The Reflection by Hugo Wilcken

see it down the tunnel. I felt someone prod me from behind. Tentative at first. I turned around. I thought it might be a friend or something. Or did I? I can’t remember. No, I don’t think I turned around. There was this prod, then an almighty shove. I lost my balance, fell onto the track. That’s all I remember.”
    “You blacked out.”
    “I don’t know. I don’t remember any more. I guess the train hit me.”
    “This fellow, the one who’d been following you, the one you think pushed you. Do you know who he was?”
    “I’d seen him before. I don’t know who he is.”
    “Do you know why he might have pushed you?”
    I was silent for a moment. “Forgive me, but I think the time’s come for me to speak to the police. About this, and other matters. I’ve asked you before, but you haven’t … perhaps you thought I needed time to recover. I’ve recoveredsufficiently now. There are important matters I need to discuss with the police.”
    The doctor had his hand to his chin, in a reflective pose. He didn’t seem to have heard what I’d said, or in any case, didn’t respond to it.
    “This man. Are you certain he pushed you?”
    “I was pushed. Whether it was by the man I noticed beforehand, I can’t say for sure.”
    “I see. There were a lot of witnesses, you know. A lot of statements were taken.”
    “I imagine so.”
    “They were all of the impression that you jumped. Of your own accord. No one mentioned seeing you being pushed.”
    “What can I say? It was crowded. It mightn’t have been obvious to other people. But I was pushed.”
    “Witnesses said they saw you come flying down the stairs, directly throwing yourself in front of the train.”
    “No. It wasn’t like that. I was standing on the platform by the rails. I was pushed.”
    “I see.” The doctor sat wordlessly for a minute or two, observing me. He gestured to the photograph that still sat on my bedside table. “Anything come back to you about the photograph? Any memories of who she might be?”
    “I have some notions about the photograph, yes. I’m not prepared to say anything right now. I’ve told you, I want to see the police. I’ve said to you several times, on several different occasions. I’ve had enough of this charade now. It’s time you called the police.” I looked expectantly at the doctor, but he said nothing, simply continued watching me. “I’m being kept here against my will. The door to my room is locked. I demand to know why. If you’re my doctor, then you’re guilty of gross misconduct. There’ll be consequences, I’ll make sure of it.”
    I was getting worked up; I’d raised my voice. At the same time, I tried to control my anger; I didn’t want a repeat of that business with the orderlies.
    “Do you know why you’re here? Take a look at these.”
    He took some papers from his case and pushed them across to me. I quickly glanced through them.
    “Committal papers. For a man named Stephen Smith.”
    “Does the name mean anything to you?”
    “Possibly.”
    “Might he have any connection with you?”
    “It’s a very common-sounding name. He may have been a patient of mine. If so, I see it wasn’t me who committed him. I’m getting tired of the games. Could you please tell me what the relevance of all this is?”
    “Well. I’ll outline what I know about Stephen Smith, if you like. He’s a drifter. Born in Dayton, Ohio. Found his way to New York at some unspecified time, probably about a decade ago. Since then he’s been in and out of menial work. Sometimes lodging in boarding houses, sometimes sleeping on the streets. He’s been picked up for vagrancy at least twice. He spent six weeks in a mental institution three years ago. Now he’s back in one, after a suicide attempt.”
    “What’s the point of this farce? What are you trying to prove?”
    “Now … try to stay calm. Please take your hands off me.”
    I’d leaned forward and gripped the doctor’s arm. I’d done it without