Caught half-awake, half-dreaming. A half-dream where I rise from bed, voices in the hallway; I come out onto the landing and see him. My father, pulling on his coat. He’s leaving. He sees me standing bleary at the top of the stairs. Where are you going, Dad? I ask. Nowhere, honey. Go back to bed, he tells me, smiling softly. But I don’t feel well, I tell him. It’s okay, baby. You’ll feel better in the morning, he reassures me, and he blows me a kiss. And I smile back for Daddy and I go to bed.
I wake up when the helicopter roars overhead again. Louder this time. Lower. I sit bolt upright, a terror crystallizing in my adolescent brain: something is wrong.
Joe scrambles back into my room, skidding over to the bedroom window and disappearing behind the thick silk of the curtains, only his feet visible below.
“What is it, Joe?” I rasp, my throat dry. I really don’t feel well.
The rhythmic thud of helicopter blades thumps through the night air. No answer from my brother.
My curiosity piqued, I race into the gap between the curtains, to join him as the big machine hovers overhead a third time. I catch the flash of its floodlight as it sweeps low over our wet roof. Blinding light and sound, the word POLICE emblazoned across its underbelly.
Transfixed, my brother and I watch as it slowly lowers and touches down in our top field, the long grass around it whipping with the downforce of the blades.
We stare out the rain-speckled window as the helicopter doors burst open, and uniformed officers jump out and run toward our house.
And then it comes from downstairs. The noise.
CRACK.
A rip of sound. A gunshot, loud and horrifically distinct, cracking through the silent house. My breath catches in my throat and I drop straight to the floor as if somehow I’m the one who’s been shot. Terror coursing through me, pure animalistic fear.
Real gunshots aren’t like the ones on TV. You feel the sound in your body. It hits you. It’s a sound you’d recognize even if you hadn’t grown up around it. A sound and a meaning in one. An instant understanding of events.
No further shots, just ringing silence through the house, and the knowledge of what that might mean.
Outside, we hear shouts getting closer to the house. I look across to Joe, crouched next to me on the carpet, his head buried, his pajamas and the floor around him wet with urine, his body quivering.
I make the first move. The animal instinct, to find my dad. I scrabble as fast as I can, low, on all fours across the bedroom floor and onto the thick carpet of the landing. A light on downstairs. Through the banisters I see Mum leaning on the study doorframe, her hand to her mouth. She is staring at something.
The burst of breaking glass from the front of the house, voices shouting.
I don’t know why but I run. I run to him, down the stairs, past Mum’s outstretched grasping hands, through a doorway I won’t ever be able to come back through.
And I find him there in his study. His face and the back of his skull gone. Or rather displaced, pieces of it, of him, stuck in the curtains, hot globules and bone chips on the window’s latticework, wet drips and chunks in and on his precious books. His whole life broken open across the upholstery. On his desk four cream envelopes, spattered. Thick watermarked paper—his letters to us inside. One addressed to Marty Fenshaw, Dad’s solicitor, one to Joe, one to Mum. And one to me. I don’t know why he wrote them. Guilt maybe.
Either way, I wouldn’t read mine for another two years.
I stand and stare at what he’s done, dizzy, my head pounding and the sound of Mum’s gasping breath behind me. The shotgun now propped between two lifeless thighs. His dark blood creeping slow and steady across the oak floorboards toward us.
The room spins around us and I can no longer stop the nausea from rising. I vomit hot sharp bile forward onto the floor.
And suddenly there are police everywhere, swarming into the house, through the front and back. Later I will see the squad cars filling our drive, the riot van, next to Mum’s 4x4. They’re shouting but we don’t hear their words as they pour in, fully armed.
We’d find out later they’d come to seize Dad’s hard drive, his papers, before he’d destroyed them; they’d come to take him in, but he’d beaten them to it. He’d destroyed everything and he was already gone.
We’d find out later that he’d embezzled hundreds of thousands of pounds from charitable funds, that he misappropriated funds meant for survivors of the London bombings. Other people’s money. Victims’ money. And we’d never find that money.
We’d find out in the emergency room that the headaches and the vomiting we were all experiencing were due to gas poisoning. Dad had disabled the pilot light on the oven, he’d put out the flame and the house had slowly been filling with gas for hours while we slept. The bitter smell of it permeating every room of the house.
They said at the inquest he meant to take us all with him. A last-minute idea, they speculated—otherwise why would he have bothered to write us all notes? Why indeed? After two years of waiting, I found that mine had said only:
Marni-marn,
I love you. I hope one day you’ll be able to understand.
Your Dad
He thought we’d be better off dead than without him, that was what he had decided for us. That we were his property to dispose of in any way he liked. We weren’t meant to read those letters; he wrote them to our dead bodies. We were all meant to go in our sleep but he ran out of time and shot himself first.
Except I don’t think he did. I don’t think the man with no face in the study was my father. Which I would later tell the police and social workers. I saw him put on his coat, I’d tell them. I saw him leave the house. He told me to go back to bed. Whoever that person was in the study, they weren’t my father, that body wasn’t wearing a coat. You never found his coat.
They’d tell me it was a hallucination from the gas poisoning, they’d tell me they’d done a DNA test on the remains, they’d tell me to stop, but someone believed me. The press believed me. And at first, I was glad at least someone did. But they wanted to know, if he wasn’t dead, where had he gone? They demanded to know where he’d gone with all that money. They wanted to track him down and make him pay. And they just wouldn’t stop asking. Even after I told the police I believed them, that I must have imagined seeing him. Even after I told everyone I’d made a mistake. They just kept asking and then they got angry and it became dangerous. That’s when we had to leave.
I know logically I didn’t see him. That logically I couldn’t have seen him leave…but…I did, didn’t I?
Shards of memories from that night. Recalled over and over and over. Blood everywhere; I stare at it transfixed. Mum crouched on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream, spit stringing straight down onto our floorboards. Her eyes searching the approaching faces of police for some kind of answer as to why.
They pull her roughly backward, and like a rag doll she lets herself be carried off, no resistance, something soft and helpless in a sea of uniforms. The world slows right down as they pour into the study around me, finally blocking my view.
As I’ve said, nobody becomes a psychiatrist by accident.
35
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 12—REPERCUSSIONS
Officer Graceford arrives at 7 A.M., bringing the stack of newspapers I’d requested through Chris.
Not yet ready to face the TV coverage, I pore over the papers with my bandaged palms as Chris finishes cooking us breakfast. He wouldn’t take no for an answer after calling a company to replace the glass in the basement window.
Graceford eyes the apron he’s wearing over his uniform and turns back to me briskly. “I’ll be covering you at the hospital if you want to go in today,” she explains. “If you don’t feel up to it, you can stay here in the lodge with Chris until things calm down. It’s totally up to you.�
� She smiles understandingly and I want to hug her for her lack of judgment either way.
“I’ll have a think about it.”
She nods and throws a look back to Chris; his hair is still rumpled from sleep. “I’ll be keeping an eye on things at the hospital, Chris. Radio me if anything changes here.”
“Will do,” he says, trying to remain dignified while holding a spatula.
After Graceford leaves I take a deep breath and flick on the TV. Footage of my face, me walking out of the hospital, furtive, guilty, though of what I do not know. I guess I have a guilty face. The news anchors talk about me, about Dad.
“The daughter of the late Charles Beaufort, who is estimated to have misappropriated approximately £875,000 from the July seventh victims’ charity, as well as other sums from various sources, reemerged yesterday after fourteen years in hiding. Marni Beaufort, now Dr. Emma Lewis, has been working within the NHS under an assumed name.”
Bloody hell. They make it sound like I’m pretending to be a doctor.
“News sources yesterday uncovered that Marni Beaufort is currently the lead specialist on another case garnering public interest—the mysterious case of Mr. Nobody, the unknown man found wandering on a beach in Norfolk, close to Dr. Lewis’s own childhood home. Although currently not under investigation, Marni Beaufort was believed by many during the 2005 inquest into Charles Beaufort’s misappropriation of funds and subsequent death to be involved in a cover-up surrounding his suicide. Several sources at the time of the investigation expressed concerns that the body discovered in the Beaufort family home might not have been that of Charles Beaufort and that Charles Beaufort might well still be at large. However, DNA samples analyzed at the scene and during the subsequent police investigation did match with that of Mr. Beaufort.”
I feel Chris’s eyes on me. I feel his concern.
I can almost hear his thoughts. Do I think he’s still alive too? That’s what he wants to know. That’s what everyone wants to know.
Two questions, over and over. Do I think he’s still alive? And, where is the money?
I avoid Chris’s gaze and focus on the images as they flash up on the screen. Footage from 2005. Shots of sixteen-year-old me cowed by the attention, my terrified expression as alert as a wounded animal’s. Shots of the July 7 bombings, interviews with victims about the money he stole.
I flip the channel.
A floppy-haired man in a navy blazer holds forth. “Yes, that’s all very well, Susannah, but what if Charles Beaufort is still alive and out there somewhere, living off all this stolen money he’s accrued? I just think with today’s technology it’s worth looking at the evidence again. What harm could it do? If he’s dead, he’s dead. All I’m saying is, I think it might be worth the police reopening the case. There were contradictory facts! The daughter saw him leaving the house. That was in her original statement. It was only afterward the story changed. I definitely think it’s worth another look.”
The female presenter gives him an incredulous yet indulgent look. “But come on, Jeremy, didn’t he attempt to murder the whole family? Why would any one of them be helping him get away with that? They’d have to be mad.”
“Actually, not really—if you think about it, it makes perfect sense. The carbon monoxide levels in the house were high but nowhere near fatal yet. It may have been part of the ruse. Get the family in on it. If he’d really wanted to kill them all, he could have increased the flow, and he had a gun, didn’t he—”
Jesus Christ.
I flip the channel.
This is going to be worse than last time. Now that I’m over eighteen, all bets are off. I’m fair game.
They think I know where he is. They think I helped him. They think I’m protecting a man who stole from grieving families and tried to kill me and my whole family. But do I think he’s alive?
No. Yes.
The real truth? I don’t know. Because I saw him go. And I know they told me it was a hallucination, I know the DNA test results, I know the evidence. I know and yet…the body in the study wasn’t wearing his jacket. It didn’t feel like him. It just didn’t. And I don’t know where he is, or where the money is, and I don’t know the whys of any of it, but—do I think he’s alive? Yes. I think of Matthew in his hospital room, and I can’t help but wonder if locked away inside him is some kind of answer. After all, he was looking for me.
On the next TV station one of the bombing survivors speaks to the camera: “Who exactly paid for this woman’s medical training? That’s what I’d like to know. Isn’t it a bit convenient that all that money disappeared and she shows up fourteen years later a doctor? We should be asking where the money for that came from. Why haven’t the police followed up on that?”
Chris, who has come up behind me unnoticed, gently takes the remote from my tight grip and turns off the blaring screen. I realize I haven’t blinked for a while, and it feels strange to do so now. He pulls me in close to him and I let him. It feels so good to be held.
“Call your family,” he whispers gently. “Let them know you’re okay.”
I call Joe, it’s a brief conversation. His voice is tight and it’s blindingly obvious that I should have followed his advice on Friday, although he does me the extraordinary kindness of not bringing that up. He’s going straight to Mum’s, he tells me. She’s seen the news. Apparently, there are already people outside her house. I feel awful. The guilt is almost too much to bear. And even though it feels ridiculous to be giving my brother advice, I feel obligated to give him the same warning Peter gave me. “Don’t talk to anyone, Joe, don’t answer the phone unless you know who it is first.”
I want to call Mum but I can’t. The guilt is too sharp. I don’t think I’d be able to hold it together. And I definitely don’t want her to feel she needs to reassure me. God, I don’t think I could handle her being brave for me. I text her that I love her and I’m sorry and I leave it at that.
At 8 A.M. Peter calls.
“Listen, Emma, we’re happy to accept your resignation. If you’re not up to continuing, we completely understand. The press attention is fairly unprecedented, and given the circumstances, if you’d rather take some time for yourself, to be with your family…”
I’ve thought a lot about it this morning, about what Peter might say when he rang, why on earth they chose me in the first place, why they’d want such a media liability hanging over their heads, and it occurs to me that I still don’t even know who Peter works for. I don’t even know that much. It is entirely possible that I’m here to deliberately make people look bad, that that’s my whole purpose.
Because how convenient for some if this whole situation were to become a media disaster. Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t a series of monumental blunders before election season be just the sort of thing that might serve certain people very well? A government scandal, an immigration scare, and good old-fashioned healthcare mismanagement all rolled into one. A winning formula for someone.
But none of that is important. What’s important to me now is Matthew. Finding out who he is. We’re in this together, he and I. I promised him.
“I think I’ll stay, actually, Peter,” I say. “There’s not a lot of point in leaving now anyway, I’m guessing the damage has been done. Today will be the worst of it, I’m sure it’ll settle down afterward. And I’m supposed to be here to help Matthew. I’d like something good to come of all this. I’ll just keep going, if that still works for everyone?”
Peter hesitates on the line, he obviously wasn’t expecting me to say that. But then, what can he do? He can’t fire me, I’m sure of that; I’m fairly certain that dismissing someone because they have an inconvenient history is completely illegal—even more so if you knew that history prior to employing them.
“Yes, yes, of course. If you’re sure you’re happy to continue?” he replies cautiously. “We can do our best to make
sure you’re protected to a certain degree from the backlash, but there would be only so much we can do….”
“That’s fine, Peter. There’s security at the hospital for Matthew. Officer Poole is here and Officer Graceford has said she’ll shadow me at least for today, and after that…well, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’d only be facing the same thing if I was to go back to London.”
* * *
—
I follow behind Chris’s squad car as we head to the hospital. He leads me in through the back entrance, to keep me away from the growing crowd at the front. I park my little rental car in the service area and head in as Chris watches from his car. I don’t know why I haven’t been parking there from the beginning, I guess no one thought to tell me, but I’m grateful for it today.
Thankfully, I don’t see the extent of the crowd outside the hospital until I’m safely in my office up on the fourth floor. I look down at it through the thin hospital glass, and my stomach flips, the drop below dizzying. The whole thing takes on a surrealist quality from this vantage point, my fear of heights kicking into overdrive as the rush of vertigo makes everything swirl at the edges. Below, the oblivious carnival of media, picketers, and protesters is still awaiting my arrival. I realize I’ve become politicized. Matthew and I both. We aren’t people to them right now, we’re symbols. The car park below, littered with protesters from all over the country on pilgrimages with their homemade signs, proves as much. We have been chosen against our will. A man with no memory and a woman with too much. And our fellow villagers, carrying placards instead of pitchforks, have come to drive us out.
They want to know where I’ve been for the last fourteen years. They want to know where their money is, the money my father stole before he disappeared. That’s all they cared about before and I’m guessing it’s all they care about now. They think I know where the money is hidden, as if it were pirate treasure only I have the map to find. But I don’t have a map. And I don’t know where the treasure is buried. That much we all have in common. That and the fact that they don’t believe he’s dead either.
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