Mr. Nobody(76)

“Not a problem.” I give her a mock-conciliatory smile. “So, will Matthew be leaving us today?” I try to keep my tone light. Impartial, like a doctor should be.

“No, I don’t think he will, Dr. Lewis. Not today. But we’ll be keeping in touch, and I may be back over the next few days. Matthew has agreed to undergo a few tests with me at a different facility.” She pauses. “But I think he’ll be best serviced here for the next few days at least. It’s probably best to wait for some of this media interest to quieten before we think about moving him elsewhere.”

“Can I ask what he said?” I inquire as she turns away, and for a second, I think perhaps she might leave without answering, but then she turns back. “You know I can’t divulge that information, Dr. Lewis. Perhaps you should ask him yourself?”



* * *



—

When I get to Matthew’s room Graceford keeps her distance outside. He’s ready and waiting for me when I enter, wearing his puffer jacket, the bullet-ripped shoulder now repaired. Tight neat stitches patch over the hole, and I can’t help but wonder if he fixed it himself or did Rhoda mend it? I glimpsed her only once since this morning.

    “I still want to go out today,” Matthew tells me before I can speak. “I don’t think we have long left together.” He might be right about that. He looks at me patiently, and I realize he’s waiting for his answer.

“Er, sorry, what? Go out? What do you mean, go out, Matthew?” It takes me a moment to work out what he’s talking about, and then I recall. This morning, before the attack and the terror and gunshots, we’d had a plan. To visit areas that might jog his memory. He can’t be serious, can he? “You don’t mean our trip?” I ask, incredulous.

He takes a moment before answering calmly. “Yes. Why? Would that be a problem?”

I’m not entirely sure what to say. It’s so far from anything I was thinking before. Is that really what he wants after everything that’s happened already today? But maybe he has a point: his time here with us—with me—is very fast coming to an end.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do? Today? Now?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m sure. I really think we should go out, Emma.” There’s an intensity to his tone that’s impossible to ignore. He wants to get us away from the hospital. There’s something he needs to tell me and he wants me to know it. We need to do this and we need to do it now.



* * *



—

Nick Dunning is less than enthused by the idea when I get to his office.

“Well, I certainly don’t think it sounds sensible, if that’s what you’re asking.” He leans forward on his desk, eyebrows sky high.

“I know, Nick. But I’ve spoken to Officer Graceford and she’s happy to escort us.” I gesture to the hallway outside his office where I just left Graceford. “I can call her in if you like. You can ask her yourself.” I pray he doesn’t take me up on that offer, as, to be honest, Graceford wasn’t keen on the plan at all until I explained to her that it was an absolute necessity we do this today. Blessedly, Nick shakes his head; he doesn’t need Graceford dragged into this. I plow on. “It’s the patient’s request to leave the premises, Nick, so, unless we want to section him under the Mental Health Act as a risk to himself and others, and take away his right to leave, Matthew’s free to decide.” Nick sighs heavily and slouches back into his seat. “Nick, I’ve done all the tests I can do here. There’s only so much clinical work I can do with Matthew, it only takes us so far. He wants to know who he is. We need to get him out in the world, he needs to see things and associate. That’s the way we can crack this. I’ve already got him on drugs to lower stress, which, if it’s PTSD causing the dissociative fugue, should be creating the right conditions for his memory to return. But I can’t force it. And there’s only so much we can do in the hospital. There’s only so much therapy and so many memory exercises we can do. If I take him back to the beach, to these places, we might actually trigger something and he might start to remember, Nick. He’s ready. He’s as good as told me he’s ready to remember.”

    Nick insists I sign a form accepting full responsibility for the patient, releasing the hospital of all culpability—which is not reassuring at all—but I comfort myself with the fact that Groves picked me for this job because of my pioneering methods. And if they’re good enough for him, then we should all be fine.

I sign the form in awkward silence and twenty minutes later three of us pull out of the snowy service entrance, Graceford driving, me in the passenger seat, Matthew in the back. We glide onto the main road, away from the press and protesters, and head out toward the open expanse of the Norfolk coast.

Wells Harbour is our first port of call, with its cracked-paint fishing boats in softly faded colors. We slam the car doors and head across the snow-covered boatyard toward the harbormaster’s little hut. I watch Matthew’s eyes dart over the landscape; he’s like a man visiting a foreign country, hungry to take everything in. He’s not wearing his sling anymore and a slight stiffness in his shoulder is the only clue to the dressing hidden beneath. I bury my own bandaged hands deep in my pockets as the snow crunches and creaks satisfyingly underfoot. It’s so good to be outside. I realize how cooped up I’ve been recently and draw in the crisp chilly air full of the scent of wood fires and fish and chips. My stomach rumbles and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast either. I haven’t been taking care of myself.