Ghost Ship

“Does the brain work like that?” Sam asked, his voice hopeful. “I mean, is it likely an image, sound, taste, or smell will trigger a memory, and like a cascade, my whole life will come back?”

“Not really, but definitely little things will help. If you have been treated with electric convulsive therapy, depending on the number of courses you have been bombarded with, the global amnesia can last anywhere between a matter of hours, through to days and weeks, but eventually you should regain some if not most of your long-term memories.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? The human brain’s an amazing computer. No one really understands how it works.”

“I thought you were meant to be a leading expert on memory loss?”

“I am.” She smiled. “Why do you think I’m studying the human brain and trying to map out how it categorizes data — AKA memories?”

Sam asked, “So what happens in my case?”

“In global amnesia, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Catarina answered without hesitation, like a lecturer, who’d given a speech on the subject more than a dozen times. “In its simplest form, the human brain, attempts to store memories in giant databases, categorizing specific memories by date, time, and relevant event. In fact, over the course of your lifetime, your brain will store every single sense — we’re talking sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste here — and it will store them forever.”

“Wait… you’re telling me the human brain stores everything we’ve ever done.”

“Yep.”

“Then, why do people need to study for anything? I mean, if the brain’s already storing it, why do we need to keep studying material over and over again until it becomes stored in our memory? I’m sure I would have done better at college if I retained everything the first-time round.”

“Ah, good question.” Her eyes sparkled with delight. “It has to do with categorizing the database. You see, the human brain likes to associate things together, cataloguing them by sight — for example, a cat and by any other senses, received, such as the feeling of patting a soft furry creature, and smell of flea powder.”

“Okay…” Sam said, waiting for the problem.

“The problem comes with the simple fact that you might have hundreds if not thousands of images of cats in your database — hey, I’m not judging you here — but the reality is, the human brain knows that you have no need for all of them, so it subconsciously tries to attach more relevance to the most important images. For example, if you received a cat on your fifth birthday, assuming it was a good one, your brain would have been fed with a number of neurochemicals, such as dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins making you feel happy. Alternatively, if you were attacked by a cat, your brain would have been fed increased levels of adrenaline and nor-adrenaline, which your brain then registers that event as important, in case it needs to be suddenly cross-referenced at a later date — you know, if you see a cat again, you shouldn’t get too close or it will scratch at you.”

“So the problem is in that cataloguing of information, not the recording?”

“Exactly.”

“Right. Let’s hope whatever’s inside here happens to be the key.”

“So open it.”

“I still don’t have a clue about the password.”

“Try your birthday.”

“I don’t even know my own birthday!”

“See!” she said. “Exactly. What a perfect password for a man who’s lost his memory?”

“I don’t suppose you remember it, do you?”

She grinned. “Of course I do.”

She read out his date of birth. He committed it to memory, hoping that his brain would take the appropriate measure to categorize it correctly so that he could find it again later. Somehow, one’s own birthdate seemed like something pretty important to know.

He typed the eight-digit number into the keypad and pressed enter.

The numbers flashed, and the case remained locked.

Sam said, “I told you it wouldn’t work.”

Catarina bit her lower lip, her face expressive, and inquisitive. “What if you changed the numbers around?”

“In what way?”

“Put the days of the month in first, followed by the month, then the year.”

“Why?”

“Because your mother was Australian, and like the rest of the world, that’s the way they write dates.”

“You think it’s another trick within a trick? Once my memory developed enough that I could remember my date of birth, I still needed to remember that my mother was Australian? It seems pretty far-fetched.”

She grinned. “Hey, there’s nothing about your story that is anything but far-fetched.”

Sam laughed. “All right.”

He input the eight-digit number, using the Australian date formatting.

A moment later, the numbers flashed, as they had previously.

Sam said, “See… I told you it wouldn’t work.”

Then it clicked open.

She caught his glance. “You were saying?”

Sam swallowed. “Moment of truth. Who am I? A good person having a bad day, or a bad person getting his comeuppance?”

“You’re not involved in organized crime and you’re not with the Russian mafia!”

“If you say so.”

He opened the suitcase.