Say You're sorry

5

Standing alone at the dais, I clutch the lectern in both hands and blink into the brightness. Faces are visible in the light from the stage; pale, winterized, peering from tiered seats that rise into the deeper shadows.

The lecture theatre is half empty. The weather has kept them away, or perhaps I’m not a big enough draw: Professor Joseph O’Loughlin-the trembling psychologist-the man who can supposedly “walk through minds.”

This is not my usual audience. Normally, I’m lecturing university students with baggy clothes and oily skin. Today I’m facing my peers: psychologists, psychotherapists and psychiatrists, who think I have some wisdom to impart, some remarkable insight into the human condition, which will give them a better understanding of their patients.

I begin.

“Imagine, if you can, feeling absolutely no concern for another human being. No guilt. No remorse. No shame. Never once regretting a single selfish, lazy, cruel, unethical or immoral word or action in your entire life.

“Nobody matters except you. Nobody deserves respect. Equality. Fairness. They are useless, ignorant, gullible fools, who are taking up space and the air you breathe.

“Now I want you to add to this strange fantasy the ability to conceal from other people exactly what you are, to be able to hide your true nature. Nobody knows what you’re really like… how little you care for other people… what you’re capable of…

“Imagine what you could achieve. Where others hesitate, you will act. Where others set boundaries, you will cross them, unhampered by any moral restraints or pangs of disquiet, any rules or ethics, with ice water in your veins and a heart of pure stone.

“What will you do with this power? That will depend upon what your desires are. Not all psychopaths are the same. And despite what the tabloid newspapers say, they’re not all serial killers or mass murderers.

“Based on the law of averages, at least four people in this theatre match the description I’ve just given. Maybe you’re sitting next to one of them. Maybe you’re one yourself.”

There are nervous smiles among the audience, but nobody looks sideways. They are listening.

“We are all different. Some of us are fuelled by ambition or a lust for money or power. Some are lazy. Some are stupid. Some are violent. Some are cowards. Some, as I’ve explained, are psychopaths. Not monsters. Not madmen. They marry, raise families and create business empires, learning to fake sincerity and hide their secret.

“This concept of the successful psychopath is often forgotten or ignored by the medical profession. We study those on the fringes of society-the dropouts and low achievers, the ones who get caught who have neither the intellect nor the inclination to rule the world. Only in the last few years have we begun to investigate the psychopaths who hide successfully among us.”

Glancing at my audience, I recognize one or two faces. I worked on a research project with Eric Knox, who is sitting next to Andrew Nelson, a friend from university, who once dated my sister Rebecca and broke her heart. Two rows back, I notice a woman who looks familiar. It takes me a few minutes to put a name to her face: Victoria Naparstek, Augie Shaw’s psychiatrist.

“I’m going to end with a story,” I tell them. “It’s about an affable, charismatic man who grew up in a lower-middle-class neighborhood of New York. Reclusive, stand-offish, slightly aloof, he married his childhood sweetheart and had two sons.

“He started a money management business, handling investments for friends and family. Success followed: a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, shares in two private jets; a yacht moored off the French Riviera. By his seventies he was managing billions of dollars for individuals and foundations, constantly signing up new clients including charities, public institutions and investment firms.

“He shunned one-on-one meetings with most of his investors, but that only increased his allure. He also avoided the Manhattan cocktail circuit, fostering his reputation as a financial mastermind blessed with the Midas touch-the sage of Wall Street. Does anybody know who I’m talking about?”

“Bernie Madoff,” says a voice from the darkness.

“A classic psychopath; a charlatan of epic proportions, a greedy manipulator so hungry to accumulate wealth that he destroyed the lives of thousands of people and didn’t lose a moment’s sleep.

“He had education, money, opportunity, a magnificent IQ and absolutely no vestige of conscience. Never blinking, never fearing exposure, he engineered the largest Ponzi scheme in history, convinced that he was above the law and that his victims were stupid, unworthy and contemptible.

“Madoff isn’t a one-off. There are many like him out there. They choose business, politics, law, science, banking and international relations; pursuing their chosen career with a ruthless, single-minded efficiency, unencumbered by moral uncertainty or guilt, without regard for anyone else.

“They stab colleagues in the back, undermine rivals, ruin enemies, fabricate evidence, shred the truth, lie, cheat, steal and ride roughshod over everyone who stands in their way. Sometimes they marry for money. Divorce for money. Embezzle funds. Bankrupt charities. Start wars. Invade countries. Crush the powerless. Corrupt the innocent. And always with the exquisite freedom of knowing they will sleep peacefully at night.

“These are not the psychopaths who you and I treat in our consulting rooms. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s not an issue of treating them. They’re not broken-they just are. It’s a personality trait, not a personality disorder.”

A hand is raised; a young man, perhaps a postgraduate student. “Aren’t we obliged to treat them?”

“Why?”

“They need our help.”

“What if all we’re doing is giving them the skills to fake sincerity and become better psychopaths?”

My inquisitor isn’t satisfied. “Surely you’re exaggerating the problem?”

I stop my left arm from trembling. “I read a newspaper story this morning that anorexia has reached epidemic proportions in this country. There are four times as many psychopaths in this country as people with eating disorders. Does that make it an epidemic or an exaggeration?”

I take a handful of further questions, most of them focused on the empirical data. I warn them not to get too caught up in the statistics. They’re important to scientists and students, but less so for clinicians. Human behavior can’t be broken down into bell curves and graphs.

“On July 24, 2000, the Concorde was the safest aircraft in the world. A day later-according to the statistics-it was the least safe airline in the world. Beware the data.”

The lecture is over. Seats slowly empty. Nobody approaches me. Dr. Naparstek hasn’t renewed our acquaintance, which creates a pang of regret. She’s a good-looking woman, attractive without trying. Late-thirties. Slim. Stylish. Out of my league.

Am I even playing in a league?

Julianne put me on a free transfer list three years ago and nobody has made me a serious offer-not even a guest appearance in a friendly.

Outside in the foyer everyone is talking about the weather. A voice makes me stop.

“Augie Shaw didn’t kill those people.”

Victoria Naparstek is standing beside the doors. She’s wearing a gray woolen sweater dress, black nylons and knee-length leather boots.

“I thought you’d be honest. Fearless. You let Stephen railroad you.”

“Stephen?”

“DCI Drury.”

They’re on first name terms.

“You told him what he wanted to hear.”

“I gave him my opinion.”

She steps forward, studying me. Her eyes seem to change color as she moves. “They’re applying to keep Augie Shaw in custody for another forty-eight hours.”

“Which has nothing to do with me.”

“He didn’t kill those people.”

“He was there.”

“He has no history of violence. He doesn’t cope well with confined spaces. The last time they locked him up-”

“The last time?”

“It was a mistake. He was exonerated.”

Her hair is cut shorter than I remember. Instead of long rope-thick tresses, she has a chin-skimming bob that sweeps over her cheekbones and ends at the nape of her neck.

“I’m frightened that he’ll harm himself.”

“Tell Drury.”

“He won’t listen to me.”

She glances at my left hand. My thumb and forefinger are brushing together in a pill-rolling motion.

“Do I make you nervous?” she asks.

“I have Parkinson’s.”

Her mouth forms a lipstick circle. She tries to apologize.

“You weren’t to know,” I say.

“I’m doing everything wrong today. Can we start again? I could buy you lunch.”

“Or we could go halves.”

A smile this time… dimples.

“I know just the place,” she says, marching ahead of me. I check out her figure, forever hopeful. She takes me to the Head of the River, a pub alongside Folly Bridge. Pushing open the heavy door, she takes my coat and hangs it on a hook. Then she chooses a table away from the fire. Orders mineral water. Asks about wine.

“I don’t drink.”

“Your medication.”

“Yes.”

“What are you on?”

“Levodopa for the symptoms, carbidopa for the nausea, Prozac to stop me being depressed about having a major degenerative illness.”

“How bad does it get?”

“This is a good day…”

We sit a bit, staring at the table as though fascinated by each other’s cutlery.

Victoria Naparstek is a little different from what I remember. Her clothes are less feminine, more practical. A string of pearls makes her look older. Maybe she grew tired of being objectified, which would make her unusual among women.

“Are you here alone?” she asks.

“With my eldest daughter Charlie… she’s out somewhere spending my money.”

“You’re married?”

“Separated. Three years. Two girls. Fifteen and seven. They live with their mother, but I see them quite a bit; less now that I’m in London.”

“Mmm.”

“What?”

“It’s interesting.”

“What is?”

“I asked a simple question and you gave me your entire life story-everything except your favorite color.”

“Blue.”

“Sorry?”

“My favorite color is blue.”

I look at the menu. Victoria orders the soup. I do the same. Terrible choice. My left arm trembles.

I change the subject and ask about her practice. She lives in west London, but travels to Oxford two days a week, working mainly for the NHS.

“How did you come to treat Augie Shaw?”

“He turned up at a police station two years ago and confessed to raping a woman, but it was a false complaint.”

“She wouldn’t press charges?”

“She’d never seen him before. Augie fantasized about raping her. I think he genuinely believed that he’d done it. He was mortified. Shocked. Angry at himself.”

“You stopped him in time.”

“He stopped himself.” She runs her finger around the edge of her glass. “Augie started having problems in his late teens. Auditory hallucinations. Blackouts. Disorganized thinking. Chronic headaches. Insomnia. He claimed to get contrary messages whenever he had to make an important decision.”

“Messages?”

“From his twin brother.”

“Drury said he doesn’t have a brother.”

“His twin died at birth but Augie believes he’s still corded with his brother’s soul. He says it’s like his twin is trapped inside him and won’t leave.”

“Paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Delusional ideas-some grandiose, others paranoid.”

“Medication?”

“Anti-psychotics: olanzapine fifteen milligrams and sleeping tablets. During our sessions, I tried to get Augie to mentally cut the cord, but he’s resistant. He thinks half his personality will disappear if he loses contact with his brother.”

“You mentioned claustrophobia?”

“Augie’s father used to lock him in a cupboard when he was a boy. He still suffers nightmares. He hates confined spaces. He also believes that inside air is poisonous and that’s why his brother died in the womb.”

“You said he had no history of aggression.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He fantasized about raping a woman.”

“He was delusional.”

“He was sacked by the Heymans for going through their daughter’s underwear.”

“Augie said that was a misunderstanding.”

“His fingerprints are all over the murder scene. His hands were burned. He didn’t report the fire. Instead, he went home to bed.”

Her eyes have narrowed. “He panicked.”

“And that’s your explanation?”

“He’s a schizophrenic. He’s convinced he’s done bad things, but he hasn’t.”

She hears me sigh.

“You should talk to his lawyer,” I say. “Surrender your clinical notes.”

“He’ll have to share them with the prosecution.”

“You’re hiding behind protocol.”

“I’m trying to save Augie.”

“The police can get a court order.”

“Fine. When that happens I’ll abide by the law. Until then I’ll be siding with the angels.”

Our meals have arrived. I choose the bread roll, not willing to tackle the soup.

“You’re not hungry.”

“Not really.”

She signals the waitress, whispers something. Moments later another serving of soup arrives, this time in a mug. I should feel embarrassed, but I have gone beyond feeling self-conscious.

“Will you interview him again?”

“Who?”

“Augie. Talk to him.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You’ll see I’m right. I’ve worked with him. He’s harmless.”

There’s something she’s not telling me; some other reason that Augie Shaw went to the Heymans’ house that night. He lost his job for inappropriate conduct. He was found in the daughter’s bedroom going through her things.

“Is this about the daughter?” I ask.

Victoria Naparstek shakes her head.

“Not the daughter… the wife.”

I often wonder what I look like now.

I can see bits of me: my hands, my feet, my stomach and my knees, but not my face. We used to have a mirror but Tash broke it and tried to cut her wrists so George took it away.

She didn’t cut very deeply, but that’s only because she couldn’t find a sharp enough edge. We also lost our only pair of scissors because Tash hacked off my hair. She was trying to make me look ugly. Uglier.

Knives, nail-clippers, all the sharps have been taken away like we’re living in some mental asylum. He even took the can-opener because he thought she might use the edge of the baked bean tin, but he gave it back again because we had to eat.

If I lean close to the tap I can see my reflection in the stainless steel, but the curve makes my head look like a squash. It’s like one of those funfair mirrors or the weird pictures you can make using Photo Booth on a Mac.

Tash will be back soon. She’ll bring the police… my mum and dad… the army, the navy, the Queen’s Guard. Every time I look at the window above the sink, I think about her. Every time I close my eyes.

The reason George hasn’t come is because the police must have arrested him. They’ve locked him up and I hope they beat the shit out of him or he gets raped with a broom handle in prison.

I’m sorry about my swearing. I have a potty mouth. I once overheard my mum telling my Aunt Jean that I might have Tourette’s Syndrome so I looked it up on Google and I found out it’s when you say fuck at inappropriate times and you do lots of eye-blinking and facial gymnastics. Gordon Ramsay does that all the fucking time, I thought, and I don’t swear at the wrong times, I just swear a lot.

I’m curled up on the bunk, wearing all my clothes. When Tash was here we used to lie together to keep warm and tell each other stories. We’d imagine eating make-believe meals like fish and chips, bread and butter pudding and chicken korma, Tash’s favorite.

After she cut off my hair, I offered to do hers, but she said it didn’t matter because it was falling out anyway. She could pull out chunks like it was some party trick.

When I was a little girl I used to wet my hair and flatten it with a comb, parading in front of the mirror pretending that I had straight hair. I did a lot of embarrassing things, which don’t seem so bad any more.

I’m eighteen now-as far as I can tell. I have no idea of the date, but I can count the seasons. Tash woke me one morning last spring and said she was throwing me a party for my birthday. We had biscuits and sweetened tea on a blanket in the middle of the floor.

Right now I know it’s winter because of the snow and the naked trees. I can look outside if I stand on the bench and lift myself up on tiptoes. The window is about ten inches high and wider across. If I hold my face close I feel the air coming through the crack at the bottom of the metal frame. At certain times of year, when the sun shines, it angles through the window and makes geometric shapes on the opposite wall that shift and twist. It’s my television, my weather channel.

That’s the window Tash squeezed through by standing on my shoulders. I’ve jammed it back in place so that George won’t be angry, but he’ll know the truth and there’s nowhere for me to hide.

I know every inch of this place. I know the crevices and cracks between the bricks, every water stain and smudge and peeling paint flake.

In one corner there are two narrow bunk beds. Tash and I pushed them closer together so we could hold hands in the dark. On the far wall there are shelves with cans of food and boxes of porridge oats. The other wall has a bench with a gas burner, a kettle and a sink. There is a tap with only cold water. A hose snakes through a hole in the wall. If I look along the edge of the hose, I can see a tiny bit of greenery.

The only other furniture is a chest of green-painted drawers and a kitchen cabinet with stencils of geraniums. This is where we keep our clothes. Oh, and I forgot to mention the two straw-bottomed chairs and a table with bamboo legs.

The ladder is attached to the wall opposite the window. It only goes halfway to the ceiling and if I could balance on the very top rung, I might just be able to reach the trapdoor with my fingertips. Behind the ladder there is a poster of Brighton Pier. I think it’s Brighton. The words have been torn off at the bottom but you can see the sea and people walking on the pier. They’re dressed in old-fashioned clothes with the women carrying umbrellas and the men wearing hats.

There is a camera in the corner of the ceiling, one of those webcams that look like a cue ball, or a beady black eye. I don’t know if it’s hooked up to anything. Maybe it’s another one of George’s lies.

There is only one place in the room where the eye can’t see us. It is in the corner under the ladder near the sink. That’s where I wash myself and where I squat over the bedpan.

When I can’t sleep I do OCD stuff like rearranging the cans of food in the cupboard and wiping the benches. There are only four cans. I have plain baked beans, baked beans with sausages, baked beans with barbecue sauce and baked beans with cheese, which is totally gross. I’m out of tuna and sweetcorn and biscuits. After stacking the cans, I count the sticking plasters and headache tablets and little rehydration sachets that you mix with water when you get the runs-the ones that are supposed to be fruit-flavored, but they taste like medicine.

That’s everything in the cupboard. There’s nothing for the skin rashes, eye infections, aching teeth, stomach cramps, or period pains; nothing for the boredom or the loneliness.

At least there are no bugs. If this were summer my legs would be dotted with bug bites, which I scratch until they bleed.

I don’t mind the darkness any more. It hides my blotchy skin and hairy legs. In the darkness I can be invisible. I can pretend that I don’t exist or that George can’t see me. He’ll think I’ve escaped and leave me alone.

Some nights I used to think he was watching us. I could feel him behind the beady black eye on the ceiling, which seemed to follow us around the room, but Tash said it was just an optical illusion.

In all those months and years, he only ever looked at Tash. The reason she cut off my hair was to make me less attractive. She was protecting me. Keeping me safe.