Mr. Nobody(88)
It’s a nice idea.
She nods and I head through the doorway into the connecting bedroom, leaving her to look around. I know it won’t be long until she notices, so I sit down on the edge of the bed and wait. My hands quiver as I look at them. So much rides on what happens next. I look up at the bedroom wall in front of me. Research. Months of work. Months of planning. News clippings, plans, logistics to get Emma here, alone, now. Not that I can remember doing most of it. A small article has fallen to the floor, a clipping about an Afro-Caribbean nurse attacked in a park. I stand and pin it back up next to the photo of Rhoda on the board. Alongside it, old articles on Marni Beaufort. The Charles Beaufort inquiry. Sixteen-year-old Marni in paparazzi pictures, her fingers bandaged on her left hand.
In the beginning, I’d only been looking into Dr. Emma Lewis—it’s her I need—but Dr. Lewis’s history only went back so far. But I had resources, I dug deeper, I’ve gotten good at that over the years. And in Dr. Lewis’s past I found Marni Beaufort. With her burnt fingers and her dead dad.
I scan the wall, my wall, so many faces, faces from the hospital, snippets of their lives, little memories stored deep inside my mind. The first time I saw this wall, after the phone brought me here three days ago, I studied it and things started to come together. I realized how I knew half of what I knew. My research, clues I’d left myself. The extent of what I might have done wakening inside me.
I listen to her out there, the soft shuffle of her feet, the plumph of her turning over Lillian’s old books. I relish these last few moments. It won’t take long until she sees the photographs of Stephen on the wall, Stephen and his mother Lillian. Photographs of them gardening, of her visiting him in London, of his smiling face, similar to mine but different. Very different really. But I chose someone believable, it seems. I think I always do. Someone whose passport photo is close enough to me to be plausible. And no one really looks like their passport photo anyway, do they? We all lose a few pounds, we change our hair, we get older.
The room next door has gone silent, she’s stopped moving out there. It must be happening. I go over to the doorway and watch her. Her back to me, as she peers at the photographs pinned to the wall, her hand gently resting on one in particular, a faded color photo. Though her back is turned I feel it happen, I feel the realization slowly take her, sinking into every bone in her body, I feel the air in the house around us thicken. I feel her fear as she realizes that the person in the house with her isn’t who she thinks it is.
She must feel my eyes on her because she straightens, slowly, and turns, trying so hard to keep calm, to stay in control, to not let the huge waves of panic sweeping through her engulf and drown her. She’s already seen what I can do. She saw yesterday in the hospital. She knows there’s no use running.
I give her my most reassuring smile. What else can I do? After all, I like her. I want her to feel safe. All of this is for her.
She holds my gaze. Her expression a careful mask. She’s calculating her options. I would be too.
I step into the room slowly. I don’t want to spook her. She starts to speak but the words catch, she clears her throat and tries again. “You’re not Stephen.”
“No.”
She blinks. “Who are you?”
I think for a second how best to answer.
“I don’t know,” I say, because that’s the truth. If I knew, I wouldn’t be here; I wouldn’t need her.
She takes a moment to absorb this, then nods. “And what happened to the real Stephen?”
I wonder for a moment if I should lie, if I should keep the terrible truth from her longer. But then I realize she can’t help me if I keep lying. “I’m not entirely sure yet,” I say, very carefully, “but I’m pretty certain I killed him.” I drop the British accent now too, letting myself slip back into my American vowel sounds. Her eyes flare, blazing at me from across the room. She swallows. She’s terrified. I can’t blame her. So was I when I remembered some of the things I’ve done.
“I need your help, Emma. Do you think you can help me?” I say it tenderly, I want her to know she is safe with me, she is protected.
Her eyes flash to the door and back to me.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Emma, I promise. I just need your help. I just need you to listen to me, please. I need you to tell me how to fix this. How to fix my mind. Can we just talk?”
She moistens her bottom lip, eyes alive as she studies me intently. She seems to reach a conclusion and her demeanor changes ever so slightly. She seems to settle back into the room. Then nods her head decisively. “Okay. Okay, let’s do this. We can do this. Let’s talk.” She looks around the room, her eyes alighting on the two armchairs that face out to the sea beyond. She gestures over to them. “Shall we?”
43
ZARA AND CHRIS
DAY 13—TIME OUT
Zara’s hair is scraped up tight into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face, as she tries to keep her voice even. “I know it was my idea, Chris, but I want you to come back. Okay?” Chris is perched on the edge of their bed, his eyes fixed on the thick pile carpet they chose together six months ago. “I was angry, Chris. Come on, you’re no angel, you lied to me. You didn’t tell me you knew her, who she was. I just find a text and I’m supposed to understand why you want to go for a secret drink with another woman? We don’t keep secrets.”