Watching You (21 page)

J
oe has spent most of the night reading and studying the literature on dissociative disorders—the latest research and case studies. He has also been wrestling with a dilemma. How much can he reveal of Marnie’s mental history to the police or to Ruiz? He has a duty to protect her privacy or to seek her permission before breaching patient confidentiality. Trust lies at the heart of the relationship between a patient and a clinical psychologist. Without it, there is no way he can help Marnie.

At the same time, he’s aware of the Tarasoff precedent—the duty to warn. Tatania Tarasoff was a Californian university student stabbed to death in October 1969. Her boyfriend, a paranoid schizophrenic, had confided to his psychologist that he planned to kill her, but the warning was never passed on to the girl or her parents because of the “duty of confidentiality” between a mental health professional and a patient. The parents sued. The psychologist lost. The precedent was created. Joe has a duty to divulge confidential information if a client communicates a plausible intention to do serious harm to a third party. But Marnie has never communicated such a desire. She’s never shown any evidence of dissociation or an alternative personality…not to him.

In twenty years of clinical practice, Joe had never come across a patient with a dissociative identity disorder—a condition more common in fiction than the real world. The most notorious case involved Sybil Dorsett—a girl with sixteen separate personalities—who had a book and film made about her in the seventies, but was later exposed as a fraud. Her therapist had invented her story, with the help of a journalist.

A colleague of Joe’s once wrote a paper about a woman called Caroline who dropped out of university and disappeared for two years. She was discovered working at a laundromat in Battersea, but didn’t call herself Caroline any more. She was Hannah, aged twenty-eight instead of twenty, with a Scottish accent. Psychologists interviewed her for months, uncovering a pattern of drug and alcohol abuse, along with frequent blackouts, depression, and two suicide attempts. It was during one of their sessions that Caroline reappeared, asking her therapist to help her because Hannah wouldn’t leave her alone.

Hannah hated Caroline, despising her weakness, whereas Caroline feared Hannah was taking control and pushing her out of her own mind. Her “alter” had a completely different accent and body language to Caroline. She was older and more sexually promiscuous. She took drugs and got into fights.

Childhood abuse appeared to be the trigger: a stepfather prone to random acts of violence that seemingly came from nowhere and vanished just as quickly. Hannah emerged as an antidote—someone who could stand up to the abuse because Caroline was too passive and accepting, too beaten down.

Marnie Logan’s dissociation is different. According to Dr. Sterne, she had never acknowledged Malcolm’s existence, which means she had either suppressed the knowledge or lied to him. Why? What are the chances that Malcolm has survived—a separate personality existing concurrently, harbored since childhood? Slim to nothing—vanishingly small. Marnie was twelve. Her clinical files should have been destroyed years ago, along with the tapes. That’s the law.

Joe has arranged to meet Ruiz in a pub near Paddington. On the walk through Little Venice, across Westbourne Terrace Bridge, he goes over the details again. Up until a few days ago, everything he knew about Marnie had been based upon what she’d told him. Her marriage was good. Daniel was happy. Even her story about the gambling debts and Patrick Hennessy had no independent verification. Could these be elaborate cover stories to explain her bruises and blackouts?

Ruiz is sitting on a high stool with his back to the door, looking at the passing parade of drunken football fans as though he’d like to make a mass arrest. One of them has a snare drum and is hammering out a brainless tattoo while the others chant.

The two men hug, which is something Joe does rarely with other men. Ruiz buys him a lemon, lime, and bitters and himself a Guinness. Settled. Heads together. Joe tells him the story about Marnie Logan and the mysterious Malcolm.

Afterwards there is a long silence. Ruiz shakes his head. “I hate this psycho crazy-arsed shit. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So what you’re saying is that Marnie Logan—or this Malcolm side of her personality—could be acting independently, without her knowledge?”

“In theory.”

“Why only in theory?”

“In my sessions with Marnie she mentioned suffering blackouts and fugues, but nothing beyond a few minutes. As a child her blackouts lasted for hours, sometimes days.”

“So she’s been lying to you.”

Joe doesn’t answer.

“I think we should stay away from this woman. People have an unhealthy habit of dying around her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Patrick Hennessy is dead. Someone tried to unscrew his head like a cheap bottle of wine. You could argue the world has been vastly improved by his passing, but two wrongs don’t make a left turn. And if you’re thinking Marnie Logan isn’t strong enough to do something like that, I’ve seen arrests where it took six officers to bring down a female schizophrenic or a meth addict.”

Joe doesn’t show any emotion. Mr. Parkinson will sometimes rob him of facial expressions, leaving behind a fixed vacant stare like he’s mentally left the building.

Ruiz continues talking, describing his meetings with DI Gennia and Calvin Mosley.

“Where would Marnie get fifty grams of heroin?”

“I’m just telling you what he told me.”

“How long did he spend in prison?”

“Five years.”

“And he’s sure it was Marnie?”

“Yep. That’s not all. The woman he was banging, Patrice Heller, was a bridesmaid at Marnie’s first wedding. Now she’s serving twenty years in Kerobokan Prison for drug possession, which I wouldn’t wish upon my least favorite mother-in-law. Calvin and Patrice both swear the drugs weren’t theirs. No history. No accomplices. No witnesses.”

Ruiz leans back and takes a lingering look at the curves of a woman encased in a sheath dress.

“Should be a crime,” he says.

“The dress?” asks Joe.

“The body.”

The woman sneaks a glance over her shoulder, aware that she’s being watched.

“How is Miranda?” asks Joe.

“I had lunch with her today. She’s looking very fine.”

“You’re the most married divorced man I’ve ever met.”

“I’m in a healthy relationship. No strings attached.”

“A pensioner with benefits.”

“Fuck off!”

Ruiz stares into his empty pint glass. “Something else happened today. I had a phone call about Marnie Logan. Somebody tried to warn us off.”

“Male or female?”

“Up until five minutes ago, I would have said definitely male. I’ve got a question. Hypothetically speaking, if this Malcolm character is a separate personality, does he lead a separate life? Does he have his own clothes? Could he have identity papers, bank accounts, or a different address?”

“She’s not likely to dress up as him.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m basing it on what I’ve read.”

“So how different is he?”

“Some ‘alters’ have exceptionally high tolerance for physical pain. They split off physical sensation, which becomes encapsulated in their alternative personality, thus avoiding the pain. They also have dramatically different skills and abilities. One ‘alter’ may be able to drive a car, the other may not.”

“And she could have no idea?”

“It’s possible.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

Joe doesn’t answer. He glances outside at the footpath full of backpackers, tourists, street traders, and commuters. There are eight million people in London—each one of them unique yet similar enough that their behavior can be charted and predicted with reasonable certainty. Yet there will always be individuals who don’t conform to any pattern, just as there are rare neurological disorders and genetic mutations. For every rule there is an exception. Perhaps Marnie is one of them.

Sometimes he gets tired of watching people, unconsciously picking up on the details around him. Take the couple in the corner: she’s in her mid twenties, brunette with pale ankles and bitten nails. He’s ten years older with a tankard-shaped head and a job in an engineering firm whose name is sewn onto his shirt pocket. Such potential written over them, yet guilt holds them back. She’s Catholic. He’s married. They’re holding hands. She’s pregnant, nursing a soft drink, shame written all over her face, looking for certainty.

Joe’s mind drifts to back to Marnie.

“Someone must have known. You can’t have blackouts when you’re raising two children.”

“Maybe her husband covered for her,” says Ruiz.

“I think he realized something was wrong. That’s why he contacted these people. He listened to their stories.”

“That’s enough to give a man doubts.”

T
he heat of the day is still radiating through the western wall rendering the kitchen the hottest room in the flat. Marnie is trying to make it up to Zoe by cooking her favorite meal. The bolognaise sauce is bubbling, the lasagna sheets are layered, and the cheese sauce is cooling. She’s also rented a DVD from Mr. Patel’s shop (
Les Misérables
) and will tidy up Zoe’s room.

A movement catches her eye. She studies the gap beneath the fridge and the bench. A mouse appears, nibbling at a toast crumb. It glances around disdainfully as though deciding whether to rent the place.

Elijah chooses that moment to dash along the hallway. He’s wearing a tea towel as a cape and brandishing a plastic ray gun. Sometimes Marnie wonders if she should take away his crime-fighting paraphernalia—the cowboy guns and Spiderman outfit. Penny thinks Elijah is being gender-stereotyped, which explains why she gave him a Care Bear for Christmas, which he’s barely taken out of the box. Penny can go to hell!

The mouse has gone.

“You missed seeing Stuart Little.”

“Where?”

Marnie points to a spot on the floor.

“Are we going to get a cat?” he asks excitedly. “My friend has a cat.”

“Does he?”

“Yep.”

Elijah takes off again, running down the hallway to her bedroom where he’s playing in the wardrobe. Marnie goes to Zoe’s room and begins tidying, hanging towels and folding clothes. She has to move the single bed away from the wall to change the sheets. If Zoe didn’t have so much rubbish under her bed, it would make things easier.

Marnie pushes the bed back into place and notices a soft computer case that she’s disturbed in the process. She picks it up and unfastens the zipper. When did Zoe get a laptop? Maybe it belongs to a friend. She could have borrowed it from school. But why keep it a secret? Why keep it hidden?

Sitting on the bed, Marnie’s finger hovers over the power button. A mother should respect her daughter’s privacy. A mother should be concerned. She presses the button and waits for the hard drive to boot. The screen lights up. The desktop background is a photograph of Daniel, Marnie, Zoe, and Elijah. It was taken at the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee concert outside Buckingham Palace. Elijah is perched on Daniel’s shoulders. It’s the last photograph they have before he went missing.

Marnie calls up the history directory. A list drops down showing the sites that Zoe has visited in the past twenty-four hours.
Facebook. YouTube. LinkedIn. Pinterest. Wikipedia.

One page stands out above the others. Marnie clicks the link. The page opens with another photograph of Daniel smiling from the screen. Cotton wool seems to fill Marnie’s throat.

She reads Zoe’s last message.

There are dozens of comments posted below. Marnie doesn’t recognize the names. People are sharing similar stories or offering their prayers; complete strangers from all over the world. “Randoms,” Zoe would have called them, but now they’re her friends.

A message pops up in the lower right-hand corner of the screen.

The curser blinks, waiting for an answer. Marnie waits.

Another secret, thinks Marnie. Who is Ryan Coleman? A boyfriend? Zoe doesn’t talk to her anymore. It’s like living with a foreign exchange student who doesn’t speak English or chooses not to because conversation would mean answering questions.

Marnie closes the screen. Elijah is watching from the doorway.

“Have you been crying, Mummy?”

“I’m having a sad day.”

“Did I make you sad?”

“No, of course not.” She opens her arms. “How about a hug?”

T
he doorbell. Marnie presses the intercom and hears Joe O’Loughlin’s voice.

“I know I should have called ahead.”

“Is everything all right?”

“We need to talk.”

Something soiled and faint fills her nostrils. She waits for Joe to climb the stairs. Opens the door. He’s not alone. The former detective is with him, not saying a word. Elijah is in the bedroom playing in the wardrobe. Zoe hasn’t come home yet.

Marnie takes them through to the kitchen, clearing a space, offering tea, coffee, a cold drink…

“I spoke to Dr. Sterne,” says Joe.

There is a pause. Marnie won’t look at him.

“You told me you didn’t recognize his name in Daniel’s notebook.”

Marnie doesn’t respond. She avoids his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Malcolm?”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“He was once part of your personality.”

“No.”

Joe waits. Marnie can’t sit still. She paces the kitchen, looking out the window. The darkness is different now. Softer. Diffuse. Her hands are clutching at the front of her blouse, kneading the fabric.

“Malcolm was Dr. Sterne’s invention, not mine.”

“I heard the recording.”

“That voice didn’t come from me.”

“There was nobody else in the room.”

Marnie shakes her head, refusing to believe him.

Joe keeps pressing. “You spent four years in therapy and didn’t mention it.”

“I was a little girl.”

“Your mind split off, Marnie. You unconsciously created an alternative personality.”

“I know what they say happened. I accept that I had problems. But even if what Dr. Sterne says is true—even if Malcolm existed—he’s gone. He left a long time ago.”

Ruiz hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t trust her. Worse still, he doesn’t
believe
her.

“Patrick Hennessy is dead,” he says. “The police will want to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“You’re a suspect.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“When he almost fucking killed me,” she spits, surprised at the aggression in her voice. “Do you want to see the grazes? Oh, that’s right, you’ve seen them. Hope you got a good look.”

Ruiz ignores her. “Have you ever been to Hennessy’s apartment?”

“No.”

“First Quinn, then Hennessy—what did you do to your Daniel?”

Marnie looks at him incredulously. Joe studies her reaction, looking for any telltale signs that she’s lying. He once saw something in Marnie that he described as being coiled and caged; something she didn’t want to come out. He can see it now.

She drops her voice and glances along the hallway to the bedroom door. “Can’t we talk about this another time?”

“No,” says Ruiz, ignoring her concerns. “I talked to your first husband.”

“Calvin?”

“You got him sent to prison.”

“Why would I do that?”

“He says you fitted him up—you planted drugs in his van.”

“That’s crazy.”

“He says you were punishing him for screwing one of your bridesmaids.”

“He’s lying.”

“Is Patrice lying?”

“What?”

“She’s rotting in a Balinese prison. And what about the others? Eugene Lansky, Debbie Tibbets, Olivia Shulman, Devon Boucher, Richard Duffy—did they deserve to be punished as well?”

Marnie looks from face to face, feeling the room shrink around her. The fever in her eyes gives them a polished, almost bottomless light.

“
Payback is a bitch
—remember the line?” says Ruiz. “You don’t take hostages, do you, lady? Everyone is your enemy.”

Marnie’s mouth opens but no words emerge. She puts her hand on her forehead, massaging her temples, searching her memories.

“I hardly remember them.”

“They remember you,” says Joe. “Olivia Shulman told me what happened when you were at university. Somebody spiked your drink at a party. You were raped. You blamed her for leaving you behind.”

“That’s not true.”

“You punished her with fake emails from a secret admirer.”

Marnie raises her hands to the absurdity of it all. She can see herself reflected in the polished chrome tap over the sink. She looks like a twisted figure in a funhouse of mirrors.

“Why didn’t you see her again?” asks Joe.

“I was embarrassed. I did a stupid thing.”

Ruiz makes a guttural
hmmmph
sound, expelling air through his nose. “Why did you withdraw the rape allegations?”

“I know what happens at rape trials,” says Marnie. “The victim goes on trial. My reputation would have been trashed. The defense would have dragged up my sexual history—how many partners, how many one-night stands, my sexual preferences; how much I’d had to drink, what drugs I’d taken, the clothes I was wearing. They’d try to convince the jury I was a slut…that I
wanted
to have sex. I wasn’t strong enough to go through that.”

“You were strong enough to kill Richard Duffy.”

Marnie blinks at him. “They said it was an accident.”

“The inquest was inconclusive.”

“I didn’t
want
him dead.”

Ruiz laughs.

Marnie’s eyes flick from Joe to Ruiz, more agitated now. Disconcerted. Tearful. Her skin feels clammy and crawling with questions that have impossible answers. She wants to flee, to run down the stairs, along the street, out of the city itself, away.

“I’m sick of people blaming me or using me,” she says angrily. Her eyes are fuller and sharper, illuminated by something that entered the world centuries before civilization began. “Yesterday it was Trevor trying to blackmail me. Today it’s you. What do you want from me?”

“The truth,” says Joe.

“I didn’t do anything to these people. I haven’t seen them in years. I didn’t kill my husband. I didn’t kill my rapist. I’m the victim here.”

“I’m not saying it was
you
.”

Marnie raises her chin. “What
are
you saying?”

“You told me you were suffering blackouts…missing periods of time.”

“Minutes.”

“What if it was longer than that?”

“It wasn’t.”

“What if Malcolm is back? What if you’re dissociating?”

“I’d know.”

“Your husband has gone. You’ve been under enormous pressure.”

“I’d know,” she says again, louder this time.

“I’m trying to help you, Marnie.”

“I want you to leave.”

“Listen to me.”

“Get out!” Her anguish seems to use up the air in the room. Her voice grows louder. “GET OUT! GET OUT!”

She raises her fists, beating at Joe’s chest, hitting him repeatedly as though trying to fight her way inside his body. He hugs her tightly until her arms drop to her sides. She presses her face into his shirt, incoherent in her anger.

Ruiz is standing at the door. “You heard the lady. She told us to leave.”

“You go,” replies Joe. “I’ll stay.”

Marnie shakes her head. “Leave me alone.”

Joe takes her to a chair and crouches in front of her, resting on his haunches. “I had to challenge you, Marnie. I need to know if Malcolm still exists.”

“I didn’t do these things,” she whispers. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”