As the female paramedic leans in, the man screams louder.
In the distance Zara’s head, then shoulders, then body rise into view. She stops in her tracks as another scream rips through the air.
She pulls her coat tight around her as she stares out across the open expanse of sand to the huddled figures in the distance.
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispers to herself.
And suddenly the screaming stops.
6
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 6—PETER CHORLEY
Peter Chorley looks exactly as I’d imagined. A reassuring mixture of tweed, butter, and library dust. A kind but sharply intelligent face. Peter is a comfortably dressed Cambridge professor in his sixties. He greets me with a smile, his eyebrows raised mock-conspiratorially at the unusual nature of our first meeting; his handshake is firm and surprisingly warm considering the bitter January cold he’s come in from. I notice his cheeks are flushed and he’s slightly out of breath from his brisk walk from King’s Cross station to the hospital.
Thankfully, Peter Chorley doesn’t fancy the hospital canteen, so we head back out into the bitter chill of the London streets. I suggest the Wellcome Collection Café, just next door, to get us out of the cold quickly. It’s a medical museum that boasts the tagline “a museum for the incurably curious,” but they also do great coffee and a nice line in homemade pastries, which hits all my major sweet spots. I’ve been coming in here since I moved to London to start medical school. These days I tend to pop in and do admin on my laptop, when I get one of my increasingly rare breaks.
We order our coffees and choose a table overlooking the museum bookshop.
Peter stirs a brown sugar into his espresso. “Richard was very keen on you from the get-go,” he says judiciously. “His first choice. I’ll be honest, we had to look you up; we weren’t that familiar with your previous work, case studies, patients, what have you. But it’s impressive. Your work. And regardless of your relative lack of clinical hours in this exact field, Richard’s opinion is trusted. It carries a lot of weight. As you know, he’s the go-to on this sort of thing. Has been for years.”
A warm feeling spreads through me. I was Richard Groves’s first choice. But then, I already knew that, didn’t I? Still, nice to hear it out loud. I take a sip of my coffee to try to cover the wave of childlike pride I feel sweeping over me, reminding myself that this is still a job interview, even if it doesn’t feel like one.
Then I snap myself out of it. After all, I don’t even know who exactly it is who is interviewing me just yet. “I really appreciate you coming all the way down here to meet with me, Peter,” I reply. “But I have to ask: what exactly is your role in all of this? Richard mentioned you specialize in neurolinguistics, is that right? You don’t have a background in neuroscience yourself? Are you connected to the patient’s hospital?” I ask, because although very exciting, none of this quite seems to make sense to me yet. The call out of the blue from Groves, the sudden arrival of Peter. I’m not really sure who is asking me to do what. What does Peter Chorley have to do with all this?
He takes a sip of his espresso and gazes out across the bustling café before looking back at me.
“Ah, yes, sorry, neurolinguistics as charged.” He gives a pinched smile. “No, no background in your chosen field. But I like to keep up with most areas, or at least I try to.” His laugh is self-deprecating. “For my sins, I’ve been asked to coordinate on this, to source a specialist. I’m here in a purely advisory role.”
“I see.”
“Yes, it may not look it but I do have a fair few years of clinical experience under my belt, as they say, but now I just tend to advise on the occasional initiative. And teach, of course. No money in any of it, of course.” He chuckles. “But I doubt any of us got into it for that!” His eyes twinkle at me knowingly and I smile back.
He got that right. NHS pay isn’t great. For perspective, I earn about as much as the average recruitment consultant in London and less than the average mortgage adviser. Of course, I could be earning a packet as a Harley Street psychiatrist—I just don’t want to. I don’t just want a job, I want a vocation. A life.
“So, you’re working for the government on this? The NHS? The civil service?”
Peter smiles back at me, amused. “Yes. Yes, I am.” There’s that twinkle again.
Wait, which one? The National Health Service or the civil service?
He holds my gaze, inscrutable. He’s not going to tell me who he works for.
He’s not going to tell me? What the hell is going on?
I suddenly get the paranoid feeling I might be taken for a ride here. I understand the need for patient confidentiality and the point has been drummed home that this case is going to be tricky in terms of press intrusion, but this is ridiculous. It’s obviously Whitehall. Boarding school children playing at politics. “Riiight. Sorry. I’m sorry, Peter, but you are going to have to tell me who exactly you work for or I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on this.”
Peter leans forward quickly in his seat, eager to dispel any worries. “Emma, look, I can’t stress enough how keen we are to have you on board. They’ve requested you as a substitute for Richard because they are—and I am—confident you can diagnose and treat this patient in the correct manner. But there are certain things…There is certain information that…well, due to the nature of this case, we’d, or rather they’d, prefer to hold back—at least for now. Until we have some sort of idea what kind of situation we’re dealing with here. There is a concern about the identity of this man. Information around it may prove to be sensitive, but we don’t know yet.” He lets that sit with me for a moment before continuing. “I am the last person in the world for reveling in the dramatic, Dr. Lewis, but if you accept this temporary post, then there will be a substantial amount of, well, of nondisclosure paperwork.”
His words throw me for a second. I wasn’t expecting that.
He continues. “Which I personally may or may not havealreadysigned….Do you see?” He taps out a little tune with the flats of his hands on the café table.
“Right,” I say carefully. “I see.” Peter has signed a nondisclosure agreement. There are certain things he can’t tell me about this case.
Why on earth would they have him sign nondisclosure forms? Concern about the patient’s identity?Who the hell do they think the guy is?
