not good?” I asked. “Nope.” “Better tell me the worst.” “We went to your house to give your family the good news and found your pregnant wife lying on the bed holding a brass-based bedside light in her hand. It had blood on it. It looks like she'd hit you with it.” “Yeah, that'd be right. She's a bad tempered bitch,” I explained. "Well, Joey Boy ---" “Don't call me that!" I snapped at the rude bastard. "As I was saying, you seem to be remembering?” The cop asked me. “Nah, just her.” “Alright, picture this. Your heavily pregnant wife, probably tired after a long day struggling to keep the house tidy, resting on the bed and in comes you. Just home from work---” I was nodding. “----hungry, no tea on the table,” the copper continued relentlessly. “There was no sign of any dinner preparation. This is just a guess, mind you. Wife's resting up, worn out. You put on a turn! Did she try and explain that she felt poorly? Did she ask you to try and put something together? Maybe a sandwich and a cuppa.” “A pizza!” I said. “She asked you if you could go and get a pizza? Are you remembering?” I nodded. “But it was roast night. Tuesday's roast night! Always was!” I explained reasonably. “I work hard, come home to the smell of a roast cooking, put the TV on, feet up with a beer and relax, smelling the roast. With the wife blathering on about her day in the background.” “Never happened?” The cop asked. “No roast?” “Nah.” “Are you remembering now? I went cold all over. “Yeah. She hit me with that heavy bedside lamp.” “Why did she do that?” The cop asked. This bastard doesn't let up, does he? I'd like to give him a touch-up. I looked about there's a few more cops drifted in. I clenched my fists and controlled myself. Always having to control myself with idiots “Why did she hit me? 'Cos she's a mad, malingering bitch.” “Did she hit you in self defence?” “Nah. I wouldn't hit her.” “Strange that. The neighbours had called the police in a few times.” “Is the silly bitch gunna make another complaint?” “Never again, Joe. You beat her to death.”