Mr. Nobody(87)

    I understand, more than he can ever know. And what he says is true. Things will be worse after this—for both of us. He might face criminal charges—wasting police time, fraud— he might spend the rest of his life in and out of mental health facilities. The press will come down hard on him, for wasting NHS funds, lying to the public, and the most cardinal of sins: tricking them. It will be hard for him to put his life back together, to find the connection he so craves. But then, some people never do. I know I haven’t.

    I wish there was something I could do to fix this. I was so wrapped up in my own life that I didn’t see what was happening right in front of me. I let him down. The guilt is overwhelming.

And as I stand, caught in the amber of the moment, the wind whipping my hair across my eyes, I remember the words we learned at school. We didn’t recite the Hippocratic oath during training or swear it but we learned a modern version of its tenets.

        The health and well-being of my patient will be my first consideration.

    I will respect the autonomy and dignity of my patient.

    I will respect the secrets that are confided in me, even after the patient has died.



I watch him turn away from me defeated. I can’t let him kill himself. But I don’t want to make his life worse. Do no harm.

And who has he harmed in all this really? What would be gained by making Matthew be Stephen? I will respect the secrets that are confided in me. Perhaps we can let Stephen disappear and Matthew can just take his place.

“MATTHEW!” I call out now loud over the wind. “There’s another option!” I shout. “If you’ll trust me there is another option.” And I say it with such surety I almost convince myself.





42


THE MAN


DAY 13—BEST LAID PLANS

She explains her plan to me as we walk back toward the car. She hasn’t asked yet how I got here, but as we round the path back to the car park the question answers itself.

“It’s Rhoda’s,” I say as she throws me a look, her forehead creased with concern. “She doesn’t know I took it,” I clarify. “I didn’t ask.”

I’m not surprised at her concern because her plan is risky. Very risky—but I always knew she’d help me, that she’d be this way: brave, strong. That’s why I chose her, because she’d try to help no matter the cost to herself.

I wish in a way I’d found her years ago. Things might have been different.

They might have been. They might be yet.

Her plan is simple. I’m going to disappear. Her patient Matthew will disappear. She’ll pretend she never found me on the beach today, she’ll pretend she never heard the name Stephen McNabb, she’ll keep my secret and I can just disappear. All I have to do is promise I won’t hurt myself. She wants me to take her to my mother’s house. She wants to make sure I have everything I’ll need in order to leave—money, documents. She’s not sure yet she can trust me not to hurt myself the moment she turns her back. It’s reassuring but she couldn’t be further from the truth.

    I like her. For all her damage there’s a clarity to her, a courage. I knew there would be. I knew she’d understand.

I pull Rhoda’s car into the drive of the little wood-framed beachfront house. The house that belonged to the late Lillian Merriman.

A compact well-tended garden, lace curtains hanging in the well-proportioned windows, sun-faded paint peeling off the woodwork. Quaint, homey.

I lead Emma up the path and stop at the front door, reaching overhead to lift a key from inside a hanging basket. My elbow brushes against her hair as I do and she moves aside for me, her cheeks flushed. I slide the key into the lock.

Inside it’s dim, the curtains drawn, I flick on the lights and a warm glow floods the open-plan space. Bohemian and disheveled. Stacks of magazines, piles of books. Old photographs pinned directly into the wood of the walls. A treasure trove of curios, antique furniture, all slightly faded, slightly broken down.

I watch Emma’s face as she drinks it all in. A glimpse into a history, a life. If there’s one thing to be said about Lillian, it’s that she had great taste. And somehow the ferns and potted plants that litter the room have stayed alive un-watered for weeks. Their fronds still plump and green in the chink of sunlight peeking through the curtained French doors. She pulls their fabric back and winter sunlight floods the room from the beach beyond the glass. She peers out at the waves, the bank of snow-sprinkled dunes. We’re only a twenty-minute walk from where I was found.

“It’s beautiful,” she remarks, the light from outside throwing her features into relief.

“It is,” I agree as she turns back to me.

“Will you miss it?” she asks.

I look around the lived-in room; it’s been good to me. “Some of it, I suppose.” She’s studying my face. Wondering at what thoughts might be buzzing around beneath. I wonder what she sees.

    “I suppose I should get my things together, then?” I say, breaking the tension. It’s what we agreed. I’ll gather enough clothes to last a few days, I’ll gather Stephen McNabb’s passport, license, wallet, and other information, and then I’ll disappear. I’ll take Rhoda’s car and dump it somewhere along the way. Matthew will simply vanish. And I’ll go on to live the rest of my life somewhere else.