Mr. Nobody Page 7

  I pull his name up on Contacts and shrug off my coat. I take a stab at fixing my hair in the dark reflection of the screen and press call.

  Joe lives in Hertfordshire, about twenty-five minutes from our mother’s house. I couldn’t do that but I suppose it must be handy for babysitting. I know he’ll be in; he works from home. He’s an architect who has the good fortune to be able to pick and choose which projects he works on, which is convenient now that they have little Chloe to look after.

  The electronic bounce of the FaceTime call tone cuts out sharply and Joe’s face replaces mine on the screen. He’s in. He’s always in. He’s reliable that way.

  “There you are!” Joe’s one of those people who always answers their phones no matter how busy they are. I admire that level of accessibility, because I am not one of those people. He beams at me. I expand the pixelating window until his smiling face fills my screen. His glasses are at a crazy angle on the top of his head, his hair disheveled—I needn’t have worried about mine.

  “Here I am!” I call in response. Our greeting.

  He catches sight of himself in his own window and sets about mushing his hair. He’s always been a hair musher. He’s only thirty-one, and yet he’s somehow managed to look like a harassed thirty-year-old since his second year at uni.

  “So, where exactly have you been for the last week, missy? Thought you’d at least call us when you got back to London after Christmas.” He continues typing as he talks, as if I’m right there in the room with him.

  “Sorry. Work.” I shrug a what-can-you-do and Joe glances up, frowning.

  We spent Christmas together at Mum’s, the whole family. And I didn’t call when I got back because…well, life, I suppose. Actually, probably, work. Things get surprisingly busy in hospitals around the festive season.

  Joe isn’t impressed. “Hmph. Right, well, just so you know, Mum started checking the traffic news for crashes, so…make of that what you will.”

  “Listen, Joe, I need your advice. Something has come up. But you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell Mum, all right?”

  “What are we—seven?” he chuckles.

  “I need you not to tell her, Joe, please?” There’s urgency in my voice and his smile fades slightly.

  “What is it, Em?” he asks, instantly serious.

  “I’ve been offered a new job and I don’t know if I should do it, or even if I want to do it yet, so I don’t want you mentioning it to her. I don’t want her to worry about it. I don’t want her going through anything she doesn’t have to….But—I might have to go back to Norfolk.”

  His gaze hardens at the word.

  “Why?” he asks bluntly.

  It’s a good question.

  If I didn’t have his full attention before, I have it now. He stares at me grimly, as if he’s seen a ghost. And in a way he has. We don’t talk about the past; all of that got left behind with the house.

  “It’s a job opportunity, Joe. A big one. Have you seen the news?”

  He’s silent for a moment before he speaks.

  “Er, yes, I have. Why? Which story? This isn’t to do with the dead girl on Hampstead Heath, is it?” He looks away, rubs his eyes, suddenly tired.

  What dead girl on Hampstead Heath? God, another thing I haven’t even heard about. And Hampstead Heath isn’t too far from my apartment either. I really need to start watching the news.

  “No, it’s nothing to do with a girl on Hampstead Heath. Joe, they found a man on a beach near Holkham. They have no idea who he is, or where he’s come from, and neither does he apparently. Like the Piano Man, in Kent. You remember him, right?”

  “The guy on the news? You mean Matthew, right? Yeah! That’s happening in Holkham, is it? Jesus! I thought this one was in Kent too. Shit. Must have got those two stories mixed up in my head. Yeah, I’ve seen the story. Yeah, Matthew’s such a weird story.”

  Wait! Matthew?

  “Hang on, Joe. What do you mean Matthew? Are you saying the guy on the beach is someone named Matthew? How do you know that?”

  Joe scowls, baffled by my flurry of questions.

  “Joe, nobody knows what his name is, or who he is, that’s the point of them hiring me! I mean, they’re calling him Mr. Nobody, so how the hell do you know what his real name is?” Literally everyone seems to know more about my potential patient than I do.

  “What are you talking about, Em? Matthew’s not his actual name, that’s what they’re calling him at the hospital. I guess they can’t call him Mr. Nobody in a hospital, can they? Apparently, this nurse just started calling him Matthew and it stuck. I suppose they’ve got to call him something, but it’s all a bit, well, a bit stupid, to be honest.” Joe rumples his hair. “They called him Matthew because apparently something odd happened in the hospital,” he says skeptically. “I dunno.” He studies my face and puts two and two together. “You’re seriously thinking about taking this job and you haven’t even researched it yet, have you?”

  My brother can read me like a book. “No. No, I have not,” I admit tentatively.

  “Let me guess, because of work?”

  “Yes. Work. That is correct.”

  He sighs. “Well, Emmy, you’re in for a treat when you finally do get around to it; it’s an absolute shit show up there. Get googling. The press are already camped out all over Kings Lynn. It’s a media circus. That Piano Man case on crack. Oh, and Matthew means ‘gift from God,’ by the way, just so you know the level of crazy we’re working on here.” He studies me, disapproval written large across his lovely face. He sighs again, loudly. “I’d say run a nautical mile from this crap, but something tells me you’ve already made your mind up and you just want me to agree with you. Don’t you?”

  I smile penitently. “Yeah, I think you’re right, Joe. I think I do.” There’s no use lying to him. I’ve never been able to anyway.

  “Can you handle going back, though, Em? Seriously. I mean, really, can you handle it? I know you’ll say you can and you’ll make it work somehow, but could you?”

  “If I’m honest? I don’t know, Joe. I won’t know until I get there, I suppose. But I have to give it a try, don’t I?”

  “No. No, you don’t have to give it a try, Em. Sometimes you can just let things go. Let an opportunity go, if it’s not right for you. Sometimes it’s not a test, or a challenge or whatever….Sometimes it’s just you, pushing yourself too far.”

  I know deep down he’d want me to do everything differently. From the start. That if he’d had his say, I wouldn’t even have gone into medicine. I’d have been an artist, a painter; I was good at art when we were young. But things happened. Life happened and here we are. We’re so different, he and I. It’s funny how different two people with the same genes can be.

  “Well, I do have to do it, Joe.”

  “You don’t, but okay. That’s your answer then. Do it. And I’ll be here if you need me.” Then his brow creases. “But what will you do if they find out what happened? There’s a lot of press up there, Em.”

  “They changed our names, Joe. No one will know who I was or that I was ever there before. That was why we moved, right? The police, the social workers—that was the point, wasn’t it, that no one would find out? Unless the police themselves decide to tell the media, there’s no way anyone will be able to find out. The system is in place for a reason.”

  He frowns, unconvinced. “But you’ll be there, physically, in person, with people who knew us back then. People who went to school with us. What if someone recognizes you?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I stare at him now, silenced. But, I was so different back then. It was such a long time ago. I looked different. A different person. A different name. I lost my puppy fat at seventeen, right after we left. My once open, soft face lost its plump rosy cheeks and matured. Cheekbones, collarbone, breasts. I grew into myself, boys st
arted noticing me. I’m certain nobody there will recognize me now.

  “They won’t, Joe. They’ll remember an awkward sixteen-year-old. I mean, I’d like to think I might have changed slightly over the last fourteen years!”

  He studies my face trying to judge whether I’m right, then nods back tentatively. I do look different. I often wonder if he misses the old me. The me from before. But that girl’s gone.

  I plow on. “And even if they do recognize me, Joe…so what? We’d be all over the news for, what, like maybe a week, tops. No longer than we were before. And then it just goes away and the world moves on and we go back to our lives. I can handle that, we handled it before. All of us.”

  “We did but I don’t know if Mum can do all that again. She’s happy where she is. I don’t think she could just go back to her life if who she was got out.” I think of Mum in her cozy cottage. I think of her coffee mornings with her friends, her Pilates group, the quiet happy life she’s built around herself in her small village. No one there knows. And I remember too how, like me, at the end of every day, she goes home to an empty house. Her friends are all she has. If the truth came out, things would change for her. Could she handle that again?

  If I do this I could ruin all of that for Mum. But then what? Never take a job in the spotlight for fear that our secret comes out, our dirty secret? Agree to stay quiet, stay hidden until when? I feel the burn of injustice in my chest.

  “Wait, Em. Does whoever offered you the post know who you are?”

  Who I am? I take a breath before answering. “Yeah.”

  “Em, why would they choose you for this job if they knew what happened in Norfolk? I thought they didn’t want a media circus—”

  I cut him off. “They don’t, Joe. And for the record, they chose me because I’m bloody good at my job. Okay? And they were concerned it might be a problem for me.”

  “I know you’re good at your job. But who are these people?” He holds my gaze, questioningly, insistently. He’s not going to let this go. “You don’t know their motives on this. They must have chosen you for a reason—plenty of other people are good at their jobs.”

  I take a breath. “I was recommended. Look, Joe, are you asking me not to do this?” I say it with a calm I don’t feel. My heart hammering. “Because it’s not just this job that you’re asking me not to do, is it, Joe? I’d have to turn down any job that puts me in the spotlight. I’d have to turn down anything high profile, wouldn’t I, because if I wander out into the light then the spotlight shines onto all of us, doesn’t it?” I hear myself saying it. Oh God, I didn’t mean to turn this conversation into that conversation. I feel a rush of remorse. “Sorry, Joe, I don’t know why I’m taking this out on you. It’s ridiculous, sorry. I just—I want this. I can’t know that I’m good enough and then just walk away. What happened was not our fault. Why should we have to spend the rest of our lives paying for it?”

  He takes a moment before replying. “Look, Em. You shouldn’t ever hold yourself back because of it. But—” He stops himself and shakes his head.

  “But what, Joe? Say it.”

  “But”—he continues very carefully—“and I say this because I love you, Em, and you know I do—you need to ask yourself why you need this so much. Why you need the spotlight. Just ask yourself what you’re so desperately looking for. If it’s even out there. If you go back to Norfolk, I’ll deal with Mum, don’t worry about that. I’ll explain it to her and she’ll be okay with it, I promise. But you really need to try to understand why you’re going back at all. What you’re looking for there.”

  “None of this is about Norfolk, Joe, I’d go wherever the job was. I wish it wasn’t there, obviously, but I’m not going to let that stop me. And it’s not like I have a lot of reasons to stay here in London. I want more than all this. For myself. For my career. I’m really good at what I do, Joe, and I’m going to help this man. That’s why I’m going.”

  He studies me, concern in his warm eyes. “First be very sure you know who exactly it is you’re helping, Em.”

  9

  THE MAN

  DAY 1—THE SEARCH BEGINS

  Back at the beach a silence falls between police officers Poole and Graceford.

  It’s Graceford who speaks first. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them.” She nods back toward Mike and Zara, who have now made their way from the dunes to meet them. Graceford gives Poole a rallying clap on the arm as she passes. She’ll take over.

  Poole hears their voices behind him but thankfully their words are just out of his earshot. He turns to see how Zara’s taking it. Her usually beautiful face is pulled into a tight pinch as Graceford speaks. Poole turns away. Zara has always had a problem with Graceford.

  A car door slams; he turns to look and Mike is in the car now, Zara still leaning on her car door, half in, half out, nodding reasonably. She smiles sweetly at Graceford before swiveling into the driver’s seat and slamming the door closed.

  Zara’s car rolls with pointed slowness out of the car park past them.

  Gone. No goodbye then, Poole thinks.

  “So?” he asks as Graceford rejoins him.

  “So,” she answers flatly, and changes the subject. “What do you think about the man on the beach?” She avoids Poole’s gaze, casting her own back toward the sea path.

  At best she’s trying to keep things professional, at worst sparing his feelings.

  He tries again. “What did she say?” He gestures out in the direction of the long-gone car.

  Graceford clears her throat, looks away again. If she’s honest with herself, the nuances of other people’s relationships have never really been her strong suit. But she understands that she is expected, in this type of situation, to give some kind of response to Chris’s question. She’s supposed to have some kind of opinion. Reluctantly, she obliges.

  “She said, ‘Sure, no problem, Officer.’ I mean, what else is she going to say to me? I’m a police officer. And she’s breaking the law.”

  Officer Poole looks down at the loose gravel of the car park and sees his pale feet blueing in the January air. Shit.

  “They’ve been warned, Chris,” Graceford continues. “No one at the station cares if she’s your wife, and I don’t either. She can’t keep doing it, Chris, she’s wasting police time.” Graceford shifts uncomfortably. She can’t tell if she’s said too much; Poole’s still staring down at the ground. “They’re breaking the law and they keep doing it.”

  Poole raises his head. “I know, Beth! I know. Believe me, I know that. But I’ve said to her, you’ve heard me say to her! Haven’t you?”

  Beth Graceford nods and looks away.

  Poole knows that means the conversation is over.

  He clears his throat and pulls himself together.

  “Okay. Okay! Right,” he says, changing his tone, “let’s get going, shall we? That beach isn’t going to search itself. Is that spare uniform still in the boot of the patrol car?”

  Graceford nods. “Neil’s spare uniform? Yeah, course it is.”

  A mischievous smile plays across Chris’s face. “Remind me why he kept it there?” he asks as, barefoot, he follows Graceford gingerly across the gravel.

  “You know this, Chris. In case someone vomited on him.” She intones knowing full well where this line of inquiry is heading. She pops open the hatchback.

  Graceford had previously been partnered with Sergeant Neil Jarvis for the first five months of her posting on the Norfolk coast.

  Chris’s grin broadens. “In case someone vomited on him! That happen a lot, did it? Enough to warrant the extra uniform?”

  “Yeah, it did actually, Chris. It happened to Neil an above-average amount of times. So, yeah, it did warrant the extra uniform,” Graceford says with the weary authority of a recurrent eyewitness.

  “Okay, then.” Poole nods mock-sagely. “Fa
ir enough in that case, I suppose.”

  She rummages around in the back of the car. “Not sure why he left it, though. Maybe ’cause of all the vomit that’s been on it? Size nine boot okay?”

  “Humph, guess they’ll have to be.” Chris takes the boots and, leaning against the patrol car to brush the gravel from his feet, he slides his sockless feet into their cold leather. “I suppose we should go look for this guy’s stuff then. What do you reckon his story is? Homeless? Attempted suicide?”

  “Nah, neither, I don’t think. He didn’t look homeless.”

  Chris nods. “No, he didn’t.” Chris wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he’d been surprised, the guy had been good-looking—well, all-right-looking, for a bloke. Not that good-looking guys didn’t try to commit suicide too, he supposed.

  Graceford locks the car. “It all had a bit of a weird vibe, don’t you think? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s see what we can find.” She sighs. It’s a big stretch of beach. “I’ll call it in and you make a start, Chris.”

  Chris climbs to the crest of the dune and the wide flat expanse of Holkham Beach spreads into view. It’s even windier up here. Still, he can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears from the exertion. Inside his new boots his toes are reluctantly coming back to life.

  He can see right out to the offshore wind farm a mile out to sea, the monolithic forest of turbine arms rotating with the weight of the North Sea wind. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out.

  Best make a start, he decides. He opens his eyes and scans the landscape, looking for anything the man might have left behind. A pile of warm clothes, a bag.

  But there isn’t anything. Nothing but outcrops of seaweed littering the beach, dark clumps of debris washed to shore. It’s hard to pick out details from this distance; it’s possible any one of them could be clothes, perhaps, shoes, a rucksack containing a wallet or a phone or keys.