Mr. Nobody(61)

“It’s fine, Peter, honestly. Matthew was happy to meet them. It wasn’t ideal but I think there’s no harm done.” But then I remember the press still lurking outside. “Is there a line we should be taking with the media? It’s not looking like Matthew is related to the Taylors. I’m guessing the DNA match will come back negative.”

“I think it’s best to stick to no comment for now, Emma. I’ll be liaising with someone at the Met this evening and you can be assured that it will be them and not the hospital taking responsibility for this unfortunate line of inquiry. Let the Met release a statement first.” Peter sighs. “As they say, if the job was easy…”

I remember my promise to Joe. I’m supposed to resign now. I promised. I dealt with this fresh crisis and now I should stop.

I should say something to Peter.

But instead I think of Matthew’s look to me in the visitors’ room earlier. He didn’t recognize the Taylors but he recognized me. I don’t know how he knows me but he knows me; who I am, my secrets. Things I’ve been at pains to forget for so long. I’ll never know if I leave now.

And just like that, the moment to say something passes.

“So, how did the fMRI go yesterday?” Peter continues, oblivious. “Anything interesting we should know about?”

    I shake off thoughts of leaving and of Joe, and I slip with worrying fluidity back into work mode. “The scan was helpful. I’m still working on the images but it doesn’t look like his hippocampus is engaging on anything prior to the day he was found. I’ll wait to write it up, but between you and me it’s a verifiable fugue.”

“Ha. Very interesting. That’s…well! Good for you! Keep me posted and if you need anything you know where I am.”

I don’t mention Matthew’s reaction to the final fMRI question—Have you killed?—I don’t mention him knowing my name, I don’t mention how strangely close I’m beginning to feel to him, and I certainly don’t mention my reasons for staying. Because every one of those admissions would be grounds enough for me to be taken off this case.



* * *



—

That evening Matthew and I work through some memory exercises in his room. Simple card images testing the boundaries between his knowledge and his memory. While he recognizes a picture of the Eiffel Tower, he struggles to remember if he has ever seen it with his own eyes. I explain that triggering is all we can do at this stage. I prescribe an antianxiety medication to counteract any panic induced by our potential triggering and then we call it a day.

Taking the lift down to the lobby, I remember the gauntlet awaiting me outside: the trucks, the microphones, the questions. Dread slowly rises inside me as memories of similar crowds crawl back into my mind. Their bodies pushing, snatching, their graphic, unfeeling questions, the vitriol. Hemmed in by their desperate animal need to know, to know everything: the endless insistent, nasty hows, wheres, whys. The desire to pull apart the gristle of our lives as they rooted around for something elusive, something unknowable: a reason.

The elevator doors open, and my pulse soars as the scale of the crowd outside comes into view. There are so many more vans than earlier, and a more substantial barrier has been erected around the entrance, a press pit behind it. It’s dizzying. A blast of red brake lights outside as a car maneuvers in the packed car park.

    I brace myself against the elevator handrail as an image flashes through my mind. Blood on my hands. Fourteen years ago. Blood cracked and dry, a reddish brown across my palms, caught under my fingernails. His blood. I’d find it there for days after.

I shudder. Someone must have alerted the crews outside that I was on my way out of the building, because their cameras are already up, microphones poised and ready. I can already hear their shouted questions. I repeat in my head Peter’s instructions to me. No comment. No comment. As if in the heat of the moment I might somehow forget my line. The security guards by the sliding doors nod as I head toward them, my heart pounding in my throat, my mouth dry.

Outside, there are the logos of American news networks alongside the British ones now. I suppose everyone loves a happy ending, a reunited family, except, of course, we haven’t given them one. We haven’t given them anything yet.

One of the security guards steps forward. “Would you like us to escort you to your car, Dr. Lewis?” I don’t recognize him but he knows who I am and I’m guessing he knows how far away I’m parked.

“Oh God, yes, thank you. That would be really fantastic. Thank you.” I notice the quiver in my voice.

As he leads me through the doors and the squall of questions begins, he opens an umbrella overhead, shielding me from them as well as from the snow. The winter air hits my hot cheeks and cools them as we plow ahead.

Then in the crowd I see a flash of red hair, a face I instantly recognize. It takes me a second to realize that I only know her from a photograph, though. Chris’s wife. Zara Poole’s red hair is pulled back slickly in a fashionably low bun, her Dictaphone ready in hand. Her expression changes as her gaze finds mine, her smile slipping from her face.

    I hadn’t realized she was press. We lock eyes only for an instant—there’s something disconcerting in the way she’s staring. It’s not that she recognizes me from school, it’s not that, it’s something else, and it frightens me.