Mr. Nobody(83)

But then I remember how he saved me yesterday, the bullet he took for me, the military arriving. And the idea of him sneaking out of his ward doesn’t seem quite so crazy.

I scroll through my mobile as I drive; I have three missed calls from Peter, which I really can’t deal with right now. I find Nick Dunning’s personal number in my contacts and tap. I have no idea what I’ll say when he answers, but I need to know if Matthew is still there in the hospital. Because I have a sinking feeling that he isn’t.

    Nick’s mobile goes straight to voicemail, and not knowing exactly how to frame a message, I hang up without leaving one. What would I say? My patient has been to my childhood home somehow. How would I explain that I knew from the start he knew my real name? I scroll to Chris’s number, my thumb hovering over it. But again what would I tell him? That I followed my patient’s advice instead of his, that I thought everything that was happening here was to do with my father when there’s clearly something else going on? No. I toss my phone into my bag and focus on the road ahead.

When I get to the hospital I pull up around the back and head straight to the second floor.

Rhoda and another nurse look up as I run into the ward, trying to assess the situation. Rhoda frowning as I fly past them. An elderly patient reaches out to touch my arm as I slip by the nurses’ station, but I pull away with a quick apology and keep moving.

Matthew’s bed is empty and made. Everything is as it should be, but no Matthew. I toss my bag onto his bed and run back to the nurses’ station.

“Rhoda. Have you seen him anywhere?” I pant.

“Matthew? He was here a minute ago. Probably outside in the sunshine?”

Outside. Surely she can’t mean out front with the press? Then I remember the hospital garden. I turn so fast my shoes squeak on the floor.

I burst outside into the cold sunlit snow, disturbing a group of relatives sitting with a bundled-up patient.

Try not to look crazy, Em. Try not to look like you’ve just lost your only patient, even if you have somehow managed to do just that.

I scan the garden. It’s just me and them. No Matthew. The family group stares at me; no doubt they recognize me from the TV news. I manage to muster what I hope constitutes a reassuring smile and aim it at them while my mind reels.

    Where is he? And who the hell is he? It must have been him in the woods watching me, but why? He’s had so many chances to hurt me—hell, he even saved my life yesterday. What is he up to?

And that’s when I feel it, behind me, a gentle tug, tug, on the elbow of my jacket. I turn, thoughts still whirring, and look down to see a little old man gently tugging my sleeve. It’s the old man who tried to get my attention at the nurses’ station a moment ago. Now that I look at him properly it’s clear he isn’t a patient—no slippers, no wristband, and outdoor civilian clothes.

He peers up at me questioningly, his white hair balding on top, his pink scalp shining through from underneath.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Lewis, I see you’re busy.” His voice is friendly, with a local lilt. “But could you tell me where I could find Stephen?”

“Stephen?” I repeat, confused.

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Nobody seems to know what I’m talking about today. Must have put me teeth in funny.” He chuckles. “Yes, Stephen. Tall chap, dark hair, easy on the eye.” He smiles jovially. “I just, well, I saw the local paper yesterday on the bus and, well, I usually get my news from the radio but when I saw the paper I happened to see Stephen looking out at me. Hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Thought I’d come say hello.” He peers up at me hopefully.

I feel a cold dread rising inside me. Tall, dark hair, easy on the eye. A million questions crowd out any single utterance. I gawp at him, dumbfounded, like a complete fucking moron.

“?’Cause you’re his doctor, aren’t you, dear?”

“What is your name, please?” I ask carefully.

“Er. Nigel. Nigel Wilton.”

    “And who is Stephen to you, Mr. Wilton?” I try to quell the tsunami of panic rising inside me.

“Oh, well, er, I suppose I was a kind of beau of his late mother. Lillian.” Nigel blinks at me with a mixture of mild confusion and bashfulness.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr. Wilton.”

“Well, Stephen had been living in London before his mother got ill. Lillian. And then he came back up here when she moved into the care home before she died last year. I met him a few times. Very private, very quiet. He was sorting out her things afterward. Setting everything in order. I think the loss hit him hard. I was quite worried about him. I confess I did try and stop in at the house the last few weeks but I never did see him, and the house was locked up, so I thought he’d gone back to London, and then bam!—I see his face all over the free paper on the bus.”

I sink down into the seat by the garden door.

Matthew is Stephen. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

The old man bends to cup my hand in his, his kind, wrinkled face worried. “Is everything all right, dear?”

I feel a wave of nausea crest inside me so violently that I have to dip my head between my legs until it passes. I have a vague awareness of Nigel rubbing my shoulder, murmuring something comforting.