Mr. Nobody(59)

Silence fills the room and when he speaks again I jump slightly at the sound.

“Who do you think I am?” he demands. I can’t read his expression against the stark light of the window.

“I don’t know, Matthew. That’s what we’re all trying to find out, isn’t it?”

“I know, but you—who do you really think I am? Not as my doctor, not as my psychiatrist, but as a person.”

I stifle a shudder. I can’t tell him who I think he is. The man I think he is died fourteen years ago. Matthew moves away from the light and his face comes into sight, his intelligent eyes studying me.

I push the thought away, taking a moment before answering. “I think there’s a possibility you may have been in the military. I think you could be suffering from PTSD. Of course, there is the possibility that the PTSD could be from any kind of trauma, but I think it’s unlikely that you have been held against your will for the last twenty-seven years. That much seems clear to me, both professionally and…as a person.”

    He studies me, then nods. “Okay. That makes sense.” He sits down in the visitor’s chair and rubs his face. “I’ll meet them,” he says decisively. “If it helps them. But I have no interest in being Benjamin Taylor.”

For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. It’s such a strange way to put it, but I understand what he means. He doesn’t believe it’s true but he wants to see if any of it triggers something; he needs to know. And he wants to help these people. Perhaps he is Benjamin. At this stage he could be anyone.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.

“As long as you’re there. Yes.”





30


DR. EMMA LEWIS


DAY 10—FACES IN A CROWD

We hear them arriving outside, the distant rumble of the press coming to life by the hospital entrance, questions, endless greedy questions. The scrum and jostle outside sounds like no more than a polite murmur from here, now that we have moved to the quiet of the visitors’ room.

There’s a tap on the door and I rise from my seat as Nick Dunning pops his head around it. “They’re just making their way up. Should be with you shortly. The Met have asked that the social worker be present to take notes. Is that okay?”

“That’s not a problem, thank you, Nick. We’re ready whenever they are.”

He nods efficiently, his eyes gliding to Matthew to double-check. Satisfied with what he sees, he gives another nod and leaves.

I look to Matthew: he offers me a wan smile. I give him one back, then as I watch him bring a plastic cup of water to his lips I notice the slight tremor in his hand and suddenly for the first time the idea that Matthew might actually be Benjamin Taylor seems a reality. I remind myself of his extraordinary levels of self-control. It occurs to me that Matthew might not be telling me everything he remembers. The scan was only yesterday but a lot can come back in a day. He might be starting to remember things. This could be who he is. He catches my eye and I start to speak, but as I do the visitors’ room door opens.



* * *



—

    Mrs. Taylor is dignified and calm, a beautifully dressed woman in her sixties. She holds Mr. Taylor’s hand tight in hers. Eyes flutter wordlessly over faces. Introductions happen in the awkward way one would expect. And after the initial shock of meeting, everyone settles into a seat. Mr. Taylor’s eyes wander, wet with emotion, while Mrs. Taylor’s pale blue gaze does not leave Matthew. I watch him carefully now too.

The social worker a beat behind noisily takes a stool and pulls out a large file to take her notes. Her expression is grim and she avoids my eyes.

Mrs. Taylor speaks first, very gently. “Do you recognize us, dear?” she asks hopefully.

Mr. Taylor looks away, clenching his hands. He doesn’t look like a healthy man. I’d guess at high cholesterol and blood pressure, judging by his ruddy cheeks and reddened nose. But of course, drink could be involved as well, and who could blame him?

Matthew’s gaze flickers over the hunched Mr. Taylor before settling back on Mrs. Taylor.

He takes a moment, choosing his words very carefully. “No. No, I don’t. But then, I don’t recognize anyone really, I’m afraid.” He smiles apologetically. “At least not at the moment.” His eyes connect with mine. We both know what he just said isn’t true: he does recognize someone—he recognizes me. And it suddenly occurs to me what that must mean to him. To recognize someone in a world of strangers. I am the only person he seems to recognize. But how?

“But you remember the house, son?” Mr. Taylor raises his head. “Our house. Everything that happened before the, er…?”

    The air in the room changes at Mr. Taylor’s use of the word “son.” The social worker’s ears prick up.

Matthew hesitates. There’s so much weight in what these people are asking from the situation. I can see Matthew’s thoughts whirring. What should he say? Is he Benjamin? If he was to come to that realization, right here, right now—I can’t even imagine how terrifying that would be. To know that terrible things might have been done to you but for you to have no memory of those things. Decades lost. Or to have it all rush back in an instant. I realize I shouldn’t have let Matthew do this, even though he wanted to; he needs to remember at his own speed. Triggering too much could cause another panic attack. He may be desperate for a past but perhaps Benjamin’s past isn’t a past worth going back to. Whatever happened to Benjamin Taylor after he vanished couldn’t have been good.