Mr. Nobody(24)

    The building might be the most perfectly symmetrical thing I’ve ever seen, a gingerbread house made real, its dark windows reflecting the sky. There’s a low wooden fence encircling the house at waist height, a small hinged gate at its center.

I pull the car up to the left of the clearing, as close to the grass verge as I can. It feels rude parking here but I don’t know where else to go, the road simply stops outside the house. I turn off the engine.

Silence floods the car; I let it soak in for a moment before popping the door and stepping out. Now that I’m closer I see the stone plaque reads CUCKOO LODGE, 1837.

Eighteen thirty-seven, that’s weird. I don’t know many historical dates but I do know that this was the year the young Queen Victoria succeeded to the throne. Which is bizarre because off the top of my head the only other historical dates I know are 1066 and 1492! And it suddenly occurs to me how strange it is that someone who specializes in other people’s histories knows so very little about actual history.

I look up at the house that is nearly two centuries old. It’s impressive. I definitely wouldn’t be able to afford this in London.

But then, I’m not entirely sure I would want to. I try not to think it, but standing there in front of it, it’s hard not to feel that there is something slightly peculiar about it, some strange quality.

If I had to describe it, I would say it feels like the house is watching me.

I know, it’s a ridiculous thing to say, obviously, I know that. In fact, I probably know that better than most people would, because I know the exact neurological reasons my brain is thinking that.

I know it’s just a trick of the mind.

You know that feeling you get sometimes of being watched, of somehow knowing before you know, that someone is watching you? Well, it’s a neurological phenomenon called blindsight. It’s a completely normal feeling, a simple evolutionary process, perfectly explicable.

    Blindsight describes the process of seeing things that you weren’t consciously aware you were even noticing. It’s just the subconscious processing of visual stimuli. A lot of the things we process day-to-day bypass our conscious minds; they get processed subconsciously, but, to us, it seems as if we are just getting a funny feeling.

I know the reason I feel like the house is watching me is because as I drove up to it steadily in the car my subconscious brain was tricked into thinking the house was slowly looming toward me. My brain decided the house was getting closer to me rather than me getting closer to it. It’s why tracking shots in horror movies work so well on audiences.

I know it’s the silence, the darkness of the woods, and the unusual surroundings all compounding, on a subconscious level, to leave me with a feeling of unease. It’s just my instincts doing their job. Sometimes they’re right, sometimes they’re wrong, but where would we be without them?

I know why the hairs on the backs of my arms are raised, but a part of me still can’t help but wonder if the house in front of me is actually watching me.

I find the key exactly where Peter’s email tells me to look, under the leg of the bench by the door. I slide it into the lock and the door creaks open in front of me.

Inside is just as beautiful as outside. Deep plush sofas. Persian rugs and polished wood. I could definitely get used to this.

I wander from room to artfully curated room and wonder who on earth is funding all this. This is a nice house. This is an expensive house.

But then I remember that the first choice for this assignment was Richard Groves. And Richard Groves doesn’t exactly work pro bono. My employers were probably expecting to plow a fair amount into this anyway and I’m definitely the cheaper option. Maybe me staying here has nothing to do with Peter Chorley protecting me. Maybe whoever organized the accommodation arrangements just couldn’t be bothered to rebook.

    The house is fully stocked. There are flowers in vases in every room. In the white-tiled Victorian kitchen, the fridge is full of supplies.

There’s a printout from Peter on the kitchen counter next to a neat stack of the patient’s medical files and press cuttings. Whoever opened the house up earlier today and did all this must have dropped this off too.

I read.

    Dearest Emma,

I hope the accommodation is acceptable and to your liking. I apologize for the remote location and distance from the hospital but I’m sure you will appreciate the need. Thus far the case has attracted quite a bit of media interest and we’ve found them to be both persistent and invasive.

We have, however, supplied you with most basic amenities—food, household necessities, Wi-Fi, and some other bits and pieces to help you settle in. Let me know should you require anything else.

I’ve instructed the hospital staff to supply copies of all medical files pertaining to the patient. I know you’ve been sent the scans already, but if you’re anything like me I’m sure you’d much rather have something solid to study at this stage.

We’ve also left you cuttings of all the major news articles that have come out surrounding his story, as you expressed concerns around the effect they may have on the patient himself. And of course, as you mentioned, as hard as we all try, a hospital is not a closed system.

There are a few eyewitness stories prior to admission that may be of interest, in terms of narrowing down this man’s prior movements, but I’ll leave all that to you. We can also arrange for you to meet with any of the patient’s current caregivers or anyone else close to the case you may think it helpful to speak to.