Mr. Nobody(77)

    In the harbormaster’s office, Graceford asks if anybody new has been mooring here over the last few weeks, but the harbormaster shakes his head. “It’s all regulars this time of year. Why do you ask?” he inquires, interest piqued. I suppose we must look like an odd gang. A police officer, a woman with bandaged hands, and a man in an oversize woman’s puffer jacket. The harbormaster clearly has no idea who we are and suddenly I want to hug him for being so completely out of the loop. It’s almost as if none of today’s events really happened. It just goes to show: having your whole life sprayed across the TV isn’t the end of the world, not everyone watches TV.

Matthew and I wander around the brittle carcasses of the ships in the dry dock; Graceford hangs back, giving us space, her eyes on the harbor entrance. I know I shouldn’t feel so close to him, but the desire to just ask him what he needs to tell me is almost overwhelming. He scans the moorings, the sea beyond, taking his time before finally turning to me.

“I haven’t been here before,” he says with confidence.

I try to put my analyst head back on. “And it doesn’t remind you of anything? None of this throws up any thoughts or feelings? Any images?”

He takes a moment, his collar turned up, the cool wind ruffling his hair. “No.”

“That’s good, that kind of clarity is good.”

    I suggest we get some food to take away from the harbor café. The stress and activity of the day have left us all completely famished, so Graceford agrees. We buy three boxes of fish and chips from the otherwise empty café and head back to the police car.

When we get to Holkham Beach, I pull Graceford to one side.

“Do you mind giving us a bit more space on this one?” I ask tentatively.

She frowns and scans the empty beach before answering. “For now. But if anyone turns up I can’t risk it.” She looks farther along the sands. “I can probably get a pretty good overview of the area from the dune. If you don’t wander too far, I’m happy to stay back at that distance for the time being, if that helps. We just don’t want a repeat of this morning,” she reminds me, her tone concerned.

“No, of course not. Thank you, Beth.”

Matthew and I find a patch of dune grass farther off to settle on and we dig into our hot boxes of fish and chips, the wind whipping around us. This must be the closest thing to normal he’s done in weeks. I catch him snatching a look back toward Graceford before glancing at me with a puzzled expression.

“What is it?” I ask, a chip halfway to my mouth.

He laughs. “Nothing, just, thank you, for bringing me here.” He smiles. “Can I ask you a question, Emma?”

“Of course.”

“I was just wondering why you came back here. To Norfolk. I mean, considering everything that happened.”

I chew my hot chip and let out a sigh.

“Because of your case,” I say honestly. “These types of cases are—” I pause, aware I’m on shaky ground. “I’ll be honest, Matthew—cases like yours are incredibly rare. There have only been a handful, really. And I was asked, you know. I wrote a paper, a few years back, about a similar case, and they wanted me on this because of that, I guess.”

“You wrote about the Piano Man.” He takes a swig of his water bottle.

    I look up, surprised at his words. “How do you know that, Matthew? About the Piano Man?”

He looks momentarily thrown, and then his wind-reddened checks flush further with embarrassment. “Er, okay. Shit. I may have looked you up, they let me use the computers at the hospital.”

Of course, I forgot we okayed that. He’s been looking me up. I bluster, caught off guard by his honesty, “Oh. Okay. Well, yes, so you know about a few cases like yours then. I wrote a few paragraphs on the Piano Man, but mainly I wrote about another case, in America.” I feel my cheeks grow hot in the wind as he holds my gaze in his.

“Oh, remind me, I skimmed parts. Another case like mine?” He pops a chip into his mouth, interested.

I nod, the wind whipping my hair out around me. “Yes, I just thought a lot of cases like yours and particularly the case I wrote about had been…mismanaged—they could have been handled better. I know, I’m hardly one to talk, given everything that’s happened today and the current situation at the hospital, but I mean in terms of diagnosis. Those cases were mishandled. It was bad medical practice.” Matthew stops chewing now, he nods me on. I continue with caution; it could be a good sign that Matthew is suddenly so interested in diagnoses. “I believe that in that particular case, the man was misdiagnosed. They said he was malingering but they didn’t do an fMRI.”

“Malingering?”

“Faking,” I clarify.

“Why did they think he was faking, do you think?”

“It’s a rare condition. They didn’t scan, like we did. Because medicine is a constantly evolving science and sometimes the science is wrong until it’s right. They saw no brain damage and refused to believe in a psychogenic explanation.” He frowns at the word, so I elaborate. “They couldn’t see any actual brain damage, so they assumed there was no real problem. They didn’t scan his brain activity. I think his underlying condition was never treated. But you’re right. I think I was chosen for this job because of my hard-line stance on the Piano Man. They wanted you diagnosed correctly…without all the media attention. I know!” I cry. “The irony of that given our current situation is not at all lost on me, Matthew, trust me.”