Mr. Nobody(80)

I came here for my career but I’ve stayed for Matthew. To help Matthew, because I’m his doctor and I’m the best and he needed me to stay.

But if I’m honest, that’s not my only reason. I’m here because of what he said to me that first night. The way he spoke to me. The things he knew that he couldn’t possibly have known. And more than that, the little things about him that seem so familiar to me, his gait, his eyes, the slope of his strong shoulders. No matter how crazy it sounds, the truth is, I’m here because he reminds me of my father. Plain and simple. It’s just a feeling. I have put my life and family and career in jeopardy for a feeling. But there is something there, there’s something he’s not telling me. I think of what he did tell me yesterday. He told me to go back home. I might see something if I go back to that house. Perhaps this is what I’ve been waiting for.

    Ahead the path opens out into a small snow-patched clearing. I slow as I approach, sensing it before I see it. Something about it not quite right.

Something in the undergrowth ahead, a dark huddled mass. I stop abruptly, a shot of pure adrenaline exploding through me.

A man. Someone’s here. I’m not alone. I see him crouching close to the ground, the figure, peering out from the tangled branches—as if somehow just bending behind the bush might mask him from my sight.

I flinch back immediately, stumbling away from the figure, a thought flashing through my mind: Has Simon Lichfield been released? My sneakers catch on a root and I tumble down, my eyes still glued to the unmoving figure. I freeze, paralyzed in the horror of the moment, but as I look on the figure seems to morph. I catch my breath—it’s not my attacker, it’s not a man at all, it’s an object, some kind of bulky fabric, large and strung incongruously onto the winter undergrowth. The draping of it imitating the bulk of a human figure.

A surge of relief bursts through me and I let out a laugh of pure unadulterated joy. Thank God. Oh, thank God. I am such a moron.

I take a moment before scrambling up to my feet. Nothing to be scared of, just good old-fashioned paranoia. Though, I remind myself, someone really did try to kill me yesterday, so maybe this error is less paranoia than due diligence.

    Cautiously I approach the mass. Rich burgundy and deep navy, expensive-looking, it has an open zip running jagged along its length. A discarded puffer jacket—like Matthew’s. No, it’s too large for that. Suddenly I realize what it is.

It’s a sleeping bag. Weird.

I wonder how it got here. This is private property, far from the road. The bag couldn’t have been flung from a car, dumped as garbage. No, it must have been brought here by someone, then abandoned. I feel the relief drain from my body. Someone has been sleeping out here, just yards from the lodge where I’ve been staying all alone. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions.

In London it’s not unusual to stumble on homeless encampments while running through the woodland parks, but out here, miles from the nearest village, so close to the lodge, the sleeping bag doesn’t quite sit right. And it doesn’t look like the kind of thing someone down on their luck might own.

I suppress a shudder as I crouch down in front of the offending object. It looks new, its silky shell and plump downy filling scarcely damaged by the winter elements. It hasn’t been here that long, maybe a few nights, maybe as long as I’ve been here? Perhaps I should run back and alert the police officer.

But I hold off, still thinking it through. After everything that’s happened in the last few days, there’s a good chance I might be reading too much into this. The bag might just have blown here from a campsite nearby; it wouldn’t be unheard of in the strong coastal winds. Or maybe someone was innocently sleeping out here.

I sweep the clearing for other signs of activity, the innocent detritus that campers leave—food scraps, wrappers, ashes, or half-burnt twigs. There’s nothing, just the bag.

Huh.

    I move to the other side of the clearing and look back in the direction of the lodge—I see patio doors, upstairs windows, all clearly visible from here through the gaps in the branches. This is the perfect vantage point for the back of the house. My bedroom window is in plain sight. I imagine it lit up in the darkness of night and fear fizzes through me afresh. Whoever was here wasn’t a camper.

They were watching me.

Perhaps they still are—instinctively my eyes flash around me, deep into the dense forest, my breath coming in short gasps. But I see no one, no threat in sight. Whoever was here is gone.

It can’t have been Lichfield, my attacker; he’ll still be in custody. And he wouldn’t have known where I was staying until the news broke yesterday. The only people who knew Marni Beaufort was staying here were my family, Peter Chorley, and Chris.

Unless? Unless my father was here? Has he come back? I sink down into a squat, my breath sucked from me. Could he have been here? I don’t stop to think, I rise, head straight to the sleeping bag, and grab it. I pull it to my face, my nose, and I inhale. I don’t know why I do it but I do, I try to smell him. I strain for his almost forgotten scent of cologne and cedar and bonfires. But the bag just smells of factory chemicals and damp. Frustrated, I tug it from its tangle of thorns and vigorously shake it out, hoping for what to tumble out I do not know. A message, a note, something. Nothing. Only dead leaves fall from inside.

I stand alone and terrified in the clearing, panting, my breath fogging in the air.