The Medea Complex (8 page)

“Ye' see? How awful for a grandfather t' read that about his
own bairn's bairn. So I'm sure ye' can understand how I'm here to see how 'me
own flesh and blood, what I have left, that is, is bearing up under such
terrible circumstances. What other possible reason do ye' think? Of course, if
ye' had written to me, as promised, I wouldn't be here, Lord Stanbury. Oh, and
I could use some money; 'me new wife fancies a little red dress that I can't
possibly deny her.”

“I'm not a Lord, Father, and never will be. And I suggest
that you buy it for her, as I don't have any money.” I can see John's blood
splattered, mutilated body lying on the concrete floor, a physical throbbing
imprinted behind my left eye.

“Don't have any money? Pray tell son, how that is possible.
I see 'meself sittin in a chair which costs more than my humble little
house...” He lifts his bottom and pats the seat pointedly. “And that decanter
there could mortgage half of London for a decade, too.”

Of course. To imagine he would be here for anything less
than selfish reasons...

How did he even find a new wife? What woman, in her right
mind, would go within six feet of my father?

He trespasses upon my thoughts.

“Son, whilst you're living the life 'o luxury 'ere, I'm
forced to live in a town of smog, woken up at all hours by the rumble of
traffic and hawkers shoutin' out their goods at the crack of dawn before I've
'ardly had a chance t' open my eyes...” Does he think I don't remember? Does he
forget I grew up in the very house to which he refers? “Can ye' guess how many
times the crumpet man rings his bell before the clock tolls seven in the
morning? Two hundred and thirty-seven times. That's a lot of ringing just
outside of ye front door, and I hardly get any sleep nowadays. I tried throwing
a shoe at him once, but he called me a foul name and threatened t' hit me. Poor
Vicky can't sleep either, bless 'er 'eart.”

So knowing my father's status of abject and woeful poverty,
how does she imagine he can buy her a red dress?

My father is a coward as are most bullies, and though his
tongue can be sharp his arms are thin and puny. The one time he had a fight,
the woman knocked him clean unconscious, and he lost his front teeth. Not that
it made much impact upon his vanity: he never smiled much before anyway.

“I feel badly about that. I really do.” I don't. “But
there's not much I can do. You can take the decanter if you want, I'll tell the
butler we accidentally broke it, and one of the servant girls cleaned away the
mess. I don't expect him to go checking upon it. But I can’t give you any
money, for I tell the truth when I tell you I am poor.”

He looks at the decanter.

“'Aye, I'll take it, but I'm taking it full with the
whiskey, mind.”

“Just don't drink it all in the carriage on the way home,
will you?”

“You think I came in a carriage?”

“I don't care how you came, but you'll be going back in one.
I'll summon the coachman right away.”

“You better get your beautiful wife out of the mad-house,
son. And soon. Remember who you are, remember your roots. You have work to do.”
The threat is implicit.

“I grew to love her-”

“Ye', so you say. But who are you trying to deceive: me, or
yourself?”

I can never send the letter containing the truth, for he
will never believe it. Deceit and lying comes as naturally as breathing to my
father, and he therefore assumes everyone else is the same. He will never
understand, nor care, how hard these lies have been for me.

“I'll write to you father.” I can't be bothered to argue
with him, not now. I don't need to tell him today that I'm not doing it; I'm
not going through with what we agreed. Hopefully he'll go back to his little
hovel, drink himself to death, and I'll be free.

“You better, son. Do ye' still 'ave the ring?”

 “Of course I do, it's locked safely away. But why don’t you
take it with you, I don't think it's wise keeping it here, what if they find
out-”

“You'll keep it on ye' son, t' remind you of yer roots.
Don't get carried away like some idiot in love, ye just look at tha' ring and
remember that both I, and ye, and yer grandfather should've been wearing that
thing with pride, a long, long time ago.” He stands up, and winks at me. “Don't
worry son, as soon as 'ye get another child in 'er, and out of 'er, everythin'
will be fixed. Just make sure ye keep that one alive, ey?”

He slams the door on his way out.

Dr Savage

November 5th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

After prescribing a draught for a young man with boils that
he insists upon popping and thus infecting, I wash my hands and wait for the
next patient to come in. Enter she does, slowly, warily, looking to the ground;
her face pale, her cheeks sallow. Nurse Agnus says something to her and gently
pushes her further into my office, before closing the door and leaving us alone
to assess one another. I see defiance flash in her eyes, and I stand up as
leisurely as she came over the threshold; matching and mirroring her movements.
Not wishing to alarm her, hoping only to establish some level of rapport
between us.

The only thing more frightening than a lunatic woman is a
trapped animal, and I therefore wish to supply her with the illusion of space,
and freedom.

“Good Morning, Anne,” I say, sitting in my chair so she is
the one left standing.

She frowns at me as if unsure of my actions and looks at the
seat in front of her, twiddling her fingers.

“Would you like to sit, Anne?”

“I would. Thank you,” she says, and does so.

Thank you?

She is calmer this morning than she was the last time I saw
her, and as my gaze meets hers

I marvel at the fact that I can look into the face of a
murderess and still perceive an attractive woman. In a lunatic asylum, it is
seldom one meets with physical beauty. Degeneracy in nature is naturally in
opposition to attractiveness, and well-being, for good reason.

“How was your breakfast, today?” I ask her.

“Awful. Do I have to eat porridge every damned day?”

She has a point.

“Well, what would you like to eat for breakfast, Anne?”

“I should like some warm, golden, very buttery-toast, if
that's not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” I say, scribbling it onto a piece of paper.
“Now, Anne. I have done something for you, and I would like you to do something
for me in return. Can you tell me why you tried to escape last week?”

She frowns at me.

“That's an idiotic question. I tried to escape because I'm
not supposed to be here.” She shakes her head as if bewildered at my stupidity.

“Ok. What about the gentleman with whom you tried to escape?
Do you think he is supposed to be here?”

“Well, I..” She stops, twiddling with the strings on her
gown. “He said something about his family putting him in here, which I simply
do not understand. If you are kidnapping people for ransom, then that doesn't
make sense to me.” She closes her eyes, breathing for a moment before opening
them. “Also, he didn't appear to be the sort that would have much money. I'm
very confused here.”

She is starting to rationalize! I hide my smile with a hand.

“Anne, was there anything strange about the gentleman?
Anything at all?”

“Well, he did say something rather odd.”

“What was it?”

“He told me that he murdered his wife. Then he said he was
joking. I must say, I found it in very poor taste indeed.”

Her short term memory is returning. The man did, indeed,
murder his wife. Then he ate her. The only way she could know of this is if he
told her. And she remembers! I try to push her memory back further.

“Hmm. A very poor joke, I am inclined to agree. Anne, let's
forget the gentleman for a moment. I want to focus back on you. Can you tell me
the last thing you remember, before being here?” I have asked her this before,
and will continue to so: until such a time as she recollects her life.

“I went to sleep. How many times must I tell you? I don’t
understand what you want from me, but I do wish that you would tell me. I would
like to go home.”

Anne is unusual in that she doesn’t quite seem to fill a
singular diagnosis; doesn’t wholly ‘fit’ into any particular box. She has all
the outward symptoms of 'acute delirious mania': memory loss, definite cause
(puerperal psychosis), sudden onset, yet she does not have the fever, refusal
of food, flushed cheeks, or incoherence of speech that accompanies it. In my
assessment of the insane, the symptoms form the point of division between
curable and incurable cases. Based on appearances alone, I would consider Anne
an ‘incurable’ case; however, puerperal insanity is curable. I shall proceed
slowly.

“Tell me about going to bed that night, Anne.”

She looks to her lap, and mumbles something under her
breath.

“Pardon, Anne?”

She stands, pushing the chair behind and away from her. “I
said, you are perverted. Why do you imagine it appropriate to ask a Lady the
particulars of her going to bed? Would you like me to tell you that I sleep
naked at times, in the summer when the heat feels like a blanket over my skin?
That at these times I have no need of clothes? Is that what you wish to know?
Why oh why am I here?” She starts to cry, and sways back and forth. She is
upset, but so far she is not being violent, and I have seen far worse than
this.

The memory of a person suffering from mania is sometimes
akin to listening to someone with a double consciousness. When talking of
recent events Anne is calm and collected, yet when confronted with her memory
of before the asylum, her angry, confused feelings resurface. Though
interesting to witness: a mind protecting itself in such a way is frustrating
as a professional; to be unable to reach it.

“No Anne, you misunderstand me. I simply wish to know of
your last memories of being at home, before you came to be here. Whether you
believe me presently or not, you will, given time. You will understand and
recognize me for that which I am: a doctor, trying to help you.”

She peers around her, and an inspiration occurs to me.

“Look Anne, behind me, on the wall. In fact,” I say,
standing and unhooking one of my certificates from it. “Here. Read it, please,
and tell me what you see.” I pass it to her.

DR GEORGE SAVAGE

M.D, M.R.CP.

PHYSICIAN AND SUPERINTENDANT OF BETHLEM
ROYAL HOSPITAL

“Well? Does this not offer proof that I am who I say I am?”

She is silent for a moment, studying the writing, turning
the frame over and running her fingers across the back of the glass.

“It would appear that you are a fine fraudster, Mr Savage,
and that you wish to woo me with fancy letters that anyone could write after
their name.”

Working with the insane can be frustrating, for previously
indisputable facts of life become negligible, and fantasies abound. They will
not believe the sky is blue, or worse: that there even is a sky.

“What about the stamp, Anne? That cannot be faked; it proves
this is a genuine certificate.”

She glares at me. “What do you want with me, you fish-eyed
fiend? Can I go home now?”, as if the previous five minutes had not occurred.

“May I have that back, please?” I ask her, gesturing to the
frame. I should not have given her a pane of glass. I remember what she did the
last time she called me a fish-eyed fiend, with a shard.

“Certainly.” She passes it back to me, smoothes her gown and
sits down again. I breathe again. “I’m sorry; I seem to have lost myself there
for a second or two. My head flies away from me at times.” She shakes it, as if
to clear her mind. “You wanted to speak with me about the ransom?”

I find it difficult to keep track with her thought processes
and moods. Her temperament flips as a blink, yet her delusion is fixed.

Ideas flow along certain lines more
rapidly than in health; somewhat hard to follow in their rapidity of formation.
No continuous thought process. Attention may be garnered momentarily. Long term
memory remains lost; past is left with an irregular outline.

For hypnotherapy.

“Anne, I believe that's enough for today.” I press my bell,
and summon Agnus. Her young head peers around the doorframe.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Can you escort Anne back to her room, please? And please,
ask Nurse Ruth to contact a Dr Tuke.”

“'Dr Tuke'. Of course.” She moves into the office, and takes
hold of Lady Stanbury's hand with her own. Surprisingly, Lady Stanbury doesn't
fight her. Instead, she rises willingly; looking behind her as the attendant
leads the way.

“You confuse me,” she says, looking lost. “Why don't you
tell me how much you want for me? You are a perfectly cruel, awful man.”

Beatrix

November 5th, 1885

Asquith Manor

“Shush!” I whisper in a hiss, pulling Betty down from the
window. “They'll hear us!”

“They won't Miss, they won’t! But ye' have t' look outside,
I can see tha' Mr Jordan, an' I think 'es stolen somethin'!” she whispers back,
defiantly.

“Why should you think he has stolen something, Betty?”

“Cos 'ee has sumthin' under 'is arm, an he' dinnae come wit'
anythin'!

Putting my hand upon her shoulder, I creep my head slowly
over the window-ledge. Lord, when did I start indulging youngsters in their
childish fantasies again? It seems only yesterday that Anne was a child of
Betty's age, telling me stories about the comings and goings of our visitors.

Mr Jordan is indeed stood outside.

“De' ye' see 'im? De' ye'?” She yanks at my arm, tugging
like a monkey.

“Shush!”I say more forcefully this time, swatting her hand
away.

“But Miss,” she says, the title comes out as a whine. “He
may'be stelin' Lady Anne's things! P'rhaps Mr Stanbury is sellin' er' stuff, 
ee's a commoner and got ne' money, Miss!”

I ignore her, unwilling to enter into a debate neither about
Mr Stanbury nor about Anne. Watching Mr Jordan, I almost laugh out loud when
the man's hat is blown off by a gust of wind and he scrabbles for it uselessly.
The hat lands in a wet patch of mud as a carriage enters the main gate.

“Betty, Mr Jordan is outside because he is waiting for the
carriage to take him home.” I sit back down beside Betty, and take her chin in
my hands. “He's just an old friend of Mr Stanbury's, and there's nothing else
to it.” I push her away playfully and lift myself up from the floor.

She crosses her arms and stamps her foot.

“Miss, yer nae listenin'! I'm tellin' ye 'e has sumthin' in
his hands!”

“No, he doesn't. Now, come on, I'm not getting anything done
today with all this talk of thievery and such.” I give her my stern face and
she relents, letting me pull her to her feet.

Thinking about Anne, I wonder if she received the letter I
sent.

“Betty, you did post that letter to Lady Anne, didn't you?”

“Of course I did, Miss,” she says indignantly, opening the
door and gesturing for me to pass through before her. “I wan' 'er back 'ere
just as much as ye do. I am missing her sumthin' awful. I dannae like Mr
Stanbury, 'ee wants t' have us all fired, ye' know.” She looks at my face, and
notices that I still appear unconvinced. “It's not all stories, Miss! It's
nay!”

That I do know. We all know. Newman told us the discussion
Mr Stanbury had had with Lord Damsbridge not a week after Anne was taken away.
I was the one he professed to be the worst, 'lounging around' and 'idly
chatting with Anne, as if it is her job simply to be my wife's companion'.
Well, his wife needed a companion, for he was certainly never up to scratch, and
never will be.

No matter. I have it on good authority he will be gone from
the Manor, soon.

“It doesn't matter what Mr Stanbury wants, or doesn’t want,
Betty,” I say, as we descend the stairs back to the servant’s quarters. “This
house doesn't belong to him.”

“How can tha' be, Miss?”

“Because Lord Damsbridge owns it, not Mr Stanbury.”

“But Lord Damsbridge doesn't live 'ere anymore Miss, Mr
Stanbury does.”

“Yes, in this main house. Lord Damsbridge is over in the
dowager house, that's true, but he still owns the Manor, Betty.”

She looks confused.

“Have you ever heard of an entail, Betty?”

“ An En-what?”

That's a no, then.

“The Manor and its grounds are entailed, that means that
they can only ever belong to the son of Lord Damsbridge.”

“But 'ee don' 'ave no son. Only Anne.”

“Exactly.” We stop at the door to the kitchen, and I pat her
on the head. She's a lovely child, and she's incredibly loyal and loving
towards everyone around her. I know she considers Anne to be a sort of older
sister, in an admiring manner. When Anne was here she always took the time to
speak with Betty and inquire about her own and her family's health. A couple of
times I caught Anne putting a shilling into Betty's grubby little hands.

“So it dannae belong t' no-one then Miss, only Lord Damsbridge?”

“That's right. So stop worrying.”

She frowns, and fiddles with her dress. “But that man did
'ave sumthin' under 'is arm. I'm not lying.”

“I know you're not lying, Betty. You're as honest as a
puppy.”

She smiles.

“Well then, I'll be seein' ye'!” With that she dives into
the kitchen, and warm shouts of greetings and endearments echo in my ears.

I climb the stairs to Mr Stanbury's chamber. Anne's clothes
need to be aired at least once a day. Thankfully, the moths haven't gotten to
them yet, though I worry about it constantly. Her dresses must be perfect for
when she comes home. I make my way across the room, heading for the wardrobe,
when I notice an errant sock on the floor. I bend to pick and as I do so, spy
something underneath the bed.

An envelope.

Addressed to Anne.

I hold it for a moment. Do I chance to read it now? Where is
Mr Stanbury? I rush to the window and look outside, holding the note. The
carriage has gone, which means he could be anywhere. I run across the room, and
close the door. If he comes up here, at least the turning of the handle will
give me time to throw it back underneath the bed.

I sit on the bed, and read it.

By the time I have finished, I am determined to light a
fire.

Anne will never see this letter.