Mr. Nobody

by Catherine Steadman

  Rhoda studies me, alert to my sudden change of tone. “Of course, you can ask me anything.”

  I choose my words carefully. “Rhoda. You named the patient Matthew, didn’t you? Why did you do that?”

  Her face falls. Then after a moment she lets out a soft sigh. “Oh God, not that again. I wish I’d never said a word about it.” She softly shakes her head, contrite. “People always take things the way they want to hear them, don’t they? That interview, I didn’t know they’d twist it up like that. All blown out of proportion. Mr. Dunning’s already had a word with me about not speaking with the press—”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” I try to reassure her; she’s misunderstood my intention. “I just wanted to know if there was a reason you chose that name in particular?”

  Her embarrassment turns instantly to wariness. “You mean the ‘gift from God’ thing? I’m not religious, if that’s what you want to know. My family was, but not me. I just had this feeling—oh, no, I can’t. This is…it’s all just silliness.”

  “No, Rhoda, it’s fine. Please, just tell me. I’m not going to judge you.” Who am I to judge, anyway? For all I know, I’m hearing imaginary voices.

  She doesn’t relax, but she replies, “Well, I can’t explain it, so I won’t try to, but he knew something about me.” She shifts up straighter in her chair. “He knew something he couldn’t have known. He just couldn’t.” I feel the hairs at the back of my neck rise.

  She’s had an experience similar to the one I’ve had with him. He knew something about her he couldn’t have known.

  “What do you mean, he knew things? Do you mean personal things, things about you?”

  Rhoda looks out at the canteen before letting her eyes drift back to me. She nods. “Yes. He knew something, something extremely personal, and he wanted me to know that he knew and that he understood. Or at least that’s what it seemed like to me, at the time. I know it sounds crazy, and I’m not a spiritual person, Doctor, usually, but—this was strange. You know?” She rubs a tired hand over her left eye and I catch sight of a small scar along her temple that I hadn’t noticed before. “I’d rather not say what exactly he knew…if that’s okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And there was the way he was with that other patient….I’ve never seen anything like it, not in real life, anyway. Only on TV. He was so…calm. So sure of the situation. And to answer your original question, I guess I just thought the name Matthew was nice.” She shrugs. “Better than calling him ‘the patient’ all the time. Matthew may mean ‘gift from God’ but I obviously don’t believe that’s what he is. I mean, come on—I’m a full-grown woman with twenty-seven years’ nursing experience. I don’t believe in angels. He’s just been a breath of fresh air, you know, a stroke of luck when I needed it the most.”

  “But you do believe he knew things? About you?”

  She chuckles. “Perhaps not. Who knows? Perhaps he’s just very good at reading people? He certainly read me like a book. Whatever it is, he deserves to have a name, right?”

  I smile in agreement. “Right.”

  Rhoda stiffens and it’s only then that I realize someone is standing directly behind me.

  “Sorry to interrupt, ladies. I was hoping to have a quick chat with you, Dr. Lewis, if that’s all right. Or is now a bad time?” It’s a voice I recognize. Shit. I swivel in my seat and look up as my heart leaps into my throat.

  Oh my God.

  “Could we have a quick chat, Dr. Lewis?” Chris Poole asks again. This is who I thought I saw in the car park this morning, but now that he’s standing here right in front of me I realize how wrong I was then. Chris got really tall, and very good looking. I take in his uniform now too. Chris is a policeman. Chris Poole, from school, is a policeman. And as he looks down at me expectantly I realize that he one hundred percent recognizes me. This is not good.

  “Um. Talk? Right, yes, yes, of course. Er, Rhoda, would you excuse me?”

  “Of course.” She rises and smiles at me in a knowing way, one that I don’t fully understand, before leaving.

  I turn back to Chris, who is grinning broadly.

  Oh shit. Seriously? I mean, don’t I look completely different? I guess there must still be something left of the old me in here somewhere.

  He opens his mouth but I cut him off. “No, Chris. Stop. Before you say anything, just shush. Let’s go to my office.” I throw a quick look around the canteen: people are just going about their day, thankfully showing no interest in us.

  Chris drops his smile as instructed. But the crinkles at the corners of his eyes remain.

  Jesus. He really is pleased to see me.

  “Can we, please?” I gesture out of the canteen.

  “Oh, yeah, sure, lead the way,” he says cheerfully.

  22

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 8—CHRIS POOLE

  As soon as the door closes, he pulls me into a bear hug. His strong arms close around me, smushing my face against the expanse of his uniform jacket.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I hear his voice rumbling through his chest and it’s oddly soothing. Irritated, I force myself to pull away.

  “That’s a very good question,” I say evasively.

  “I was not expecting to see you today. At all.” He pulls back to take me in. My adult face, my late-bloomer features. “God, look at you. You look…” He pauses. “Different. And you’re a doctor now!” His eyes scan me as if he’ll somehow locate the doctor part of me if he looks hard enough. Or perhaps he’s looking for the teenager part of me he used to know? “Not just a doctor. The doctor, I hear? Congratulations…mate.”

  “Thanks, Chris. And you…” I reciprocate, gesturing to his uniform. I step back and walk behind my desk, putting it safely between us. He stands there studying me, a smile in his eyes. He always was sunshine, Chris, warm sunshine. I can’t help but smile back at him, in spite of everything. In spite of the fact that him recognizing me might screw up everything. I’ve only been here a few hours and bloody everyone seems to recognize me.

  Chris and I were in the same year at school, we were all in the same big group of friends: boys, girls, it didn’t seem to matter so much back then. Where are they all now? Do they have kids? Are they all still alive?

  “How long’s it been?” he asks, then answers his own question. “It must be, what, fifteen years. What have you…how have you been? How’s Jim?”

  “Fourteen years actually…and it’s Joe now. Yeah, he’s good; he’s married, has a kid.” Chris’s eyes widen in mock horror at the mention of a kid, I guess it’s safe to say he definitely doesn’t have any just yet. “And I’m good…I’m…God, I don’t know where to start really, Chris, sorry, it’s been such a long time,” I gush. “Um, but it’s great to see you!”

  He pulls out the chair opposite me and negotiates his bulky uniform down into it. This is not going to be over anytime soon, I realize with a sinking heart. This is the police liaison Nick told me to expect this afternoon. Chris is the one who’s come here to give me an update on the police investigation. I’m going to have to get through this reunion before we get to the meat of the case. I sit down, still smiling, keeping the desk between us. I hope he doesn’t see the panic in my eyes.

  “It’s great to see you too,” he says earnestly. “Really good. Honestly.” Then his expression changes. “I, er, I looked you up a few years ago, Marn.” He uses my old name, and he’s doing it deliberately. He’s broaching the elephant in the room. “To see what happened to you after…well, after you left. Looked you up on the station system; I only had the name Marni Beaufort, though. Probably shouldn’t be telling you this, should I?” he says with a raw honesty I find strangely intoxicating. I shrug mutely. Oddly enough, it feels good to know somebody noticed us dropping off the face of the planet.

  He nods understandingly. “I saw they’d c
hanged your name on the police database.” There’s a question in there somewhere. And we both know the question is, After everything that happened, are you okay?

  “Yeah,” I reply as simply as I can, but it comes out breathier than I had intended. Yeah, they changed my name and yeah, I’m okay. Most of the time.

  There’s a silence filled with more questions, unasked ones.

  “I just didn’t realize you were a bloody doctor, though!” He beams at me again.

  I laugh, grateful for the change of subject. “And you’re a policeman?”

  “I know. Like father, like son.” He grimaces, but then his face turns ashen as he realizes what he’s just said. Like father, like son. “Oh Christ, sorry. I didn’t mean because of…Just ’cause—”

  “Yes, I know, Chris, it’s fine. Your dad was a policeman and now you’re a policeman. It’s fine. Seriously.” I smile. “Yeah, I remember your dad. He was a lovely, lovely man.”

  Chris relaxes. “Dad? Let’s not get carried away here. He’s all right—well, on occasion. Christmas was a little fraught if you ask me, but yeah, he’s all right, all told.”

  We stare at each other as another silence falls between us. I take in his features, his softly tousled blond hair, his strong stubbly jaw. “Chris,” I say finally. “You can’t tell anyone. Who I am. You can’t mention anything about before.”

  His half-smile vanishes. “I know, Emma.” He uses my proper name, my new name, and I like the way he says it, the fullness of it. “No, of course, I know. This Mr. Nobody case is already all over the place, I don’t think bringing Marni Beaufort into it would be at all helpful. No need to worry on my account. I just came to tell you that we’re here to help in any way with your investigation. And likewise, if and when he does start talking, keep us in the loop, okay? We’re eager to get him back to his family or whoever is missing him. But for now, we can supply you with all our background on the case so far, if that would be any help?”

  “Yes. That would be great.”

  “Just to warn you, though”—he frowns—“there’s not a lot to go on. We checked his clothes for labels but they’d all been removed. No distinguishing marks, no tattoos. No fingerprint or dental matches. DNA hasn’t thrown anything up but if he’s not from here he wouldn’t be on the UK system anyway. We’ve put him on the British missing persons database now and as of four days ago there’s a hotline that’s been set up by the Daily Mail. You can imagine how useful some of the caller tip-offs are! But we’ve got to field everything they pass on to us, so it’s…well, let’s just say we’re wading through a lot of…stuff right now. Which I should probably be getting back to.”

  He rises now with a sigh, all six feet four inches of him, and slides his notepad out of his uniform pocket. He scribbles something down on it, then, his eyes flicking up to mine, he leans over the desk and holds it out to me. A note. Like in school. I glance down at the scrap of paper. It’s a phone number. When I raise my gaze, he’s watching me. “My mobile,” he says. And for a second, he’s right there, so close, towering over me, in my personal space. I can smell him, the scent of rain and fresh fabric softener. Our fingers brush as I take the paper from him and I feel a jolt of longing surge right through me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Oh, please, no.

  His eyes hold mine. The piercing awareness that anything is possible. The awareness that if either of us made a move, something could happen. Something very exciting could happen.

  He breaks the moment nodding toward the note in my hand. “Just in case you need me to check anything out for you or if he starts talking,” he says, holding my gaze again. “Just call me, Emma. If I can I’ll help out.”

  And then out of the corner of my eye I see it. The soft glint of a wedding ring.

  Oh.

  “Great. Thanks, Chris.” I rise, businesslike now, trying not to let the bizarre mix of arousal and disappointment I’m currently experiencing show. “I really appreciate you not mentioning…you know, about my name and everything. Oh, and thanks for this.” I raise the scrap of paper he’s just handed me, for clearly only professional reasons.

  He nods a quick goodbye and turns to leave. But to my surprise, he stops by the door and turns back. “You live in London now, right?”

  I nod.

  “Um, so whereabouts are you staying while you’re up here?”

  Something in my chest flutters ever so slightly. Even though it shouldn’t, and even though that makes me a terrible person.

  “They’ve put me in a house in the middle of the woods,” I say jokingly. “Near Wells.”

  “But nowhere near Holt?” he asks. He’s being protective. My chest flutters again. He’s watching me honestly, openly, like nobody has for such a long time. He’s worried I’m near Holt, close to where it happened.

  And then another feeling I haven’t felt in years floods through me. Sadness. Deep, thick, suffocating sadness. For the first time since I’ve returned to my hometown, I feel the warning prickle of tears behind my eyes. I swallow awkwardly. “No, nowhere near Holt,” I reply, by way of thanks. Thank you for caring. But I don’t think I can bear it.

  Unsatisfied, he studies my face for a moment longer before nodding. “Good then.”

  He turns to leave once more but swings back again, frowning. “Sod it, listen, Emma, it’d be nice to catch up, you know, if you get any time. I know you’ll be busy but”—he points to the note I now realize I’m still gripping tightly in my hand—“you’ve got my number. Lots of nice pubs in Wells. So…”

  Oh God. He’s asking me out for a drink.

  “Right.” I stall, unsure what to say. But then I say what I want to say…because life is short. And I am so lonely. “That’d be lovely.”

  * * *

  —

  After he leaves I study the creased note. The solid scrawl and curl of his hand. Then I crumple it up and throw it in the trash can beside the desk. After a few seconds I bend down to retrieve it, hastily smooth out its creases, and tuck it safely away in my bag.

  Seeing him is fine, I tell myself. You’re not a bad person, Emma. Just one drink—as old friends. It can’t hurt, can it?

  23

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 8—FACEBOOK

  Back at Cuckoo Lodge, I pour myself a deep glass of red wine and kick off my shoes. On the drive back from the hospital I called Peter Chorley on the car speakerphone, told him about Chris. How Officer Poole was aware of my history here, who I was, but that it shouldn’t be a problem in terms of the case.

  “But will it be a problem for you, Emma?” I’d registered the sliver of concern in his voice and found myself pausing slightly longer than I would have liked before replying.

  “No. It won’t be a problem, Peter.” Because Chris is the least of my problems right now. I thought it but I didn’t say it. I didn’t mention who else knew my name today either.

  “And how did your initial assessment go?” Peter had asked. I told him we’d had to postpone due to the patient’s condition. A half-truth but not a lie. He’d seemed disappointed but circumspect, ending the call with a rallying “Ah, well, tomorrow is another day.”

  I collapse into one of the deep-cushioned sofas and sip my wine, letting its heat warm me from inside. Alcohol-induced vasodilation. That’s its medical term. Sexy, like sinking into a hot bath. A lot has happened in a day, but aren’t first days always like that? Well, maybe not always like this.

  Peter had promised me he’d be following up with the local police and ensuring they were all aware of the situation, of why my name was originally changed and the legal ramifications, and potential consequences, of disclosing that information.

  It was bound to happen. I was bound to run into somebody. I grew up here. I went to school here. I knew I’d run into old faces. People I used to know, people from the past I’ve tried to forget, b
ecause it’s not healthy living in the past. It robs you of a future. But for the next few weeks I’m going to have to do just that—live in the past.

  So, I guess I had better prepare myself.

  I lean across the sofa and pull my laptop over, flipping its lid open. If I’m really going to do this, be here, for the next few weeks, then I had better arm myself for battle. Knowledge is power, after all.

  I type the word “Facebook” into the empty search bar and it springs onto my screen. I don’t have a Facebook account, I never look at Facebook. Even at medical school when everyone was berating me for being either a Luddite or a hipster, I continued to abstain because, if I’m honest, it scares me. My face out there connected and connected and connected until it all leads back to that one night. The night when my whole world was shattered and it was easier to just throw the whole thing in the trash than try to fix it.

  But now I need to know what I’m up against. Who there is here that I might run into, what might await me tomorrow. It can’t be a surprise if I see it coming. The screen in front of me asks if I would like to join Facebook. I would not like to join Facebook; but needs must, so I take a gulp of wine, set down my glass, and start to type in my personal information. “Emma Lewis.”

  It’s funny how people can become living ghosts. A few years ago, I saw one of my old teachers on the underground. She didn’t recognize me, of course; she hadn’t seen me for over a decade. I wouldn’t have looked like the messy freckled girl she remembered. But the instant I saw her I was back there, I could feel her firm hand on my shoulder as she led me silently down the empty school corridors toward the headmistress’s office. She’d pulled me out of class; everyone else was still in theirs, and the usually noisy hallways were eerily hushed. That hand on my shoulder. That was the last time I saw her. The last time I would see any of them.

  It’s hard when other people know all about the worst moments of your life. The headlines made sure of that.