Mr. Nobody

by Catherine Steadman

  I have no real idea who these people are, and they are certainly not attempting to sugarcoat the sense that they’re in charge. Since arriving, they have made it very clear it is Matthew they want to talk to, not his doctor.

  The younger officer speaks now, his voice patrician and infuriatingly reasonable. “Whilst we understand your point of view, Dr. Lewis, and obviously respect your medical opinion, we do think a conversation with Matthew himself would be in his interest.” The older officer nods in silent affirmation. “There is, of course, the possibility that we would want to move him to a more specialized facility if that were to be considered appropriate.”

  “And who would be assessing the appropriateness of that?” I counter tartly, my eyes flicking back to Dr. Samuels.

  “I’m a military psychiatrist, Dr. Lewis, I can assure you that someone with the appropriate training would be assessing that, should it prove necessary,” she coos.

  “And if it doesn’t prove necessary?” I ask, matching her tone. “And you’ve simply interfered with a civilian patient with mental health problems? Then what?”

  “Then we would defer to your better judgment. But I think our involvement at this stage is a risk we should all be willing to take.” She moves to the window ledge, looking down at the growing crowd far below. I feel my vertigo lurch, on her behalf, as she continues. “I think we both know it’s unlikely that a civilian would have been able to do what your patient did this morning, Dr. Lewis.”

  She looks back at me, her eyes intent. I look away.

  She’s right, I know she’s right. He definitely knew what he was doing, that is unquestionable. It’s incredibly unlikely that a civilian would have been capable of doing what Matthew did.

  Yet I hold my ground. I don’t know why, but I feel I should protect him. Maybe it’s because of the question rolling around in my head: Why are they only arriving now? If Matthew is one of theirs, why haven’t they come for him sooner?

  But then, perhaps that’s it, perhaps he isn’t one of theirs at all? Perhaps he’s someone else’s? He could be working for a foreign government. Either way, I’m clearly completely out of my depth.

  I grudgingly agree to let Dr. Samuels assess Matthew but on the condition I remain present for the assessment. They decline my offer. I cannot be present because sensitive information may be brought up. I realize I am fast losing ground, so I compromise, agreeing to absent myself on the proviso that I am present at least until Matthew consents to their interview. Eager to move forward, they agree.

  Matthew is already in the consultation room when we arrive. He stands as I enter; I see the bulk of his shoulder bandaged beneath his T-shirt, his left arm in a loose sling. Overkill from the nursing staff but I can’t blame them. I haven’t seen him since the incident, and the concern for me etched on his face makes my heart leap into my throat.

  I watch him grow pale as the two officers enter the room behind me and Dr. Samuels closes the door.

  He looks at me questioningly, but he can sense that I am no longer in charge here.

  “Hello, Matthew. Is it okay to call you Matthew? I’m Dr. Lily Samuels. We were wondering if we could ask you some questions about what happened today, and about what happened eleven days ago on the ward. Would that be okay?”

  “What kind of questions?” he asks.

  Dr. Samuels’s eyes flick to me before she answers. “Do you have any military training, Matthew?” She pulls out the chair opposite his and sits. “Do you remember going through anything like that?”

  Matthew’s eyes shoot to me instantly; he’s evaluating, trying hard to work out his next move, the right thing to say. I pray he doesn’t think I’ve sold him out, but perhaps, in a way, I have.

  He looks down a moment before answering, and when he raises his eyes back to Dr. Samuels his expression is impenetrable.

  “I think we should discuss this alone,” he says, and as if on cue all eyes but his turn in my direction. And I realize I’ve been asked to leave.

  37

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 12—MILITARY MAN

  I pace the nurses’ break room and curse myself.

  I should have known he was military. I knew it was PTSD. From day one, I just knew. The fMRI results, for God’s sake. I think of how stupid I’ve been, of how easily swayed I’ve been, thinking he might be something—or someone—from my past. But Matthew is something else entirely. A military asset, AWOL. Possibly a foreign asset or one that’s defected. Who knows why they’re so interested in him? I realize I might never know. Why would the British military tell an NHS doctor what the hell was going on? I suddenly realize I might not even see Matthew again after this. He might just leave with them after their interview. No goodbyes, nothing, the end. I eye the clock on the wall, and check to see if Graceford is still guarding me outside the break room door. No change.

  They’ve been in there twenty-five minutes. What the hell are they talking about? I pour myself a coffee, adding sugar to steady my shot nerves, and I try not to think about what I’ve thrown into the fire for this assignment. The fact that I almost died doing this job earlier today. I try not to think of Mum, of Joe and his family. He told me, Joe told me to resign, and I ignored his advice. And in a second it could all be for nothing. A doctor without a patient. A crusader without a cause.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket right on cue. I fish it out as I sip the warm dark coffee.

  A message from Chris.

  Are you ok?! My god! Just heard what happened.

  Do you need me to come there?

  Chris x

  I smile in spite of myself. Chris is worried about me.

  There’s a soft rap on the door and I look up.

  “May I?” Dr. Samuels asks. She doesn’t wait for my answer before coming right in and closing the door behind her.

  “Firstly, thank you for being so accommodating, Dr. Lewis. I know firsthand how disconcerting this whole process can be. I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem.” I give her a mock-conciliatory smile. “So, will Matthew be leaving us today?” I try to keep my tone light. Impartial, like a doctor should be.

  “No, I don’t think he will, Dr. Lewis. Not today. But we’ll be keeping in touch, and I may be back over the next few days. Matthew has agreed to undergo a few tests with me at a different facility.” She pauses. “But I think he’ll be best serviced here for the next few days at least. It’s probably best to wait for some of this media interest to quieten before we think about moving him elsewhere.”

  “Can I ask what he said?” I inquire as she turns away, and for a second, I think perhaps she might leave without answering, but then she turns back. “You know I can’t divulge that information, Dr. Lewis. Perhaps you should ask him yourself?”

  * * *

  —

  When I get to Matthew’s room Graceford keeps her distance outside. He’s ready and waiting for me when I enter, wearing his puffer jacket, the bullet-ripped shoulder now repaired. Tight neat stitches patch over the hole, and I can’t help but wonder if he fixed it himself or did Rhoda mend it? I glimpsed her only once since this morning.

  “I still want to go out today,” Matthew tells me before I can speak. “I don’t think we have long left together.” He might be right about that. He looks at me patiently, and I realize he’s waiting for his answer.

  “Er, sorry, what? Go out? What do you mean, go out, Matthew?” It takes me a moment to work out what he’s talking about, and then I recall. This morning, before the attack and the terror and gunshots, we’d had a plan. To visit areas that might jog his memory. He can’t be serious, can he? “You don’t mean our trip?” I ask, incredulous.

  He takes a moment before answering calmly. “Yes. Why? Would that be a problem?”

  I’m not entirely sure what to say. It’s so far from anything I was thinking before. Is tha
t really what he wants after everything that’s happened already today? But maybe he has a point: his time here with us—with me—is very fast coming to an end.

  “Are you sure this is what you want to do? Today? Now?” I ask.

  “Yes. I’m sure. I really think we should go out, Emma.” There’s an intensity to his tone that’s impossible to ignore. He wants to get us away from the hospital. There’s something he needs to tell me and he wants me to know it. We need to do this and we need to do it now.

  * * *

  —

  Nick Dunning is less than enthused by the idea when I get to his office.

  “Well, I certainly don’t think it sounds sensible, if that’s what you’re asking.” He leans forward on his desk, eyebrows sky high.

  “I know, Nick. But I’ve spoken to Officer Graceford and she’s happy to escort us.” I gesture to the hallway outside his office where I just left Graceford. “I can call her in if you like. You can ask her yourself.” I pray he doesn’t take me up on that offer, as, to be honest, Graceford wasn’t keen on the plan at all until I explained to her that it was an absolute necessity we do this today. Blessedly, Nick shakes his head; he doesn’t need Graceford dragged into this. I plow on. “It’s the patient’s request to leave the premises, Nick, so, unless we want to section him under the Mental Health Act as a risk to himself and others, and take away his right to leave, Matthew’s free to decide.” Nick sighs heavily and slouches back into his seat. “Nick, I’ve done all the tests I can do here. There’s only so much clinical work I can do with Matthew, it only takes us so far. He wants to know who he is. We need to get him out in the world, he needs to see things and associate. That’s the way we can crack this. I’ve already got him on drugs to lower stress, which, if it’s PTSD causing the dissociative fugue, should be creating the right conditions for his memory to return. But I can’t force it. And there’s only so much we can do in the hospital. There’s only so much therapy and so many memory exercises we can do. If I take him back to the beach, to these places, we might actually trigger something and he might start to remember, Nick. He’s ready. He’s as good as told me he’s ready to remember.”

  Nick insists I sign a form accepting full responsibility for the patient, releasing the hospital of all culpability—which is not reassuring at all—but I comfort myself with the fact that Groves picked me for this job because of my pioneering methods. And if they’re good enough for him, then we should all be fine.

  I sign the form in awkward silence and twenty minutes later three of us pull out of the snowy service entrance, Graceford driving, me in the passenger seat, Matthew in the back. We glide onto the main road, away from the press and protesters, and head out toward the open expanse of the Norfolk coast.

  Wells Harbour is our first port of call, with its cracked-paint fishing boats in softly faded colors. We slam the car doors and head across the snow-covered boatyard toward the harbormaster’s little hut. I watch Matthew’s eyes dart over the landscape; he’s like a man visiting a foreign country, hungry to take everything in. He’s not wearing his sling anymore and a slight stiffness in his shoulder is the only clue to the dressing hidden beneath. I bury my own bandaged hands deep in my pockets as the snow crunches and creaks satisfyingly underfoot. It’s so good to be outside. I realize how cooped up I’ve been recently and draw in the crisp chilly air full of the scent of wood fires and fish and chips. My stomach rumbles and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast either. I haven’t been taking care of myself.

  In the harbormaster’s office, Graceford asks if anybody new has been mooring here over the last few weeks, but the harbormaster shakes his head. “It’s all regulars this time of year. Why do you ask?” he inquires, interest piqued. I suppose we must look like an odd gang. A police officer, a woman with bandaged hands, and a man in an oversize woman’s puffer jacket. The harbormaster clearly has no idea who we are and suddenly I want to hug him for being so completely out of the loop. It’s almost as if none of today’s events really happened. It just goes to show: having your whole life sprayed across the TV isn’t the end of the world, not everyone watches TV.

  Matthew and I wander around the brittle carcasses of the ships in the dry dock; Graceford hangs back, giving us space, her eyes on the harbor entrance. I know I shouldn’t feel so close to him, but the desire to just ask him what he needs to tell me is almost overwhelming. He scans the moorings, the sea beyond, taking his time before finally turning to me.

  “I haven’t been here before,” he says with confidence.

  I try to put my analyst head back on. “And it doesn’t remind you of anything? None of this throws up any thoughts or feelings? Any images?”

  He takes a moment, his collar turned up, the cool wind ruffling his hair. “No.”

  “That’s good, that kind of clarity is good.”

  I suggest we get some food to take away from the harbor café. The stress and activity of the day have left us all completely famished, so Graceford agrees. We buy three boxes of fish and chips from the otherwise empty café and head back to the police car.

  When we get to Holkham Beach, I pull Graceford to one side.

  “Do you mind giving us a bit more space on this one?” I ask tentatively.

  She frowns and scans the empty beach before answering. “For now. But if anyone turns up I can’t risk it.” She looks farther along the sands. “I can probably get a pretty good overview of the area from the dune. If you don’t wander too far, I’m happy to stay back at that distance for the time being, if that helps. We just don’t want a repeat of this morning,” she reminds me, her tone concerned.

  “No, of course not. Thank you, Beth.”

  Matthew and I find a patch of dune grass farther off to settle on and we dig into our hot boxes of fish and chips, the wind whipping around us. This must be the closest thing to normal he’s done in weeks. I catch him snatching a look back toward Graceford before glancing at me with a puzzled expression.

  “What is it?” I ask, a chip halfway to my mouth.

  He laughs. “Nothing, just, thank you, for bringing me here.” He smiles. “Can I ask you a question, Emma?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was just wondering why you came back here. To Norfolk. I mean, considering everything that happened.”

  I chew my hot chip and let out a sigh.

  “Because of your case,” I say honestly. “These types of cases are—” I pause, aware I’m on shaky ground. “I’ll be honest, Matthew—cases like yours are incredibly rare. There have only been a handful, really. And I was asked, you know. I wrote a paper, a few years back, about a similar case, and they wanted me on this because of that, I guess.”

  “You wrote about the Piano Man.” He takes a swig of his water bottle.

  I look up, surprised at his words. “How do you know that, Matthew? About the Piano Man?”

  He looks momentarily thrown, and then his wind-reddened checks flush further with embarrassment. “Er, okay. Shit. I may have looked you up, they let me use the computers at the hospital.”

  Of course, I forgot we okayed that. He’s been looking me up. I bluster, caught off guard by his honesty, “Oh. Okay. Well, yes, so you know about a few cases like yours then. I wrote a few paragraphs on the Piano Man, but mainly I wrote about another case, in America.” I feel my cheeks grow hot in the wind as he holds my gaze in his.

  “Oh, remind me, I skimmed parts. Another case like mine?” He pops a chip into his mouth, interested.

  I nod, the wind whipping my hair out around me. “Yes, I just thought a lot of cases like yours and particularly the case I wrote about had been…mismanaged—they could have been handled better. I know, I’m hardly one to talk, given everything that’s happened today and the current situation at the hospital, but I mean in terms of diagnosis. Those cases were mishandled. It was bad medical practice.” Matthew stops chewing now,
he nods me on. I continue with caution; it could be a good sign that Matthew is suddenly so interested in diagnoses. “I believe that in that particular case, the man was misdiagnosed. They said he was malingering but they didn’t do an fMRI.”

  “Malingering?”

  “Faking,” I clarify.

  “Why did they think he was faking, do you think?”

  “It’s a rare condition. They didn’t scan, like we did. Because medicine is a constantly evolving science and sometimes the science is wrong until it’s right. They saw no brain damage and refused to believe in a psychogenic explanation.” He frowns at the word, so I elaborate. “They couldn’t see any actual brain damage, so they assumed there was no real problem. They didn’t scan his brain activity. I think his underlying condition was never treated. But you’re right. I think I was chosen for this job because of my hard-line stance on the Piano Man. They wanted you diagnosed correctly…without all the media attention. I know!” I cry. “The irony of that given our current situation is not at all lost on me, Matthew, trust me.”

  He smiles. “I do, you know,” he says, looking out toward the waves. “Trust you.”

  I feel a warmth blossom inside again and I try to grapple the conversation back around to medical issues. “So, is any of this coming back to you?” I gesture out to the miles of windblown sand crested with grass-topped dunes. The kind of place people remember even if they’ve never seen it before, a twilight dreamscape, a place between worlds.

  He squints out at the vast open space before turning back in the direction of Graceford, a shadow passing over his features. When he looks back at me he sounds disappointed. “No. There’s nothing here. Just that first day, just what we already know.”

  As we walk back to meet Graceford he touches my arm, stopping me. He comes very close so I can hear him whisper over the roar of the wind, his breath warm on my cheek. “Thank you. For coming back here. For trying to help me. I knew you would.” I look in his eyes—he’s holding something back. He wants to say something but he’s not saying it.