Rhoda’s gaze flicks back to the young nurse’s face. She’s biting her bottom lip, eyes furiously calculating her options. Rhoda can see it coming before the young nurse knows herself. She’s going to make a break for it. She’s going to run for security.
Her body tenses and then she bolts. She flies out into the corridor, around the corner and out of sight.
The man spins at the movement and yells out after her but she’s gone. Suddenly vulnerable and feeling the exposure of his situation, he looks around him for the closest thing he can use to protect himself when security arrives. He lunges toward the nearest patient bedside cabinet and grabs a ribbon-festooned gift bottle of whisky. He grasps it tight, knuckles whitening as he raises it like a club, its warm caramel liquid gleaming as it sloshes inside.
The duty nurse takes a step back. “Please, try to stay calm, Mr. Garrett….If we could just—”
But Mr. Garrett turns from her, disinterested. He steps farther into the ward, squinting intently to read the small whiteboards above the beds. Looking for a specific name. Rhoda shifts forward ever so slightly in her chair. Somebody should call out. Shout for help. Perhaps she should, but that could just escalate things. She darts a glance out into the hall, for someone, anyone.
She needs to act, she thinks. She takes a breath and starts to rise from her chair—but a movement comes from the bed next to her. Her patient is sitting up; he looks at her not panicked, not concerned, and shakes his head. No. Not you.
She frowns. He is telling her not to intervene.
Mr. Garrett has reached their end of the ward. He scans the names, the faces below them. Rhoda and her patient look to each other as his gaze falls on them. Rhoda’s patient looks her serenely in the eyes and she doesn’t move. She heeds his advice and Mr. Garrett turns away. He turns and starts to walk away.
Suddenly someone breaks through the small crowd of people by the door, a young male nurse, making a run at the armed man. Other bystanders move back to clear his path. Mr. Garrett’s eyes flare and unthinkingly he reaches out, snatching at the nearest body, a man in his seventies, frail, wearing a Fair Isle sweater many sizes too large for him. The whisky bottle crashes to the floor, shattering, splashing glass and richly scented alcohol across the ward. The old man drops his shiny new magazine with the shock of it and it lands with a loud slap on the wet hospital linoleum. Mr. Garrett holds him roughly in front of him as a kind of shield, and the approaching male nurse stutters to a halt.
“This isn’t what I wanted, you know,” Mr. Garrett tells the ward. It comes out shakily, off-key. “I just, I just want—argh!” He squeezes his eyes shut hard to think. “He killed my little girl. She was fifteen,” he tells no one in particular. He’s crying now, fat wet streaks down his anguished face. The old man trapped in his arms scans the surrounding faces searching for a clue to his fate, still held tight in the hold.
“He killed her. And what? He gets to survive? No, he doesn’t get to go home! I have to bury her! No, he doesn’t get to survive, and go home and live his life! You tell me where he is. Or I’ll find him myself. SHE WAS FIFTEEN, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.”
The duty nurse looks across to the male nurse. She shakes her head.
The male nurse swallows, straightening his shoulders before speaking carefully. He’s new and young and totally out of his depth. “It looks like the man you might be talking about has already been discharged, sir. Earlier this morning, so…” He doesn’t know what else to say but it doesn’t matter. Mr. Garrett seems to crumple inside.
He releases the old man, who falls forward onto the wet glassy floor, shaking. Mr. Garrett sinks back onto the edge of an empty hospital bed as the male nurse cautiously bobs forward to help the terrified old man from the floor, pulling him back to safety.
Mr. Garrett slowly reaches down to the floor and picks up a long thin sliver of broken whisky bottle glass. He studies its razor-sharp edges thoughtfully before raising it up to his throat. His face gleams with tears.
A gasp from somewhere in the ward. Rhoda realizes she’s holding her breath. Next to her, her patient pulls back his bedsheet. He has quietly removed his own IV and mask and now he gently gets out of bed.
Rhoda’s gaze flashes swiftly to him, her eyes wild with concern. He gives her a soft smile. I know what I’m doing.
Mr. Garrett looks up at the movement. A patient, out of bed, making his way toward him. He presses the sliver more firmly against his throat, his quivering hand breaking the skin enough to release a thin line of red. But the patient keeps moving toward him, undeterred. His eyes locked on the quaking man, his gaze placid and steady. Confusion suddenly furrows Mr. Garrett’s brow. “Was it you?” he splutters. “Did you do it?” He stands now, turning the glass blade on Rhoda’s patient.
But Rhoda’s patient shakes his head. He is not the man Mike Garrett is looking for. Mike lowers the glass ever so slightly, perplexed by the advancing man. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen, he thinks, this man doesn’t look scared, he looks kind. A fresh sadness seems to burst over Mike and he slowly sits back down.
Rhoda’s patient is feet away now. The room watches mesmerized. There’s an assurance to the way Rhoda’s patient moves, a calmness. He seems to know what he’s doing as he approaches the increasingly confused man. Close enough, Rhoda’s patient stretches out a hand, palm up. Mike studies him, then lets out a deep ragged breath, something inside him breaking under the strain—he begins to sob, in wretched gasps.
The patient takes another step toward him. Then, gently, almost tenderly, he takes the shard of glass from Mike’s unresisting hand. He places it on the bedside cabinet and sits down next to him. The patient reaches out and Mike lets himself be taken into a strong masculine hug, his body loosening limply into that of his new friend. His eyes squeeze tight shut, and remembering of all that he has lost, he lets himself fully surrender.
* * *
—
After Mike has been led away to another room, Rhoda makes her way over to her patient. “That was very brave but you should have let me help, you know. I could have helped.”
The patient shakes his head mildly.
No, his eyes say.
He brings a hand up to her head now by way of explanation. Careful not to touch her skin and the angry comma of scar tissue near her hairline.
No, not you, not again, his eyes seem to say. Not this time.
Rhoda’s eyes widen and her breath catches.
He knows, she realizes. He knows.
What happened to her. How she got her scar. The scar that hasn’t fully healed yet. Inside and out. Her eyes fill. He knows and he was protecting me. He protected us all.
She smiles up at him. He gives her a smile straight back.
“Well,” she finally says, “aren’t you just a gift from God.”
14
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 8—FIRST DAY
I grab the keys to the lodge, pull on my running shoes, and let the door bang shut behind me. I need to get my run in before work, as it’ll be pitch black by the time I get back. It’s drizzling slightly, which I actually like, the scent of rain fresh and pure in the early-morning air.
I decide to take a route out through the back gate of the garden that looks like it heads deeper into the woods. I want to see the forest in the daylight. I need to get used to it somehow, this dark tangle encircling me. I unhook the gate and set off at a brisk pace. The uneven ground is more interesting to negotiate than the well-kept footpaths of Regent’s Park. It’s only when my watch starts beeping that I become aware I’m soaked, my hands are numb, and my buzzing mind is finally clear. Time to turn and head back the way I came.
Back at the lodge, I cook a quick breakfast and hop in the shower, letting the warmth seep back into my bones. I’m not entirely sure what the traffic is like between here and the hospital, so I decide it’s best to set off early;
they’re expecting me at nine o’clock. Once I’m dressed, blow-dried, and made up, I dash out through the rain again to the rental car, my new friend, my connection to the outside world. I think about turning on the radio but decide that I don’t want to break the soft bubble of silence surrounding me just yet.
The comforting aortic pump of the windshield wipers is my only company for the rest of the drive. The quiet beauty of the countryside thins as I near the bland gray of King’s Lynn, and finally I see Princess Margaret’s rise like a concrete lighthouse from the drab sea of the suburban town. I feel my pulse quicken; the last time I was here things were not good. I try not to think of that night…the coughing, the blood. But my cortisol spikes regardless.
I park and look up at the hospital, my view blurring as rain splatters the windshield.
I’m here for a reason, I tell myself. Somewhere inside is my patient. Waiting. The knot to be loosened.
Near the hospital entrance the news vans are setting up for the day. Crews milling, bustling with umbrellas, coffee orders, production runners with anorak hoods up, darting between the gaps in a recently erected press cordon, huddled together texting and laughing.
It won’t be like last time, I tell myself. They won’t know who I am as I slip past them, at least not today. This afternoon they’ll find out I’m the new doctor on the Mr. Nobody case but nothing more. They won’t know who I really am; that information would take a lot more than an Internet search.
But then, I suppose, time has a way of releasing the truth from its bedrock and floating it up into the sunlight.
I might get mobbed with questions as I leave tonight. But it won’t be like last time. And for now, I am no one.
I grab my bag, filled with my notes and my laptop, and dash from the dry heat of the car through the wet of the car park.
I pull my coat collar up high over my head as I run, partly to protect my first-day hair, partly as a barrier as I near the press area.
But no one even glances up as I pass by.
* * *
—
I’m early. The clock above reception reads 8:39. I let my eyes drift over the lobby: The two security guards standing by the entrance of the main corridor to the wards, are they there to stop the press getting in? I wonder. Or to stop someone getting out?
Normal hospital life flows about me, nurses arriving for shifts, visitors buying morning papers in the small shop. The layout is different from what I remember, it’s been refurbished recently. A fledgling queue is forming already at the coffee concession opposite the reception desk, which I make my way over to. I sign in with the elder of the two receptionists and she peers down suspiciously at my name on her list. “Dr. Lewis?” she says, looking back up at me, frowning. “Oh, right. Well, that’s a surprise, we assumed you’d be a man.” She sounds annoyed. I attempt a smile but she remains unimpressed. “It’s the ‘Lewis,’ I suppose,” she posits. “Sounds masculine.”
Okay.
I give her a supportive smile. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “Lewis” that tipped the gender balance in her mind. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt—first day, isn’t it?
She holds a small camera aloft to take my picture, prints out the photo ID, then wordlessly assembles my day visitor lanyard and hands it to me. I stare down at it, unsure exactly what’s supposed to happen next. The younger receptionist finishes giving directions to another visitor and smiles over at me. “Dr. Lewis, isn’t it?” she asks. I give her a grateful nod. “Someone from HR will be up in a minute. You can have a wander if you like.” She indicates the lobby newsagent and coffee bar. I thank her but head over to the metal seating near the windows. More coffee would probably not be a great idea.
I look down at my lanyard, a grainy digital image of me caught off guard, below it the name Dr. Emma Lewis. That’s me. That’s who I am.
Visitor ID lanyards aren’t usually hospital practice, nor are the security guards on the ward entrance. At least not in any hospital I’ve ever worked in. But this situation is slightly different, I remind myself. This is a different political climate. And given the media outside and the government’s interest in who this patient is, or could be, a little added caution can only be a good thing, right? ID verification stops outside threats.
After all, I could be anyone, couldn’t I? I could be a journalist. I could be paparazzo. I could have a hidden camera embedded in my bag filming everything. I could be making a BBC Horizon documentary on poor healthcare.
I bet those press photos spread all over my bedroom floor back at Cuckoo Lodge made someone a hefty amount. There’s definitely a market for information. People want to know.
I feel eyes on me. But when I look up, everyone in the reception area is going about their own business. No one is looking. I let out a sigh. I need to relax. I’m not on display yet, nothing has happened yet.
I swivel in my seat and look out at the rain-soaked car park. Watching the weather is grounding, relaxing—there’s neuroscience behind that but I won’t bore you with the details and take away the magic. I watch the rain collect and twist in rivulets as it glides and judders down the glass panels.
I notice his hair first. Across the car park, a man stands talking to an older woman. I recognize that close crop of blond curls, at least I think I do. Neither is carrying an umbrella. His back is to me, so I can’t quite tell yet, for sure, but I feel the queasy tingle of nerves in the pit of my stomach regardless. It’s funny how just recognizing someone in a crowd can cause such a strong physical reaction. He’s tall too, just like I remember. I brace myself for him to turn, to see me staring back at him through the smear of rain, for the spark of recognition to flare in his eyes. I steel myself for the inevitable look of disappointment on his face. The woman he’s talking to gets into her car and he turns. It’s not him. Relief flashes through me so powerfully that I shudder. He’s nothing like him really; it was silly to think it was him. Good. The last thing I needed was a school reunion on my first day in a car park full of press.
I count the press vans out there. Five, by the looks of it: BBC East, BBC News, ITV, Channel 4, and Sky. I wonder where all the print journalists are.
I look back at the people in the lobby. The man in a Barbour jacket propped in the corner, his black scarf balled into a pillow as he naps. The teenager by the security guards, head bowed, texting. The middle-aged woman in a beige-colored suit sipping coffee in the café as she jots notes in a pad. A gaunt sharp-featured man whispering to a smartly dressed redhead in the coffee queue. Her eyes catch mine for a microsecond and she looks away, absorbed in what the man is telling her.
And I suddenly wonder if everyone here is press.
15
THE MAN
DAY 1—NOT A WORD
Poole and Graceford arrive at the hospital nineteen minutes after the incident call goes out. They aren’t the responding officers, that’s the job of the King’s Lynn station. Poole and Graceford are here because, in some capacity, their unidentified suspect from the beach was involved in this new incident.
Their search on the beach was unsuccessful. No handy pile of clothes, no car keys or wallet, no shoes or coat. The identity of the man is still unknown. Trevor Kwasi, Princess Margaret Hospital’s head of security, makes his way over to meet them as soon as they enter.
“He’s gone down to the King’s Lynn station already,” Trevor informs them, hitching the waistband of his trousers, which is clearly in a losing battle with his comfortable girth. “His name was Mike Garrett. Adams and Rhys from King’s Lynn just took him. You just missed them.” He checks his watch, to clarify. “There’s still a King’s Lynn officer up on the ward, Mel Wheatly, she’s taking witness statements, if you guys want to make your way up.”
Graceford gives him a nod.
“I asked all the witnesses to hang about in case you lot need to talk to them too.”
From the initial radio call, Graceford and Poole had assumed the suspect was their unidentified man, but now they realize they were wrong.
Leading them up to Level 2, the security chief explains what he knows, which isn’t yet much.
“Mike Garrett was looking for a discharged patient, a guy called Martins. Apparently, Martins drove the car that hit Garrett’s car late last night. Drunk-driving incident. Garrett’s daughter died—she died en route here. Martins came away with only bruises. He was discharged into police custody shortly after admission. To be fair to him, he was broken up about it, called 999 himself from the scene. Anyway, Mike Garrett couldn’t handle the news. God knows what he would have actually done if he’d found Martins. And your guy, he somehow managed to sweet-talk Garrett into handing over his weapon. No struggle, nothing.”
“How? What exactly did he say to him?” Poole asks, frowning.
“Couldn’t tell you,” Trevor puffs, pausing on the half-flight landing to catch his breath. “I’ve been hearing some pretty mixed things from witnesses. I think your best bet witness-wise is a nurse called Rhoda, I’ll point her out to you once we’re up there. She was with your guy when it happened, so if anyone should know…” He shrugs and sets off again, leading them up.
“We’ll need to talk to the patient too, the man from the beach. Is he still on the ward or has he been moved?” Graceford asks.
“Er, well…here’s the thing. You can’t really talk to him.” Trevor gives a wry chuckle as he opens the Level 2 doors. “See, he’s not saying anything.”
“What do you mean, he’s not saying anything?” Poole asks sharply. “You mean he’s still not talking?”
“No. The officers from King’s Lynn tried. The nurses tried. Nothing.”
“Wait, Trevor, he’s not talking about the incident, or he’s not talking at all?” Graceford persists, her brow furrowed. “Like, he’s mute? You’ve got to be kidding me, Trev. You seriously think he’s mute?”
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