The Medea Complex (11 page)

Edgar

March 1
^st
, 1886

Asquith House

There is blood on the walls. Anne is standing in front of
me, holding a knife in her left hand. Anne, what have you done? I killed your
mother, she replies.

She glides towards me slowly, her movements erratic and
fast.

I killed your mother and I killed your son, I will kill
myself soon and it will all be such fun. I'll slit my throat and I'll slit
yours too, then we can join John in hell and all shout Boo!

I wake with a jolt, the haunting taunt ringing in my ears.
Sweat drips in rivulets, sticking my shirt to my back and the sheets are
soaked. The smell of copper hangs in the air, hijacked through my subconscious
into the reality of the morning. A malevolent presence surrounds me, and for a
minute or two I bury myself deep under the covers.

One breath, two breaths...I count to ten slowly, filling my
lungs with air that my dead son will never inhale ever again. In through my
nose, blowing out gently through my mouth. A friend of mine had forced this
upon me minutes after I found John.  Brandishing a brown paper bag, William had
grabbed my head, pinned me with his hands, and suffocated me with it. The
buzzing in my ears had quickly reduced in fever and pitch, and I had rapidly
begun to breathe normally; albeit with a bag attached to my face. I remember
looking at William over my nose, over the bag, and wondering where on earth he
had produced such a specimen from when my wife had just murdered my only son.
It seemed out of place, ridiculous somehow. Since that day, I have experienced
these attacks of breathing on a fairly regular basis: making my mind and my
body seize up with panic until I think I will just expire where I stand. I have
taken to carrying around such a bag with me, crumpled in my pocket. Though on
occasion, such as now, I can head these attacks off without resorting to such
an undignified tool.

The day that Anne killed our child was the day I stopped
breathing. I haven't been able to take a clear breath since. How can I, when
half of me is dead?

John was my lifeline, my savoir, my world, my heart, my
soul. My very essence of life. How can the blood continue to run through my
veins, when it ran out of his onto our kitchen floor? If my heart is dead, how
am I alive?

Dr Savage

March 1
^st
, 1886

Asquith House

“Thank you for coming to see me, Doctor. I fear I am not in
a fit state to make the journey to the asylum today.”

His hands shake as he lifts a glass of water to dry, cracked
lips. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale, his voice weak.

“Mr Stanbury, you don't look at all well,” I say, looking
around me. Having never stepped foot inside a house so grand before, I'm rather
taken aback by the size of it. The furnishings appear to be influenced by some
obscure European country, and splattered with Middle-Eastern, possibly Arabic,
figurines. There is a large burnt area on the front lawn, and I wonder what
happened.

“Anne's mother, I believe,” he says, noticing my gaze. “From
what little I can gather, she liked to travel a lot before she became pregnant
with Anne. Lord Damsbridge keeps her souvenirs around, I guess as some sort of
shrine to his lost wife. She loved France, apparently.” He shrugs. “I suppose
it shan't be long till I shall be making a shrine to Anne; smelling her
nightshirts, and going to sleep caressing her gowns. I miss her Doctor,
terribly, and in answer to your observation, no; I am not well at all. I fear I
am withering in my grief for my son, and my wife.” He sinks a little lower into
the chair, his shoulders slumped. “I am not a bad person, Doctor, despite
rumours to the contrary. I may have done some underhanded dealings in the past,
but one thing is the God's honest truth: I love her. I really did at the end.”

I'm unsure to what he alludes. A figment of his imagination?
Can it be possible that I now have two patients from the same household; both
of them ironically unaware of it? The great clock on the wall strikes the hour,
and Mr Stanbury practically jumps out of his skin.

“Stanbury, most men don't love their wives at the altar. The
stuff of nonsense, in my opinion. Nay, marriage is for a meeting of values, of
means; rarely a joining of minds and hearts. If love occasionally grows from
that, then all the merrier. One thing I have learned is that most marriages are
unhappy, and half the reason my profession exists.”

He looks up at me sharply.

I nod.

“Oh, yes. Many husbands and wives are driven mad by the fact
that they are living in the same household, even sharing the same bed with
someone they detest. Thank god for divorce, that’s what I say, but
realistically, it is out of reach for almost everyone. Drives some of them to
murder. Anyway, I come with rather good news that will cheer you.”

He barely reacts; closing his eyes. I'm not sure if he
intends to sleep, or if he is bracing himself for another emotional blow.

“Anne is progressing, Stanbury.”

He opens an eye.

I wait.

Silence descends.

He is forced into responding through politeness, yet the
enthusiasm I expected is woefully absent.

“And?”

My cue.

“And? Great news! She is no longer in continued segregation.
She made friends with one of the nurses, and a few patients. She talks a lot
with Agnus-”

“Agnus?”

“Yes, sorry, one of our newer nurses. She is recovering,
Stanbury. I'm fairly sure she will be home within months.”

The expected reaction doesn't come. Instead he blinks at me,
and sighs. “I shan't be visiting her, Doctor. It hurts too badly. At least, not
until she is well...”

My concern deepens when I detect the faint whiff of sour
alcohol.

“Stanbury, are you drinking much of late?”

He mumbles something under his breath.

“Stanbury?”

“No,” he answers quickly, his mouth puckering in defiance.
“Well, a little. Yes, I suppose so. But what do you expect? I've lost my child.
You tell me my wife is progressing but as of now, she's still insane. Isn't
she? That's the point, Doctor. Your platitudes of her 'becoming well' soon and
'cured eventually' ring a little hollow to me, for as yet I see no proof. I sit
in a house that doesn't belong to me. See the desk over there? That's not mine.
Nor is the floor, the windows, the door, the figurines, hell: I'm only here due
to the kindness of Lord Damsbridge, and how long do you suppose that will last?
He tolerates me, and even that is evidence that he is a better man than I will
ever be. How did I imagine I could merely step into a gentleman’s shoes, and
expect to walk as one? Do you realize, Doctor, that I have no claim over
anything here?”

“I could be thrown out of here, quite rightly or not
depending on your point of view, at any time. The servants hate me. Lord
Damsbridge no doubt despises me for getting his darling daughter pregnant, and
thus into this whole mess in the first place. Our marriage was a sham. A sham.
And all for the want of ready money. Pathetic.” He sits himself upright just
enough to lean over to pull the bell-rope that dangles next to his chair.

“Yes, Sir?” An old man enters, dressed immaculately in a
uniform which clearly denotes him as the butler of the household.

“A bottle of the finest whiskey, please.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Whilst this brief exchange between master and servant
occurs, I ponder whether to mention his drinking further. The man is in a
difficult position. His obvious nature of intemperance having led him to drink,
and yet I have had many a man admitted to the asylum for reasons such as his.
Debt, grief, anxiety, and depression, topped with acute alcoholism: he worries
me. Notwithstanding the physical effects that he may suffer: gout, renal
disease, arterial degeneration to name but a few.

He is a future case just waiting to happen.

“She hid the pregnancy from me for five months, Doctor.”

“Pardon?”

“For five, whole, long months. I should have known she was
up to something when she wouldn't lie with me anymore.”

“You say she hid the pregnancy?” Concealment of pregnancy is
against the law, for good reason.

“Yes. She screamed at me when I found out, but how could I
not? She was eating enough at dinner for three people; I noticed her breasts
spilling over her dress...” He trails off and shrugs, embarrassed. “I guess she
never told me because she was scared of another miscarriage. I didn't act as
gentlemanly as I could have when that occurred. I should have given her more
support, I should have done something. How could she be too frightened to tell
me she was with child?”

“I-” I am momentarily lost for words. There are other
reasons that she may have hid the pregnancy, reasons that I don't want to
consider. Reasons that surely, do not apply to a woman of such standing. I wave
my misapprehension away.

“Stanbury,” I say, with a joviality I don't feel. “I would
like you to try something.” I pick up the bag that I carry everywhere with me,
and pull out an item.

“How are you sleeping?” I ask him, as I hold the item in my
hands.

“In fits and bouts. I have nightmares.”

As I thought.

“About your child?”

“Yes. And Anne.” He tugs at his tie, and I notice how
wrinkled his clothes are. I suspect he slept in them.

“And you say the servants 'hate' you? Why would this be?” A
man who drinks is liable to suspecting people and plots of all kind; there is
actually no man more dangerous than a drunkard with suspicions. Such a person
is likely to carry about a weapon, and use it, either out of a misaligned need
for revenge, jealousy, or just plain old hallucinations. “The butler seemed
respectful towards you.”

“Yes, but he's the only one,” he says, his flushed cheeks
deepening in colour. “The rest of them treat me with barely concealed
contempt.”

“Do you have any friends you could call upon?”

“None.”

“What about hobbies, interests? Do you enjoy entertainment;
the theatre, for example?”

He laughs, and says, bitterly, “It was the damned theatre
that started all of this. Damn William IV and Dorothea Bland to merry hell.” He
raises his glass. “God bless you, grandmother.”

I realize he is drunk already, and what I supposed to be his
first glass of the day is probably his fifth, or sixth.

“Why did you call me here today, Stanbury?”

He looks at me with a forgotten expression.

“Well, because I wanted an update on my wife, of course.”

“Nothing else?”

He frowns at me.

“Such as what, Doctor?”

“Help, perhaps?”

“Help? For what?”

I shake my head, and offer him the object from my bag.

“What is that?”

“Chloral. I don't normally like to prescribe it but...you
need to start getting some rest. It's a sedative and a hypnotic, and will help
you sleep. Mr Stanbury, I don't mean to intrude, but I must admit that I'm
worried about you.” I'm also concerned as to what he may be liable to do when
his wife is released, but I don't tell him this.

He takes the bottle from me, eyeing it suspiciously.

“There is one thing though, Mr Stanbury.”

“”What?”

“It is incredibly dangerous to take these with alcohol. You
must stop our drinking at once.”

He laughs, and puts the bottle of chloral in his pocket.

“Doctor, drinking is the only think keeping me from joining
my wife in the mad-house right now.”

“I assure you Mr Stanbury, alcohol is not a coping
mechanism. Are you aware of how many alcoholics I have in my asylum? Too many
to count. Nay, alcohol is not stopping you from going mad, but it will drive
you mad. You must listen to me.” I reach out to him and he flinches,
withdrawing from me. Tears dance in his eyes.

“I-”

We are interrupted by the butler returning with the whiskey.
Mr Stanbury pours a large measure.

“Stanbury,” I say gently, dropping the prefix on purpose.
“My advice to you would be to take one tomorrow evening: not tonight, as if you
take them on top of alcohol the side effects, as I mentioned already, can be
quite unpleasant. Take them tomorrow on a clear head, and get a couple of good
night’s rest. I'm sure that afterward, you will be feeling more like yourself.”
I pick up my bag, and walk to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. Sometimes,
simple human warmth can do wonders for a lost person. Within seconds, his
shoulders start to shake underneath my fingers, and I give the man his dignity
by pretending not to notice.

At last I give him a firm squeeze and wish him goodbye and
leave quickly to the muffled sounds of his sobs echoing in the empty room
behind me.

He is a man whose tastes and temperament keep him apart from
the rest of the world, and I don’t know how best to help him.

I don’t see the woman dressed in an apron, watching me as I
leave the building.

Anne

March 11
^th
, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

“Anne, Dr Savage would like to see you today. Would you see
him and listen to what he has to say?”

“No.” I pull the blanket back over my head, and tell Agnus
to go away. I don't care if he wants to see me. I don't want to see him. Nobody
can make me. He is a rude, awful man.

My petulance is incensed further when the covers are whipped
from my body.

“Agnus! Give those back to me!”

“No. You're coming with me. Don't you want to get better?”

No. I don't. I am quite comfortable underneath the blankets.

“I don't know what you're talking about, “I say, burying my
face into the mattress. The smell of my own faeces still lingers from the
episode with the chamber pot some weeks before, and I privately regret having
done that. I wish I'd waited until I was outside in the corridor.

“Anne. I am not leaving you until you agree. I'll sit on
that bed with you all day if needed. I'll even sleep next to you. Actually,” a
hand rests atop of my shoulder. “How would you like Ruth to share this room
with you? Because I just remembered something. I have prior engagements tonight
after my day shift, so I may just have to cancel the night shift. Bad luck. But
I'm certain Ruth would be kind enough to step in for me, if I asked her to.”
The sound of her clapping her hands together in delight makes me wince.

I sit up quickly.

“You wouldn't.”

“I would. I absolutely would.”

“Why are you smiling? Do you think this is funny?”

She takes a step back, cocking her head to one side and
crossing her arms.

“I do, a little. Because we both know that you won't refuse
when faced with the possibility of Ruth. Right?”

I shake my head in despair.

“Now, come on!”

We leave the room quickly, Agnus wrapping a blanket around
my shoulders. Thoughtful of her, as the building is cool and silent at this
hour of the morning; even the birds are still sleeping inside their ornamental
cages. There are no other jailers to be seen. Light filters out underneath the
edges of doors here and there, and I fall to my hands and knees in an attempt
to peek underneath one of them. Agnus gently kicks me in the derriere.

“Anne....” Warningly.

“Well...”I say, thinking, still peering. “Are there clocks
in these rooms?”

“No, Anne.”

“Well, can you get me one?”

“I'll think about it, after you have seen Dr Savage and
listened to what he has to say.”

I groan audibly, and stand up. I can't believe I’m being
coerced into meeting with the fish-eyed fiend, and yet I realize that behind my
reasoning lies a strange affinity for this woman. It is almost as if I know her
from somewhere. I feel the need to impress her, and I actually want her to like
me.

“Did I ever meet you somewhere before, Agnus?”

She stops, one hand fluttering to her throat.

“Anne, I-”

“Aha, there you are! Good morning to you both, and what a
fantastic morning this is!”A towering figure appears in front of us, and I shriek,
falling to my knees in prayer and throwing the blanket over my head.

“A shadow! A ghost! Agnus, save me, save us!”

“Anne, it is not a ghost, “she says, coming to a halt and
pulling the cover off me. She shuffles into a delicate curtsey whilst holding the
brown fabric aloft. “It's the good doctor. Look, it just appears spooky because
it is early in the morning, and the light from the room is shining from behind
him. See?”She lifts up her lamp, illuminating the fish-eyed beard man.

“Oh. It's you. Well, you still look like you've been dug
up.”My attention is diverted when another man appears beside him, a strange
sort of red and black star upon his jacket.

“This is the one?”

“Yes, this is Lady Stanbury.”I glare at them both. “Well,
you may call her Anne. Anne, this is Dr Daniel Hake Tuke, a good friend and
colleague of mine.”

I leap to my feet and run to Agnus, hiding behind her.

“They won't hurt you, Anne. Dr Tuke is a physician,
specializing in psychic analysis.”

What?

I peer around her skirt.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he is going to attempt to hypnotize you, Anne.”

I shriek again, louder. “Are you going to possess me? Is
that it?”

Dr Tuke moves towards me, opening his mouth to say
something, but I don't give him time to speak.

“No! Don’t take one step closer. You are going to take over
my mind, summon the powers of darkness, you're going to make me hand over all
of my money to you, you're a fiend, a big, fat, ugly, fiend!”

“That's certainly the first time anyone has ever ascribed me
as being overweight, Savage,” says the man, holding his stomach and laughing.
“Though I believe I've been called a fiend before. Quite unnecessarily, of
course. I'm anything but! Anne, I am a firm believer and follower of Jesus, I
am a good, god-fearing man.”

I frown.

“I don't believe you. So what are you then, one of those
awful magicians who entice innocent people to make perfect spectacles of
themselves upon the stage?”

The doctor starts laughing now too, the both of them holding
onto one another, sharing some sort of private joke on my behalf.

I don’t feel stupid.

I'm angry.

“No, Anne. I am also not a theatric somnambulist. I am
simply a man, and a doctor of medicine. The application of hypnosis in this
case is rather different from that at the theatre, trust me.”

I crawl out from behind Agnus and stand, crossing my arms.

“Fine. You two idiots do what you want, have your fun. Just
don't make me snort like a pig. And I'm not converting to any weird religion,
either.”I don’t believe in hypnotism, so I have absolutely no fear of it.
However, they might still want the ransom, and the doctor is looking at my
fingers...

“And don't think about cutting off my fingers without my
knowing, either.  I told you before; I shall cut off your fingers and toes
before you lay a single digit upon any of mine. I count them nightly, and I've
still got all twenty of them.”

“I've been threatened with worse, Anne, but I assure you and
give you my word as a gentleman: you have nothing to fear.”

Gentleman.

Pah.

We move into an office that I assume belongs to the 'good
doctor', and I am eased over and down into a deep, beautifully soft, cushioned
chair. A sigh of pleasure escapes me. How I would love to curl up and sleep on
this, as opposed to that awful, faeces-ridden mattress.

'Dr Tuke' drags a chair over, and sits in front of me,
roughly one foot away. Rummaging through his pocket, he pulls out a watch, and
I laugh out loud.

“You find something amusing, Anne?”

“Yes, I do. I've been asking and looking for one of these
for months. Can I have it?”I reach out for the watch, but he pulls away from
me.

“Should have used a different object,” mutters the fish eyed
fiend from behind his desk. I stifle the urge to throw myself upon him and beat
his head in.

“We'll see. Later. For now, though, I just want you to
maintain your gaze upon it.”He holds it up about eighteen inches away from my
face, level with my eyes. “Can you see the watch?”

“Yes, of course I can. I'm not blind, though I should think
I if I were I would kill myself.”

“She also said she would kill herself if she was deaf.”Agnus
interjects, standing behind the doctor, smiling at me.

Dr Tuke swivels in his chair briefly. “Quite. Thank you for
that enlightening snippet of information, madam.”Agnus blushes a deep shade of
red as he turns his attention back to me. “Now, please, carefully follow the
second hand moving, wait until it has swept its way around an entire circle of
one minute. Can you do that?”

I watch closely. It is five and thirty exactly. The hands
are a beautiful, ornate and tarnished gold, the face a rather unsettling and
curious blue.

“Has it moved all the way around?”

“Yes, “I say, blinking, still staring at the blue. “What is
the point of this?”

“Grab hold of the watch for me, please.”

“If I do, can I keep it?”

“Yes.”

I lean forward, intent on snatching it out of his hands, but
surprisingly, my fingers brush nothing but air.

“Anne, you are now unable to speak.”

What did you do? The words form inside my head, but fail to
issue forth from my mouth. What have they done to me? Briefly, a torrent of
fear shudders through me, yet it is quickly replaced by a feeling of
sleepiness; haziness. The clock-face is blue, the hands are gold. Blue, gold,
blue gold. The colours start to whirl and join.

“Anne, I want you to place your right hand palm down on top
of the watch.”

My arm moves of its own accord, my hand doing as it has been
bid.

“Now, you are unable to take your hand from the watch. You
shall follow wherever it may lead, even if you do not wish to do so.”He stands
up, his own hand underneath the watch, mine above it; our hands two sides of a
perfect shell, the watch an oyster protecting itself, and in this curious
position he starts to walk across the room. And just like that, I have to
follow him, for I am quite unable to resist. Suddenly, he pulls away from me,
and I am left standing with my arm outstretched. He pockets the watch, and
pulls out a pencil.

“Anne, this pencil is red hot.”

And he puts it onto my arm.

A burning, horribly intense pain overwhelms me, and I snatch
my arm away, horrified. What are these monsters doing to me? The bloody
damnable fiends...

“Did that burn you? You may answer the question.”

“Yes!”I am pleased that I can speak again and intent on
giving him a piece of my mind, open my mouth to tell him so. But nothing comes
out, only words bouncing around inside of my head.

“Good. Very good.”

Good? I'll give him good, the bloody coffin dodger; I'll tie
him to a chair and stick a red hot poker right up his-

I am astounded to find that my arm is back in an
outstretched position.

“This time, Anne, you are quite unable to move your arm.
Here is the pencil, and again, it is red hot.”

He places it inside of my palm.

Oh, dear lord, the pain, the pain. I'm silently screaming,
and everything is red, red, and red.

“Did that burn you? You may speak.”

“Yes.”My voice.

“Where?”

“Here.”I point to my palm.

“Good, very good.”He nods to Fish-Eye, who starts scribbling
something inside of a notebook as Dr Tuke takes hold of my palm, and starts
rubbing it. “It is cured, Anne, no more pain.”

By god, he is right.

The pain is gone.

“Now for the next part. Close your eyes.”

My eyes follow the command, even though I try very hard not
to allow them to do so.

“Close your mouth.”

My mouth closes.

“Can you open your eyes?”

No. I want to say no, but I can’t, because I can’t open my
mouth either.

“This is good indeed, Dr Tuke. Why, you really are
astounding.” A man’s voice intrudes upon the darkness behind my eyelids, but I
think he is stuck underground somehow as his voice is muffled, strange. I feel
like I am hearing from deep underwater.

“Oh, it’s not me, my friend, as opposed to good old modern
science. Anne, hold your breath.”

I can't breathe. I'm stuck underwater and now I’m going to
drown, just like the fallen woman I am. I deserve it, I know, but I don't want
to die, not here, not like this...

My lungs are bursting, lights flash inside of my closed
eyelids.

“Anne, you are dead.”

My body falls backwards of its own accord, and I am lying on
the floor, in pain, my eyes closed, my mouth closed, my lungs closed. No breath
escapes my lips.

Then, there is nothing...but nothing.

I am dead.