Psycho - Three Complete Novels (19 page)

“So he brought her back, actually brought her back from the grave and gave her a new life. He put her to bed at night, dressed her and took her down into the house by day. Naturally, he concealed all this from outsiders and he did it well. Arbogast must have seen the figure placed in the upstairs window, but there’s no proof that anyone else did, in all those years.”

“Then the horror wasn’t in the house,” Lila murmured. “It was in his head.”

“Steiner says the relationship was like that of a ventriloquist and his dummy. Mother and
little
Norman must have carried on regular conversations. And the adult Norman Bates probably rationalized the situation. He was able to pretend sanity, but who knows how much he really knew? He was interested in occultism and metaphysics. He probably believed in spiritualism every bit as much as he believed in the preservative powers of taxidermy. Besides, he couldn’t reject or destroy these other parts of his personality without rejecting and destroying himself. He was leading three lives at once.

“And the point is, he was getting away with it, until—”

Sam hesitated, but Lila finished the sentence for him. “Until Mary came along. And something happened, and he killed her.”

“Mother killed her,” Sam said.
“Norma
killed your sister. There’s no way of finding out the actual situation, but Dr. Steiner is sure that whenever a crisis arose,
Norma
became the dominant personality. Bates would start drinking, then black out while
she
took over. During the blackout, of course, he’d dressed up in her clothing. Afterward he’d hide her image away, because in his mind she was the real murderer and had to be protected.”

“Then Steiner is quite sure he’s insane?”

“Psychotic—that’s the word he used. Yes, I’m afraid so. He’s going to recommend that Bates be placed in the State Hospital, probably for life.”

“Then there won’t be any trial?”

“That’s what I came here to tell you. No, there won’t be any trial.” Sam sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I suppose the way you feel—”

“I’m glad,” Lila said slowly. “It’s better this way. Funny, how differently things work out in real life. None of us really suspected the truth, we just blundered along until we did the right things for the wrong reasons. And right now, I can’t even hate Bates for what he did. He must have suffered more than any of us. In a way I can almost understand. We’re all not quite as sane as we pretend to be.”

Sam rose, and she walked him to the door. “Anyway it’s over, and I’m going to try to forget it. Just forget everything that happened.”

“Everything?” Sam murmured. He didn’t look at her.

And that was the end of it.

Or
almost
the end.

— 17 —

T
he real end came quietly.

It came in the small, barred room where the voices had muttered and mingled for so long a time—the man’s voice, the woman’s voice, the child’s.

The voices had exploded when triggered into fission, but now, almost miraculously, a fusion took place.

So that there was only one voice. And that was right, because there was only one person in the room. There always
had
been one person and
only
one.

She knew it now.

She knew it, and she was glad.

It was so much better to be this way; to be fully and completely aware of one’s self as one
really
was. To be serenely strong, serenely confident, serenely secure.

She could look back upon the past as though it were all a bad dream, and that’s just what it had been: a bad dream, peopled with illusions.

There had been a bad boy in the bad dream, a bad boy who had killed her lover and tried to poison her. Somewhere in the dream was the strangling and the wheezing and the clawing at the throat and the faces that turned blue. Somewhere in the dream was the graveyard at night and the digging and the panting and the splintering of the coffin lid, and then the moment of discovery, the moment of staring at what lay within. But what lay within wasn’t really dead. Not any more. The bad boy was dead, instead, and that was as it should be.

There had been a bad man in the bad dream, too, and he was also a murderer. He had peeked through the wall and he drank, and he read filthy books and believed in all sorts of crazy nonsense. But worst of all, he was responsible for the deaths of two innocent people—a young girl with beautiful breasts and a man who wore a gray Stetson hat. She knew all about it, of course, and that’s why she could remember the details. Because she had been there at the time, watching. But all she did was watch.

The bad man had really committed the murders and then he tried to blame it on her.

Mother killed them.
That’s what he said, but it was a lie.

This book
is for
Stella Loeb Bloch
with
life-long love.

— 1 —

N
orman Bates stared out of the library window, trying hard to avoid seeing the bars.

Just ignore them, that was the trick. Ignorance is bliss. But there was no bliss, and tricks didn’t work here behind the bars of the State Hospital. Once it was the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; now we live in a more enlightened age and they don’t call it that anymore. But there were still bars on the windows and he was still inside, looking out.

Stones walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.
The poet Richard Lovelace said that, way back in the seventeenth century, a long time ago. And Norman had been sitting here a long time—not three hundred years, but it felt like centuries.

Still, if he had to sit, the library was probably the best place, and serving as the librarian was an easy chore. Very few of the patients bothered with books and he had plenty of time to read on his own. That was how he’d encountered Richard Lovelace and all the others: sitting here undisturbed in the cool semi-darkness of the library, day after day. They’d even given him a desk of his own to show that they trusted him, knew he was responsible.

Norman was grateful for that. But at times like this, with the sun shining and birds singing in the streets outside his window, he realized that Lovelace was a liar. The birds were free, but Norman was in a cage.

He’d never told Dr. Claiborne because he didn’t want to upset him, but he couldn’t help feeling this way. It was so unjust, so unfair.

Whatever had occurred to bring him here—whatever he was
told
had occurred, if it was true—happened a long time ago. Long ago in another country, and the wench was dead. He knew now that he was Norman Bates, not his mother. He wasn’t crazy anymore.

Of course, no one was crazy nowadays. No one, whatever he may have done, was a maniac; just mentally disturbed. But who wouldn’t be disturbed, shut away in a cage with a bunch of lunatics? Claiborne didn’t call them that, but Norman knew a madman when he saw one, and through the years he’d seen many. Screwballs, they used to call them. But now television had the last word—wackos, weirdoes, freakos who’ve gone bananas. What was it the standup comics said on the talk shows about not playing with a full deck?

Well this deck was full, even though the cards were stacked against him. And he wasn’t buying this humorous terminology they used to describe a serious illness. Strange how everyone tried to disguise truth with nonsense. Like the slang for death: kicking the bucket, wiped out, snuffed, wasted, blown away. The light touch to dispel the heavy fear.

What’s in a name?
Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me.
Another quotation, but not from Richard Lovelace. Mother was the one who used to say that, when Norman was just a little boy. But Mother was dead now and he was still alive. Alive and in a cage. Knowing this, facing up to the truth, proved he was sane.

If they’d only realized it, they’d have tried him for murder, found him guilty, sentenced him to a term in prison. Then he’d have been out in a few years, seven or eight at the most. Instead they said he was psychotic, but he wasn’t;
they
were the crazy ones, locking up a sick man for life and letting murderers run free.

Norman stood up and walked over to the window. When he pressed close, his range of vision was no longer limited by the bars. Now he could look down on the grounds, sparkling in the bright sunshine of a Sunday afternoon in spring. The birdsongs were clearer now, soothing, more melodious. Sun and song in harmony, the music of the spheres.

When he’d first come here, there’d been no sunlight and no song—only the blackness and the shrieking. The blackness was inside him, a place where he could hide from reality, and the shrieking was the voice of demons searching him out to threaten and accuse. But Dr. Claiborne found a way to reach him in the darkness, and he’d exorcised the demons. His voice—the voice of sanity—had stilled the shrieking. It had taken a long time for Norman to come out of his hiding place and listen to the voice of reason, the voice that told him he was not his own mother, that he was—how did they say it?—his own person. A person who had done harm to others, but never knowingly. So there could be no guilt, no blame. To understand this was to be healed, accepting it was the cure.

And cured he was. No restraint jacket, no padded cell, no sedation. As librarian he had access to the books he’d always loved, and television opened another window on the world, a window without bars. Life was comfortable here. And he was used to being a loner.

But on days like this he found himself missing the contact with other people. Real flesh-and-blood people, not characters in books or images on a tube. Aside from Claiborne, doctors and nurses and orderlies were transient presences. And now that he’d completed his task, Dr. Claiborne spent most of his time with other patients.

Norman couldn’t do that. Now that he was himself again, he couldn’t relate to the crazies. Their mumbling, grimacing, gesturing antics disturbed him, and he preferred solitude to their society. That was the one thing Claiborne couldn’t change, though he’d certainly tried hard enough. It was Dr. Claiborne who’d urged Norman to participate in the amateur theatrical program here, and for a while it was an interesting challenge. At least he’d felt safe onstage, with the footlights separating him from his audience. Up there he was in control, making them laugh or cry at will. The greatest thrill of all came when he took the lead in
Charley’s Aunt
—playing the role in drag, playing so well that they cheered and applauded his performance—but all the while knowing that it
was
just a performance, pretense, make-believe.

That was what Dr. Claiborne said afterward, and only then did Norman realize this had all been arranged, a deliberate test of his ability to function.
You should be proud of yourself,
Claiborne told him.

But there was something Claiborne didn’t realize, something Norman didn’t tell him. The moment of fear that came toward the end, just before the hero’s disguise was discovered. The moment when, simpering and swishing and coquetting with tossing curls, Norman lost himself in the part. The moment when he
was
Charley’s Aunt—except that the fan in his hand was no longer a fan but a knife. And Charley’s Aunt became a real live woman, an older woman, like Mother.

The moment of fear—or the moment of truth?

Norman didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted to give up amateur theatricals for good.

Now, staring out through the window, he noted that the sunshine was fading rapidly into an overcast; thunderheads hovered on the horizon, and the trees bordering the parking lot shivered in the chill of rising wind. Warbling gave way to the discord of fluttering wings as the birds rose from bobbing branches to swoop and scatter against the darkening sky.

It wasn’t the coming of the clouds that disturbed them. They left because the cars were arriving, pulling into the parking spaces on the lot below. And their occupants emerged, moving toward the entrance of the hospital, just as they did during visiting hours every Sunday afternoon.

Oh, Mommy, look at the funny man!

Now, Junior, you mustn’t say such things! Remember what I told you—don’t feed the crazies.

Norman shook his head. It wasn’t right to be thinking like that. These visitors were friends, family, coming here because they cared.

But not for him.

Years ago the reporters had come, but Dr. Claiborne hadn’t let him see them, not even after he’d snapped out of it. And now nobody came.

Most of the people he’d known were dead. Mother, the Crane girl, and that detective, Arbogast. He was alone now, and all he could do was watch the strangers arrive. A few men, a few children, but mostly women. Wives, sweethearts, sisters, mothers, bringing their gifts and their love.

Norman scowled down at them. These people meant nothing to him, brought nothing to him. All they did was scare away the birds. And that was cruel, because he’d always liked having birds around, even the ones he’d stuffed and mounted years ago when he was interested in taxidermy. It wasn’t just a hobby with him; he’d had a real feeling for them.
Saint Francis of Assisi.