11.30 alien
Sorry, my dearest sister, you apparently need more detailed instructions Take the pencil, put it in your pocket, go to the restroom, go into a stall, lock yourself in, take off your trousers and panties and stick the pointed end of the pencil into your vagina.
11.31 Ksenia
That’s too complicated, sorry. It will take more than five minutes.
11.31 alien
This is a very important game, my sister. We’re playing gynecologist. Do as I told you – once; put it in and pull it out. That’s two seconds. And don’t even think of coming, you’re too little for that. Don’t forget, we’re not tossing off, just playing.
11.32 Ksenia
Okay, I’ll try.
11.32 alien
I’ll time you.
On the way back she meets Alexei and suddenly realizes her face is burning. Some important game that is! I just stuck it in once and pulled it back out. Shit, now how am I going to work?
“Are you busy this evening?” Alexei says.
“Yes, sorry” – and she edges her way through sideways to her desk, hurrying so she can answer before the five minutes are up.
“And in general – what plans do you have for this week?”
“Oh, I’m not really very clear on that right now,” Ksenia says, and that, at least, is an honest answer. “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? But I think I’m all booked up, sorry.”
“It’s just that I’m missing you,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper.
Smile charitably, answer “me too”, sit at the desk, type quickly “I’m here”, oh, thank goodness she had the wits to close the dialogue box as she was leaving. Alexei is still there, looking straight at the monitor.
“Listen, you’re stopping me working. If you’ve got nothing to do, go and check what Dasha’s translated from Reuters, she messes up sometimes.”
Phew, sigh in relief. Where are you, alien?
11.36 alien
Well done. You made it in four minutes. Next time I’ll let you move the pencil about a bit more.
11.37 Ksenia
Bastard. Now I can’t work.
11.37 alien
You’re a slacker, little sister. You use any excuse to do nothing. Finish your column and then do whatever you like. Only that column had better be really good, understand?
11.38 Ksenia
We don’t write any other kind
I wonder why he never asks where he can read my stuff? Is he trying not to make me feel too important?
12.28 alien
Are you still there?
12.28 Ksenia
Yes, completely.
12.28 alien
How’s the column?
12.29 Ksenia
I finished it.
12.30 alien
Then why don’t you go and finish tossing off?
12.30 Ksenia
Dear brother, how can you use words like that?
12.31 alien
They’re grown-up words, little sister. You’ll have to learn them if you want to play with the big boys
12.31 Ksenia
I’ll be a diligent pupil I like it that you don’t let me come. If you like, I won’t come at all without your permission.
12.32 alien
I have lots of other things to do, sister, apart from arranging your sex life. Why don’t you tell me what you did yesterday evening?
12.33 Ksenia
I went to the movies with Olya.
12.33 alien
How is she after the abortion?
12.33 Ksenia
She pretends nothing happened. And I don’t bring it up either.
12.34 alien
Be gentle with her, it’s hard for her.
12.34 Ksenia
I’ll take special pleasure in carrying out that order.
12.35 alien
And what are you doing today?
12.36 Ksenia
Do you want to invite me somewhere?
12.36 alien
In your dreams. I’m just asking.
12.37 Ksenia
You’ll laugh, but I’m meeting a psychologist.
12.37 alien
For therapy?
12.38 Ksenia
No, to interview her.
Shit, why did I say that? Now I’ll have to explain what the interview’s for and what it’s about. Maybe it’s time I told him I’m that Ksenia Ionova? A successful professional, an up-and-coming journalist, and also the producer and blogger of the “Moscow Psycho” site?
38
AT SEVEN IN THE EVENING LA BELLE CHOCOLATIÈRE café on October Square is crammed as usual and it’s hard to find a table. Ksenia’s feeling nervous, after all, it’s the first time she’s ever seen a real live psychotherapist. Medium height, well dressed, quite young. Could be some friend of Olya’s. Entirely her style: the modern Moscow businesswoman. Only dressed less formally, and it obviously doesn’t take half the evening for her face to thaw out after the working day. How shall I address you, formally by name and patronymic? Just Tatyana is fine.
It’s the first time she’s seen a real live therapist, should she ask some kind of personal question? Doctor, why do I like to be hurt? Oh no, some other time, today I’m working.
Switch on the dictaphone. Check the recording level, make there isn’t too much noise. One, two, three. Now just a moment – no, everything seems to be all right. Let’s get started, okay?
(Extracts from the article “Psycho: the psychologist’s view” published on the Moscow Psycho site)
Most serial killers belong to the class of sociopathic personalities or sociopaths. These are individuals in whom one of the most important aspects of personality is defective: they are incapable of understanding that there are certain things you must not do, not because you will be punished, but because they cause suffering to others. In everyday language, they simply have no conscience, and this is not merely a metaphor, but a sad reality. Strangely enough, this state of affairs causes suffering to the sociopaths as well as the people around them: sociopaths are not capable of understanding other people emotionally, they are not capable of getting in touch with other people’s feelings and sympathizing with them, and so they are terribly lonely and unhappy within themselves. When they kill, they do not perceive their victim as a person of flesh and blood, with his or her own feelings and desires, for them the victims are no more than figures out of their own fantasies. At the same time, a sociopath doesn’t perceive himself as a living individual, but as a kind of abstract, powerful figure, the bearer of might and authority, an abstract aggressor who in fact is often endowed with the features of the aggressor whom he encountered in his childhood. As a rule, sociopaths are people whose childhood was devoid of emotional attachments and love. There was simply no one from whom they could learn to feel compassion, because they themselves never received an adequate measure of that compassion.
Sometimes killers have a tendency toward dissociation, that is, they have several personalities living inside them and, in principle, they might not even suspect each other’s existence. This is a subject they love to exploit in the movies: one of the classic plots is Hitchcock’s Psycho, the story of a man who thought he was his own dead mother and killed girls in a hotel, acting out that role.
The reasons for this kind of split personality have still not been studied adequately, but we can say with certainty that it often happens to people whose childhood involved some kind of severe suffering or serious psychological trauma. If the child is unable to cope with this himself, or he does not receive enough support from the people around him, then at some difficult moment his psyche attempts to deal with what is happening by splitting the personality, passing on the bad experience to someone else and starting over with a clean sheet. I must emphasize that dissociation is the result of intense suffering and serious pain. As a rule, these people cannot remember the trauma and they themselves cannot understand why they do certain things, for instance, why they become kill
ers.
But then that’s a separate question – the distinction between sociopaths with dissociative features and dissociative individuals with a sociopathological component to their personality. It is of very definite importance when it comes to expert psychiatric testimony in court, but it doesn’t change the way we regard what happens from a practical point of view.
Maybe I suppress part of my childhood experiences too? thinks Ksenia. Though I don’t think so, I think I remember everything. But then – how can you check? Maybe I should ask her to explain one of my dreams? Yesterday I woke up and all I could remember was one phrase: “When I’m called, I’ll come.” Who’s going to call me, and where to?
“As far as I know, in Russia most psychotic killers are declared sane, is that true?” Ksenia asks and finishes her coffee.
“To be quite honest, I’d rather not answer that question for the record, but if you’re interested, I can tell you why it happens. The way I see it, of course. It’s not even a matter of public opinion saying we ought to shoot these monsters. It’s just that psychiatrists are only too well aware that it’s possible to escape from hospital. That patients are usually only kept in high-security facilities for seven years – any longer is forbidden by law – and then transferred to the standard security regime, where the patients aren’t actually guarded at all. They know you can leave the hospital when you’re declared to be well. In short, there is absolutely no guarantee that these people will not kill again. If you have to take a sin on your soul, better take responsibility for a wrong diagnosis than for further victims. Mosgas, Chikatilo, and all the most famous serial killers – of course, they’re all mentally ill, people with very serious disorders and a specific diagnosis. But they were declared sane and executed. And, to be quite honest, I can understand my colleagues for putting their names to that opinion.”
“You mean these people can’t be cured?” asks Ksenia, thinking that she would like to be like this woman: to understand killers with her mind, have all the answers pigeon-holed, explain all the reasons, know everything in the books, but not feel it with her own lacerated skin, her own heart.
(Extracts from the article “Psycho: the psychologist’s view” published on the Moscow Psycho site)
Many cases are known in which psychotherapy has helped such people to cope with their problems. But it has to be admitted that the case of serial killers lies in the realm of psychiatry and not psychotherapy: the transition from fantasies to real actions is usually the boundary beyond which the killer’s personality changes irreversibly. But, of course, we must understand quite definitely that most sociopaths and individuals with multiple personalities are not psychotic killers. And neither are people who are obsessed by sadistic fantasies. In themselves, thoughts and fantasies do not make a person into a criminal – and in these cases the timely help of a therapist can be both appropriate and effective. The literature includes cases of individuals who went to therapy with an obsessive desire to kill. Many of them have managed to get rid of their own nightmares, others have at least managed not to commit any real crimes. I would like to use your site to appeal to people like that and tell them they will feel better if they can talk about their fantasies with a therapist.
“But surely a therapist should tell the police if someone who might become a murderer comes to him?” Ksenia asks.
“Well, you see, Ksenia, confidentiality is one of the fundamental conditions of a therapist’s work. There are cases, very rare ones, when a therapist has the right to break this rule. For instance, if a child says that he or she is being systematically abused – then the therapist should inform the authorities, in order to protect this child and other children. But if someone comes of his own accord and talks about his problems, including his fantasies, his nightmares and obsessions, then he can be certain that no one but his therapist will hear about it.”
I guess I’d be a good client, thinks Ksenia. I wouldn’t hide anything, I don’t have anything to hide. But then, I’m not likely to go into therapy, no matter what Maya Lvova says – after all, I’m perfectly happy. Especially just recently, when I have someone to talk with about what really matters to me.
She finishes her coffee and asks her final question:
“But what does the therapist feel, talking to a potential killer? How about you, Tatyana, wouldn’t you feel disgusted or afraid?
“It’s our job, Ksenia. If a man came to me with fantasies about killing little girls, as a woman and a mother I would feel loathing and anger. But as a professional, I would empathize, because I understand perfectly well that such fantasies derive from the experience of suffering. The therapist’s attitude must always be based on a compassionate approach – that’s another condition of our work.”
(Extracts from the article “Psycho: the psychologist’s view” published on the Moscow Psycho site)
In conclusion, let me emphasize once again: an analysis of the causes of such crimes can in no way serve as an argument in favor of a “soft” approach to the killers. The understanding that so-called “psychos” are also human beings who suffer and perhaps need help should not be confused with a desire to justify them, yet alone to glorify them. Society has to be protected against such individuals, no matter how well we might understand the degree of their own personal suffering.
* * *
But what should I ask about my dream? thinks Ksenia. After all, I know the answer myself. When I’m called, I’ll come. The answer’s in the word “call.” I guess I simply believe that my life has some kind of meaning, I have a “calling” and it will manifest itself when the time comes.
She switches off the dictaphone and says:
“Thank you for an excellent interview.”
39
HE WALKS BACK HOME AFTER MIDNIGHT, FROSTY Moscow air, a full moon, snow crunching under his feet, powdered snow spiraling across the ground behind him. He ought to stop a car, walking through these alleys and yards you could freeze to death a dozen times over. Alexei switches on his cell, calls Oxana, lies that he fell asleep at work, an awkward kind of lie, but never mind that now. All his life he has wanted to fight against lies – and all his life he has lied to his wife. And now his own lies are heaping up into a snowdrift that all the pro-Putin media couldn’t match in six months. But no, that was going too far. Every month there were more official lies, so many that it seemed like he was doing something very important by telling the truth about anything at all. Even if it was only the truth about the number of wounds on a dead body.
So he had phoned Oxana and lied again, but never mind that now. She could see anyway that something was wrong. Yesterday, when the children went to sleep, she came up, sat down facing him and asked what was going on. He’d put her off somehow, blamed his job, working on the project with Ksenia, did she think it was easy writing about the psycho day in and day out? But at least it meant recognition and a bit of extra money. I always wanted to do something big in the internet, you know, not just interview someone or write the occasional article. So this is my chance, and, well, we’ll all have to put up with it for a while because, of course, you have to pay for a chance like this.
He raises his hand to stop a car. It’s the first time he has ever gone home from his latest flame without feeling any joy or pride. Not even the slightest buzz. He shifts from foot to foot, waves his frozen hand, the cars drive by along the empty road, the powdered snow spiraling across the ground is like the strokes of an immense pencil. Outwardly everything had been as usual, with urgency and passion. He had easily got turned on, after all, this was the first time he had visited Irka for almost three months. He’d done everything the way he liked, this way and that way, they had even come together, which didn’t always happen. But there was no joy in it, no buzz.
Why not just forget the car? Why not sit down here in a snowdrift, entirely sober, pull his jacket up over his head and wait for the spirals of snow to weave into a cocoon around him, fall asleep in it like a little larva and wake up as a butterf
ly – but already somewhere else, in a new life? Because it was pointless trying to deceive himself – no new life had happened here. The brand of a failure could not be obliterated by the two interviews he had given, or the money in the envelope, or the five evenings he had spent at Ksenia’s. It could all be counted on the fingers of two hands.
He takes off his glove and looks at his open hand. If I were a palm-reader, he thinks, I could understand what’s wrong here. Should I simply change my fate? Burn out all the lines of my life, obliterate them with red-hot metal, rip them off together with the skin? Write a letter, perhaps, to the hero of our site: dear psycho, I’ve done so much to make you popular and famous that I hope I can now count on a little favor in return. Remove the skin from my hands, it won’t be the first time you’ve done it, allow me to deny my fate, to enter into tomorrow changed and renewed. I know you’re not interested in men, but do this simply out of friendship, not for pleasure. If you like, you can make gloves out of my hands. We’ll put a photo of them on the site, I can do an interesting interview with myself – the man whose hand was taken by the psycho – and bring the copy to Ksenia, I expect she would be pleased with it.
Frosty Moscow air, powdered snow spiraling across the ground, a car stops, the driver opens the door. “Get in, mate, you’ll freeze out there. Where to?” He gives the address and flops back against the seat. “Going home then, are you? From work? Sure, you got delayed, right enough, it’s half past twelve. Will the wife let you in?”
If Alexei liked talking to taxi drivers, he would have said that of course his wife will let him in, of course his wife understands that maybe he has a mid-life crisis, or maybe just an ordinary-type crisis. The driver would have told him that his brother had a crisis too, but then it turned into a long bender, so he had that stuff stitched into his stomach and the crises disappeared as if by magic, it was just a pity that a year later he got run down by a car at a bus stop. Some drunken idiot who obviously left it too late to get his stomach stitched. It was clearly written in the stars that your brother would be killed by vodka, Alexei would have said, and the taxi driver would have said, well, there you go, and they would have passed the time making this conversation. Maybe the driver would have come out with some piece of folk wisdom like children are the most important thing or you should make do with the wife God gave you, or maybe something else – Alexei always had problems with popular sayings and folk wisdom. But one way or another, if he’d got into conversation with the taxi driver, he might have stopped thinking about Ksenia, remembering the way she lay stretched out on her back, so touchingly thin, with the veins showing through her skin, lying there with her legs spread shamelessly, although, of course, what was there to be ashamed of if they had only just made love, or at least, he had made love, kissed the little scars on the folds of her elbows, rolled the little cylinders of her nipples between his teeth, gently, trying not to hurt her, run his finger across the fresh wound on the inner surface of her thigh (what’s that? nothing, just a cut). Only just made love, you say? When was it, that “only just”? A month ago, at least. Tell me Ksenia, what happened? We see each other every day in the office, you’re kind and friendly, but I can sense some kind of invisible wall growing up between us, and I can’t understand what I’ve done wrong. And so all the way home he talks to Ksenia, instead of talking to the taxi driver, and that, as it happens, is a big mistake, because Ksenia doesn’t answer him, and the taxi driver might have uttered some bon mot like time heals what must be borne, whatever that might mean, although basically it’s clear enough, it means patience is all that is left to us and time heals. And it destroys too, as a matter of fact – which means either that it heals only what it doesn’t destroy or destruction is in itself a part of healing. That’s always the way with proverbs and popular sayings, even when their meaning is vague, check them out and you find they couldn’t possibly be more banal. But even so, it would have been better to talk to the taxi driver, and then when he got his money, he wouldn’t have roared off, leaving you standing in the frosty Moscow air, long after midnight, he would probably have asked: Hey, lad, what’s up, come to the wrong place have you, why are you gawping like that? And you would have answered him: Aw, shit, I gave you the wrong address, I’ll pay if you get me away from this place, that is, to be more precise, definitely take me home this time. And the taxi driver would have said: Well, mate, that’s incredible! Or: You really have been working too hard! But one way or another, you would have got back in the car, and it would have taken you away from that place. But for that, it goes without saying, you would have had to talk to the taxi driver all the way and not conduct an interminable monologue directed at Ksenia, who couldn’t answer it anyway, because just then she was at home with her laptop switched on, using one hand to answer alien’s questions and the other… but then, you’d better not think about that or even know about it, after all, right now Ksenia isn’t thinking about you and she doesn’t know you’re standing right outside the entrance to her apartment block and the powdered snow is spiraling over the ground round your feet, like someone’s lifelines, lines that the wind changes with a single breath.
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