“I’m sorry this is all happening to you, Matthew. I don’t really understand yet on what basis they’re making this connection.”
He turns to face me. “Do you think they could be right? Is this who I am? Benjamin Taylor?”
“I don’t know,” I say, sitting down on his bed to work through it properly for the first time. “Let’s look at the facts.” Joe managed to find an old news story from the nineties on his phone on the drive here. “Here’s what the authorities know….Twelve-year-old Benjamin Taylor left his house in Tottenham on the twenty-seventh of September, 1992, to walk to school—but he never made it there. At the time, there was a national search for him; they did a reconstruction of his last movements and they questioned a number of suspects. But Benjamin was never seen again.” I’m careful now. “His parents didn’t stop looking, though. They were very vocal during the campaign and they’ve kept up Benjamin’s website all this time. Ben’s father has been checking the missing persons database every week since. That’s how they saw your photo.”
Matthew looks at me. “That’s a sad story.”
“Yes, it is,” I say solemnly as he sits down next to me.
“But…what would I have been doing for the past twenty-seven years?”
God, what a question. “I’m not sure, Matthew. But if I had to make this fit, in any plausible way—which we really don’t have to do—but if I had to? I’d say the fact that your circadian rhythm is completely screwed up could, potentially, be down to a lack of natural light. If you’d been kept somewhere. Your head wound, your memory loss, all of it could point toward trauma received during some kind of escape. The police must have a reason for suspecting you’re Benjamin. Plus, the Taylors seem to recognize you. And you are the right age.”
“You think I’ve been in a basement for almost thirty years? That’s your theory?”
I can’t help but smile slightly. “No, I don’t think you’ve been in a basement for twenty-seven years—but that could be what they’re thinking.”
“How would I have escaped from this hypothetical basement?”
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing it would definitely be possible for a man of your height and build to overpower a man in his, by now, say his…sixties?” I can’t help it but I giggle slightly at this. “Oh God, this is awful.”
“This is a horrible story, Emma,” he says, with that lightness of tone again. Thankfully, right now he has no connection to this story.
I mean, even if he is Benjamin Taylor, let’s not make him remember being Benjamin Taylor—nobody wants to be the person who was potentially locked in a basement for decades.
“They want to meet you. The parents,” I say carefully, watching his reaction. I’ll pull the plug on this in a heartbeat if he needs me to.
“Why do they want to do that?”
“Because they want to know if you’re their son, I’d imagine.”
He rises and walks over to the window. “But even if I am,” he says, looking down at the media swarming below, “I’m not really, am I? I don’t remember being anyone’s son yet.”
“No, you certainly can’t be expected to be something you don’t even remember.”
Silence fills the room and when he speaks again I jump slightly at the sound.
“Who doyouthink I am?” he demands. I can’t read his expression against the stark light of the window.
“I don’t know, Matthew. That’s what we’re all trying to find out, isn’t it?”
“I know, butyou—who do you really think I am? Not as my doctor, not as my psychiatrist, but as a person.”
I stifle a shudder. I can’t tell him who I think he is. The man I think he is died fourteen years ago. Matthew moves away from the light and his face comes into sight, his intelligent eyes studying me.
I push the thought away, taking a moment before answering. “I think there’s a possibility you may have been in the military. I think you could be suffering from PTSD. Of course, there is the possibility that the PTSD could be from any kind of trauma, but I think it’s unlikely that you have been held against your will for the last twenty-seven years. That much seems clear to me, both professionally and…as a person.”
He studies me, then nods. “Okay. That makes sense.” He sits down in the visitor’s chair and rubs his face. “I’ll meet them,” he says decisively. “If it helps them. But I have no interest in being Benjamin Taylor.”
For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. It’s such a strange way to put it, but I understand what he means. He doesn’t believe it’s true but he wants to see if any of it triggers something; he needs to know. And he wants to help these people. Perhaps he is Benjamin. At this stage he could be anyone.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
“As long as you’re there. Yes.”
30
DR. EMMA LEWIS
