unconscious."
"Does she describe it?" Sophie says, and when the doctor finds no description "Do you remember, Luke?"
"Why would I want to?" Some of the trouble is that he does. He's hearing Freda protest "Don't do that with your hands, Luke, they'll stick that way" and "What are you trying to do? You'll damage them if you're not careful." Even if he's paraphrasing her words, there's no question of the shape his hands were straining to adopt. He has to assume Terence showed him some version of the sign, but where? If he has forgotten this for so many years, what else may be lying in wait in his mind? "I've no idea what it could have meant," he tells Sophie, which is true enough.
"Perhaps it was your way of fending off whatever you imagined was threatening you," says Dr Meldrum. "I'm sure you both have more immediate concerns, but do appreciate that we've found nothing untoward today."
Luke and Sophie thank him as he ushers them out of his office. Somewhere down the corridor that looks and smells scoured, a baby is wailing. Another one starts a thin imitation, and soon they're joined by a chorus. Sophie gives the clamour a wry smile and says "I'm sorry, Luke."
"What have you got to be sorry for?"
"I was hoping today might make up for not finding your parents when you thought you had."
"Of course it does." At least Luke can persuade her that he has left any disquiet behind. "He'll be bright, little Maurice," he says. "He already is." The infant wails fade into the distance as the automatic doors let him and Sophie out of the hospital. They turn their phones back on, and Luke's emits a sharp alert. He has missed a call from somebody unidentified who left no message. He's returning the mobile to his pocket, and trying not to wonder vainly how important the call was, when the phone begins to vibrate in his hand. Before it has a chance to ring he says "Hello?"
For some moments he's afraid his urgency has silenced if not scared away the caller, and then a woman blurts "Mr Arnold?"
"Luke Arnold, yes."
"You're the Mr Arnold who was on television."
"I'm one of them. I'm the one who turned out not to be one."
"I know." She sounds apologetic, but she already did, and more so as she adds "How have you been since?"
Sophie is questioning him with her eyes, and he can only wave at her; he would switch on the loudspeaker if it weren't for the noise of traffic on the road outside the hospital. "Why do you ask?" he says, pressing the mobile against his ear.
"I should think a lot of people who saw the show must have felt for you, Mr Arnold."
He doesn't think this is much of an answer; it's more like avoiding one. Before he can say so the woman enquires "Have you done anything about the situation?"
Is she some kind of counsellor? "What would you suggest?" Luke retorts.
"Have you been looking into it, I mean."
"I've been trying to find out where I came from."
"So you want to know."
Sophie is frowning at him, but he waves so fiercely she looks rebuffed. "Why shouldn't I?" he demands.
"That's not for me to say, Mr Arnold."
"True enough, but then why are you calling?"
She's silent, and Luke is afraid he has been too aggressive. He's about to prompt her when he hears her take a long breath. "I was a nurse at the hospital," she says. "I know what happened after you were born."
THE WATCHERS
She didn't give Luke her surname or a precise time to meet her. She told him to be in the park by eight, and he's still there, sitting at a picnic table that gives him a view of much of Greenbank Park. Ahead of him is an expanse of grass bordered by trees and railings, beyond which it's overlooked by houses on the far side of Greenbank Road. They're on Luke's right, while to his left a concrete path leads alongside a narrow lake almost the length of the park, and behind him is a children's playground. His vision has kept pace with the growing darkness, some of which is brought by clouds; the sky resembles the roof of a coal mine patched with
"Does she describe it?" Sophie says, and when the doctor finds no description "Do you remember, Luke?"
"Why would I want to?" Some of the trouble is that he does. He's hearing Freda protest "Don't do that with your hands, Luke, they'll stick that way" and "What are you trying to do? You'll damage them if you're not careful." Even if he's paraphrasing her words, there's no question of the shape his hands were straining to adopt. He has to assume Terence showed him some version of the sign, but where? If he has forgotten this for so many years, what else may be lying in wait in his mind? "I've no idea what it could have meant," he tells Sophie, which is true enough.
"Perhaps it was your way of fending off whatever you imagined was threatening you," says Dr Meldrum. "I'm sure you both have more immediate concerns, but do appreciate that we've found nothing untoward today."
Luke and Sophie thank him as he ushers them out of his office. Somewhere down the corridor that looks and smells scoured, a baby is wailing. Another one starts a thin imitation, and soon they're joined by a chorus. Sophie gives the clamour a wry smile and says "I'm sorry, Luke."
"What have you got to be sorry for?"
"I was hoping today might make up for not finding your parents when you thought you had."
"Of course it does." At least Luke can persuade her that he has left any disquiet behind. "He'll be bright, little Maurice," he says. "He already is." The infant wails fade into the distance as the automatic doors let him and Sophie out of the hospital. They turn their phones back on, and Luke's emits a sharp alert. He has missed a call from somebody unidentified who left no message. He's returning the mobile to his pocket, and trying not to wonder vainly how important the call was, when the phone begins to vibrate in his hand. Before it has a chance to ring he says "Hello?"
For some moments he's afraid his urgency has silenced if not scared away the caller, and then a woman blurts "Mr Arnold?"
"Luke Arnold, yes."
"You're the Mr Arnold who was on television."
"I'm one of them. I'm the one who turned out not to be one."
"I know." She sounds apologetic, but she already did, and more so as she adds "How have you been since?"
Sophie is questioning him with her eyes, and he can only wave at her; he would switch on the loudspeaker if it weren't for the noise of traffic on the road outside the hospital. "Why do you ask?" he says, pressing the mobile against his ear.
"I should think a lot of people who saw the show must have felt for you, Mr Arnold."
He doesn't think this is much of an answer; it's more like avoiding one. Before he can say so the woman enquires "Have you done anything about the situation?"
Is she some kind of counsellor? "What would you suggest?" Luke retorts.
"Have you been looking into it, I mean."
"I've been trying to find out where I came from."
"So you want to know."
Sophie is frowning at him, but he waves so fiercely she looks rebuffed. "Why shouldn't I?" he demands.
"That's not for me to say, Mr Arnold."
"True enough, but then why are you calling?"
She's silent, and Luke is afraid he has been too aggressive. He's about to prompt her when he hears her take a long breath. "I was a nurse at the hospital," she says. "I know what happened after you were born."
THE WATCHERS
She didn't give Luke her surname or a precise time to meet her. She told him to be in the park by eight, and he's still there, sitting at a picnic table that gives him a view of much of Greenbank Park. Ahead of him is an expanse of grass bordered by trees and railings, beyond which it's overlooked by houses on the far side of Greenbank Road. They're on Luke's right, while to his left a concrete path leads alongside a narrow lake almost the length of the park, and behind him is a children's playground. His vision has kept pace with the growing darkness, some of which is brought by clouds; the sky resembles the roof of a coal mine patched with
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