A Beautiful Lie

When she woke, the world was a blank.

Well, not completely. She recognised her face when she saw it in the mirror. She could speak and write—perfectly good English, too—and she knew things. She knew how clocks worked, what the calendar hanging on the opposite wall was for, and even what day it said it was.

It meant Wimbledon was in the final stages of the tournament, having begun on the last Monday of the previous month. All such information remained intact.

It was the important things she had misplaced.

Her name, for instance.

She knew every living person had one. She simply couldn’t remember hers. She didn’t know where she had come from, where she lived, or how she had ended up in a hospital bed with a thick bandage wrapped around her forehead.

According to the three women sharing the ward with her, she’d been unconscious for two days—the entire time she’d been admitted to their ward—and not a single person, as far as they knew, had come looking for her.

Of the three women, there was Hilda, fifty-six, who was in there with chronic waist pain. And Jemima—Gem, as she insisted on being called—a youngster who looked suspiciously like she’d had a disagreement with something stronger than cough syrup and lost.

And then there was Susie.

Also in her early-to-mid fifties, like Hilda, she didn’t seem to know when to stop talking. She had given her an account of everything that had happened, from the moment she’d been wheeled in to the moment she’d opened her eyes—all before the doctor had even arrived. Apparently, she’d been in and out of consciousness throughout those two days, delirious, sometimes speaking nonsense in several different languages, and sometimes doing nothing but screaming.

To put it simply, she’d been completely haywire.

Currently, the doctor and his two residents stood around her bed, all three wearing grave expressions that made her feel as though she were something to be pitied.

The very same plastered across the faces of her three roommates.

She looked from one solemn face to another.

This was beginning to feel like a drama.

“Let me see if I’ve got this,” she said slowly. “I was found in an alley, unconscious, with a gash on my forehead...” She touched the thick bandage cautiously. “I was brought here. Nobody knows who I am, and the police couldn’t find me in the records.”

“That about sums it up.” The doctor nodded.

“How extensive was the search?”

“The police indicated they ran your face against every missing person on record. It turned up nothing. Your fingerprints didn’t pick up a match either.”

“And DNA? Not even that?” she whispered.

“Not even that,” he confirmed with a nod.

She stared at him, then glanced around the ward.

“So…” She swallowed. “I’m the world’s least popular person.”

The doctor allowed himself a small smile. “It makes more sense to say you don’t exist.”

She didn’t share his amusement. She only frowned.

It made no sense at all.

There had been a government exercise to ensure that everyone’s biometric data was captured and entered into the national database—including DNA, though, if she remembered correctly and she believed she did, the particulars had not been advertised to the general population. Officially, it had first been presented as a national identification exercise, with additional data collected later under the guise of a nationwide flu-testing programme during the pandemic.

Every British citizen had been entered into the national database. Everyone had a record. It was practically impossible to rent a flat in the country without the identification that came with being registered, let alone live there undocumented for years. Yet here she was—knowing more about the operation five years ago than the average person in the room, and still had no record at all.

Not unless she hadn’t been born in England.

Unless she wasn’t a British passport holder.

Which, in turn, meant she wasn’t a citizen?

But even an immigrant would have left a trail. A face. Fingerprints. Some form of identification.

But the police had found nothing?

Absolutely... nothing?

Did it mean she was an illegal who had been under the radar for so long?

But she knew so much about government operations.

Had she…?

She gasped.

Had she been involved in something illicit that had given her access to confidential information, but was dangerous enough to get her killed? Had she been part of a gang that had abandoned her—or left her for dead?

“The police are on standby to discuss the details with you. If you would prefer somewhere more private, you can meet them in one of the consultation rooms or a meeting room. You’re well enough to move about now,” the doctor said.

She nodded, though the thought of meeting the police made her stomach do a flip-flop.

It must be how criminals feel about the authorities.

As the doctor turned to leave, she caught his white coat.

“You will be there with me, won’t you?” she asked, then added, almost pleadingly, “Please?”

He must have seen the panic in her eyes, because he sighed and nodded.

“If you want me to be. In the absence of a guardian, I can stay with you in my capacity of your doctor.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, releasing his coat.

She sank back against the cool, soft pillows, forcing herself to breathe. She refused to let fear engulf her, and even more firmly refused to meet the eyes of the women around her. Whether they held pity or judgement, she wanted none of it.

She knew who she was. She knew it deep in her bones. She might not have a name yet, but she knew she had an identity.

A mistake must have made her invisible.

***

An hour later, a nurse helped her into a small, six-by-six-foot glass-enclosed cubicle. The two officers were already there, notepads and pens at the ready, seated opposite the chair she was to occupy, almost like a courtroom setup.

The welcome she received was about as warm as the arrangement of the room. They regarded her as though she were an unwanted addition to their list of tasks—one that would take considerably longer than necessary to tick off.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the chair and waited for them to speak.

“We hope you’re feeling better, Miss,” one of them began.

“As well as anyone without an identity can be,” she replied, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.

Neither officer smiled.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and glanced at her doctor.

The older of the two officers cleared his throat.

“I’m Detective Constable Daniel Mercer. This is Detective Constable Bright Bennett. We’re with the Metropolitan Police’s Missing Persons Unit. For a start, we want to discuss what happens after you’re discharged. We understand that’s likely to be tomorrow or the day after.

“As we haven’t been able to identify you over the past two days, there’s no one we can contact on your behalf. We’ve therefore involved Social Services, and temporary accommodation has been arranged for you at a local shelter. You’ll have a room and meals while the investigation continues.

“Someone from Social Services will meet you once you’re discharged and take you there. You’ll have our contact details, of course, so if you remember anything—anything at all—you can call us. We’ll also keep in touch with you and check on you often. Naturally, we’ll need to know that you’re staying at the accommodation provided.”

Bright Bennett pulled a file from his desk and took out a photograph, handing it to her.

“Do you remember this place?”

It was an alley, but she found nothing familiar or significant about it. She shook her head.

“That isn’t my neighbourhood, is it?”

“That’s where you were found unconscious,” he replied.

“Oh.”

“Do you remember any addresses? Any names?”

She shook her head again, lowering her gaze. This was hopeless. She couldn’t recall a single name from her past, even though she could perfectly remember landmarks.

Bennett stood, signalling that the interview was over. His partner followed suit.

“Is that it?” she demanded, panic rising in her voice.

They couldn’t just give up on her.

But the two officers exchanged a look, each raising an eyebrow as though to say, Was there something else you wanted?

Would you stop treating me like a charity case? I can be someone important.

important indeed, she scoffed at herself.

Someone with a name out there wouldn’t need to be fished from a database to begin with.

It was one thing not to remember who she was.

It was another for nobody else to know either... to be nothing but a blank in the records.

Even the royals were on record.

And she knew that how? She frowned.

She just did.

Had she been one of the people who worked on the classified database?

Had she worked for the government, perhaps?

Law enforcement?

Intelligence?

Was she perhaps—

A secret agent?

The absurdity of the thought drew a sigh from her.

“At the very least, can you tell me how the investigation is going? Are there any other searches you can carry out?”

The officer hesitated.

“Well, at present, we have no evidence that you have lawful status in the country. We’ve therefore involved the immigration authorities.”

Her stomach tightened.

“But given your circumstances”—he paused, evidently searching for a tactful way to describe the fact that she appeared to be a living, breathing ghost—“there are several possibilities that can delay their progress. You could be a victim of trafficking. You could have been deliberately concealed from the authorities. Or, unlikely as it sounds, there could simply have been an omission in the system.”

He gave her a measured look.

“Further investigation should tell us which.”

They left then, leaving her sitting alone with her thoughts until the doctor spoke.

“I can almost confidently say you’re not a victim of trafficking.”

“And how can you be so sure?” she asked tonelessly.

The doctor cleared his throat.

“We carried out every necessary check. Standard procedure. There are no obvious signs of physical or sexual abuse, and you weren’t under the influence of any drugs when you were brought in. Those things can sometimes be indicators, though none of them would be conclusive on their own.”

She continued to stare at him, willing him to continue.

“That doesn’t rule trafficking out completely, of course,” he added quickly. “There are different forms of trafficking, and not every victim shows visible signs of abuse. But as there was nothing found during your examination to suggest that’s what happened to you, you can take some comfort in that, at least.”

He stood and offered her a hand.

“For now, you should go back and rest. Everything will be sorted out in due course.”

She took his hand and rose.

The door opened and closed behind them.

A different nurse than the one who helped her into the room earlier stepped in. She crossed to the doctor and whispered something to him.

At once, his expression changed. First, surprise. Then something approaching astonishment.

He glanced at her, his mouth gaping and closing as though unable to construct the words to speak.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Good news,” he said, trying to inject some excitement into it. “The police left word at the front desk that they’ve gotten hold of a man who might know you. They’re rushing back to the station to meet him.”

The world tilted on its axis. A man who might know her in her lonely, bewildering world ought to have been welcoming, brought her hope. Strangely, the news rather filled her with foreboding.

She slowly lowered herself back into the chair.