Where There's Smoke

CHAPTER 15

The red-haired librarian remembered Kate. His windburned cheeks seemed to redden even more when he saw her. She would have been flattered at another time, but now it barely registered. “It was several months ago,” she said. “You helped me with something called — “

“Don’t tell me …” He snapped his fingers. “A PsychLIT search, wasn’t it?”

“You said that I could have photocopies of the actual articles. Can I still do that?”

He nodded, pleased to be helpful. “There’s a fee, but provided we’ve got the journals they appeared in on file, no problem.”

He led her to an unused monitor screen. She gave him Alex Turner’s name again, and he accessed the CDROM records. “Which was it you wanted?” the librarian asked.

“All of them, please.”

The librarian ran a print-out and asked Kate to wait. She sat at a table near the computer consoles. Around her, students and one or two older individuals stared at screens with degrees of absorption. It seemed a long time before the librarian returned. He had a sheaf of photocopies with him. “Take you a while to wade through this lot,” he said, cheerfully. “One or two were in obscure American journals that we don’t stock, but we’d got most of them on file.”

Kate waited until he had gone before flicking through the photocopied articles. She’d asked for all of them, but there was one in particular she wanted to see. It was halfway down the pile.

“Prometheus’ Children: Case Studies of Pyromania.”

This had been the last record she had looked at when she had checked out Alex Turner’s credentials. She had only glanced at it before giving up, but the title had obviously lodged. At least, the fact that it was about pyromania had. She didn’t know what, if anything, it would tell her. But pyromania was an obsession with fire. And Inspector Collins had called Timothy Ellis an incendiary.

She began to read. The first section came under the heading “Classification”.

It is stating the obvious to say that different people raise fires for different reasons. Financial reward, political gesture, revenge, and vandalism are all motives for fire-setting. Numerous systems of classification have been put forward in an attempt to categorise the different types of arsonists, all of which are subject to a degree of overlap. But for the sake of this study the two broad group headings suggested by Faulk will be used:

Group I: Fire serves as a means to an end.

Group II: Fire itself is the phenomenon of interest.

Examples such as arson for insurance claims or to cover evidence of another crime fall into Group I. For the most part, pathological fire-setting, or pyromania, falls into Group II. Pyromania (an older term is incendiarism) is an impulse-control disorder characterised by a recurrent failure ato resist impulses to set fires, and a fascination with watching them burn.

The fire-setting is typically undertaken without any obvious monetary, revenge, or political motivation, and is frequently accompanied by increased tension before starting the fire, and intense pleasure or release during and afterwards. In extreme cases this gratification may take the form of sexual excitement (pyrolagnia, or erotic pyromania).

According to Greek mythology, Prometheus stole fire from the gods using a hollow stick. Freud and Jung said this could equate to both the male and female organ, and indicated a degree of identity/gender confusion which they thought characteristic of fire raisers.

Subsequent studies seem to bear out this observation, showing that most pathological arsonists are young adult males, many of whom have serious social and sexual relationship problems (a trend which also applies to arsonists in general). Pathological fire setters frequently suffer from considerable psychosocial disadvantages as a result of personal inadequacies (actual or perceived) and adverse social conditions. Studies have noted that nearly all children who raise fires experienced inadequate relationships with their parents, and there is evidence that a high proportion have some form of minor physical abnormality, such as obesity or harelip.

Pyromania may be thought of as an addiction wherein the short-term “benefits” (i.e., excitement, gratification) take precedence over the negative long term consequences.

There were four case studies, simply referred to as A, B, C, and D. Kate began to read the first closely, but skipped to the end when it was obviously unfamiliar. The second she also skimmed. When she reached the third, she found what she had been looking for.

C is a twenty-five-year-old white male, of above average intelligence and from a middle-class background. The family group was dysfunctional, with frequent violent arguments between the parents that would often extend to verbal and physical attacks on C and his two brothers, followed by periods of neglect when the parents entered a reconciliation stage. As the youngest and therefore lowest in the family hierarchy, C was often subjected to sibling bullying. When C was five years old he had his fingers put into a lighted gas fire by one brother. This would bear out Jackson’s observation (1994) that some arsonists have been victims of fire themselves at some point. Although it is not possible to say that this experience was the direct cause of C’s later obsession with fire, the trauma subsequently left him with a speech impediment in the form of a severe stutter, which exacerbated his sense of personal inadequacy and contributed further to his growing isolation from family and peer group. It should be noted that neither of his two brothers exhibited any corresponding dysfunction, although the elder may have had a latent inclination towards kleptomania, indicated by an arrest for shoplifting shortly before his death.

C’s history of fire setting began at the age of ten, when he set fire to a curtain in the family home. His subsequent beating by both parents, and later his brothers, appears to have had the opposite effect to deterring him, forcing him into a spate of fire raising that culminated six months later in his burning down a shed in the local park. This resulted in the first police involvement, following which he was recommended for psychological assessment.

There followed a period of relative stability, lasting for eighteen months, when C started no fires. However, this also coincided with his going to stay with his paternal grandmother, when his father was imprisoned on a fraud charge. Away from the family home, his condition appears to have improved markedly, and it was only after his return there, following his father’s release from prison, that his fire setting resumed.

At fourteen he was caught after setting fire to school outbuildings. This time he was referred for psychiatric treatment, following which he was recognised as exhibiting negative symptoms of schizophrenia, such as withdrawal from social contact, intense apathy, and being acutely ill at ease in the presence of other people. However, C’s pyromania was ascertained to be a pathological problem rather than a symptom of his schizophrenia. At no time did he claim to have “heard” voices telling him to start fires, or report any other delusional ideas, as is typically the case when the fire setting is a result of an organic psychiatric disorder.

His compulsion to start fires, and his obsession with watching them, seems instead to have stemmed from an unconscious urge to purge himself of negative emotions. This frequently took the form of setting fire to an object associated with them (as, for instance, the attempt to burn down the school outbuildings, where he had been beaten by a gang of boys several days earlier). However, C’s intense guilt following each incident of fire setting would generally result in his becoming even more withdrawn and isolated, thereby creating a need to start further fires.

C’s schizophrenia appeared to respond well to treatment with anti-psychotic drugs, and once again his pyromania appeared to be under control. However, he was badly traumatised by the death of his paternal grandmother when he was fifteen. This came shortly after an argument between the grandmother and C’s parents, in which his welfare was the central issue. On the evening of his grandmother’s funeral, C set fire to his home, killing both his parents and brothers. Even now he still appears unclear over his intentions in setting this fire, and it is possible that it was set with no real regard for the consequences. He was interrupted by the emergency services in the act of pouring petrol over himself outside the burning house, clearly with the intention of self-immolation.

C was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, 1983, and transferred to a young person’s secure unit, where he was treated with therapy and the anti-psychotic drug Clozapine. In addition, C also received speech therapy to alleviate his stammer. He responded well, and was discharged after eight years into the supervision of a psychiatric social worker and clinical psychologist. He currently seems to have adapted well to living in the community once more, and has been found supervised work within it. To date there has been no recurrence of fire setting, and he expresses a strong understanding of his condition, and a desire to overcome it. Although he remains under psychiatric social worker monitoring, and bi-monthly psychological assessment, there seems a good possibility that, in time, this can be reduced.

The article went on to the next case study, but Kate stopped reading. The edges of her vision darkened. She felt a tingling light-headedness, and gripped the edge of the table until the faint receded. When it had, she grabbed the photocopies and began cramming them into her bag.

Her hands were clumsy and several sheets spilled onto the floor. She bent to retrieve them, and then froze.

The man she had seen on the mortuary slab stared out at her from the top of one of the articles. The photograph was passport-sized and black and white, the face smiling in life, not stiff and disfigured, but it was unmistakably the same man. His name was printed underneath. Dr Alex Turner.

Kate made it to the toilet before she was sick.

The receptionist tried to convince her to make an appointment for later in the week but finally relented and grudgingly told Kate that she could wait to see a doctor that evening.

Kate sat on one of the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, avoiding eye contact with any of the other patients.

An elderly man sat wheezing opposite her, one leg held out stiffly in front of him. Next to him a teenager pored over a women’s magazine in silent absorption. Nearby, a young mother read quietly to a pale-looking toddler on her knee.

Kate picked up a magazine from the table in the centre of the room, but the words and pictures made no sense. When she came to an article on miscarriages she put it down.

The fluorescent lighting took the life out of everything. The waiting room was oppressive in its silence, so that the slightest sound was amplified. The young mother’s voice murmured on in a deafening whisper. The old man’s coughs boomed from the depths of his chest while the teenager’s magazine announced each turned page in a rustle of glossy paper. Kate stared at the top of the receptionist’s head, bent over behind the glass partition, and tried to think of nothing.

One by one the other patients were called in, until she was the last one left. The old man came out and walked stiffly to the door. It squeaked shut behind him, leaving Kate alone once more.

“Kate Powell.”

She stood and went over to the receptionist’s counter. The woman slid her notes under the glass. “Room three.”

Kate walked down the corridor and tapped on the door. A man’s voice spoke from inside. She couldn’t tell what he had said, but went inside anyway.

It was a different GP from the ones she had seen before. He was an elderly man, small, with grey hair and gold half-moon glasses. Without looking up from what he was writing he held out his hand for her notes. Kate sat down and waited.

Finally he gave a small sigh and looked up. “What can I do for you?”

Kate had rehearsed what she would say. Now it all vanished. “I want an abortion,” she blurted.

The doctor looked at her over the top of his glasses. He took out her notes from the manilla envelope and read the more recent entries without answering. “You’re not quite five weeks’ pregnant. Is that right?”

Kate nodded. The doctor pursed his lips and unhurriedly flipped back through her notes. She waited, her hands clenched and white on her lap. When he saw nothing that interested him he turned back to her.

“Why do you want an abortion?”

She told him. He listened without comment, legs crossed, looking at a notepad on his desk, on which he occasionally wrote. Kate tried to keep the quaver from her voice, but by the time she had finished she was shivering uncontrollably.

She had hoped that telling someone, from beginning to end, would prove cathartic. It didn’t.

The doctor made one or two more notes. “And what does the clinic that carried out the insemination say about this? I presume you’ve told them?”

“They … they say it’s nothing to do with them. When I asked them about termination, they said I should contact my own GP.”

Dr Janson had been appalled when Kate had phoned her, and while she had tried hard not to sound unsympathetic, it was obvious that her main worry was absolving the clinic of responsibility. The choice of donor had been entirely Kate’s, she hastily pointed out, scrambling to distance the clinic from any hint of scandal. But Kate hadn’t needed anyone to tell her where the fault lay.

The doctor’s expression was unreadable as he put down his pen and faced her. “So what you’re basically saying is that, after going to great lengths to become pregnant, you’ve now changed your mind.”

His matter-of-factness took Kate’s breath.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Not just like that!”

The doctor took off his glasses, letting them dangle on the cord around his neck. “But that is, essentially, what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Taking a tissue from his pocket, he began wiping the half-moon lenses. “I’m not unsympathetic. I know this must have been very traumatic. But what we’ve got to look at is why, exactly, you want to terminate your pregnancy?”

Kate stared at him, unable to believe he had to ask. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He examined the lenses before letting the glasses hang on the cord again. “It’s obvious that you’re very upset, which is understandable. What I’m trying to establish is whether you no longer want a baby. Or if you just no longer want this particular one?”

Kate opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. The doctor continued. “It’s only natural for you to feel confused and frightened. And angry, I daresay. You’ve been lied to, cheated, and found out in possibly the worst way imaginable that the man you trusted to be the father of your baby is not who he claimed. But perhaps you should be looking at counselling to help you cope with those feelings, rather than rushing into an abortion.”

“I don’t want counselling!”

The confusion she thought had been resolved surfaced again. She shook her head. “I just can’t go through with this!”

“Why can’t you?”

“Why? Because he’s mentally ill!”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Isn’t it enough? He lied to me about who he was. He — he killed his own family! He’s just killed somebody else, for God’s sake!”

“The baby hasn’t.”

The doctor looked at her, calmly. “The child you’re carrying hasn’t done anything, except be conceived. Is it fair to blame it for something its father’s done?”

Again, Kate couldn’t answer. She hadn’t expected an argument, and the issues the doctor raised penetrated her decision like spikes.

“But how can I have his baby now?” Her voice was anguished. “How do I know it won’t be like him?”

The doctor kneaded the bridge of his nose tiredly. “If every family with a history of mental illness passed it on to their children, sooner or later we’d all be affected.” He sighed. “Yes, schizophrenia can sometimes run in families, but it isn’t like eye colour. It isn’t passed on directly. I think something like one child in ten may, may,” he stressed, “develop it if one of its parents is schizophrenic. Which gives a ninety per cent chance that it won’t.

“As for the arson … Well I’m not an expert on psychology, but I doubt very much that something like that is hereditary. I think compulsive behaviour of that sort is more a matter of environment and upbringing than inheritance.”

“So you’re saying you won’t recommend me for an abortion,” Kate said, coldly. She was on the verge of walking out.

“No, I’m saying it’s a serious decision, and before I refer you to have your pregnancy terminated I need to satisfy myself that you’re not doing it for the wrong reasons. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

She remembered Lucy saying the same thing at the beginning, when the idea had seemed full of hope. It wasn’t a welcome memory, and she didn’t respond. The doctor watched her.

“No one would argue that it isn’t an awful situation,” he said, when it was obvious she wasn’t going to speak. “This man is obviously a very disturbed individual, and you’ve undoubtedly suffered a type of abuse. Which is all the more reason why you should reconsider counselling. At the very least I suggest you wait a while before making any decision about your pregnancy.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

The need to undo what had happened shrieked inside her. Everything else was blotted out.

The doctor inclined his head. “It’s your decision, but once you go ahead with this, it’s something you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life. You need to think carefully if it’s what you really want.” He looked steadily at her. “Is it?”

Kate felt she wasn’t really in the room, that this wasn’t her abortion they were discussing. She gripped tight to her resolve. “Yes.”

It had begun to rain as she unlocked the door to her flat, a fine drizzle that fogged the yellow glow from the street lights. She trudged upstairs, absently bending to stroke Dougal when he appeared and wound himself around her ankles. She went through the flat, turning on lights and lamps until there was at least the appearance of warmth. The television provided a background of noise and life.

She fed Dougal and made herself a cheese sandwich. The fridge was almost empty, she noticed. She supposed she would have to go shopping soon, but the thought lacked urgency. As she was about to close the fridge door, she saw the bottle of champagne, still waiting unopened. The sight of it brought a sudden pang, piercing the numbness that surrounded her. She picked it up and quickly dropped it in the bin. The cold, wet touch of the glass burned her hand, and she wiped it on a towel until the sensation had gone.

Taking her sandwich through to the lounge, she saw that the answerphone light was flashing. There were two messages. The first was from Lucy, asking what had happened at the doctor’s. The second was a low hiss of an open line before the click of disconnection.

Kate stood there, listening to the tape rewind. Then she put down her plate and quickly dialled Lucy’s number. The recorded message from Lucy’s answerphone replied. She waited until the beep before speaking.

“It’s Kate.” There was nothing she wanted to say. “Call me when you get in,” she finished, and was about to hang up when there was a high-pitched squeal as the answerphone was interrupted at the other end.

“Sorry about that,” Lucy said, breathlessly, “We were halfway through tea, so we thought we’d see who it was before we answered.”

“I’ll talk to you later, if you like.”

“No, it’s okay. I want to hear how you went on.”

Now she had called her, Kate felt a reluctance to talk. “I’m having it. The abortion.”

She heard Lucy breathe out, relieved. “It’s for the best, Kate, it really is. How soon can you have it?”

“I don’t know yet. Soon, though.”

“You’ve done the right thing. I know it wasn’t an easy choice, but — “

“Look, Lucy, I–I don’t want to talk about it just now.” The urge to put down the phone was almost overpowering. “I’m sorry, I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”

“Are you okay? Do you want to come over?”

“No. Thanks, I’ll be fine, I just … I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

She hung up. The effort of communication left her shaken, and when she went into the lounge she realised she’d left her sandwich in the hall. She went back out. As she reached it the phone rang. Kate stared at it. It rang again. She waited until the last second before the answerphone cut in, then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

There was a silence at the other end. She swallowed. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “For God’s sake, say something!““I’m sorry.” was almost whispered. She leaned her forehead on the wall at the sound of his voice. “Kate? A-are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I phoned before. You w-weren’t in.”

Kate wiped her eyes. “Where are you?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“I’ve seen the police,” she told him. She could hear him breathing. “They told me what you did.”

Silence.

“Why? Why did you do it?” she burst out.

“I–I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” The cry was wrung from her. She wanted to hammer the receiver against the wall. “Sorry? I don’t even know what to call you!”

“Kate … p-please. I didn’t m-mean this to happen.”

“You didn’t mean it to happen? What the hell did you think was going to happen?”

“I–I’m sorry, I — “

“Stop fucking saying you’re sorry!”

She stopped. She felt breathless, as though she had run upstairs. In a calmer voice, she asked, “Why did you do it?”

The silence went on for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“I saw your advert.” His voice sounded wet, as though he was talking through tears. “I was in his waiting room, and there was this m-magazine and it was in it. And then, when I went in to see Dr T-Turner, he had to go out for a few minutes, and I saw his jacket on the back of his chair, so … so I t-took his wallet.”

Kate sank down onto the floor, her back against the wall. “Why, though? I don’t understand.”

She heard him sniff. “I kn-knew you wouldn’t want me But if … if you thought I was somebody else … I didn’t know it was g-going to go on for so long. I thought … I thought you’d n-never know, and that you’d have m-my baby, and look after it, and love it, and — and it’d be like me having a second chance!”

Oh, God. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

“And then I met you, and you told me it would t-take months … and I was glad. You looked so …”

Kate squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t. Please, don’t.

“I just wanted you to like me! I didn’t kn-know it’d go on like it did. I … I kept wanting to tell you, but I couldn’t. I knew you w-wouldn’t want to see me any more … I couldn’t — “

“Is that why you killed Alex Turner?”

It seemed strange, saying the name to him, meaning someone else. He didn’t answer straight away.

“He got the fax.” He spoke softly. “He phoned me and said it was important, and I’d g-got to go round straight after work.”

“After work? The printer’s, you mean, or is this some other career you’ve invented?” She felt ashamed as soon as she’d said it.

He faltered. “The p-printer’s. Kate, I — “

“Just go on.”

She heard him draw a shaky breath. “He was there by himself. When I went in, he just showed me the f-fax and then said, ‘Who’s Kate?’ I–I just couldn’t think. He said he’d thought it’d b-been me who’d taken his wallet, but he hadn’t been certain. B-but when he saw what you’d put about my g-grandmother’s St Christopher, he knew then, because I’d told him all about her and what she’d said about it. And he said, ‘Tim, don’t you think you’d b-better tell me what you’ve done? So I told him, and all the time I k-kept thinking about you being pregnant, and that it was our baby, and — and I felt so happy.”

There was a pause. She could hear him breathing, reliving it. His voice when he continued was low, close to breaking.

“And then when I’d finished, he said, ‘You’ve c-caused quite a mess, haven’t you?’ And then he said it’d got to be sorted out, and he was going to have to t-tell you. I said I’d tell you myself, but he said he c-couldn’t let me, it had gone too far for that. He w-wouldn’t l-listen.”

His stammer had grown worse, like a machine shaking itself apart.

“He started telling me to c-calm down, but how c-could I when he was going to spoil everything? If he’d just let me tell you it would have b-been all right, but he wouldn’t, he told me to sit down, and started saying everything w-would be okay, but I knew it wouldn’t be, I kn-knew he was l-lying. Then he told me not to push him, but I hadn’t, I–I’m sure I hadn’t, and then he started going towards the d-door, and I knew he was going to f-fetch them to come and get me, and I’d n-never see you again, so I–I tried to stop him. I just wanted to explain, to m-make him see, and then — “

He stopped. Kate was rigid, every muscle tense. She could hear his breathing, rapid and laboured.

“I didn’t m-mean to,” he said. “It was only because he was g-going to tell you, but there was so much blood. I just didn’t want him to t-tell you, that was all, I couldn’t stand the thought of what you’d think about me, Kate, I …”

Don’t. She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken it or not. “… I l-love you, Kate …”

No.

“P-please, Kate, I’m s-sorry — “

“No.”

“- Please don’t h-hate me, I didn’t m-mean to hurt anyone — “

“Shut up.”

“- Don’t be upset, I wouldn’t hurt you — “

“Shut up!”

“- I only did it because of the b-baby — “

“There isn’t any baby.”

It was a reflexive cry. There was a silence. “What do you m-mean?” His voice held a barely suppressed panic. “K-Kate, don’t say that!”

“I mean there isn’t any baby!”

“There is, I saw your f-fax, you s-said it — “

“It’s dead! I’ve had an abortion!”

Distantly, she felt herself recoil from the words, but there was a savage exultation in lashing out, hurting him back.

“No.”

The denial was hushed. “I had it this morning.”

“N-no, I d-don’t believe you!”

“They killed it.”

The words ran away with her.

“You’re lying!”

“They cut it out — “

“Oh. God, no, oh, G-God, no — “

“and then they threw it in the incinerator and burnt it!”

She stopped, appalled with herself. She heard him moan.

“Don’t,” she said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“No, no, God, no, oh, no — “

“Listen,” she began, “I haven’t — “

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no — “

The sound of his pain cut through her own. “Please, don’t! You were right, I was — “

“Bitch!” The word hit her like a fist.

“M-murdering fucking bitch!”

“No, listen to me — “

“I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking k-kill you, you murdering BITCH!”

The line went dead. The receiver hummed in her ear. Slowly, Kate lowered it.

She became aware of a weight on her lap. Looking down, she saw that at some point Dougal had come and sat on her knee without her noticing. A noise from the phone made her start, and she almost dropped it as a recorded voice pipingly instructed her to replace the handset. She dislodged Dougal and climbed stiffly to her feet. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached as though she had overworked them in the gym. She replaced the phone in its cradle and looked around the hallway as if she didn’t recognise it. But it appeared no different from how it had ten minutes before.

From the lounge, the quiz show still buzzed with gleeful laughter. Kate walked away from the sound. She went downstairs and checked that both doors were locked. Then she came back up and phoned the police.