“Yes.”
“That’s it. I'm glad you understand. Because this is the reason your wife doesn't remember anything.”
“Because of a dream?”
“Basically, in its most simple terms, yes. Oh, I could talk all morning about consciousness and nerve cells and pathology and physiology until you're half crazy yourself, but I shan't subject you to that. You will remember me ringing this bell for weeks, months, possibly years to come, because you are in a conscious state. However, when you are asleep, you are in an unconscious state. The latter is not conducive to memory, and for good reason. Can you imagine what would happen to us if when we went to sleep of a night; we woke up with seven, eight hours worth of memory of things that didn't really happen, except in our own minds?”
I can't, no. It sounds ridiculous to me, and I say so.
“Well, that’s the reason we don’t, Stanbury.” Satisfied, he leans back on his chair and grins at me. “Although it occurs to me now, that that could be the reason half of my patients are here.” He writes something on a piece of paper.
“But doctor...that explains her inability to remember her crime. But how can she not remember me? She knew me for a long time before this...this...” I stutter. “This, awfulness. It doesn’t make sense that if her mind is protecting her from something awful, that it would blank me from her memory.”
He blinks, his forehead crinkling.
“Doctor? Why doesn't she remember me?”
“The mind is a strange thing, Stanbury. And quite unique. Every person is different from the next.” He taps a pen against his desk, silent for some moments. Finally, his frown lifts, and he smiles. “No doubt, because she knows she has hurt you. That fact will hurt her, because she loves you. So her mind has shut you out too.” He beams. “Yes, that's it. Of course.”
Why is he so happy about this?
“Stanbury, try not to worry yourself. It is better to leave the where's and art thou's to us alienists: drat the man who coined such a phrase. I have various methods to explore the subconscious, and the hidden. I can find these memories.”
“So you can treat my wife?”
“Yes, without a doubt.”
“How?”
“That, Stanbury, is something we will decide and implement as we proceed. It is very much dependent on her, really.”
I can't help but think back to the horror stories he told me and my father-in-law to forget; of men and women being chained from their necks to posts and left to rot. We've all heard them growing up. I idly wonder if perhaps they still do those things, away from prying eyes down in the basement. I wonder if I care if it happens to Anne. They thought of her conjures up such opposing feelings inside me, that I really can't decide whether I want to kiss her or kill her.
“Do what you will, Doctor,” I say, standing up and bowing to him minutely, trying to sound authoritative. “My wife needs to be returned to me via whatever means necessary.”
“I assure you I will try my very best,” he says, rising and offering his hand. I shake it firmly. He leans back on this chair and reaches into his bookshelf. “Here, take this. Read it; it may help you understand.” He hands me a book, Insanity and Allied Neuroses. “Wrote it myself. You won’t find a better source of information,” he declares proudly. “Take good care of it though, that’s a first edition.” I promise I will, not sure if I'll read it but unable to summon the strength to tell him so. I simply nod and without a backward glance, stride out of the gloom into the sunshine, intent on seeing my lawyer. A man is rummaging amongst the flowers, shouting something incoherent about trying to find himself.
He's not the only one.
Incompetent Fools
Anne
November 3rd, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
A few weeks have passed since the sack incident, and having been on my best behaviour they've decided to let me attend a dance. Accompanied, of course, by one of the jailors, but at least this time it is the nice blonde woman, Agnus.
Fat-Ruth is part of the band, imagine.
"What is the point of Grace attending this ridiculous ball when she can’t enjoy the music?" I say, stuffing another sandwich into my mouth. I realized she was deaf by shouting into her ear one morning and getting no response. Swallowing back a lump of ham and cheese, I wait for Agnus' reply, but none is forthcoming.
She has dressed Grace in a beautiful silk dress, pinned her hair into a French pleat, and sat her onto a chair, but it all seems rather contrived and pointless. I get the impression Grace doesn't much care as to how she appears, nor where she is. In fact, I'm certain she would rather be back on the floor in the corridor.
"And I don't know why you bothered yourself to dress her up, really. She still looks like my grandmother. And really, dressing her in silk? She cannot dance in that, even if she actually wanted to, or could." I continue, picking up another sandwich.
"Anne, please don't eat so fast, those sandwiches are meant to last. And will you kindly stop being rude about Grace?"
"She can't hear me," I say. "Though perhaps you imagine that dressing us up in such mock finery will entice us all to beg our families to pay you the ransom, is that it? Well, I'm just here for the free food." I purposefully pick up another three sandwiches and stuff them all in my mouth at once.
"Anne..."
"Schsmsugfh." I say, showing her the contents of the half chewed up bread.
I swallow.
"I can't imagine why they bother. Did the ransom money pay for such a mockery of a feast? And the band is truly terrible," I say, watching them. Five idiots; all liars, thieves and robbers. None can play a tune."I hope for your sake that their hostage taking skills are better than their musical talent." Turning my back on Agnus, I pick up another four sandwiches and make my way over to one of the longer trestle tables, atop which stand dozens of different colored bottles containing various coloured liquids and towers of cups. I fill two with something brown and bubbly; and pour one into a nearby potted plant. I wait a moment. Satisfied, I drink the remaining cup quickly and ditch both empty cups onto the floor underneath the table. The squashed sandwiches in my hand meet the same fate, making a sad looking picnic indeed.
There must be thirty-some people in here, possibly even forty. Difficult to tell, as everybody is moving, dancing, walking, mingling, making my eyes cross and blur. They are all dressed in various states of eccentricity: some are still in their green linen gowns, and others are wearing 'normal', non-convict clothes. Some must be drunk because they keep falling over, and shouting. Bewilderingly, a cup flies past my head and I duck, looking around to see who the perpetrator of such a pointless exercise could be, but see no-one.
Loathe as I am to admit it to Agnus, at this point in time I'm rather unsteady on my feet. The confusion generated by not knowing who is who hurts my head, yet I am becoming aware of something.
This is a double edged sword.
This ball is a perfect opportunity for me to escape! For most surely, if I am unsure of whom they are, they must equally be confused as to who I am.
Incompetent fools. Why hold a ball for your hostages? Serves them right if all of us escape.
Aha!
A plan forms inside of my head.
I think back to the window in my cell, the one with bars across it.
I look at the windows here, in this large room. They don't have any bars across. But even if I managed to smash one of them, at least twenty jailors would be on me before I could make a move towards freedom.
Hmm.
Weapons seem to be inconspicuously absent, but there must be one somewhere.
Pretending to be absorbed in the music, I stand at the side of the room, humming to myself, making it appear to all who might be watching me that I am simply observing the dancers. I put a smile on my face: essential, after all, for a ball. Without turning my head away, I let my eyes wander further. A few more bird cages, some useless plants. Same story as the corridors. No, I cannot attack anyone here,
I would be swiftly thwarted. What would I do anyway, release a lark fly into their face?
"Missus, would ye do me the honour t'dance with me?" A man emerges from the crowd and stands in front of me. Bending forward in a respectful bow, he motions to me with a slight movement of his right hand. He no doubt presumed I was waiting to be asked; poor, deluded creature. I am inclined to refuse his invitation: his obviously common accent doesn't help matters, yet maybe...
Could he help me?
And anyway, it is bad manners to mar the pleasures of others, and he is dressed beautifully; from his black waistcoat, tailored trousers and white vest to his black cravat. Though by no means handsome, he could be a diversion.
"With pleasure, Sir." I hold out one of my gloved hands, and he elegantly takes it, leading me onto the dance floor.
“Me names’ William. William Smith. Nice t’ meet ye acquaintance.” He places a hand upon my waist, and I incline my head a little to the left.
“Anne. Just call me Anne.”
He starts to tell me about all the dances he's learnt whilst being here. “I bin' taught t' polka, t' t' gallop, and the waltz!” he declares, a little too proudly.
“How about the Polka-Masurka?”
The resulting confusion on his face makes me feel rather guilty, so I shake my head slightly and offer him a rueful smile.
Half way through our dance, our eyes meet and he smiles at me. In them, I see recognition of a fellow comrade.
"How do ye' like t' drinks?" he asks me, performing a perfect two-step, engaging me in the prerequisite small-talk of ballroom etiquette.
"Rather unpleasant," I say, matching his dance but not really wanting conversation. I'm too annoyed at trying to pull my skirt out to the side when I'm not wearing one. "I much prefer root beer."
"Coca-Cola, they're calling it. Developed by some quack called Dr Pemberton."
I snort, the sound lost under the screeching of a violin.
At this point, I suggest making an escape.
"Aye, I would love to," he says. "The damned idiots in here keep makin' me miss me train. Do ye know, I have tried ten times to get out of this place?"
Another song starts and we continue to dance.
"How did they kidnap you?"
"Kidnap? Lady, me' family put me in here. Damn them."
Interesting. Perhaps they paid the captors to take him? But what possible reason would they have for this? But no matter, I hardly have time to ponder another issue. I backtrack to his unsuccessful escape record.
"How can you possibly fail ten times?" Perhaps I have not picked the best fellow to aid me.
"Well, the first time I broke me' hand tryin' t' break a window," he says, blushing. "It's the first thing ye try in here - break a window, and freedom is yours. Not so."
I feel a little idiotic for falling for the same sentiment. I stay quiet.
"Second time, I picked a lock with a hair pin I'd found on the floor. I managed to open the door but ran straight into a bunch of orderlies." He laughs. "That got me put into a cold sheet for two days. No matter. Third time, I went on hunger strike, and when they tried to put the tube down my throat I grabbed it...and not much happened. The tube went down my throat. That was a plan without much foresight, really.
"Fourth time I hid behind my cell door, and punched the orderly when he entered. Knocked him clean unconscious I did, but then I tripped over him and unfortunately knocked meself' out too on the doorframe."
I giggle.
"Aye, very amusin'. Sixth time, sixth?"
"Fifth."
"Ah. Right-o, so fifth time, I put a piece of thin wood I'd whittled down out of the workshop into the side of the door-frame. The plan was that when the door closed the lock wouldn't be able t' engage. It fell out, and that was that. Sixth time was a plea for release really, which fell on deaf ears, so not sure if that really counts as an 'escape attempt'. Seventh time I crept into the kitchens and started a fire, but they apprehended me minutes after, the cook having spied me immediately." He sighs.
"You're not very good at this." I say.
"Why should I be? I'm just a tobacco merchant." We dance a quick step silently as a jailor walks past us.
"So, eighth time I tried to seduce one of the female orderlies, and was rewarded by a squeal, a slap, and isolation for a month. Sexual predator, they called me. Ninth time, I tried to seduce a male orderly. Got stuck in the hole for that, and almost ended up back at court. Did you know it's illegal for a man to lay with another man, but in Persia he can have sex with a goat? Anyway, tenth time I tried to poison myself with weeds from the garden, but simply ended up vomitin' for a week."
I feel sad for him. "Didn't your family pay the ransom then?"
He squints. "What?"
I frown. Why does everyone act idiotic when I mention the ransom? Is it such a verbal fax-paux in here? Why am I not allowed to state the reality of our affair?
"Anyway darlin', whatever ye think, I'm definitely interested in attemptin' escape number eleven, with such a bonny face as yours." He squeezes my hand.
"You know, on the outside, I am a Lady." I say, slightly taken aback.
"Doesn't matter in here," he says. "Though I s'pose I should beg ye pardon. Sorry. But the reality, me Lady, is that we're all trapped. What difference does rank matter? Hey, if I get ye out of here, maybe p'rhaps ye could invite me to one of ye fancy dinners. I ne'er been to a lady's manor before."
"Certainly, if we ever get out of here, I would even pay you handsomely," I say. "I'm simply loathe to pay these foul thieves and robbers a single penny. They can snatch it out of my dead hands, more like. I do have some moral standards."
"I don't quite understand ye, but I do understand ye sentiments," he says. "Right-o. So what do we do now?"
I can't think. Oh, but I must. There has to be a way out of here.
"Can you recognize any of your male jailors?" I ask him.
"Jailors, ha ha. Ne'er heard that one before. Ye, of course I recognize the male orderlies. That one oe’r there is George Davis, damn him he gave me a bloody nose once b’foor. The ot’er ones John Wilson. Bastards."
"What are they wearing?"
"Same as me. Though of course, no-way near as handsomely." He chuckles, then stops and looks at me. "My Lady, I do believe ye just hit upon a potential plan in that pretty head of yours."
I am glad, and giggle.
"Ye askin' me to pretend to be an orderly, right?"
"That I am. And I can be the 'disorderly' captive, right?"
"Patient?"
"Pardon?"
"Ne-er mind. Captive it is. Oh, I always dreamed of taking a lady captive, taking off her corset..."
I raise my eyebrows reproachfully.
"Sorry, me' Lady. My thoughts do run away with themselves. Me wife wouldnae b’ ‘appy. Right-o. I suppose ye must act disorderly, then. What do ye suppose ye can do?"
"I could have a fainting episode?"
"No. They would come running over to check if ye were alive. Not a good thing."
Hmm.
"This will never work. How about we just steal a bunch of keys?" I say.
"And how, pray tell, d’ ye s’pose we do that?"
"How about you seduce a female 'orderly'?" I suppress a smirk.
It is his turn to frown.
"Aye, at least someone in here has a sense of humour. God forbid, I thought it had been banned from t’ entire human population. No, I already told ye, they seem strangely immune to my charms. Did I tell ye I murdered me wife, by the way?"
"Pardon?"
"Just jokin’. Ye should have seen the look on ye face. Here, I know what to do." With that, he pulls me into a pirouette and pushes me to the floor.
"Ow!" I cry out. "I twisted my ankle! I hurt this one as a child! Oh, you selfish, brute headed rhino!"
"Oh!" He cries in a loud voice. "Patient two-oh-three has sprained her ankle! Here, let's get ye back to ye room, here's a love." He crouches over me, pulling his hat discreetly l
ower over his face. I note he has his back to the band.
"All of the long term orderlies are on the stage," he says, whispering. "Except for the new ones, who can't play a tune. Those are dotted around the place, and seeing as they only joined last week, they shan't know I am a patient from the back. Now, stay quiet." He picks me up and hoists me over his shoulder.
With that, he carries me out of the ballroom.
In A Pickle
Edgar
November 4th, 1885
Mr Tumsbridges Office
“I received your letter Mr Stanbury, and I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I'm afraid that you're not entitled to anything.”
“How can that possibly be?”
“The law, my friend. The law.”
I can only stare at the lawyer as he ignites another old-fashioned candlestick, his liver-spotted hands shaking as he does so. He notices my gaze, and blowing out the match says, “It's terrible getting old, isn't it? I shouldn't be surprised if I set fire to this whole darned building one day, my hands tremble so terribly. I hope the landlord installs this electricity thing before that happens.” He grins at me and though his watery-blue eyes appear filtered, they sparkle with a sharpness as bright as any mans. “You're in a very difficult position, my friend.”
I twirl the ring on my finger, caressing the emblem.
“Yes, I gather that. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
The old man coughs into his hand, and looks at the contents for a moment before wiping it on his sleeve.
“No.”
“No?”
“Indeed not.”
I wonder if he's playing with a full deck of cards.
“Mr...”
“Tumsbridge. Mr Tumsbridge. Had that name for several decades young man, and it's not likely to change anytime soon.”
Frustrated, I reach into my pocket and reluctantly hand him a piece of paper. “Mr Tumsbridge, this is my marriage certificate. Now, as Lady Stanbury's husband, this entitles me to the real estate, and all income of my wife’s. I want access to it whilst she is incarcerated.”
The Medea Complex Page 6