Mr. Nobody

Home > Other > Mr. Nobody > Page 19
Mr. Nobody Page 19

by Catherine Steadman


  Matthew looks at me. “That’s a sad story.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say solemnly as he sits down next to me.

  “But…what would I have been doing for the past twenty-seven years?”

  God, what a question. “I’m not sure, Matthew. But if I had to make this fit, in any plausible way—which we really don’t have to do—but if I had to? I’d say the fact that your circadian rhythm is completely screwed up could, potentially, be down to a lack of natural light. If you’d been kept somewhere. Your head wound, your memory loss, all of it could point toward trauma received during some kind of escape. The police must have a reason for suspecting you’re Benjamin. Plus, the Taylors seem to recognize you. And you are the right age.”

  “You think I’ve been in a basement for almost thirty years? That’s your theory?”

  I can’t help but smile slightly. “No, I don’t think you’ve been in a basement for twenty-seven years—but that could be what they’re thinking.”

  “How would I have escaped from this hypothetical basement?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing it would definitely be possible for a man of your height and build to overpower a man in his, by now, say his…sixties?” I can’t help it but I giggle slightly at this. “Oh God, this is awful.”

  “This is a horrible story, Emma,” he says, with that lightness of tone again. Thankfully, right now he has no connection to this story.

  I mean, even if he is Benjamin Taylor, let’s not make him remember being Benjamin Taylor—nobody wants to be the person who was potentially locked in a basement for decades.

  “They want to meet you. The parents,” I say carefully, watching his reaction. I’ll pull the plug on this in a heartbeat if he needs me to.

  “Why do they want to do that?”

  “Because they want to know if you’re their son, I’d imagine.”

  He rises and walks over to the window. “But even if I am,” he says, looking down at the media swarming below, “I’m not really, am I? I don’t remember being anyone’s son yet.”

  “No, you certainly can’t be expected to be something you don’t even remember.”

  Silence fills the room and when he speaks again I jump slightly at the sound.

  “Who do you think I am?” he demands. I can’t read his expression against the stark light of the window.

  “I don’t know, Matthew. That’s what we’re all trying to find out, isn’t it?”

  “I know, but you—who do you really think I am? Not as my doctor, not as my psychiatrist, but as a person.”

  I stifle a shudder. I can’t tell him who I think he is. The man I think he is died fourteen years ago. Matthew moves away from the light and his face comes into sight, his intelligent eyes studying me.

  I push the thought away, taking a moment before answering. “I think there’s a possibility you may have been in the military. I think you could be suffering from PTSD. Of course, there is the possibility that the PTSD could be from any kind of trauma, but I think it’s unlikely that you have been held against your will for the last twenty-seven years. That much seems clear to me, both professionally and…as a person.”

  He studies me, then nods. “Okay. That makes sense.” He sits down in the visitor’s chair and rubs his face. “I’ll meet them,” he says decisively. “If it helps them. But I have no interest in being Benjamin Taylor.”

  For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. It’s such a strange way to put it, but I understand what he means. He doesn’t believe it’s true but he wants to see if any of it triggers something; he needs to know. And he wants to help these people. Perhaps he is Benjamin. At this stage he could be anyone.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.

  “As long as you’re there. Yes.”

  30

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 10—FACES IN A CROWD

  We hear them arriving outside, the distant rumble of the press coming to life by the hospital entrance, questions, endless greedy questions. The scrum and jostle outside sounds like no more than a polite murmur from here, now that we have moved to the quiet of the visitors’ room.

  There’s a tap on the door and I rise from my seat as Nick Dunning pops his head around it. “They’re just making their way up. Should be with you shortly. The Met have asked that the social worker be present to take notes. Is that okay?”

  “That’s not a problem, thank you, Nick. We’re ready whenever they are.”

  He nods efficiently, his eyes gliding to Matthew to double-check. Satisfied with what he sees, he gives another nod and leaves.

  I look to Matthew: he offers me a wan smile. I give him one back, then as I watch him bring a plastic cup of water to his lips I notice the slight tremor in his hand and suddenly for the first time the idea that Matthew might actually be Benjamin Taylor seems a reality. I remind myself of his extraordinary levels of self-control. It occurs to me that Matthew might not be telling me everything he remembers. The scan was only yesterday but a lot can come back in a day. He might be starting to remember things. This could be who he is. He catches my eye and I start to speak, but as I do the visitors’ room door opens.

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Taylor is dignified and calm, a beautifully dressed woman in her sixties. She holds Mr. Taylor’s hand tight in hers. Eyes flutter wordlessly over faces. Introductions happen in the awkward way one would expect. And after the initial shock of meeting, everyone settles into a seat. Mr. Taylor’s eyes wander, wet with emotion, while Mrs. Taylor’s pale blue gaze does not leave Matthew. I watch him carefully now too.

  The social worker a beat behind noisily takes a stool and pulls out a large file to take her notes. Her expression is grim and she avoids my eyes.

  Mrs. Taylor speaks first, very gently. “Do you recognize us, dear?” she asks hopefully.

  Mr. Taylor looks away, clenching his hands. He doesn’t look like a healthy man. I’d guess at high cholesterol and blood pressure, judging by his ruddy cheeks and reddened nose. But of course, drink could be involved as well, and who could blame him?

  Matthew’s gaze flickers over the hunched Mr. Taylor before settling back on Mrs. Taylor.

  He takes a moment, choosing his words very carefully. “No. No, I don’t. But then, I don’t recognize anyone really, I’m afraid.” He smiles apologetically. “At least not at the moment.” His eyes connect with mine. We both know what he just said isn’t true: he does recognize someone—he recognizes me. And it suddenly occurs to me what that must mean to him. To recognize someone in a world of strangers. I am the only person he seems to recognize. But how?

  “But you remember the house, son?” Mr. Taylor raises his head. “Our house. Everything that happened before the, er…?”

  The air in the room changes at Mr. Taylor’s use of the word “son.” The social worker’s ears prick up.

  Matthew hesitates. There’s so much weight in what these people are asking from the situation. I can see Matthew’s thoughts whirring. What should he say? Is he Benjamin? If he was to come to that realization, right here, right now—I can’t even imagine how terrifying that would be. To know that terrible things might have been done to you but for you to have no memory of those things. Decades lost. Or to have it all rush back in an instant. I realize I shouldn’t have let Matthew do this, even though he wanted to; he needs to remember at his own speed. Triggering too much could cause another panic attack. He may be desperate for a past but perhaps Benjamin’s past isn’t a past worth going back to. Whatever happened to Benjamin Taylor after he vanished couldn’t have been good.

  Matthew answers with a lightness of touch that makes my heart ache. “Sorry, but I don’t remember a house. Any house. If I’m honest with you, I don’t remember much of anything before I was found on that beach. I remember what’s happened over the last ten days…but that’s abo
ut it, at the moment.” His answer is kind but there’s a finality to it. How could there not be? Right now he has nothing to give them, there is only future stretching out ahead of him.

  The Taylors stare at him, lost, unclear where the conversation should go next. They begin to realize, after all their years of searching, that the prize they were fighting for might have changed so utterly that he may now be just a stranger who doesn’t even recognize them.

  Mr. Taylor speaks first, breaking the flat silence, trying to infuse it with the magic they thought they would find here. “You look just like him, you know. Our Benj.”

  “He means you look just how he might have looked,” his wife corrects him gently.

  “Yes, yes. He was only…well, twelve, when he left, you know.” Mr. Taylor gives a forced smile before turning to elicit help with the floundering exchange, first from me and then the police social worker. “Doc, what do you think? Sue? Do you think that we might be onto something here…?” He falters, because what can he say? Is Matthew ours? Is this one finally our Benjamin?

  I look to the social worker, but she remains mute, her expression a dumb show of empathy.

  Excellent. Well, that’s helpful. Thanks a bunch, Sue.

  I grasp the untethered conversion. “It’s hard to say, Mr. Taylor. All we can do really is wait. There was the chance that Matthew might have recognized you immediately and then we would have known. However…I’m not sure that has happened. But memory is a complex system. I think perhaps Matthew just needs time and hopefully things should start to come back to him. And once they do, we should be in a better position to know.”

  “Of course, of course. We don’t want to rush anything.” Mr. Taylor is piteously quick to agree.

  I notice Matthew’s gaze drift away to the window. Jesus. God knows what’s going on in his mind. His energy has dwindled, though, that much is clear. He can’t keep this up anymore. He doesn’t recognize these people, I am still the only person in this room whom he recognizes. This is a dead end. I make a decision.

  “I think what would probably be best is if we finished up here for today. We should hear back on a DNA match by later this afternoon, and if it’s a fit then we can check back in a couple of weeks and see where Matthew is in terms of recovery by then, if that works for you both?” There’s a heavy pause while neither Taylor answers, so I dive back in. “I know it’s not the outcome any of us wanted today, but what’s important now is Matthew’s recovery and giving him the time he needs to adjust.”

  Mrs. Taylor sits up straighter in her chair. “Yes, yes, Doctor, you’re quite right,” she says. I can see in her eyes she’s already trying to work out what they’ll tell everyone outside, everyone back home, the people on TV. Just another false alarm. Twenty-seven years of false alarms.

  “Let’s go, Jim, come on,” she says, sliding her hand into one of his and giving it a little squeeze. He looks into her eyes, lost for a moment until she smiles at him. The bravery, the selflessness, of that smile breaking my heart.

  * * *

  —

  They leave us with promises of more contact to come, at least that will be the official line when they reach the press outside. But I think we all know in our hearts this is the end of Matthew’s role in the Taylors’ lives. Matthew isn’t their son. Watching them walk away hand in hand down the corridor, I find myself hoping they find it in themselves to stop, to stop searching, and finally carve out their own little piece of life in the time remaining.

  When I turn back to Matthew he’s watching me. He holds my gaze silently for a long while, a calmness settling back between us as the Taylors’ footsteps recede. A sad smile breaks across his face and he gives me the tiniest shake of his head. He doesn’t know them. He isn’t their son. I think of the real Benjamin, out there somewhere. Whether he’s a lost forty-year-old man or a twelve-year-old boy in a shallow grave, either way, I hope he’s at peace. I follow Matthew’s gaze as he watches the couple clear the corner at the end of the corridor.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “They’ll be fine. You did a really good thing, Matthew. Why don’t you head back to the ward and get some rest? You deserve it,” I say.

  Back in my office I call Peter. I need to find out why the hell this fiasco was ever allowed to happen in the first place. Why a meeting was scheduled before DNA results were confirmed.

  “I can only apologize.”

  Peter can only apologize. And seeing the six missed calls from him on my mobile I’m inclined to believe that he did do everything within his power to stop the Met from wading in without medical consent.

  “I wasn’t informed of their sudden interest in the case until this afternoon, Emma! If I had been, this would have gone through the appropriate channels instead of the less than ideal scenario we now find ourselves in.” This is the most agitated I’ve ever heard Peter. He pauses to regain composure. “I tried to contact you but I’d imagine you were already in the thick of it there. I’m so sorry, Emma.”

  “It’s fine, Peter, honestly. Matthew was happy to meet them. It wasn’t ideal but I think there’s no harm done.” But then I remember the press still lurking outside. “Is there a line we should be taking with the media? It’s not looking like Matthew is related to the Taylors. I’m guessing the DNA match will come back negative.”

  “I think it’s best to stick to no comment for now, Emma. I’ll be liaising with someone at the Met this evening and you can be assured that it will be them and not the hospital taking responsibility for this unfortunate line of inquiry. Let the Met release a statement first.” Peter sighs. “As they say, if the job was easy…”

  I remember my promise to Joe. I’m supposed to resign now. I promised. I dealt with this fresh crisis and now I should stop.

  I should say something to Peter.

  But instead I think of Matthew’s look to me in the visitors’ room earlier. He didn’t recognize the Taylors but he recognized me. I don’t know how he knows me but he knows me; who I am, my secrets. Things I’ve been at pains to forget for so long. I’ll never know if I leave now.

  And just like that, the moment to say something passes.

  “So, how did the fMRI go yesterday?” Peter continues, oblivious. “Anything interesting we should know about?”

  I shake off thoughts of leaving and of Joe, and I slip with worrying fluidity back into work mode. “The scan was helpful. I’m still working on the images but it doesn’t look like his hippocampus is engaging on anything prior to the day he was found. I’ll wait to write it up, but between you and me it’s a verifiable fugue.”

  “Ha. Very interesting. That’s…well! Good for you! Keep me posted and if you need anything you know where I am.”

  I don’t mention Matthew’s reaction to the final fMRI question—Have you killed?—I don’t mention him knowing my name, I don’t mention how strangely close I’m beginning to feel to him, and I certainly don’t mention my reasons for staying. Because every one of those admissions would be grounds enough for me to be taken off this case.

  * * *

  —

  That evening Matthew and I work through some memory exercises in his room. Simple card images testing the boundaries between his knowledge and his memory. While he recognizes a picture of the Eiffel Tower, he struggles to remember if he has ever seen it with his own eyes. I explain that triggering is all we can do at this stage. I prescribe an antianxiety medication to counteract any panic induced by our potential triggering and then we call it a day.

  Taking the lift down to the lobby, I remember the gauntlet awaiting me outside: the trucks, the microphones, the questions. Dread slowly rises inside me as memories of similar crowds crawl back into my mind. Their bodies pushing, snatching, their graphic, unfeeling questions, the vitriol. Hemmed in by their desperate animal need to know, to know everything: the endless insistent, nasty hows, wheres, whys. The desire to pull apa
rt the gristle of our lives as they rooted around for something elusive, something unknowable: a reason.

  The elevator doors open, and my pulse soars as the scale of the crowd outside comes into view. There are so many more vans than earlier, and a more substantial barrier has been erected around the entrance, a press pit behind it. It’s dizzying. A blast of red brake lights outside as a car maneuvers in the packed car park.

  I brace myself against the elevator handrail as an image flashes through my mind. Blood on my hands. Fourteen years ago. Blood cracked and dry, a reddish brown across my palms, caught under my fingernails. His blood. I’d find it there for days after.

  I shudder. Someone must have alerted the crews outside that I was on my way out of the building, because their cameras are already up, microphones poised and ready. I can already hear their shouted questions. I repeat in my head Peter’s instructions to me. No comment. No comment. As if in the heat of the moment I might somehow forget my line. The security guards by the sliding doors nod as I head toward them, my heart pounding in my throat, my mouth dry.

  Outside, there are the logos of American news networks alongside the British ones now. I suppose everyone loves a happy ending, a reunited family, except, of course, we haven’t given them one. We haven’t given them anything yet.

  One of the security guards steps forward. “Would you like us to escort you to your car, Dr. Lewis?” I don’t recognize him but he knows who I am and I’m guessing he knows how far away I’m parked.

  “Oh God, yes, thank you. That would be really fantastic. Thank you.” I notice the quiver in my voice.

  As he leads me through the doors and the squall of questions begins, he opens an umbrella overhead, shielding me from them as well as from the snow. The winter air hits my hot cheeks and cools them as we plow ahead.

 

‹ Prev