Mr. Nobody(64)

    No sound within but echoes. Outside, the sound of the wind through the trees and the occasional burst of birdsong.

She bends now, pushing open the mail slot. “Hello? Dr. Lewis? It’s Zara Poole, I was wondering if we could talk?” No reply, just the sound of her own breathing. She hopes she doesn’t sound angry or desperate or pathetic, like a crazy girlfriend or a wronged wife looking for an argument, because that’s not what she is. That’s not why she’s here. Chris can do what he likes with his life, she reasons. If he’d rather be with someone else, there’s not really anything she can do about that, is there? she asks herself. You can’t make people love you, she knows that. And Zara doesn’t want to be one of those people, a scorned wife, a victim, the one left behind. So, best not to rail against it, best to take it on the chin, keep her cards close and see how the game plays out. She’s just here for her story, she tells herself. Once she’s got the story, she’ll go.

Zara straightens and looks up to the darkened windows. No one is in. She turns to look back at the drive. And then she notices. The doctor’s little gray car is nowhere to be seen.

She must have already left for the hospital.

Zara pauses. She casts her eyes down the gravel driveway, weighing up her options. She looks back at the empty house.

If she does this, she thinks, she might be able to get away with it. She would definitely be able to hear someone coming down that long gravel drive. She’d certainly have enough time to get out, if she goes in.

She tries the front door handle. It pivots all the way down under her hand but the door does not budge. Locked. She smiles wryly to herself. Of course it’s locked. Nobody leaves their front door unlocked, not even in Norfolk. She turns to leave. Then she changes her mind.

She goes around to the back of the house and tugs at the patio door. It won’t budge. She doubles back to the side of the house; low to the ground there’s a long thin window, a basement window. She crouches to peer in. A dim utility room beyond. She gives the corner of the window a swift tug and nicks a nail. Locked.

    She sucks her finger to dampen the smarting and thinks about what to do next. Suddenly concerned, she scans high along the eaves of the house for a security camera. Nothing.

Stepping back from the small window, she thinks of her options. She can just see around the side of the building to her car from here. The drive remains otherwise empty. She makes up her mind and swiftly walks up to the window, cautiously looking both ways before cocking her right foot back and kicking as hard as she can. The smash is loud and satisfying. She braces herself for a burglar alarm but no siren sounds. She nudges out the remaining loose shards with a heeled boot before leaning forward to check the hole.

Inside, the house is quiet and dark. Zara dusts off her trench coat and scans the dark utility room. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for, she’s never done anything like this before, but she knows she needs to find something and it almost definitely won’t be in the utility room.

She heads up the basement stairs, gently opens the door at the top, and steps into the immaculate kitchen. Still no alarm sounds. If she can just find something, anything, to help explain what is going on, why this woman is here, who she is, and how she knows Chris.

Zara takes in the Victorian kitchen, full fruit bowls, fresh flowers in vases, and wonders when the doctor actually has time to do all of this. Perhaps the house is serviced. Because it’s perfect. So effortlessly perfect.

She tears her gaze away and wanders on through into the living room populated by deep sofas and expensive rugs. But thankfully, it’s messier in here, a soft cashmere throw tossed haphazardly on the sofa, a smudged wineglass on the floor beneath, a tannin stain chalky inside, a dirty plate. So, Dr. Lewis is a human after all.

And then Zara sees it. A glint. The edge of something poking out from under the rich fawn of the throw. The matte silver sheen of it. She reaches down and pulls it out. Emma’s laptop.

Zara sits down on the sofa next to it, one hand resting lightly on its smooth brushed-metal lid. If she does this then there’s no going back, she thinks. But then, she’s already come this far. She’s already broken into someone’s home. What difference would looking make?

    Still she hesitates. She might find something she doesn’t like. There could be emails from Chris, more messages. What if looking through her laptop somehow changes everything? She would have to go home to Chris knowing but not being able to say.

No. It’s better to look, she decides. Yes, better to know.

She flips the lid and spins the laptop around to face her. It opens to desktop, the tab open on the last page Emma looked at—Chris’s Facebook page.

Zara’s heart skips a beat, her jaw hardens.

She minimizes the screen and pulls up Emma’s iMessages; she scrolls to Chris’s name and reads.

Sorry to text so late. Would it be possible to get a list of past employees at Waltham House? I can’t say why just yet but I think it might be helpful. Also, might have to rain check that drink. Snowed under.

Emma x

No problem, totally understand. I’ll get on it & let you know asap & I just want to say it was great to see you today Marn. Chris x

It’s Emma, Chris! X

Shit, sorry x



Zara stares at the screen, frowning. She reads the messages again, trying to make sense of them. She sits in stillness for a moment and then pulls up Google.