Mr. Nobody

by Catherine Steadman

  He turns back to Graceford, still on the edge of the forest path, radio in hand. He can’t hear what she’s saying but he watches her mouth move. She’s probably talking about Zara, about Zara and Mike. About how the local press always seem to arrive suspiciously early these days, just after a police call goes out, in fact.

  Chris wishes he’d never mentioned the whole thing to Zara in the first place.

  They’d been at home watching a Netflix true crime; he’d been trying to impress her and he’d stupidly mentioned that it was, in fact, possible to hack into the UK police radio system too. It was just a stupid passing comment, he’d been showing off. That had been about a month ago now, but after they’d binge-watched that show, Zara had started showing up places right after Chris got there. And it hadn’t been only Chris’s callouts either. Other people had started to notice too.

  He hadn’t asked outright how she was doing it, because he didn’t want her to tell him, because then he would definitely have to arrest her. Which wouldn’t be great after only a year of marriage. God knows how she got hold of the illegal radio equipment she must be using.

  He watches Graceford in the distance.

  But what can he do? It’s hard not to speak to the press when you wake up next to it, he thinks. When it crawls all over you in its expensive underwear. When you do your morning pee while it brushes its teeth. It’s hard not to talk to the press when it looks like Zara and you’re married to it.

  Best to focus on the job at hand. Finding out who this guy is. Graceford looks up from the walkie-talkie and sees him staring. She raises her hand. A thumbs-up.

  It’s okay for now, Chris decides. Maybe he’ll try another chat with Zara tonight.

  He looks at the beach, at the dark clumps scattered along its two-mile stretch, and makes his way down the steep dune to the first one.

  10

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 7—INTO THE WOODS

  It’s a long drive to Norfolk, but the morning traffic loosens after London and cool January sunlight streams across the miles of empty English countryside as they roll past my car window. As I get closer, motorways turn into A-roads, then B-roads, and soon I’m winding right out onto the coastal way flanked on one side by ancient oak forest and on the other side by the vast planes of salty beach marshes that stretch out into the North Sea.

  I collected the rental car early this morning; someone from Peter Chorley’s office arranged it, it’s all been made very easy for me. I just have to follow the reassuring voice of the satellite navigation toward the accommodation someone else has booked for me in Norfolk.

  Above the glittering wet marshes, flocks of birds soar as I drive past, thousands of black pixels continually reconfiguring against the crisp blue winter sky, always almost on the verge of making sense. I crack my window and let the scent of the countryside roll in. Salt sea air, mixed with warm earthy forest mulch, and on its edges, the rich scent of bonfire. It hits me before I can anticipate it, the memory. The smell of burning leaves in the cold air, the crackle and spark. I try not to think of it and the sharp sad ache that always comes with the memory. I close the window and blast the heater on.

  When I get to the postcode Peter emailed me all I can do is pull up on the verge of the B-road and stare at it, engine burring along, indicator clicking out time—it’s not what I expected, but the GPS reassures me I have reached my destination. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, perhaps sterile student digs or a room in the hospital’s on-site student-nurse accommodation.

  In front of the car sits a little wooden sign. The sign points off of the main road and down a thin graveled track leading into the heart of the woods. The sign, at a slight angle, reads CUCKOO LODGE.

  Hmph. Okay.

  No one mentioned that name in the email, which is slightly strange. But then, everything about this situation has been strange so far, so why break with tradition?

  Luckily, there’s no other traffic on the main road, so I have a moment alone to reassess. I turn off the engine and scroll through Peter’s texts to check the postcode again. Did he mention a Cuckoo Lodge in his text message? His email gives only the satnav coordinates and the address: 1 Market Lane. I look up at the gravel lane through the windshield. Is that Market Lane? It definitely doesn’t look like it leads to market. Unless it’s a market in the woods. Did I type the postcode in wrong? I check the satnav postcode against the text info. No, it’s all correct.

  I look down the bumpy little lane again. Dark woods rise high on both sides. It’s literally in the middle of nowhere.

  This can’t be right, can it?

  Why would Peter put me here? I mean, it’s not exactly near the hospital, or accessible in terms of local amenities, is it? I’d better make sure I stock up food if this is it because the nearest village, Wells-next-the-Sea, is a good twenty minutes’ drive from here.

  But there’s only one way to find out if this is it, I suppose.

  I restart the car, check my rearview mirror, and bump down off of the tarmac and onto the crunchy gravel of the lane. One Market Lane, here I come.

  I’m sure there’s a reason Peter’s put me in the middle of nowhere. I guess he wants me as far from the media, and therefore the hospital, as possible. It makes sense. I’ll certainly be safely tucked away from the Princess Margaret Hospital. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been slightly worried about ending up near Holt, near our old family home.

  It’s impossible to say what effect seeing the old house would have. I haven’t been back there since it happened. We didn’t even go back for our things at the time; they wouldn’t let us.

  I won’t go back now either, if I can avoid it.

  I decide Peter must have partly chosen this location on my behalf. He’ll have put me here so I don’t even have to drive past my old home every day. Good old Peter.

  I let down the window again; I need to wake up. The breeze flows in, bringing the scent of wet earth and dead leaves with it; no more bonfires for now.

  The lane is longer than I had expected. The tall trees flank my car on both sides. The forest beyond on either side is dense. I’m right in the heart of the Norfolk National Nature Reserve; these woods go on for miles in either direction.

  I catch a rustling motion in the undergrowth beside the car as it crackles along the gravel. At least no one can sneak up on you out here, which is reassuring—you’d definitely hear them coming.

  A bird bursts from the woods to my right, soaring high across the track ahead, and then I see it. Cuckoo Lodge. The lane ahead opens out into a small clearing where the house looms, majestic, framed by forest.

  It’s unexpectedly beautiful, placed right in the center of the dark clearing at the end of the long lane, an intricate little red-brick house hidden in the woods. A neo-Gothic Victorian dream with a wood gable over its front door, chocolate-box chimney stacks, and an engraved York stone plaque between its two uppermost windows, commemorating the date it was built. I squint up through the windshield but it’s too far away to read yet. I shiver and close the car window. There’s a chill in the air now.

  The building might be the most perfectly symmetrical thing I’ve ever seen, a gingerbread house made real, its dark windows reflecting the sky. There’s a low wooden fence encircling the house at waist height, a small hinged gate at its center.

  I pull the car up to the left of the clearing, as close to the grass verge as I can. It feels rude parking here but I don’t know where else to go, the road simply stops outside the house. I turn off the engine.

  Silence floods the car; I let it soak in for a moment before popping the door and stepping out. Now that I’m closer I see the stone plaque reads CUCKOO LODGE, 1837.

  Eighteen thirty-seven, that’s weird. I don’t know many historical dates but I do know that this was the year the young Queen Victoria succeeded to the throne. Which is bizarre becau
se off the top of my head the only other historical dates I know are 1066 and 1492! And it suddenly occurs to me how strange it is that someone who specializes in other people’s histories knows so very little about actual history.

  I look up at the house that is nearly two centuries old. It’s impressive. I definitely wouldn’t be able to afford this in London.

  But then, I’m not entirely sure I would want to. I try not to think it, but standing there in front of it, it’s hard not to feel that there is something slightly peculiar about it, some strange quality.

  If I had to describe it, I would say it feels like the house is watching me.

  I know, it’s a ridiculous thing to say, obviously, I know that. In fact, I probably know that better than most people would, because I know the exact neurological reasons my brain is thinking that.

  I know it’s just a trick of the mind.

  You know that feeling you get sometimes of being watched, of somehow knowing before you know, that someone is watching you? Well, it’s a neurological phenomenon called blindsight. It’s a completely normal feeling, a simple evolutionary process, perfectly explicable.

  Blindsight describes the process of seeing things that you weren’t consciously aware you were even noticing. It’s just the subconscious processing of visual stimuli. A lot of the things we process day-to-day bypass our conscious minds; they get processed subconsciously, but, to us, it seems as if we are just getting a funny feeling.

  I know the reason I feel like the house is watching me is because as I drove up to it steadily in the car my subconscious brain was tricked into thinking the house was slowly looming toward me. My brain decided the house was getting closer to me rather than me getting closer to it. It’s why tracking shots in horror movies work so well on audiences.

  I know it’s the silence, the darkness of the woods, and the unusual surroundings all compounding, on a subconscious level, to leave me with a feeling of unease. It’s just my instincts doing their job. Sometimes they’re right, sometimes they’re wrong, but where would we be without them?

  I know why the hairs on the backs of my arms are raised, but a part of me still can’t help but wonder if the house in front of me is actually watching me.

  I find the key exactly where Peter’s email tells me to look, under the leg of the bench by the door. I slide it into the lock and the door creaks open in front of me.

  Inside is just as beautiful as outside. Deep plush sofas. Persian rugs and polished wood. I could definitely get used to this.

  I wander from room to artfully curated room and wonder who on earth is funding all this. This is a nice house. This is an expensive house.

  But then I remember that the first choice for this assignment was Richard Groves. And Richard Groves doesn’t exactly work pro bono. My employers were probably expecting to plow a fair amount into this anyway and I’m definitely the cheaper option. Maybe me staying here has nothing to do with Peter Chorley protecting me. Maybe whoever organized the accommodation arrangements just couldn’t be bothered to rebook.

  The house is fully stocked. There are flowers in vases in every room. In the white-tiled Victorian kitchen, the fridge is full of supplies.

  There’s a printout from Peter on the kitchen counter next to a neat stack of the patient’s medical files and press cuttings. Whoever opened the house up earlier today and did all this must have dropped this off too.

  I read.

  Dearest Emma,

  I hope the accommodation is acceptable and to your liking. I apologize for the remote location and distance from the hospital but I’m sure you will appreciate the need. Thus far the case has attracted quite a bit of media interest and we’ve found them to be both persistent and invasive.

  We have, however, supplied you with most basic amenities—food, household necessities, Wi-Fi, and some other bits and pieces to help you settle in. Let me know should you require anything else.

  I’ve instructed the hospital staff to supply copies of all medical files pertaining to the patient. I know you’ve been sent the scans already, but if you’re anything like me I’m sure you’d much rather have something solid to study at this stage.

  We’ve also left you cuttings of all the major news articles that have come out surrounding his story, as you expressed concerns around the effect they may have on the patient himself. And of course, as you mentioned, as hard as we all try, a hospital is not a closed system.

  There are a few eyewitness stories prior to admission that may be of interest, in terms of narrowing down this man’s prior movements, but I’ll leave all that to you. We can also arrange for you to meet with any of the patient’s current caregivers or anyone else close to the case you may think it helpful to speak to.

  As I stressed in our last phone call, budget is not an issue. Please don’t see it as an impediment to expediting a diagnosis.

  And, again, if you need any assistance from the local authorities in terms of relevant information, then please come through me and I can oil the cogs, as it were. The last thing we want is local red tape clogging up the process.

  And, whilst of course this case is time-sensitive, with taxpayers’ money/patience being a notably finite resource (!), we don’t want you yourself to feel rushed. Our primary concern is a solid diagnosis—there is no room for error here. Avoiding a situation in Norfolk similar to the publicity disaster in Kent is paramount; we have no desire for this to escalate.

  So, that being said, whatever you need and whatever we can do to facilitate a quick, clear, and watertight diagnosis and corresponding treatment plan for this particular patient will be entirely at your disposal.

  You have my direct number. Feel free to contact me any time, night or day—I’ll be available. I am your first port of call should you need outside assistance.

  Best of luck,

  Peter M. Chorley

  Excellent. No pressure then.

  11

  THE MAN

  DAY 1—CHOSEN

  Rhoda looks down at her patient on the gurney as they roll out into the ward. “Right, you,” she says with a smile. “Apologies in advance for my driving skills. It’s going to be touch-and-go for the paintwork but you should be just fine. Hold on tight.”

  A muted smile plays across the man’s face and he gently closes his eyes. He’s tired—he hadn’t realized how tired until now.

  Around them, he hears the ebb and flow of the emergency department. He opens his eyes and catches brief snapshots of other people’s lives as he’s wheeled past cubicles. Half glimpsed through curtains he sees an elderly woman sobbing; he turns his head away. An Indian man is gasping into a handheld mask, then it’s on to a plump little girl laughing and bouncing on her father’s bed as he lies watching her, smiling. The next curtain is closed; only a rasped groan emanating from within. He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls down his oxygen mask, breathing in his first breath of disinfected hospital air, with its hint of something earthier at the edges.

  Rhoda glides them smoothly and skillfully down the corridor and into the elevator. The white noise of the hospital muffled as the elevator doors close. Rhoda allows herself a moment; she rests her eyes too, letting the night and morning that was slide off her. When she opens her eyes, the man on the gurney is staring up at her, as beatific as a grazing cow. She smiles. You caught me.

  The elevator pings and its bulky doors open; the sounds of life flood back in.

  At the Radiology nurses’ station Rhoda has a soft conversation with the ward sister. It’s quieter up here, calmer.

  They look over at the man. The ward sister nods and calls over two nurses’ aides in forest-green tunics. There is a brief exchange, then Rhoda wanders back to her patient on the gurney. “Right, handsome.” She smiles. “I am going to have to leave you now with these two very charming gentlemen.” She points to the aides. “They are going to h
elp get you all scanned and sorted out, okay?”

  But it’s not okay.

  The patient’s eyes swivel to take in the aides; they look bored, tired, gray. They do not look like they care. The man’s breath quickens, panic rises. They do not look like Rhoda. They do not have the same look in their eyes.

  The man’s hand shoots out and grasps Rhoda’s wrist, not roughly but firmly.

  Do not leave me. Please.

  Rhoda jumps slightly, ever so slightly, at the suddenness of the motion. But manages to let out a quick laugh to cover her surprise.

  “Oh, okay? Not a big fan of that idea then?” she chuckles. She looks around at the aides.

  When she looks back, the patient is shaking his head forcibly against the pillow, wincing at the pain of it.

  “No, no. Stop that. Look, it’s fine,” she reassures him. “These nice men are going to look after you just as good as me. I promise. Look at those lovely faces, how could you not trust those faces?”

  The man blinks obediently at the two faces, placid and ghoulish in the hospital strip lighting.

  Rhoda leans in closer. “I got to get gone. I shouldn’t have come up here with you in the first place, but if I get back now I can let everyone know where I am. I might even avoid a talking-to. Would you let me do that? Would you help me out?”

  He looks at her beseechingly. She loosens his hand from her wrist, gently, and he lets her. She places his hand deftly back down under the blankets, pats it once, and smiles. “Okay then, I will see you later,” she promises.

  As she turns to go a lot of things happen at once. The man struggles to sit up, reaching out after Rhoda, but seeing the sudden movement, the aides break into a sprint. They grab the man, pushing him roughly back down onto the gurney, restraining him.

  Rhoda turns back and a doctor rounds the corner just as the man’s shouts begin. Rhoda stands there, frozen, helpless as her patient thrashes against the restraint of the two men. He arches his back away from the bed, part held, part scrambling to get away. The doctor joins the melee, carefully trying to disconnect the patient’s IV, which is dangerously close to being ripped from the man’s arm in the struggle.