“And your patient, Matthew, he hasn’t mentioned military training or anything like that?” he asks, his gaze gliding over my little gray office.
I slide my list of Waltham House employees deftly under some paperwork, hiding my embarrassing foray into detective work from sight. “No, he hasn’t mentioned anything at all about training,” I answer. “But I think—well, at this stage it’s entirely possible he may not even remember doing any.”
The three faces opposite me hide their own particular brands of skepticism as my eyes flit between them. The woman finally clears her throat.
“And it’s not possible, to your mind, Dr. Lewis, that your patient could be exaggerating his symptoms? Exaggerating his memory loss?”
I shake my head. “I’d be happy to show you the fMRIs if you’d like, Dr. Samuels. I’d be interested to know if you’ve ever encountered a patient who was able to exaggerate the activation of their own hippocampus.” It’s a cheap shot, and childish, I know, but she’s basically just wandered in here and told me I don’t know my job. I may very well have almost been shot this morning but I know my fucking job.
I have no real idea who these people are, and they are certainly not attempting to sugarcoat the sense that they’re in charge. Since arriving, they have made it very clear it is Matthew they want to talk to, not his doctor.
The younger officer speaks now, his voice patrician and infuriatingly reasonable. “Whilst we understand your point of view, Dr. Lewis, and obviously respect your medical opinion, we do think a conversation with Matthew himself would be in his interest.” The older officer nods in silent affirmation. “There is, of course, the possibility that we would want to move him to a more specialized facility if that were to be considered appropriate.”
“And who would be assessing the appropriateness of that?” I counter tartly, my eyes flicking back to Dr. Samuels.
“I’m a military psychiatrist, Dr. Lewis, I can assure you that someone with the appropriate training would be assessing that, should it prove necessary,” she coos.
“And if itdoesn’tprove necessary?” I ask, matching her tone. “And you’ve simply interfered with a civilian patient with mental health problems? Then what?”
“Then we would defer to your better judgment. But I think our involvement at this stage is a risk we should all be willing to take.” She moves to the window ledge, looking down at the growing crowd far below. I feel my vertigo lurch, on her behalf, as she continues. “I think we both know it’s unlikely that a civilian would have been able to do what your patient did this morning, Dr. Lewis.”
She looks back at me, her eyes intent. I look away.
She’s right, I know she’s right. He definitely knew what he was doing, that is unquestionable. It’s incredibly unlikely that a civilian would have been capable of doing what Matthew did.
Yet I hold my ground. I don’t know why, but I feel I should protect him. Maybe it’s because of the question rolling around in my head:Why are they only arriving now?If Matthew is one of theirs, why haven’t they come for him sooner?
But then, perhaps that’s it, perhaps he isn’t one oftheirsat all? Perhaps he’s someone else’s? He could be working for a foreign government. Either way, I’m clearly completely out of my depth.
I grudgingly agree to let Dr. Samuels assess Matthew but on the condition I remain present for the assessment. They decline my offer. I cannot be present because sensitive information may be brought up. I realize I am fast losing ground, so I compromise, agreeing to absent myself on the proviso that Iampresent at least until Matthew consents to their interview. Eager to move forward, they agree.
Matthew is already in the consultation room when we arrive. He stands as I enter; I see the bulk of his shoulder bandaged beneath his T-shirt, his left arm in a loose sling. Overkill from the nursing staff but I can’t blame them. I haven’t seen him since the incident, and the concern for me etched on his face makes my heart leap into my throat.
I watch him grow pale as the two officers enter the room behind me and Dr. Samuels closes the door.
He looks at me questioningly, but he can sense that I am no longer in charge here.
“Hello, Matthew. Is it okay to call you Matthew? I’m Dr. Lily Samuels. We were wondering if we could ask you some questions about what happened today, and about what happened eleven days ago on the ward. Would that be okay?”
“What kind of questions?” he asks.
Dr. Samuels’s eyes flick to me before she answers. “Do you have any military training, Matthew?” She pulls out the chair opposite his and sits. “Do you remember going through anything like that?”
Matthew’s eyes shoot to me instantly; he’s evaluating, trying hard to work out his next move, therightthing to say. I pray he doesn’t think I’ve sold him out, but perhaps, in a way, I have.
He looks down a moment before answering, and when he raises his eyes back to Dr. Samuels his expression is impenetrable.
“I think we should discuss this alone,” he says, and as if on cue all eyes but his turn in my direction. And I realize I’ve been asked to leave.
37
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 12—MILITARY MAN
I pace the nurses’ break room and curse myself.
I should have known he was military. I knew it was PTSD. From day one, I just knew. The fMRI results, for God’s sake. I think of how stupid I’ve been, of how easily swayed I’ve been, thinking he might be something—or someone—from my past. But Matthew is something else entirely. A military asset, AWOL. Possibly a foreign asset or one that’s defected. Who knows why they’re so interested in him? I realize I might never know. Why would the British military tell an NHS doctor what the hell was going on? I suddenly realize I might not even see Matthew again after this. He might just leave with them after their interview. No goodbyes, nothing, the end. I eye the clock on the wall, and check to see if Graceford is still guarding me outside the break room door. No change.
