Mr Cassini

by Lloyd Jones

  ‘Too right,’ said Huw. I was glad they were getting on.

  Soon we had two more guests. Merlin appeared out of nowhere, made a beeline for the picnic basket, and opened the wicker lid. ‘Aha!’ he said triumphantly. ‘I see you’ve bought the cake tin, Duxie!’

  I had to restrain him. ‘Later,’ I said, tugging it from his grasp. He wasn’t pleased. I noticed that he wore an amulet and held a grimoire, or book of spells, containing words of power. And then came Arthur Machen, rather morosely I thought, panting along the saddle from the direction of Pumlumon Fawr, with a small brass telescope tucked underneath his left arm. ‘Didn’t know it was going to be this far,’ he complained grumpily. ‘Might not have come if... ’

  I appeased him with a king-size bar of Twix and a bottle of Montgomery Water. Sitting next to Merlin, munching away quietly, he seemed mollified. Merlin eyed the Twix enviously so I gave him one too. Everyone seemed happy. I hadn’t intended to start the picnic until afterwards, but what the hell. They deserved it. They were my friends now. We were a company of men, capable of anything. Great deeds. The expulsion of Mr Cassini was a minor matter. Arthur Machen told me, in a splutter of crumbs, to view the mountain peaks of Wales, in every direction.

  ‘Behold,’ he said. ‘Look what I’ve arranged for you. Neat, eh?’

  I looked all around me, to the North and the East, to the South and the West. On every peak, near and far, I could see little figures, standing expectantly.

  ‘They’re all looking towards us, waiting,’ he said, cramming the stub of a finger of Twix into his mouth.

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘The White People of course,’ he said. Merlin clapped him on the back and laughed.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘We shall have such fun.’

  Mr Cassini was late arriving. He was in a very bad mood. I could tell at a distance; at a very great distance, in fact – as he emerged from the Hafren Forest way below me, because I’m good at that sort of thing. It’s a gift I have. I can tell from a long way off what sort of mood someone’s in, and how drunk or how high he is – to the nearest glass or toke. Mr Cassini strode towards us at twice the speed of darkness, his face knotted into a gargoyle mask.

  He was being trailed by the rainbow messengers, spread around him in a fan, as if they were holding the train of an invisible mantle. One of them held a writ of habeas corpus – a brilliant touch, which hadn’t even occurred to me. I was stirred, suddenly and strongly, by waves of emotion. A hot spurt of feeling welled up inside my chest. That old clenched feeling inside me. And then the warm tears. The well inside me bubbled and flowed – it’s an ancient, primitive force within us all. By now the effects of the 27 seeds had worn off, I had re-materialised, and I was feeling awful. Arthur Machen put his arm around my shoulders.

  ‘Been there mate,’ he said consolingly. ‘Don’t worry – we’ll sort this one out for you. Just you sit and watch.’

  I was grateful to him. I sat down on top of the central cairn and watched Mr Cassini as he arrived at the summit. I was seized, suddenly, by a fit of dread. I quaked. Every particle of self-control seemed to drain away from me. My face went numb, I was struck dumb. Mr Cassini stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, in High Noon style. He stared hard at me.

  I dropped my gaze and wiped my nose with my right sleeve. What next? Should I say something? Fortunately for me, Merlin came to the rescue. With an almost imperceptible flicker of his right forefinger he indicated to Mr Cassini that he should sit on a large boulder, and our guest slumped on it as if his legs were about to buckle. Thank God for good friends, I thought. The rest of the company formed a circle around him and studied him in silence for a while. No one seemed to expect me to do anything, and I was glad. I could watch and listen, let everyone else get on with it. I felt an enormous sense of relief. I stopped trembling. Merlin had taken over the reins. He was in charge, comfortably and competently. I began to wonder what he might do. How would he conduct the trial? Would it be a trial by compurgation – would jurors swear sacred oaths regarding Mr Cassini’s guilt or innocence? Would it be a trial by ordeal, or a trial by battle, or a trial by torture?

  In the event, Merlin adopted his own irregular course of action. The trial would be conducted through the medium of books. Merlin indicated that he would choose at random from the many books I had read recently: Water-Divining in the Foothills of Paradise, Rings of Saturn, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle...

  ‘Mr Cassini,’ he said. ‘You have been summoned here today to face grave charges of cruelty towards your wife and children. How plead you?’

  Mr Cassini said nothing, but he looked at me in a very frightening way.

  Merlin fished a book out of his pocket. I recognised it immediately – it was The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. He flipped through the pages until he came to a certain point, then he addressed Mr Cassini in a steady and authoritative voice:

  ‘Since you are apparently unwilling – or too cowardly – to make a statement on your own behalf, I will read out a passage from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle,’ (and here he gave me a kindly glance). I smiled back at him feebly, though I had no inkling as to why he was reading from a book I had read myself only recently. This is the passage which Merlin read out on the summit of Pumlumon Arwystli:

  I must say, Mr Okada, for a man without a wife, you do keep the house clean. I’m very impressed. I myself am completely hopeless, I’m embarrassed to say. My place is a mess, a garbage heap, a pigsty. I haven’t washed the bathtub for a year or more. Perhaps I neglected to tell you that I was also deserted by my wife. Five years ago. So I can feel a certain sympathy for you, Mr Okada, or to avoid the risk of misinterpretation, let me say that I can understand how you feel. Of course, my situation was different from yours. It was only natural for my wife to leave me. I was the worst husband in the world. Far from complaining, I have to admire her for having put up with me as long as she did. I used to beat her. No one else: she was the only one I could beat up. You can tell what a weakling I am. Got the heart of a flea. I would do nothing but grovel outside the house; people would call me Ushi and order me around, and I would just suck up to them all the more. So when I got home I would take it out on my wife. Heh heh heh – pretty bad, eh? And I knew just how bad I was, but I couldn’t stop. It was like a sickness. I’d beat her face out of shape until you couldn’t recognise her. And not just beat her: I’d slam her against the wall and kick her, pour hot tea on her, throw things at her, you name it. The kids would try to stop me, and I’d end up hitting them. Little kids: seven, eight years old. And not just push them around. I’d wallop them with everything I had. I was an absolute devil. I’d try to stop myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t control myself. After a certain point, I would tell myself that I had done enough damage, that I had to stop, but I didn’t know how to stop. Do you see what a horror I was? So then, five years ago, when my daughter was five, I broke her arm – just snapped it. That’s when my wife finally got fed up with me and left with both kids. I haven’t seen any of them since. Haven’t even heard from them. But what can I do? It’s my own fault.

  There was a brief silence after Merlin had ended his reading. Our wizard closed The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and folded the book into his robe. He looked Mr Cassini straight in the eye and said:

  ‘Mr Cassini, you now have an opportunity to defend yourself. We will ask you a number of questions, and you may redeem yourself or incriminate yourself, the choice is yours. Are you ready?’

  Mr Cassini sat there, stooped, his arms resting on his knees, his head bent low, studying his hands which were clasped together. He rubbed him thumbs together, idly. He didn’t seem unduly concerned. I almost admired his composure.

  ‘Mr Cassini,’ said Merlin again, ‘could you please tell us, in your own time, if your cruel behaviour can be ascribed to any form of brain damage – some sort of injury which you sustained in the past?’

  Mr Cassini: I take it that you’re alluding to frontal
lobe damage (at this point he stood up, brushed away a small amount of debris from the surface of his rock-throne, and then made himself comfortable again). Now let me see. Very important part of the brain: an emotional control centre, the seat of my personality. It’s involved in planning, problem-solving, spontaneity, judgement, impulse control, and social and sexual behaviour. And it’s the most commonly injured area. Even a relatively minor car accident can damage the frontal lobes. Many partners report that people who suffer frontal lobe damage can be different people afterwards: emotionless, detached, unloving. Their attention span and memory can also suffer. There can be a dramatic change in sexual and social behaviour. A damaged person may exhibit abnormal sexual behaviour or lose their sex drive altogether.

  But in answer to your question, I have never, to my knowledge, suffered frontal lobe damage (Mr Cassini rolled himself a thick cigarette and lit it with his skull and crossbones lighter).

  At this point, Merlin bowed to the company and sat down.

  The next interrogator was Huw Llwyd of Cynfael, who unsheathed his knife and tapped it on a nearby rock as he formed his question: the blade gleamed in the wan sunshine, sending rays directly into Mr Cassini’s eyes. I think Huw did this purposefully. Having planted himself squarely in front of Mr Cassini, so that his shadow fell on the tyrant, he asked him this question: ‘I have been told that violence in the home may be rooted in alcohol abuse, mental illness, brain damage and social deprivation. But people who are repeatedly violent may be psychologically different. The word psychopath is used sometimes. Would you define yourself as a psychopath?

  Mr Cassini cleared his throat and drew unsuccessfully on his roll-up, then threw it in the heather.

  Mr Cassini: There are problems with discussing the term psychopath, since there are differences between American and European definitions. A psychopath is often an intelligent person who displays a poverty of emotions, no sense of shame, and exceptional – but superficial – charm. He is manipulative, prone to irresponsible behaviour, shrewd, and mentally agile. He can talk very entertainingly but is incapable of understanding personal values. He shows no interest in human tragedy or joy as presented in literature or art. He is indifferent (except in a superficial sense) to issues of beauty and ugliness, goodness, evil, love, horror, and humour. Importantly, he cannot detect other people being moved either. He has no empathy with the emotions of other people.

  At this point Mr Cassini requested something to drink and one of the rainbow messengers handed him a bottle of water from the picnic basket. It was the Decantae, I noticed, taken from a spring in the old county of Denbighshire. Mr Cassini put the bottle to his lips and glugged greedily. ‘Anything stronger?’ he asked Merlin, but the wizard sniggered and shook his head slowly and tellingly.

  ‘I would like you to continue your discussion on psychopathy,’ said Huw Llwyd of Cynfael.

  Mr Cassini: Robert Hare’s Psychopathy Checklist, created in the 1960s to separate psychopaths from the rest of the prison population, is still used throughout the world. The Checklist identifies psychopaths as impulsive, glib and superficial; egocentric and grandiose; deceitful and manipulative. They also demonstrate shallow emotions, a lack of remorse or guilt, a lack of empathy and poor behavioural controls. The typical psychopath needs excitement. He displays a lack of responsibility, extreme behavioural problems early on, and antisocial behaviour as an adult.

  Huw Llwyd: You seem to know a lot about the subject, Mr Cassini.

  Mr Cassini: Indeed, I have made a special study of it.

  Huw Llwyd: Why would you do that?

  Mr Cassini: We all want to know about things which are close to our hearts.

  Huw Llwyd: Perhaps you could cite some famous cases.

  Mr Cassini: Of course. You may like to know about Jack Abbott. He killed a waiter who asked him to leave a restaurant. Denying he’d done anything wrong, he said there was no pain, it was a clean wound, and the victim wasn’t worth a dime.

  Another good example is the serial killer John Wayne Gacy who murdered 33 young men and boys but claimed that he was the victim because he’d been robbed of his childhood.

  Huw Llwyd: Psychopaths appear quite at ease with themselves. They can be articulate, highly intelligent, charming and convincing. True?

  Mr Cassini: Yes. And to muddy the waters, we don’t know if psychopathic behaviour is influenced by such factors as low birth weight, obstetric complications, poor parenting, poverty, early psychological trauma or adverse experiences. The jury is still out.

  Huw Llwyd: One striking feature of psychopathy is that extremely violent and antisocial behaviour can appear at a very early age. Other telltale signs include casual and thoughtless lying, petty theft, a pattern of killing animals, early experimentation with sex, and stealing.

  Mr Cassini: Correct.

  Huw Llwyd: Do you consider yourself to be a psychopath, Mr Cassini?

  Mr Cassini: Certainly not.

  Huw Llwyd: A narcissist then? Self-obsessed, constantly in need of a woman who’ll tell you how wonderful you are?

  Mr Cassini: No.

  Huw Llwyd: A sadist?

  Mr Cassini: You imply that my wife was a masochist, and she wouldn’t thank you for that.

  Huw Llwyd: Perhaps you need cruelty to feel alive?

  Mr Cassini: No.

  Huw Llwyd: Mr Cassini, during military service I witnessed a strange affinity between the torturer and the tortured. Was yours such a relationship?

  Mr Cassini: Quite definitely not. You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate.

  At this juncture Mr Cassini rolled a super-thin cigarette and tried to light it with his skull and crossbones lighter, which seemed to have run out of fuel; he cursed it; Merlin flicked his thumb and offered him a blue flame, much to Mr Cassini’s astonishment.

  The next interrogator was the Rev Griffiths, who adjusted his cassock after balancing his (nearly empty) port bottle against a rock. Was it my imagination, or had his voice thickened; did he slur his words occasionally? The Rev Griffiths adopted an air of flamboyance, with his left hand planted dramatically on his hip and his right forefinger prodding the air in front of him.

  ‘British psychologists and criminologists tend to use the phrase Antisocial Personality Disorder,’ he said to Mr Cassini. ‘Do you have this disorder?’

  Mr Cassini paused awhile, puffing meditatively on his ciggie. Then, using his right hand as a thought-wand, wafting cigarette smoke around him in the air, as if he were wielding a miniature incense burner, he said:

  ‘A typical person with Antisocial Personality Disorder resorts quickly to aggression, including violence. He displays a callous unconcern for the feelings of others, a gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility, a disregard for social norms, rules and obligations, an inability to maintain enduring relationships (though having no difficulty in establishing them) and a very low tolerance to frustration.’

  Rev Griffiths: And you have displayed all of these symptoms at one time or another?

  Mr Cassini: Yes.

  Rev Griffiths: Pray continue.

  Mr Cassini: A person with this sort of disorder won’t experience guilt and won’t profit from experience. Punishment means little to him. He often blames others, or gives odd reasons for his actions.

  Rev Griffiths: Let me continue. Personality disorders tend to appear in late childhood, do they not? Experts look for wayward attitudes and enduring and pervasive behaviour. Later on, significant problems emerge in the workplace and in society. Am I right, Mr Cassini?

  Mr Cassini: Quite correct.

  Rev Griffiths: People with this sort of disorder often start off as school bullies.

  Mr Cassini: Yes, about two million British people can be classified as suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder and many of them started off as junior bullies.

  Rev Griffiths: Mr Cassini, I challenge you to answer my question: do you suffer from an Antisocial Personality Disorder.

  Mr Cassini: Categorically, no.
<
br />   Rev Griffiths: How can you be so sure?

  Mr Cassini: May I remind you that when Sherlock Holmes – or any detective for that matter – arrives at the scene of the crime he considers all the obvious possibilities first, and all the outlandish possibilities second. About three quarters of all murders are committed by members of the same family. The statistics are surprisingly consistent. And about three quarters of all sexual crimes are committed by members of the same family. Statistically, the family is more corrupting than the Mafia and the home is more dangerous that the fast lane of the M6 on a wet Bank Holiday Monday. Look to the family if you want reasons for my behaviour.

  Mr Cassini puffed at his cigarette and appeared calm, but I couldn’t help noticing that he cast furtive glances, occasionally, at the Rev Griffiths’ bottle of port. Merlin noticed it too. As soon as the Rev Griffiths had finished his cross-examination I grabbed the bottle and stood provocatively in front of Mr Cassini. I swung the bottle slowly, as if it were a pendulum, in front of his eyes. Perhaps I could mesmerise him; perhaps I should click my fingers and say look into my eyes, when I count to ten... but Mr Cassini merely sat there, silently. He sneered at me, and said sit down boy, this is men’s work. I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I did as he said.

  In the meantime the Rev Griffiths sauntered over to me and wrested the bottle from my hand. I was surrounded by a bunch of dipsomaniacs, evidently.

  Merlin clapped his hands and said, ‘I call Mr Arthur Machen to the stand’.

  By stand I presumed he meant a little knoll to the right of Mr Cassini. Arthur Machen presumed so too and he walked over to it now, looking grave. Mr Cassini sniggered and said ‘Bowmen of Mons? The nearest you ever got to any bowmen was a bottle of cider, mate.’

  ‘Be quiet, Cassini,’ was Arthur Machen’s tart reply. Arthur raised his right hand to his mouth and a piercing whistle rang out across the land; looking around me, looking all around Wales, I saw small white figures dropping down from the summits around us and scurrying towards us along the valleys and ravines. Arthur had summoned the White People, and soon they were clustered around us, whispering incomprehensibly in their own tongue, the Xu language. And it seemed to me then that I could hear every blade of grass in Wales sibilating in the breeze.