Mr. Nobody

by Catherine Steadman

  Something needs to change.

  I need to move on. Or I’ll blink and my life will be over. I need to close the circle. There doesn’t seem to be any other way to end this. Matthew told me to go back and he’s right. I need to go back. To see what’s there, to see if my father is still alive, to face the truth and move on. I need to go back.

  My mobile vibrates noisily on the windowsill. I look at the number—it’s Peter. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be getting a lot of calls now that I’ve turned down police advice, but that’s something I’m more than happy to deal with. I flick my phone onto silent and the problem disappears.

  And as if to reward myself for my decision, I let myself slip gently underneath the hot flow of the rainfall shower. There are no ghosts if you just turn on the lights, and I don’t want to be haunted anymore.

  39

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 13—TURNING ON THE LIGHTS

  I’m a mile outside Holt when the knot in my stomach clenches in anticipation; I try to ignore it, concentrating on the road ahead.

  I don’t have police protection now, not that police protection can insulate you from things that happened years ago. But what if I do need protection from something real, from a threat in the here and now, what if he’s there?

  I try to shake off the thoughts as small villages roll past the window. Chocolate-box hamlets. Tudor brick, babbling brooks, humpback bridges, and smoking chimney stacks, all that feudal England has to offer. Beautiful and ancient.

  The nausea peaks half a mile from Holt. I pull over, swing open my door, and retch onto the side of the road, bile chugging out from deep within me. I try not to think of the gas that he filled our house with, of the sharp bitter smell of it. The smell I’d noticed that night but assumed was the smell of spent fireworks.

  I wipe my mouth with a tissue from my bag and swing back into the car. I give myself a moment and slide back into gear.

  Holt finally comes into view as I make my way around a hedgerowed bend. I see the local church spire rising in the distance. Nothing remarkable; it’s beautiful, yes, but everything in this part of the world is. Holt’s just another picturesque village among many.

  I recognize the slight inconsistencies in my memories as I drive through. A postbox is on the other side of the road from how I remember it. As I pass the church, it looks larger, brighter. Little things my memory has altered, as if it’s playing a game of telephone, until the reality no longer matches the memory.

  I feel the house’s presence before I see it. And for a second, I worry it just won’t be there. It could have been knocked down years ago, I wouldn’t blame anyone either, but as I clear the next corner I see its familiar landmarks: the gentle slope of the drive up toward the garages, the old stable block, the entrance masked on both sides with thick concealing hedges.

  I slow the car to a crawl, the lane ahead and behind empty. I don’t know if anyone is living there now and the last thing I want to do is drive up to their house and disturb them—there’s every chance they’ll recognize me from the news. I don’t know why I didn’t think about this before.

  But as I roll toward the turning, I see scaffolding wrapping around the whole upper corner of the house and a large property developer’s sign. It’s been renovated, perfect. I see the edge of a construction dumpster in the driveway and make my decision instantly. I pull off the road and up onto the slope of the driveway.

  I park in front of the stable block. The same peeling green paint, the same sloped concrete and guttering. Not yet renovated. I wonder how much of the rest of the house is still as it was.

  I shake off the thought and kill the engine. Silence fills the car.

  I look up at the house through the windshield. No builders. It doesn’t seem like anyone is working here today, perhaps it’s too cold for building work.

  I make my way past the rubble-filled dumpster and through the walled arch that leads to the front of the house. I search the corners of the walls for security cameras but then I remember we’re not in London. Not every building here has cameras outside it. There’s nothing. I won’t show up snooping around on any grainy CCTV footage.

  I won’t be here long. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly, but if there’s something or someone here, I’m sure I’ll find them.

  I make my way toward the little diamond of glass above the front door knocker. I raise my hand to shade my view and peer into the darkness. The same tiles, on the floor. The sight of them takes my breath away for a second. The rich red terra-cotta of them, as if not an hour has passed since we left. I pull away, trembling. I take a breath in and depress the handle. Locked.

  I look back inside, past the vestibule, to where the tiles end in a step up and Georgian floorboards take over. The walls are white now. Everything white, fresh and new, light bouncing through a hallway that used to be so dark and cozy. There’s nobody there. I tap gently on the glass and wait. The house inside remains still. I can see the edge of the first step on the staircase and no farther.

  I pull away and follow the exterior wall of the house around to the living room window. It’s so different inside, with state-of-the-art bifold doors that let the garden light pour in, the woodstove long gone and a fireplace with a decorative display of stacked wood in its place. But nobody in sight.

  I move around the building again to the dining room window, see a bright clean empty space inside. The kitchen next door is a box-fresh copper-and-slate dream, but my scouring eyes find no answers.

  I follow the wall on, then hesitate before the next window. The bare tangled branches of the trellised wisteria are still oddly intact and dusted with snow around the window latticing. I know what this room is. This is his study. An image of him burns through my mind, the way he was before, hunched over his keyboard hard at work, his papers spread around him. Him looking up at me in the doorway and smiling, nearly finished work, nearly done.

  Why did he do what he did? The thought comes piercing and strong until I cut it dead. Right now, that’s not important, what’s important is what’s in that room at the moment. I brace myself, for what I don’t know. For the face of an old man looking back at me, for the face of the man who let me down as much as another human can—and yet I want to see that face.

  I take a strong galvanizing breath and look inside. Eyes stare back at me. I gasp, then realize it’s my own reflection in the glass, my eyes looking back at me, and the room beyond takes shape in the dim light. My heart sinks. He’s not here.

  My eyes search for something, something to wedge my memories into, some kind of clue, but this room is just a room. He is not there. There are no clues, no messages, I’ve misread this whole situation. He has gone—he died fourteen years ago and now the only place he lives is in my head. He is just a figment of my imagination.

  I pull back, emotions so raw and near to the surface I can’t tell if I’m going to laugh or cry. I brace myself against the snowy wisteria branches, letting out a jagged breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I laugh, tears dribbling down my face. I turned the lights on and there was nothing there. No ghosts. He’s not real.

  My heart breaks and yet…I’m glad.

  There are no clues here. Matthew is not a messenger. He has nothing to do with my past, he’s just another patient, with problems all his own. I pull myself from the wall, brushing the stray snow from my coat with trembling hands.

  And when I look up I see them.

  My eyes land directly on them, nestled around the back of the house, as real and as solid and immutable as the building and the trees and the sky. Gates. A brand-new entranceway in from the road, sealed with wrought-iron electric gates.

  The ground seems to pull away beneath me like a wave beneath a ship.

  40

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 13—ENEMY AT THE GATES

  I try to call the hospital on
the way, one hand on the wheel, one on the phone, but the signal is patchy and the automated hospital phone system transfers me from one departmental hold tone to the next.

  I try to stay calm, I try to think of a logical explanation as to why and how Matthew could have known about those gates. How could he have known unless he had been there? When had he been there? Had he been there before his accident? Or had he somehow managed to leave the hospital since? Was the sleeping bag I found in the woods this morning his? Has he been leaving the hospital at night? But that’s not possible, surely. How could he have left the hospital without anyone noticing. I think of the crowds outside, the security guards, the press. Rhoda. He’d have to be some kind of genius to get past all of that.

  But then I remember how he saved me yesterday, the bullet he took for me, the military arriving. And the idea of him sneaking out of his ward doesn’t seem quite so crazy.

  I scroll through my mobile as I drive; I have three missed calls from Peter, which I really can’t deal with right now. I find Nick Dunning’s personal number in my contacts and tap. I have no idea what I’ll say when he answers, but I need to know if Matthew is still there in the hospital. Because I have a sinking feeling that he isn’t.

  Nick’s mobile goes straight to voicemail, and not knowing exactly how to frame a message, I hang up without leaving one. What would I say? My patient has been to my childhood home somehow. How would I explain that I knew from the start he knew my real name? I scroll to Chris’s number, my thumb hovering over it. But again what would I tell him? That I followed my patient’s advice instead of his, that I thought everything that was happening here was to do with my father when there’s clearly something else going on? No. I toss my phone into my bag and focus on the road ahead.

  When I get to the hospital I pull up around the back and head straight to the second floor.

  Rhoda and another nurse look up as I run into the ward, trying to assess the situation. Rhoda frowning as I fly past them. An elderly patient reaches out to touch my arm as I slip by the nurses’ station, but I pull away with a quick apology and keep moving.

  Matthew’s bed is empty and made. Everything is as it should be, but no Matthew. I toss my bag onto his bed and run back to the nurses’ station.

  “Rhoda. Have you seen him anywhere?” I pant.

  “Matthew? He was here a minute ago. Probably outside in the sunshine?”

  Outside. Surely she can’t mean out front with the press? Then I remember the hospital garden. I turn so fast my shoes squeak on the floor.

  I burst outside into the cold sunlit snow, disturbing a group of relatives sitting with a bundled-up patient.

  Try not to look crazy, Em. Try not to look like you’ve just lost your only patient, even if you have somehow managed to do just that.

  I scan the garden. It’s just me and them. No Matthew. The family group stares at me; no doubt they recognize me from the TV news. I manage to muster what I hope constitutes a reassuring smile and aim it at them while my mind reels.

  Where is he? And who the hell is he? It must have been him in the woods watching me, but why? He’s had so many chances to hurt me—hell, he even saved my life yesterday. What is he up to?

  And that’s when I feel it, behind me, a gentle tug, tug, on the elbow of my jacket. I turn, thoughts still whirring, and look down to see a little old man gently tugging my sleeve. It’s the old man who tried to get my attention at the nurses’ station a moment ago. Now that I look at him properly it’s clear he isn’t a patient—no slippers, no wristband, and outdoor civilian clothes.

  He peers up at me questioningly, his white hair balding on top, his pink scalp shining through from underneath.

  “Excuse me?” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Dr. Lewis, I see you’re busy.” His voice is friendly, with a local lilt. “But could you tell me where I could find Stephen?”

  “Stephen?” I repeat, confused.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. Nobody seems to know what I’m talking about today. Must have put me teeth in funny.” He chuckles. “Yes, Stephen. Tall chap, dark hair, easy on the eye.” He smiles jovially. “I just, well, I saw the local paper yesterday on the bus and, well, I usually get my news from the radio but when I saw the paper I happened to see Stephen looking out at me. Hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Thought I’d come say hello.” He peers up at me hopefully.

  I feel a cold dread rising inside me. Tall, dark hair, easy on the eye. A million questions crowd out any single utterance. I gawp at him, dumbfounded, like a complete fucking moron.

  “ ’Cause you’re his doctor, aren’t you, dear?”

  “What is your name, please?” I ask carefully.

  “Er. Nigel. Nigel Wilton.”

  “And who is Stephen to you, Mr. Wilton?” I try to quell the tsunami of panic rising inside me.

  “Oh, well, er, I suppose I was a kind of beau of his late mother. Lillian.” Nigel blinks at me with a mixture of mild confusion and bashfulness.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr. Wilton.”

  “Well, Stephen had been living in London before his mother got ill. Lillian. And then he came back up here when she moved into the care home before she died last year. I met him a few times. Very private, very quiet. He was sorting out her things afterward. Setting everything in order. I think the loss hit him hard. I was quite worried about him. I confess I did try and stop in at the house the last few weeks but I never did see him, and the house was locked up, so I thought he’d gone back to London, and then bam!—I see his face all over the free paper on the bus.”

  I sink down into the seat by the garden door.

  Matthew is Stephen. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  The old man bends to cup my hand in his, his kind, wrinkled face worried. “Is everything all right, dear?”

  I feel a wave of nausea crest inside me so violently that I have to dip my head between my legs until it passes. I have a vague awareness of Nigel rubbing my shoulder, murmuring something comforting.

  Finally, I look up into his eyes. “Mr. Wilton. What is Stephen’s surname?”

  “Ah, well, that’s a tricky one. Now, his mother’s surname was Merriman. Lillian Merriman. But when he started doing his acting he changed it, I think…to McNabb. Yes. That was it. McNabb, I’m sure of it. He told me why he changed it but I forget. I think he just fancied the sound of it. Got more of a ring to it…”

  Nigel keeps talking but I’m no longer listening.

  An actor? Oh holy fuck.

  Matthew is an actor. And apparently, not one that anyone in the country recognizes. The story slams together in my mind. A lonely unemployed man tries to take his life after his mother dies. Something went wrong and he was found wandering by the police. He’s been lying since the beginning. No, wait, he can’t have been lying. I scanned him, I verified a fugue. His memory must have started coming back after the fMRI after that last panic attack. And he kept it to himself. Perhaps that’s what he wanted to tell me on the beach? Perhaps he wanted just a little bit longer playing Matthew. I suppose here, with us, he wasn’t alone anymore. He just didn’t want all this to end. He’s been faking.

  How could I have been so incredibly wrong about this?

  My life pasted across the headlines. My career hanging by a thread. For this? For a malingering actor? Did he try to tell me who he really was, was I just not listening?

  I rise without a word and stride away from poor Mr. Wilton mid-sentence. Regardless of the whys and the self-blame and everything that will come after, I know with pure clarity that I need to find Matthew, as soon as I can.

  When I get back to his empty room, I shut the door securely behind me, drawing the curtain in the door’s window. I search his room, tearing it apart, emptying his locker, rifling through his few spare clothes. I strip his bed, pulling pillow
s from pillowcases and sheets from the mattress. And that’s when I find it, nestled underneath the mattress up by the headboard. An iPhone in a dirty plastic Ziploc bag. I rip it out and scroll through its history.

  Searches.

  Oh my God.

  Searches on Stephen McNabb. Searches on Stephen Merriman. Notes in the note app titled “Stephen.” An address I don’t recognize in Norfolk, and directions to it. A note headed “Dr. Emma Lewis.” Beneath it a link to the article I wrote on fMRI testing years ago. The times I arrive at the hospital, the times I leave. My old home address. He was there, he saw those gates. I think of his face yesterday when I joked about not having gates, and remember how concerned he looked by my joke. He knew he’d made a mistake. He knew he wouldn’t have long until I figured it out, if the MOD hadn’t worked it out yet already. He knew he’d have to go back to being Stephen and then all of this would stop.

  The notes on me say nothing more. Nothing about my past, nothing about the location of Cuckoo Lodge. It couldn’t have been him in the woods, how would he have known where to find me?

  I pause. And how did he know the things he knew about me, about my past? There are no notes on that. No notes about Rhoda. How would he have known that my house had been filled with gas? I scour the phone’s history for some mention of it but there is nothing there. Nothing about Marni, nothing about Rhoda.

  How could he possibly know those things about us without looking them up? And last week my identity wasn’t something you could exactly google.

  I need to find him.

  I find the last search in the phone’s history. It tells me exactly where he’s gone. It’s Google Maps, directions from the hospital to a location. But why would he go there? I stare at the screen confused and slowly the truth of what Stephen is doing clicks into place.