Mr. Nobody

by Catherine Steadman

  After he’s shot me, he’ll cut me free, place the shotgun between my thighs just the way I remember seeing it done years ago. I watch him as he studies me and I see sadness quietly crescendo behind his eyes. I suppose this is our goodbye. The end of his dream. The end of my life.

  He squats down before me. “Can I get you anything, before?” he asks gently. “Water, drink, something?”

  I snatch a breath, clinging to the suggestion. A lifeline, if only temporary. If he gets water I’ll have a few more moments. More time to think.

  I nod as calmly as I can.

  “Just water?” he asks, attentive.

  “Please,” I croak, my throat dry and raw from my screams.

  “Okay.” He rises with energy, momentarily buoyed by his ability to help in some way. He turns away from me with an unnervingly innocent smile and makes his way out of the room.

  As soon as he’s out of sight I desperately fumble with the ties around my wrists, scraping my skin bloody as I try to force my hand out like a trapped animal. This is all the time I have and I’d better make good use of it. I tug in sharp bursts, squeezing my jaw tight against the excruciating pain to stop myself from screaming out. But it’s useless. The ties won’t budge.

  I start to panic again, struggling madly, wriggling against the binds, and then I hear it, a tiny plink. I freeze.

  The sound of something small and light hitting the flooring beneath me. I look down between my legs. A Day-Glo pink plastic lighter. The lighter I borrowed from the security guard yesterday to light my cigarette, I’d forgotten all about it. I remember now slipping it into the small inside pocket of my jacket, out of sight and, until now, out of mind. My struggling freeing it from its little hiding place.

  If I can just reach it. But it sits right beneath me. I ease myself, gently, down onto my knees and lower my shattered hand toward it, scrambling blindly, unable to see exactly what I’m doing. It must be here somewhere, I saw it. Unless it was a mirage. Wishful thinking gone mad. And with that thought the edge of my baby finger taps straight onto its cheap plastic.

  Yes.

  I try to grab it with my broken fingers but I can’t control the movements. I pull away quickly and shift my weight onto my other knee, dropping my good hand behind me. I stretch as far as I can, I push farther back against the chair. A finger brushes its smooth side. I snatch at it greedily and roll it up into my palm. Yes. I angle the lighter back toward my wrist quickly, and roll the flint with my thumb so that it sparks to life. I let the flame burn straight up at the flesh of my wrist and the ties that bind me.

  Its heat is not unpleasant at first, until the fabric of my sleeve singes and bursts into flames. White-hot pain tears through me, searing my flesh. I press my lips together to keep from crying out. I feel the plastic of the zip tie softening and melting onto my burning skin until I fear I’m going to scream in pain. The smell of burning fabric and human tissue. I desperately fight the urge to pull away, I stay as still and quiet as possible. And after an eternity, in which I’m certain I can’t take it for an instant longer, the melted plastic finally gives. I whip my burning arm straight between my thighs, staunching the flames, the fabric of my trousers sticking to my melted flesh. I can’t look at it, the smell is enough. Dizziness overwhelms me. I pray he can’t smell it farther into the house. I need to break the second tie before it’s too late. I hold the lighter in my burnt hand and set to work on the other tie. The gurgle of running water comes from the kitchen as I work in silence. The second tie begins to melt and I pull the hot jammy plastic until it tugs apart.

  I bend instantly and pull at the leg ties. I can’t slide the plastic ties off the end of the metal chair legs, as they connect. Shit. I quickly hoist my trouser hem up and steady the first ankle tie. I strike the lighter, the hot flint burning into my thumb as I depress the fluid button down. The edges of the flame lick at my ankles but these leg ties are thicker, the plastic won’t give as easily. I hold the flame on longer, too long—my flesh screams. I bite back a howl of pain so violent I taste blood; the agony is unbearable. And suddenly the leg tie breaks.

  I move to the final tie.

  The tap in the kitchen has cut out. I wasn’t paying attention. The sound of movement in the kitchen. I try to focus, holding my trembling thumb on the lighter fuel button as the plastic slowly softens in the flame. The sound of footsteps coming this way but the plastic won’t give. I’m not going to make it. I need to move. I leap to my feet as I see him turning in to the hallway just as he looks up and sees me.

  His eyes widen and I bolt, grabbing the folding chair that’s still attached to one ankle, and careen wildly toward the shotgun with every last shred of strength I have. I drop the chair at the last second and with free hands grab the barrel of the gun, fumble it up, and level it straight at him.

  He skids to a halt. We both stand stock-still, breathing in time. I cannot believe that worked. I slide my shaking fingers into the trigger guard and try to catch my breath, shallow and high, as I keep the gun leveled at his chest.

  “Back up,” I order him, my voice croaky. I’m hardly a force to be reckoned with, a barely conscious burnt woman with a chair attached to her leg. But then, I have a loaded double-barreled shotgun, so it doesn’t really matter what’s attached to my leg, does it?

  He backs up.

  I shuffle painfully, out of the study and away from him, tugging the metal chair behind me. I keep the gun trained squarely on his torso, the biggest target area, as I go. I edge back along the wall of the hallway toward the front door slowly, my eyes locked with his. His expression is unreadable, just like it was in that hospital corridor yesterday. He takes me in like a house cat watching a robin. Then his gaze flutters, he breaks the look, his eyes flicking down, at something right behind me.

  It’s a trick, I know it. He’s trying to distract me. I’m not falling for that.

  I feel it too late, the step down behind me, the little lip down onto the terra-cotta tiles of the entranceway. I forgot.

  I lose my balance just long enough for him to rush me.

  He hurtles forward but the distance is far enough that I dodge out of his path just at the last moment, breaking my fall on the banister of the staircase. He wrenches the gun free from my hands easily as he passes, but as I lose my footing he catches the edge of my metal chair, tripping and crashing into the front door, his injured shoulder pounding into it hard.

  I grab my metal chair and lurch desperately up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. My joints scream at the effort as I reach the landing and slip quickly into the first available doorway, my breath coming in short snatches.

  It’s my old bedroom. I push my back to the wall and try to catch my breath as I listen. The house beneath me is silent. What is he doing?

  I look down at the chair, bending to pull at its zip tie, but the now-warped plastic seems even stronger. The lighter is downstairs. I check my pockets, nothing. Desperately I pull off my shoe and try to wriggle my foot out of the tie, but it won’t clear my bony ankle. I hear him below, slowly climbing the stairs; his careful speed tells me the gun is raised and ready, in case I bolt out onto the landing. He knows I’m trapped up here.

  I look to the window, the only way out. But I can’t jump, can I? I think of my vertigo. And then I see the blue edge of a tarp flapping outside. Oh my God. The scaffolding! Yes!

  I remember seeing it before—the house is being renovated. If I can just get out onto the scaffolding, there might be a way down. I might be okay. I just might.

  I move quickly to the window and wiggle the handle as quietly as I can. My heart sinks. It’s locked. And then I remember an old trick Dad used to use whenever he lost the window key. I flip both handles of the window up instinctively and pound the middle section where the windows meet. The lock remains engaged but the stress on the gap between the windows forces them to burst open, the lock scraping loud
ly on itself.

  Cold air bursts into the room, cooling my burnt skin. I look out at the scaffolding, my vertigo kicking in instantly. But I have no choice or time. I take a breath and clamber up onto the scaffolding, my free leg first, and then I drag the metal chair up behind me by its zip tie. I grab it and pull it and myself past the window, out of sight. I hear the bedroom door creak open behind me. I stand carefully, now trembling, against the brick of the house, out of sight, the open window next to me. I’m only on the second floor but I feel dizzy just looking at the drop out beyond the wooden planks. I try to control the sound of my breathing. I have to be still, I have to wait. I have to wait for him to get close enough. In the distance, out through the treetops, a flash of light catches my eye, a car coming this way, the police maybe, or Chris? I think of the pager, God knows where it is now. But I know someone is looking for me. For a split second I truly believe it is Chris, coming to save me. Just in time. But as I look more carefully I see the glint of light isn’t moving, it’s just sunlight reflecting off another building in the distance.

  There’s a floorboard creak right next to me, just inside the window. My focus snaps back as I see the barrel of the gun slowly emerge through the open window, followed by a hand, and only then a head. He swivels in my direction. And with all my strength I slam the window frame straight back into his face. The glass shatters as it smashes into him. The gun tumbles from his grip out onto the scaffolding as he recoils back into the room.

  As the gun skids perilously close to the edge, I scramble for it, my chair clattering along with me. I feel a fresh wave of vertigo wash through me and reflexively jerk back as the gun skitters, then drops off the edge of the scaffolding. I close my eyes and press back hard into the wall. There’s a silence before the gun hits the concrete below and fires off loudly into the air. I cower farther back into the wall, hugging the scaffold tight for support.

  My eyes flick back to Matthew through the half-broken blood-smeared window. He’s doubled over, hand to his face, his nose and lip bleeding; he looks up at me, furious, injured. I know I only have a second’s worth of a head start.

  I grab the metal chair and scramble away from the window as I hear him start to heave himself out of the window behind me. Ahead I see a ladder at the end of the scaffold, an escape. I plow toward it, white-hot pain exploding through my broken hand as I tightly grip the stupid fucking chair to avoid tripping.

  And suddenly it occurs to me, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get down a ladder carrying the chair. Behind me I hear Matthew’s powerful strides and any moment I know I’ll feel his arms around me, dragging me down.

  I won’t make it down that ladder. I’m out of time, scared of heights, and I’m attached to a chair. The thought shoots through me: If I can’t outrun him, I need to stop him. I need to do something or I’m going to die.

  I see something propped against the brickwork just ahead of me—it’s not ideal but it will do. A stubby two-foot length of scaffold pipe. I feel his presence looming behind me and I dive for it, releasing my chair and reaching out, low, to grab the end of the pole awkwardly. As soon as it’s in my grip I spin, throwing all my body weight back toward Matthew. He tries to pull up as I turn unexpectedly. He sees the pipe in my hands and his eyes flare as he careens toward me, but there’s not enough time to dodge before the metal pole cracks straight into his knees.

  The sound of hollow metal hitting flesh and bone as the pipe smashes his knee joints. He roars in pain, arms flail out for the flat brick wall next to him but there’s nothing to get a hold of. And just like that he’s toppling toward the open drop. His wild eyes find mine, his arms grasping desperately in the air for a hold. There is nothing to save his fall, nothing except me.

  I step back too late. His fingers brush my coat lapel and then seize it, clawlike as he tips toward the void and tugs me with him. I lose my footing and crash down hard on my knees, sliding fast toward the edge as he rolls partway off it, dragging me along with him. I clutch wildly at the rough splintered scaffold planks around me, desperate for purchase, pain shooting from my snagging fingernails. I slide toward the edge, his fist tight around the cloth of my coat hauling me closer. He slips over the edge and I start to fall too, nothing between my upper body and the concrete below. Suddenly I jolt to a stop, pain ripping excruciatingly through my leg. I cry out in agony—the zip tie around my ankle is cutting sharply into the flesh of my leg. We hang there together for a moment, anchored, both of us, by the chair attached to my leg, snagged somewhere along the scaffold platform above. Both of us suspended by the warped plastic zip tie digging deep into the broken skin of my ankle. I catch my breath, gasping in pain, and I look down into his eyes. He clutches my coat, Schrödinger’s man. His life still hanging in the balance. My hands fly to his, and I don’t think, I push. We’re caught for a moment between two states and then I feel his grip loosen, his eyes blaze, and just like that, gravity makes its decision. He slips from me, eyes blank with fear. I squeeze mine shut and hear the wet smack of flesh and bone hitting concrete below.

  I hang there taking great gasping breaths. Above me, caught on the scaffold platform, I see the metal chair, my lovely, lovely chair, wedged hard between two scaffold struts, safely suspending me. My vision blurs as hot tears of relief slide from my cheeks down to the snow beneath.

  47

  DR. EMMA LEWIS

  DAY 13—DO NO HARM

  I brace myself against a pole and peer down for the first time, safely back on the scaffolding. Matthew is lying facedown on the snow-covered concrete beneath, one of his arms twisted awkwardly beneath him, the other palm-up on the snow beside him. He didn’t have time to break his fall.

  Blood pools around him but it’s impossible to tell from here if he’s still breathing.

  A healthy person can survive a fall from up to four stories high if they land the right way. But if they land the wrong way a person can die from just slipping on an icy sidewalk. Reassuring statistics if you’re scared of heights.

  From up here, it doesn’t look like Matthew, or Stephen, or whoever he is, landed in the right way, but the human body is an incredible instrument of survival—he could still be alive down there.

  I find a raw edge of scaffold metal and rub the now-stretched plastic tie against it until it finally gives. I push my chair away and struggle to my feet, my muscles quivering. I take the ladder down, rung by rung, salty sweat stinging my eyes. My ankle throbbing like a heartbeat. My wrists weeping, livid with second- and third-degree burns. My broken hand discolored. I must be in shock, because nothing hurts quite as much as it should yet.

  When I reach the snowy ground at the bottom of the ladder, I take a large loop around his sprawled body, making a dash for the dropped shotgun. Matthew’s body doesn’t move. I can’t tell if he’s breathing yet, I’ll need to get closer. I snatch up the shotgun, the back of my bruised skull throbbing as I bend. The gun’s cartridges are spent after hitting the ground and I don’t have more, but somehow I feel safer having the gun in my hands. If the worse comes to the worst, at least I have another long metal implement as a weapon.

  I creep forward. I need to be able to see his eyes. In case they open, in case he attacks again. I prepare myself, imagining the moment when he will leap up and rush me.

  As I get closer I freeze. I see the movement of breath on the still pool around him, slow and faint but still there. Blood puddling around his upper chest and face but he’s alive.

  I look back up to the scaffold behind us. I’d guess it was a fifteen-foot unprotected fall onto concrete. His body position shows he didn’t have time to protect his head before he hit. I can’t be certain, of course, but I’d imagine his ribs will be completely shattered, his collarbone broken; there will be internal bleeding, organ damage.

  I can’t see the extent of his head wound as it’s hidden against the concrete. Confident I’m safe for the moment, I crouch next to
him. His eyes remain closed as I lean in and with extreme caution take a pulse from his free wrist. I watch his eyelids for movement but the papery skin does not stir. The pulse I feel is weak but it’s there. It’s unlikely he’ll be leaping up to do anything at this point, though. I let out a breath. Safe for now.

  I set his hand back on the snow gently and look to his pelvis. I’d be amazed if it wasn’t fractured. If he stands any hope of surviving this, I’ll need to stabilize it. And I need to move him into a recovery position so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. I need to get him to ICU as soon as possible. I need an ambulance. I need the police. But I have no phone and I’m trapped in the middle of nowhere. The nearest house is a good twenty-minute walk on legs that are already trembling, and that’s if anybody’s even home.

  But Matthew must have driven us here. I can drive. I check his trouser pockets for keys. Nothing. I stare down at his broken body. What can I do? I choke back a sob. What am I supposed to do?

  I take one last look at his body and make a decision. Shotgun in hand, I go around the house to the front door.

  In the study I find Matthew’s canvas bag, open, as expected, its contents neatly packed: a bunch of zip ties, a box of cartridges, my pager, Stephen’s mobile phone, a change of clothes, a serrated knife, and then, in a small Ziploc bag, I find my iPhone. What was he planning to do with it? I wonder. Send some messages and plant it next to my corpse? I root into the bag’s side pocket and find Rhoda’s car keys. He must have parked by the other entrance, where I parked the rental car before, hidden from the road.

  Clumsily I tear open the plastic bag with numb fingers and fish out my phone. I push on the power button and wait. I need to call an ambulance. I can’t risk moving him myself, he might not make it. I won’t have his death on my conscience. The dark screen brightens and the apple logo appears. I’ll call 999, get someone here as soon as possible.