Chernobyl’s Revenge

II*

Kreves was stunned. He was pale, his head spinning. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard—his entire life had been a lie. His parents weren’t his real parents. He had forgotten his mother, his father, his hometown, and his childhood. He had forgotten Ukraine, the country where he was born.

He looked at his “parents,” and although he understood why they had brought him to London to save him, he couldn’t forgive their decision to erase a part of his memory. That wasn’t their choice to make. That should have been Kreves’ decision.

“I need to know the name of the clinic you took me to, Alexa,” Kreves said, his voice filled with anger. His fists were clenched, and he was trying to control the rage that surged inside him upon learning of the deceptions he had endured. He stared at the floor to avoid letting them see the fury in his eyes.

“Of course, Kreves. Although the doctor who treated you died a few years ago... I’m not sure if the clinic still practices this after his passing,” Alexa replied. To Kreves’ surprise, she seemed calm, showing no remorse after admitting she had stolen a part of his life.

“We just... hope you understand, Kreves. We didn’t do it to hurt you. We came to love you like a son, even though we weren’t your real parents,” said Benjamin, who showed genuine sadness in his voice. Unlike Alexa, Benjamin had grown to care for Kreves. He lowered his gaze and fiddled with his hands, perhaps trying to hide his sadness and shame for what they had done so many years ago.

“The clinic. This is urgent. If what you say is true, I need to find out as soon as possible what memories were suppressed. It’s the only way I’ll understand my connection to this killer.”

“It’s called…” Alexa began, but she paused, sighed, lowered her gaze, and continued. “London Psychiatric Clinic. It was on Marylebone Street, at 7 Harley Street. Please, be careful. If what we’re saying is true, you could be in great danger.”

Kreves stared intently at his supposed parents, the people who had raised him since he was thirteen. He looked at them, recalling both good and bad moments, and despite having lived with them, he couldn’t forgive them—not now. He couldn’t fathom that because of them, he remembered nothing of his childhood, nothing of his real parents or his true home. Those memories belonged only to him; they had no right to meddle and erase them just because they thought it best.

Looking at them, all he could feel was rage. His usually dull blue eyes, worn by the evil he had witnessed in his line of work, now shone with the anger that made his blood boil. This feeling of hatred was new to Kreves. He had never hated anyone with his entire being, but now, as he looked at the two figures in his living room, that was all he felt. Alexa and Benjamin saw the hatred clearly reflected in their “son’s” eyes and could do nothing but lower their heads and stare at the floor, remorseful. After all, there was nothing more to say.

For his part, Kreves knew that Alexa and Benjamin were regretful—well, Benjamin more so than Alexa—but he still couldn’t forgive them, at least not right now. It would take years for Kreves to even consider speaking to them again. He looked at them one last time, studying them closely, and he headed to his room to get ready without saying a single word, not even a goodbye.

He dressed in a black suit, a white shirt, and a black trench coat. He put on his hat, grabbed an umbrella, and returned to the living room. As he expected, his “parents” were no longer there. All that remained was a note in Benjamin’s handwriting on the coffee table. He picked it up and tucked it into the inner pocket of his trench coat. He noticed that the teacups hadn’t been touched. He gathered them and put them in the kitchen. He said goodbye to his cat, grabbed his car keys, and left his apartment.

When he reached his car, he realized the clinic wouldn’t be open yet. He needed to kill some time. If his past was somehow connected to the killer, his best option was to review the evidence to see if anything felt familiar. After all, he had recognized the phrase “peaceful atom” on the floor, which had triggered a fragment of his childhood memories. It had allowed him to remember who his real parents were and, finally, to give a name to the place he recalled—Pripyat.