Have a glass of water, Peter.

All his memories smeared in the malaise as he opened his eyes. Peter blinked away the sudden fatigue drowning his mind. The migraine had plundered and won.

“Mr Davison?” a voice of authority seeped into his ears and took control. “Are you with us?”

Peter wiped his brow. "I-I’m here. Where am I?" The perspiration didn’t end.

The court room had silenced. Or had it always been this quiet? Tangible disgust stuck to the judge, the jury, the public on the pews and all else present and standing. They watched him, painting red and white circles over his person with their unnerving glares.

“What’s happening?” Peter licked his lips. They were still damp from the empty glass in front of him.

All eyes shadowed his soul. An officer in a tight uniform sat beside him in the box giving him an unwavering sidelong glance. The judge offered nothing. No one gave any sign or hint to what was happening.

“The prosecution objects to this display of sudden amnesia, Your Honour.” The slender man marched, his shoulders and head high. "His acting is that of a desperate man.”

“No!” yelled Peter. "I don't- I promise I don't know what's happening." His throat caught the final word like the tip of a nail. He choked and coughed.

"Would Mr Davison like another drink?" said the judge.

The glass of water passed from the probation officer to the usher to the defence lawyer and then to Peter. He gulped it and wiped his mouth. The scent of blood struck him. He wiped his nose, but nothing bled. His heart sunk at the sallow colouring of his hands.

A twitch took over his arm and mouth. Nothing came back to him, and his mind only jumbled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happening. Please, I really have no clue.”

“Does the name Kathy Fletcher mean anything to you?” said the prosecutor.

Peter’s rapid breathing slowed as he tried matching the name to the absence of memories. “No,” he said.

“Are you certain? Dark hair, big eyes. She liked a quick coffee on her way to work every morning. She scrunched up her face a lot when the weather turned cold.”

“I don’t know her.”

“How about Derek Simpson? Always wore yellow stripes when out of his police uniform.”

Peter shook his head.

“Please, speak,” said the judge.

“No," Peter quivered. “I don’t know that name.”

“Hailey Bayfield? Tracy Hughes?”

“I’m not familiar with those two either. I’m sorry.”

“So, you, Peter Davison, are stating you have never known any of these four people?”

“I have never met any of them.”

“How about Charlotte Davison?”

“My wife.” Peter’s muscles tensed. “How is she related to any of this?”

“Because she is among the deceased, Mr Davison. As are the other four.”

“My wife- My wife is dead?!” He shot up. “It can’t be. Please . . . This must be lie. It has to be. Someone – anyone – my wife is alive, right?!”

“There is no lie and this is no joking matter. Would you say you are truculent man, Mr Davison?”

“My client is under a lot stress,” said the defence lawyer. Peter scratched his mind for a name of the short, spiky-haired man. Douglas? It was easy to find, but where did he know that name from? “We have yet to see any conclusive evidence of uxoricide or any of the other four murders.”

Murder? It couldn’t be. He would never – never – hurt his wife.

“Do you remember the last time you saw your wife, Mr Davison?” said the prosecutor.

Peter shook his head.

“Speak into the microphone, please,” the judge reprimanded him.

“I don’t,” Peter mumbled, trying to dig and find something in his brain. Anything would have helped. All he received were the ruminations and regrets he couldn’t be certain were real.

“Do you recall the last thing you and your wife spoke about?” the prosecutor repeated.

“I don’t. I’m sorry. My memory isn’t here right now.”

“Convenient for you, Mr Davison. The two of you had an argument. We have witness testimonies from several neighbours who heard and saw you chase your wife as she ran out the door and incapacitate her with a blunt object to the back of the head.”

“I would never!” Peter yelled.

“Mr Davison, control yourself.” The judge’s voice boomed.

“My client is clearly unwell, Your Honour,” said Douglas. “May we take a quick break to recuperate?”

“Ten minutes,” said the judge. “All will return here for the verdict when time is up.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Peter followed the officer out of the courtroom where he and Douglas walked the enclosing halls. They sequestered to a chamber smaller than all the classrooms he had ever taught in. A fan hung from the ceiling, a desk laid to the side and there were two chairs facing each other in the middle atop a round, burgundy carpet. Surrounding them were bookshelves with no space for anything more.

“Take a seat.” Douglas gestured as he took the other.

“What is going on?” Peter cried. His breathing came out in sibilant puffs. “I don’t even remember entering the court house. How did I get here?”

“Have a glass of water, Peter. Drink and relax.” Douglas handed over another glass of sparkling water.

Peter drank. Energy left him. His fatigue turned to a lethargic pull – down, and down. Whatever had him wanted him to fall. “I can’t relax. Not when they said my wife is dead. Is she truly?” Her smile cascaded over his languishing hope.

“You really don’t remember? What’s the last thing you recall?”

“The judge calling out my name,” said Peter. “Asking if I was here. I don’t know what happened before that.”

“I see.” Douglas folded his arms and went silent. “The Honourable Judge Hughes isn’t a patient man. Nor does he like apparent memory loss. I won't lie. It’s not looking good, Peter. I can see it on the jury.”

“‘Not looking good’? I thought you said there wasn’t any conclusive evidence?”

“I was trying to buy time, put their minds on the wrongs, and play the game. But there are so many witnesses for each account of murder. They’re not random people, either, but respected, well-regarded members of the community. I’ve worked with the Honourable Judge Hughes before, and he’s judged you as guilty. It’s clear to me. You’re looking at life in prison.”

Peter clapped his eyes and screamed. When his voice faded, he asked: “Is my wife truly dead?”

“She is.”

“I didn’t kill her. I didn’t do it.”

“At least you know that,” said Douglas. “But they don’t. And they never will. They’ve judged, Peter. I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

Douglas stood, growing taller than the short man in the court room. “I like to think I can offer my clients what they need most when it comes to the end.” He rounded the desk and searched the draw. A thick band of rope dangled from his fingers and he placed it on the counter top. “Life in prison is even worse than it sounds. Inmates view you as fodder, you’ll eat the same processed slop day in and day out. You’ll be on a cycle of misery spanning decades with no freedom of your own and no wife to visit you. You’ll grow old, and you’ll always be alone. If that is not hell, I don’t know what is.”

Douglas moved the chair he had sat on to the centre of the room.

“Old friend, I know how smart you are. I know you are innocent. The judiciary system has failed you. I have failed you. This is all I can do for you now.”

Peter watched Douglas leave. Time ticked as he sat there unmoving. When an eternity passed, he stood and waddled to the desk. The rope was like bone in his hand: cold and tough. Coiling and imprisoning his fingers, he clenched it.

Was his wife waiting for him? If it were truly his hands that took her, then he deserved this.

It didn’t require any thought, not that he could trust his mind in the state it was in. Standing on the chair, he tied the rope around the ceiling fan and let it dangle. All his fidgeting and twitching had left him as he wrapped the end around his neck and pulled tight.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He clung to the rope pressing into his neck with both hands.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

Peter closed his eyes and kicked the chair.