DAY 10—FACES IN A CROWD
We hear them arriving outside, the distant rumble of the press coming to life by the hospital entrance, questions, endless greedy questions. The scrum and jostle outside sounds like no more than a polite murmur from here, now that we have moved to the quiet of the visitors’ room.
There’s a tap on the door and I rise from my seat as Nick Dunning pops his head around it. “They’re just making their way up. Should be with you shortly. The Met have asked that the social worker be present to take notes. Is that okay?”
“That’s not a problem, thank you, Nick. We’re ready whenever they are.”
He nods efficiently, his eyes gliding to Matthew to double-check. Satisfied with what he sees, he gives another nod and leaves.
I look to Matthew: he offers me a wan smile. I give him one back, then as I watch him bring a plastic cup of water to his lips I notice the slight tremor in his hand and suddenly for the first time the idea that Matthew might actuallybeBenjamin Taylor seems a reality. I remind myself of his extraordinary levels of self-control. It occurs to me that Matthew might not be telling me everything he remembers. The scan was only yesterday but a lot can come back in a day. He might be starting to remember things. This could be who he is. He catches my eye and I start to speak, but as I do the visitors’ room door opens.
—
Mrs. Taylor is dignified and calm, a beautifully dressed woman in her sixties. She holds Mr. Taylor’s hand tight in hers. Eyes flutter wordlessly over faces. Introductions happen in the awkward way one would expect. And after the initial shock of meeting, everyone settles into a seat. Mr. Taylor’s eyes wander, wet with emotion, while Mrs. Taylor’s pale blue gaze does not leave Matthew. I watch him carefully now too.
The social worker a beat behind noisily takes a stool and pulls out a large file to take her notes. Her expression is grim and she avoids my eyes.
Mrs. Taylor speaks first, very gently. “Do you recognize us, dear?” she asks hopefully.
Mr. Taylor looks away, clenching his hands. He doesn’t look like a healthy man. I’d guess at high cholesterol and blood pressure, judging by his ruddy cheeks and reddened nose. But of course, drink could be involved as well, and who could blame him?
Matthew’s gaze flickers over the hunched Mr. Taylor before settling back on Mrs. Taylor.
He takes a moment, choosing his words very carefully. “No. No, I don’t. But then, I don’t recognize anyone really, I’m afraid.” He smiles apologetically. “At least not at the moment.” His eyes connect with mine. We both know what he just said isn’t true: he does recognize someone—he recognizes me. And it suddenly occurs to me what that must mean to him. To recognize someone in a world of strangers. I am the only person he seems to recognize.But how?
“But you remember the house, son?” Mr. Taylor raises his head. “Our house. Everything that happened before the, er…?”
The air in the room changes at Mr. Taylor’s use of the word “son.” The social worker’s ears prick up.
Matthew hesitates. There’s so much weight in what these people are asking from the situation. I can see Matthew’s thoughts whirring. What should he say? Is he Benjamin? If he was to come to that realization, right here, right now—I can’t even imagine how terrifying that would be. To know that terrible things might have been done to you but for you to have no memory of those things. Decades lost. Or to have it all rush back in an instant. I realize I shouldn’t have let Matthew do this, even though he wanted to; he needs to remember at his own speed. Triggering too much could cause another panic attack. He may be desperate for a past but perhaps Benjamin’s past isn’t a past worth going back to. Whatever happened to Benjamin Taylor after he vanished couldn’t have been good.
Matthew answers with a lightness of touch that makes my heart ache. “Sorry, but I don’t remember a house. Any house. If I’m honest with you, I don’t remember much of anything before I was found on that beach. I remember what’s happened over the last ten days…but that’s about it, at the moment.” His answer is kind but there’s a finality to it. How could there not be? Right now he has nothing to give them, there is only future stretching out ahead of him.
The Taylors stare at him, lost, unclear where the conversation should go next. They begin to realize, after all their years of searching, that the prize they were fighting for might have changed so utterly that he may now be just a stranger who doesn’t even recognize them.
Mr. Taylor speaks first, breaking the flat silence, trying to infuse it with the magic they thought they would find here. “You look just like him, you know. Our Benj.”
“He means you look just how he might have looked,” his wife corrects him gently.
“Yes, yes. He was only…well, twelve, when he left, you know.” Mr. Taylor gives a forced smile before turning to elicit help with the floundering exchange, first from me and then the police social worker. “Doc, what do you think? Sue? Do you think that we might be onto something here…?” He falters, because what can he say?IsMatthew ours? Is this one finally ourBenjamin?
I look to the social worker, but she remains mute, her expression a dumb show of empathy.
Excellent. Well, that’s helpful. Thanks a bunch, Sue.
I grasp the untethered conversion. “It’s hard to say, Mr. Taylor. All we can do really is wait. There was the chance that Matthew might have recognized you immediately and then we would have known. However…I’m not sure that has happened. But memory is a complex system. I think perhaps Matthew just needs time and hopefully things should start to come back to him. And once they do, we should be in a better position to know.”
“Of course, of course. We don’t want to rush anything.” Mr. Taylor is piteously quick to agree.
I notice Matthew’s gaze drift away to the window. Jesus. God knows what’s going on in his mind. His energy has dwindled, though, that much is clear. He can’t keep this up anymore. He doesn’t recognize these people, I am still the only person in this room whom he recognizes. This is a dead end. I make a decision.
“I think what would probably be best is if we finished up here for today. We should hear back on a DNA match by later this afternoon, and if it’s a fit then we can check back in a couple of weeks and see where Matthew is in terms of recovery by then, if that works for you both?” There’s a heavy pause while neither Taylor answers, so I dive back in. “I know it’s not the outcome any of us wanted today, but what’s important now is Matthew’s recovery and giving him the time he needs to adjust.”
Mrs. Taylor sits up straighter in her chair. “Yes, yes, Doctor, you’re quite right,” she says. I can see in her eyes she’s already trying to work out what they’ll tell everyone outside, everyone back home, the people on TV. Just another false alarm. Twenty-seven years of false alarms.
“Let’s go, Jim, come on,” she says, sliding her hand into one of his and giving it a little squeeze. He looks into her eyes, lost for a moment until she smiles at him. The bravery, the selflessness, of that smile breaking my heart.
—
