Mr. Nobody

by Catherine Steadman

  We all piled into the Range Rover and Dad drove us out there, the red taillights ahead of us building as we headed toward Holkham. When we got to the gravel car park, we joined the bustling throngs of families carrying rugs and hampers as they poured into the parkland, walking the chalkstone track toward the distant lights of the event.

  It was freezing that November. We’d wrapped up warm, hats, scarves, shakable pocket warmers; Mum covered every eventuality. The green was skirted by a temporary village of stalls offering refreshments and early Christmas gifts. Mum trekked off across the half-light of the field and brought us back a steaming jacket potato each, filled with beans and butter and melting cheese, which we scooped greedily into our mouths with plastic spoons, the foil hot in our gloved hands as we made our way on to the main event.

  In the distance we could see its peaks burning, past the stalls and over the treetops, the spires of it roaring into the night sky, the bonfire. The biggest I’d ever seen, constructed in the center of flat parkland, towering over the surrounding landscape. The crowd was more thickly packed here, a looping semicircle around the enormous flaming pyre. The low hum of happy chat as everyone stood and watched, bursts of laughter, cheers as a log or some other structure within the flames crumbled in a sudden burst of sparks, the occasional whistle and wave to straggling family members.

  We stood pressed close to one another, the four of us. The smell of Mum’s perfume, Dad’s jacket. The orange glow of the burning mound playing across faces, its warmth bathing us.

  Dad broke out the sparklers, other families around us shrieking and laughing as they used theirs. I remember him fumbling through his pockets to find the clear blue lighter Mum usually used for the kitchen candle. But after a while he decided he must have left it on the counter at home. Little things like that stick in my mind, the clues he left me sprinkled throughout the night.

  Dad asked another man if we could borrow matches and he lit our sparklers with them. I remember looking down at the sparkler in my hand, its sharp white petals flashing in and out between my fingers. Shapes drawn in the air. Afterglow on the eyes. The scents of chestnuts and fire. I burned my fingers holding the stick too long and Joe told me I was stupid not to have dropped it sooner. Mum brought us four bright red toffee apples, the coating thin enough to crack straight through in a bite, the apple beneath dense with sugar.

  A full orchestra accompanied that night, playing gargantuan Gothic symphonies and soft dreamscape concertos as we watched crates, logs, leaves, old furniture, and other detritus burst into flames, becoming beautiful again.

  We stood and watched it all burn, from the red ember at its center, up into the crisscross maze at its heart, to the pale cream of the cresting flames lapping the black night. And in the sky above, flecks of bright burning gold breaking free and floating. And, higher still above that, the stars, the whole glittering firmament. So many stars.

  The music swelled and then the fireworks display began.

  The first crack and flash of pure white light shot straight up into the chilly winter air; an explosion of diamond dust.

  And then color after color, faster and brighter and louder until the whole sky was lit with pulsing, flashing, magic. And then, as swiftly as it started, it was gone.

  The night sky empty but for the afterimage on our eyes and the ghost of smoke in the wind.

  * * *

  —

  I stare into the starlit sky above Cuckoo Lodge and I close my eyes. Such a beautiful night. I try not to feel guilt for what happened next. It wasn’t my fault. Not really. But that was the last night any of us saw him. When I open my eyes, I brush the warm roll of tears away.

  My phone bursts to life next to me, the ringtone loud and alien in the dark. I fumble for it. Why would someone be calling me at 2:09 A.M.? I wonder if it’s Chris, calling about Waltham House. Or if it’s Peter and the story of who I am has leaked already.

  “Hello there, is that Dr. Lewis?” It’s a man’s voice, businesslike, professional.

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “I’m calling from Princess Margaret’s. I’m one of the night nurses on the psych ward. Listen, I’m really sorry to call at this hour but it says in the patient notes to call you immediately if there is any change—”

  I sit forward on the bench. “What’s happened?”

  “Well, er, I thought you’d want to know that the patient has started talking.”

  I freeze. He knows who I am and he’s started talking. “What did he say?” I ask.

  “Okay, so, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, to be honest. But when I went in to do checks about half an hour ago the patient was sitting up in bed reading and I said, ‘How are we doing tonight’ or something like that, you know, just to be polite, I knew he wasn’t talking, but then he did. He said, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Just like that. And then I asked if he needed anything and he said he’d like to speak to Dr. Lewis. And then he said to tell you that he’s sorry you burnt your fingers that night.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. My mind races until I suddenly decide that I just must have heard him wrong.

  “Sorry. What did you say?” I hear the wobble in my voice.

  “I know, sorry, I have no idea what that means either—”

  “No, say it again. What he said,” I bark.

  “Er, okay,” he continues, cowed. “His exact words were ‘Tell Dr. Lewis I’m ready to talk to her. Tell her I’m sorry she burnt her fingers that night,’ and that was it really.” He tails off, fearful of further admonishment.

  I stare out into the shadows beyond the garden, the suffocating darkness of the wood, my breath shallow.

  He knows things about me. Just like Rhoda said.

  But he couldn’t have been there that night. He’s sorry I burnt my fingers. How could he know something so intimate, something so slight, unless he had been there? And if he knows that, what else does he know? And more important, what else is he saying at the hospital right now? He’s calling me Dr. Lewis now but he knows my name was Marni.

  “Hello? Doctor?” The voice on the line drags me back.

  “Yes, sorry. I’ll be there in…” I shoot up from the bench and look over the low fence to the frosted windshield of my car and then down at my sleepwear and socks. “I’ll be there as soon as I can—just tell him I’m on my way.”

  26

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 9—WHAT’S MY NAME?

  When I enter the room he’s talking, a few nurses and aides clustered around him. His voice is low and calm but I can already make out a British accent. Not Ukrainian, not Syrian, not any of the other heavily accented dialects that the papers had been so eager to hear him speak. He’s just plain old English.

  He falls silent when he sees me enter and heads turn in my direction. Their expressions are inscrutable. It’s impossible to know what he’s told them, what he’s already said, if he’s mentioned me, and yet I search their faces for clues.

  The way he’s looking at me, as if I’m an old friend he hasn’t seen in years, as if we knew each other so well.

  “Marni?” he asks simply. It’s unmistakable in his tone. He knows me.

  My glare rakes across the group and their stares scatter like pigeons. I need to say something, I know, and I need to say the right thing.

  “My name is Dr. Lewis. I’m the specialist handling your case, we saw each other very briefly yesterday. Do you remember?”

  I feel bad disregarding his clear recognition of who I am, but we will get to that in good time, preferably alone.

  “What should I call you? Is Matthew all right?”

  I’ve confused him. He blinks. “Matthew’s not my real name. You know that, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Yes, I know. Do you remember your real name?”

  He looks hurt for a second and I wonder if I’m being too col
d, too distant to this person who so very clearly knows me.

  “I can’t remember my name, no.” He shakes his head.

  “Would you like us to stop using the name Matthew? Is there another you’d prefer?” I ask, my tone gentler now.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” I make a decision. “Would everyone mind stepping out and giving us the room, please? I’m sure you’ve all got other patients to see to.” There are looks of disappointment but the room quickly clears.

  “Marni?” he says again. He’s studying my face intently; he seems less sure this time, this time it really is a question.

  “Why do you keep using that name, Matthew?”

  “Because it’s your name. I can’t remember mine but I can remember yours.”

  No shit.

  “How do you know that name, Matthew?” I hold his gaze. If this is some kind of game of chicken, I want him to know I’m up for the challenge.

  “I don’t know. I just do.” He sounds confused. Peter was right. If this guy is faking, he’s the best I’ve ever seen.

  “What else do you know? Do you remember anything else?” I make my way over to his bed and sit beside him.

  “Only glimmers. Running through a wood at night.” The memory seems to cause him concern; his face darkens. “I don’t know if I’m chasing or being chased.” He looks at me for some kind of reassurance but I have none to give him.

  “Are you scared in the memory?” I ask.

  “No, not in the memory itself, but when I recall it, it scares me.”

  “Do you think this memory explains how you ended up on the beach nine days ago?”

  “Er, I don’t think so.” He hesitates. “This memory is old. Maybe years ago. It was at night. There was someone there with me. Something went wrong.” He closes his eyes sharply as if to block a thought. I notice his fingers start to tremble in his lap.

  “It’s okay, Matthew.” I move to him and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. He lets me, and I feel the warmth of his skin through his cotton T-shirt. “We don’t need to go back over it right now. Why don’t you tell me about something else? What other things do you remember?”

  He looks up reluctantly; there are dark circles under his eyes. “Little things,” he answers. “About people, the people here. I seem to remember these strange things about them. Or rather I know them. What makes them tick, things that have happened to them, things I shouldn’t know, but somehow I do. How could that be?” He asks in such a reasonable way I almost try to answer, but I stop myself. I shake my head instead.

  “What kind of things do you know about people, Matthew?” I ask calmly, trying to keep my desperate need to know at bay.

  “About you, you mean? What do I know about you?”

  It’s like he can see right through me. He’s smart and yet there doesn’t seem to be any edge to what he says. How does he know my name? How does he know what happened that night? My heartbeat is so loud it’s hard to think. Was he there? Could this be him, somehow?

  “If you like.” I manage to keep my voice steady, professional.

  He raises a hand tentatively toward mine, his touch light and warm. He turns my palm and studies my fingertips. I realize what he’s looking for and my breath catches in my throat. He finds it. The tiny dashes of white. The almost invisible scars on the sides of my two fingers and thumb. The little burn marks I’ve had since that last Bonfire Night. His thumb gently brushes the mark and his gaze finds mine.

  Yes, he knows what happened that night.

  It’s a crazy thought but it hits me so hard a wave of emotion rolls up from inside me. He looks sorry. Sorry for what happened. I break his gaze and gently pull back my hand.

  “I asked your name earlier,” he says. “It’s not Marni anymore? They told me it was Emma Lewis. Why did you change it? Was it because of me?”

  I inhale deeply to mask the shudder I feel run through me. But I can’t escape the fact that he really does remind me of someone. There’s just something about him, I can’t quite place my finger on it yet. I know it can’t be him—he died fourteen years ago. “Why would that be because of you? Who is it that you think you are, Matthew?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just have this awful feeling that I did something. To you. Did I do something terrible to you?”

  I suddenly feel sick. I look at his face, it’s ridiculous to think it. This isn’t him. He looks nothing like him, and besides, I saw the body. This must be some kind of sick joke. But Matthew doesn’t look like he’s joking—his eyes are earnest, a frown is forming between his brows. He’s worried by my silence.

  But I’m genuinely lost for words. This is not a normal situation. I have no framework for this. A sudden instinct flares inside me: he could be dangerous, he could be here to hurt me. This can’t be the person I think he is, but he could be someone who knew him. Someone with a reason to come back. I remember what happened the last time I was here—before we left and tried to reinvent our lives—the very real death threats, the vile letters in the post, the terrifying phone calls. Anger and poisonous hate after what happened. People wanted revenge. Perhaps someone still does?

  Matthew watches me from the bed, his handsome face concerned. He certainly doesn’t look angry, he looks sad.

  In a way, isn’t that exactly what he would look like, if he came back?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Emma, people don’t come back. Of course it’s not him, he’s gone. He’s dead.

  No, I do not know this man, he’s a stranger. He’s obviously overheard some things about me in the hospital and internalized the story. Memory-loss patients will cling to anything that fills the gaps; often they don’t even know where they’ve picked things up from.

  It happens all the time. There was a famous psychological experiment done in the nineties, the “lost in the mall” experiment, where members of a family were reminded about four episodes that happened in their childhoods. Unbeknownst to them, one of the stories, about being lost in a mall, was entirely fabricated. They were then each asked to recall the details of what had happened to them in each of their four stories. The subjects of the test all ended up clearly recalling being lost in a mall. Each remembered something that never happened—and each had no idea he or she was doing it. We plant our own false memories. And we don’t even know we’re responsible for it.

  Matthew must have heard someone say my old name here, heard the story, and subconsciously processed it. That would explain it.

  However, that does mean that someone here in the hospital knows that I am Marni Beaufort. And the only way they could have known that I was coming back here was if they’d been keeping an eye on me. I study Matthew’s features. Could he have been the one keeping an eye on me? There’s one clear way to find out if he’s lying.

  “Matthew, would you agree to undergo an fMRI test tomorrow? It’s relatively straightforward. It would involve us scanning your brain while I go over some of your memories with you. Do you think you’d be okay to try that with me?”

  He scowls and adjusts his blankets. “What is it for?”

  I think about equivocating but decide instead to show him my cards. “The test will tell us if you’re lying. What you’re suffering from—dissociative fugue—is extremely rare, but very easy to prove, or disprove, and I’d like to do that. It will show us if you can remember, or not, and to what extent.” Now it’s his turn to show me his cards.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “I think that would be a very good idea, Dr. Lewis.”

  I pause for a second before nodding. That wasn’t exactly how I thought that would go. He one hundred percent believes everything he’s saying.

  He honestly thinks he knows me. The itch to know more is no longer bearable. “Matthew, what did you mean when you asked me if I had changed my name because of you?”

  Panic flares in his eyes, then fades. “I don’
t know what I did exactly, but I know it was bad. I have these feelings, these awful feelings, they keep bubbling up inside me.” He looks down at his hands clasped tight in his lap, as if he were praying. “I wish I could remember what happened, but I can’t, and—and maybe that’s for the best, you know?” He looks up at me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Any of you. But I knew I had to find you.”

  “You had to find me? Have you been looking for me, Matthew?”

  “I must have been looking for you. I think that’s why I ended up on that beach. I know it seems strange but I knew you’d come and find me if I waited. How could I know that?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  “Do you recognize me, Emma? Honestly?”

  I feel a tug in my chest and I hesitate, unsure of how to answer. I don’t recognize him and yet he does remind me of someone so strongly. “Why do you think you were trying to find me?” I ask instead.

  He shakes his head. “Because…” He sighs heavily and takes a ragged breath. “Because I put the flame out, honey.”

  His words slam into me, a full-body hit, knocking the air right out of me. Oh God, it is him. I feel a rush of nausea—I’m going to be sick.

  “And I want you to know that I’m sorry, Marn. I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t stop to think, I stand and leave the room. It’s only as I start to run, shoes squeaking down the empty hospital corridor, body shaking, that the vomit comes.