The Memory Game

by Nicci French

  ‘I think we all know who you are, Dr Scott.’

  ‘I’ve been looking at your list of events, Dr Dermot-Brown,’ she said, holding the conference folder. ‘“Believing and Enabling”, “Listen to Us”, “Legal Obstacles”, “The Doctor’s Dilemma”, “Protecting the Patient”.’

  She paused.

  ‘Yes?’ said Alex, with just a hint of exasperation.

  ‘Is this a forum for discussion and inquiry? I don’t see any discussions planned here about the problems of diagnosis, the possible unreliability of recovered memory, the protection for families against false accusations.’

  ‘That’s not necessary, Dr Scott,’ Alex said. ‘The whole history of this subject is about protection for families against true accusations. We don’t yet face the problem of having to discourage people from making accusations of abuse. The pressures against authentic sufferers are so great that it is almost impossible for them even to face up to their recovered memories, let alone make public assertions as to their legal rights.’

  ‘And I notice another absence from the delegates,’ Dr Scott said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is not a single neurologist here. Wouldn’t it be interesting to have a contribution about the mechanics of memory?’

  Alex gave an exasperated sigh. ‘We don’t know about the mechanics of tumour development. That doesn’t prevent us from knowing that cigarette-smoking increases the risk of cancer. I’m fascinated by current neurological research, Thelma, and I share your concern. I wish we had a scientific model for the workings of memory and its suppression in the brain but the limitations of our knowledge are not going to prevent me doing my job as a doctor and helping patients in need. Now, are there any more questions?’

  The proceedings petered out and, after introducing Dr Hennessey, a tall, slim man with an epically large file of papers under his arm, Alex slipped off the platform. Nodding at one or two people, he tiptoed along the side of the hall and sat down beside me. I smiled at him.

  ‘So you haven’t persuaded everybody?’

  He grimaced. ‘Don’t mind her,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose that Galileo had people like Dr Scott pursuing him, except that they had instruments of torture at their disposal. There’s a great myth that you can persuade people by reason alone. It’s been said that the only way that a radical new scientific idea gets accepted is when all the old scientists who were committed to the old idea die off. Now, let’s sneak out. There’s somebody I want you to meet.’

  As we tiptoed towards the door, Alex beckoned to a woman leaning against the wall and she followed us out. The ante-room outside was deserted.

  ‘I wanted two of my stars to meet each other,’ said Alex. ‘Jane, this is Melanie Foster; Mel, this is Jane Martello. Why don’t you two pop into the next room and grab some lunch before the mob arrives?’

  Melanie was wearing a crisp, grey business suit that made me feel shabby. I guessed that she was five years older than me, but her face had many fine wrinkles, like a crushed newspaper that had been straightened out. Her hair was cut short, grey and coarse in texture, almost like the strands in a horse’s tail. She wore granny glasses and had a slightly insecure smile. I took to her at once. We looked at each other, nodded and headed for the food.

  A buffet was laid out and servants in white jackets were chatting in groups, waiting for the rush. I was going to take nothing but a piece of cheese and bread but Melanie loaded a large spoonful of spicy pasta onto my plate and I gave in with a giggle.

  ‘You look thin,’ she said. ‘Here.’ She heaped tomato salad beside the pasta, then a stack of beanshoots, until I cried ‘When!’ in mock horror. ‘You’ve got to keep me company.’

  We took our trays over to a small table in a corner where there was no chance of anybody joining us.

  ‘I suppose I ought to ask how you know Alex,’ I began.

  ‘Yes,’ said Melanie in a firm, schoolmarmish tone. ‘But I must begin by saying that I know why you know Alex.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, shocked. ‘Isn’t it meant to be private?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘But your case is a matter of public record now, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so, but still…’

  ‘My dear Jane, I’m here to help you and I can tell you that you will need support.’

  ‘Why you, Melanie?’

  Melanie had just taken a bite of bread and when she tried to reply she began to choke. I thumped her on the back. There was a long pause.

  ‘Thank you, I can speak again now,’ she said. ‘I started to see Alex ten years ago. I was depressed, my marriage was in trouble, I wasn’t coping with the stress of my job. You know, Jane, the normal state of the working woman.’

  I smiled and nodded.

  ‘I spent a couple of years talking about my early life and all that, but nothing seemed to change. One day, Alex said to me that he believed I had been abused by a close member of my family and that I was suppressing the memory. I was furious, I rejected the idea totally and considered stopping the analysis, but something made me continue. So we carried on, teasing away at certain episodes in my childhood, some blank spots, but nothing happened. It all seemed pointless, until Alex suggested that I should picture myself being abused and go from there.’

  Melanie paused and took a gulp of water.

  ‘It was like a floodgate opening. There were certain images tormenting me, sexual images. As I focused on them, developed them, I realised they were memories of sexual assault by my father. I won’t tell you the things he did to me, they were terrible things, perverse things that I could scarcely imagine. And as Alex and I went on we uncovered more and more. I realised that my mother had conspired with my father, not just by allowing it to happen but actively helping. And my brother and my sister had been raped and abused as well.’

  She spoke with uncanny calmness, as if she had schooled herself to tell this terrible story. I wondered what I could possibly say.

  ‘That’s awful,’ I said, conscious of its inadequacy. ‘Were you absolutely sure it was true, that you didn’t imagine it?’

  ‘I was tormented with worry and I needed a lot of help and reassurance, most of which was provided by Alex.’

  ‘What did you do? Did you tell the police?’

  ‘Yes, after a while. They questioned my father but he denied everything and there were never any charges.’

  ‘What did your brother and sister say?’

  ‘They took my parents’ side completely.’

  ‘So what happened with your family?’

  ‘I never see them. How could I ever have any dealings with people who have ruined my life?’

  ‘God, I’m so sorry. So what did you do? How did your husband react?’

  I was appalled, but Melanie seemed detached, almost amused, when describing the wreckage of her life.

  ‘He couldn’t cope with it at all, but then for a year or two I collapsed utterly. I became terribly ill, I couldn’t work, I couldn’t function, I couldn’t do anything. I moved away from home, I gave up my job. I lost almost a decade of my life. I always wanted children, you know. I began to see Alex when I was in my mid-thirties. I’m forty-six now. I’ll never have children. It’s still all I can do to look after myself.’

  ‘God, Melanie, was it worth it?’

  Her curious half-smile vanished. ‘Worth it? My father sodomised me when I was five years old. My mother knew about it but chose to ignore it. That’s what they did to me, that’s what I’ve got to deal with.’

  I felt sick, the food dry and heavy in my mouth. I forced myself to swallow.

  ‘Have they never apologised to you for what they did?’

  ‘Apologise? They’ve never even admitted that they did anything.’

  ‘So what are you doing now?’

  It seemed a mad question. I just didn’t know what to say.

  ‘A couple of years ago I formed a self-help group for people like me who have recovered memories of abuse. In
fact, that’s why Alex suggested we should meet. We’re doing a workshop this afternoon and we wondered if you’d like to sit in.’

  ‘I don’t know, Melanie.’

  ‘They’re a remarkable collection of women, Jane, I think you’d like them. Give us a try. I think we might be able to help you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go ahead now. But we meet at two. It’s along the corridor in CR3. Will you be there?’

  I nodded. That gnarled, damaged woman stood and hoisted the strap of her bag over one shoulder, picked up a pile of files and picked her way through the crowd, nodding at people here and there. I felt she could have been at a fête or a WI meeting, but she was off to chair a seminar for the psychically damaged.

  I needed a cigarette and I needed a coffee. I got in line but when I reached the piles of cups and began to pour, my hand was trembling so violently that the coffee went everywhere but in my cup.

  ‘Here, let me do that for you,’ said a woman beside me and she poured a cup for me and one for herself. Then she led me to the nearest empty table and sat down with me. I recognised her. I thanked her and she held out her hand to me.

  ‘Hello, I’m Thelma Scott.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I heard your contribution to the debate earlier on.’

  ‘And I know who you are,’ she replied drily. ‘You’re Jane Martello, Alex Dermot-Brown’s latest and best specimen.’

  ‘Everybody I meet here seems to know me already.’

  ‘You’re a valuable property, Ms Martello.’

  It was more than I could bear.

  ‘Dr Scott, I’m grateful for your help but I don’t really know what I’m doing here and I certainly don’t want to get involved in any controversy.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Your father-in-law is about to go to prison for the rest of his life and you put him there.’

  ‘He confessed to the crime, Dr Scott. He’s going to plead guilty.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said with an obvious lack of concern. ‘What did you make of Melanie Foster?’

  ‘I think she’s an unbearably tragic case.’

  ‘Yes, I agree.’

  I drained my coffee cup. ‘I’ve gotto go,’ I said, preparing to get up.

  ‘Off to Melanie’s workshop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For some sisterly reassurance? To be told that you’ve done the right thing?’

  ‘That’s not what I want.’

  Thelma Scott raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s good,’ she said and began to open her purse.

  ‘I’ll pay,’ I said.

  ‘There’s nothing to pay,’ she said. ‘Our coffee is courtesy of Mindset. I want to give you this.’

  She extracted a card, wrote on the reverse and offered it to me. ‘This is my card, Jane. On the back, I’ve written my home phone number and my address. If you ever feel that you’d like to talk to me, just give me a ring. Any time at all. And I can guarantee confidentiality, which is more than some other people in this field of inquiry.’

  I took the card reluctantly. ‘Dr Scott, I really don’t feel we have anything to talk about.’

  ‘Fine, then don’t call. But put it in your purse. Go on, I want to see you do it.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I did as she said under her keen gaze. ‘There it is, tucked under my Leisurecard.’

  Before I could get up, Thelma Scott leant across the table and took my hand. ‘Keep it there. This isn’t over, Jane,’ she said, with an urgency that surprised me. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘I always do,’ I said and left her without looking back.

  Conference Room 3 was much smaller than the hall we had sat in earlier. It contained ten chairs arranged in a circle, and when I entered most of them were occupied, all by women. They looked curiously at me as I sat down. Should I introduce myself? Would it be rude if I read a magazine before the workshop got going? I opened my file as if I had some urgent preparations to make. I was aware of other people coming in and sitting down and then Melanie greeted me and I looked up. All the seats were occupied and two people were standing, Alex Dermot-Brown among them, so more chairs were brought in and we all scraped backwards to give them room.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Melanie said, when everybody was settled. ‘Welcome to the “Listen to Us” section. I’ll try to follow the spirit of the title and say as little as possible. As you all know, this isn’t a normal meeting for our group. We have a couple of observers and a guest. I don’t want to be formal about this, and I’m only going to chair this in the loosest sense. I propose that we begin by identifying ourselves and explaining what we’re doing here. We’ll go clockwise, starting with me. I’m Melanie, and I have recovered the memory of being abused by my father and mother.’

  And the introductions began, a catalogue of suffering that I could hardly bear.

  ‘I’m Christine and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being abused by my stepfather.’

  ‘My name is Joan and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being sexually abused by my father and my uncles.’

  ‘My name is Suzanne and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being abused by my father.’

  ‘Hello, I’m Alex Dermot-Brown and I’m a doctor who wants to listen to the victims of abuse and to help them to help themselves.’

  ‘I’m called Christine.’ A rueful smile. ‘Another one. I recovered my memory of being sexually abused by my older brothers.’

  ‘I’m called Sylvia and I recovered my memory of being raped as a child by my stepfather and by another man.’

  ‘I’m called Lucy and I recovered my memory of abuse by my father and my mother.’

  ‘My name is Petra Simmons and I’m a solicitor.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m here to see what I can do. And to learn something, I hope.’

  ‘My name is Carla and I remembered being abused. I don’t know who they were, though. I was so young.’

  My turn. My cheeks were burning.

  ‘My name is Jane,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m not really prepared for this. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought I was just going to be an observer, to see what it was like.’

  ‘It’s all right, Jane,’ said Sylvia, a robustly handsome middle-aged woman. ‘The first thing we have to learn is to find words for what happened to us. We’re so used to being disbelieved and undermined. That’s why we suppressed these traumas.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ It was the woman on my left. ‘Can I introduce myself before we start the discussion?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Melanie. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Hello, my name’s Sally,’ she said. ‘I remembered being abused by my father and a family friend. That’s all. Sorry for interrupting, Sylvia.’

  There was a moment of awkwardness because Sylvia had actually finished her point. I leapt into the silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this. You’re all brave women and the idea of what you must have been through is unbearable, but this is all too recent for me.’

  ‘You don’t need to feel sorry for us,’ said Carla, a young woman with beautiful hennaed hair wearing a long gorgeously patterned dress. She looked like a dream gypsy. ‘The terrible thing is being unable to talk about it. What we’ve done in this group is to liberate each other. Jane, I don’t know much about your circumstances but I would guess that what you are feeling at the moment is doubt about the memories you have recovered and guilt about the effect they have had. Abuse victims get abused all over again when they try to describe what has happened to them. Every person who questions the testimony of an abuse victim is also an abuser. The whole point of our group is to support and strengthen each other. We believe you, Jane, and we trust you.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure this group must be very emotionally helpful.’

  A little laugh ran round the circle and looks were exchanged. Melanie tapped her pen on her folder and called for silence. Then she spoke:

  ‘This isn’t just about emo
tions. This is a political issue. If you join with us, and we truly hope you do, you’ll start to learn that there are networks of abuse, that there are abusers in positions of authority. This is what we’re up against.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ I protested.

  ‘What has been your own experience, Jane? You found a murderer and a rapist who had escaped justice for a quarter of a century. What happened? Is your testimony going to be used? Will your revelation be on the record?’

  ‘I gave a statement. Buthe confessed,’ I admitted. ‘He’s pleading guilty.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Melanie. ‘Look, people can’t bear to admit that abuse is widespread, that it’s not just the evil maniac but the man next door – the man in the next room. It’s too terrible to contemplate. So we, the victims, are not supposed to remember – are blamed for remembering. Now we are speaking up. Soon other people will speak up as well and the systematic protection of these abusers will be revealed. The police and your family have tried to make you deny your own reality, to alienate you from yourself. We’re here to help you.’

  After the workshop, Alex had other people he wanted me to see but I told him I wanted to leave. I said I would catch a cab but he insisted on driving me and making sure I was all right. I was silent for several minutes as we moved slowly in the early rush-hour traffic.

  ‘What did you make of Melanie’s group?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I find it difficult to be rational about so much suffering.’

  ‘Would you be interested in joining?’

  ‘God, I don’t know, Alex. I once had to run a bring-and-buy stall at the boys’ school fête. That experience put me off joining anything. I can’t really cope with crowds.’

  There was another long silence. I had two difficult questions to ask.

  ‘Alex,’ I said finally, ‘you’re a recovered memory specialist and it turned out that I had a memory waiting to be recovered. Isn’t that strange?’