Mr. Nobody(85)

“Did you find Matthew?” She frowns down at me, confused.

I’m not really listening. I’m scanning the car park for something heavy. I remember what the man at the car rental company said. There’s a spare key inside the car manual folder in the glove box, passenger side. I see what I’m looking for over by the wall next to the clinical waste bins.

That’ll do.

I race over to it.

“Because I can’t find him anywhere. I looked in the garden, and he’s not on the ward or out here. Should we tell security?” Rhoda calls over to me, her tone anxious.

I heft the brick in my bandaged hand as I run back to the car.

This should work. But then, I’ve never really done this before, so what would I know?

“He’s gone,” I say, breathlessly pulling up opposite her, the car between us. She eyes the brick. “But I think I know where he’ll be.” I pull back my arm as Rhoda finally seems to put two and two together.

    “Wait!” she shouts as I start swinging the brick forward. “What the hell are you doing with that, you crazy—”

The car window flashes milky on impact, shattering to crumbs. My hand burns white-hot as the sharp crumbles of glass rain over it and I drop the brick. I use my elbow now to push in the crumbled glass that still holds. Once it’s clear, I reach through the gap, pop open the glove box door, pull out the manual and unearth the key. My hand is on fire. I flex the fingers and use my other hand to depress the spare door fob. The satisfying clunk of the central locking opening. We’re in.

I peer at Rhoda over the roof of the car. “Rhoda, can you drive?” She stares at me openmouthed. If the pain in my hand weren’t so bad, I might find her expression quite funny.

“Rhoda! Can you drive?” I say louder, shouting now.

She seems to recover and her focus clicks in. She may not have been her best self in the crisis yesterday, but I almost see her make the decision that she damn well will be today.

“Yes, I can drive,” she answers. She yanks open the unlocked driver’s door and slides in. I brush the glass crumbs from the passenger seat with the sleeve of my coat as I dive in next to her, slamming the door behind me.

I push the ignition key into her outstretched palm and we lock eyes.

“Where to?” she says turning the engine over and slipping smoothly into first gear.

“The beach. Head out toward Holkham—that’s where he’ll be. We need to get there fast, Rhoda!” I say. She nods, and once we calmly clear the security barrier she presses her foot on the accelerator and we screech out onto the road.





41


DR. EMMA LEWIS


DAY 13—BACK WHERE WE STARTED

The car hares down the snowy country lanes, Rhoda’s hands tightly gripping the wheel as we bend sharply into the next turn.

I pray that we don’t hit a patch of ice.

I’ve had time to think as we drive. I tried to call Chris, but outside of King’s Lynn the phone signal has dropped away and I don’t have the benefit of the lodge’s Wi-Fi out here. The only way to get help is to find it in person or get somewhere with reception. But we don’t have time for that.

Up ahead it comes into view, the lay-by and the path leading directly down to the beach. He’ll be there. God, I hope he’ll be there. My eyes shoot to Rhoda. “Once you drop me, just go!” I shout over the wind buffeting through my broken window. “Just go. Okay? Get to somewhere with phone signal and call Chris Poole.”

I scramble into my bag for my wallet, fumble out the crumpled slip of paper with Chris’s phone number, and thrust it at her.

“Do you understand, Rhoda? Don’t call the police! All right?”

Her eyes flash to me for a second as she shifts down into third gear, and then she quickly snatches the paper. She moistens her lips, eyes back on the road.

    “Just Chris!” I tell her again. “Okay? Whatever you do, do not call the police.” If Stephen is there to take his own life, the sight of multiple uniformed police officers showing up to potentially arrest him is not going to help me convince him that everything is going to be okay.

I search Rhoda’s face. She’s weighing my request. She knows that the police might be exactly the people she should be calling. But her intuition will be telling her too that the police might cause more harm here than good. Police might escalate this far too quickly.

“Okay,” she answers finally, out of time, as we crunch into the lay-by. “No police. Just Chris. Got it! Go! Go!”

I fly out of the car before it stops moving, and I’m running. Pounding across the lay-by’s shingle and onto the beach path, sand flying out behind me. My breath rasps high in my throat as I hear the whine of the rental car reversing behind me. She’s going to get Chris. To get help.

Because I’m not sure I can stop him by myself.

The trail opens out onto the vast sweep of Holkham Beach, the wind pummeling me as I head up the steep bank of the nearest dune. I need a good vantage point.

I scramble to the top and catch my breath, gasping in air, a cramp spasming deep in my side. I scan the horizon.

A black speck in the distance, hard to see at first; the tide is out and he’s walked out across the wet sand to meet it. If he gets in the water at this temperature, he won’t last long before he slips under. That must be his plan, his original plan. I bound down the shifting slope and race across the endless flat of the beach.