Shaping the Ripples

by Paul Wallington

  “How do you feel towards you abuser?” he asked once I had finished the story.

  “I don’t really feel anything towards him,” I answered. “There’s not much point feeling anything is there, he died when I was seven years old.”

  Again, there was a glance down at whatever the monitor was telling him. “And how did you feel about Jennifer Carter? Was she helping you to come to terms with your past?”

  “For the first question, I liked her a lot,” I said. “She was a person who showed you how much she cared. For the second, I’m not sure. She certainly helped me to understand things, but we’d not really made much progress in changing them.”

  Over the next minutes, he got me to talk about finding her body and the weeks afterwards, leading up to the murder of Christopher.

  “When you found out about Rev. Upton’s pornography addiction, did you feel angry towards him? Let down that this person you respected and trusted had lived with such a secret?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I just felt very sad for him. Sorry that he’d never been able to share his problem with anyone, and that it had made him so unhappy. Guilty, I suppose, that I hadn’t been able to help him.”

  He carried on, exploring what had happened with Jill and Sophie and my feelings towards them. Eventually, we seemed to have covered everything and I felt utterly drained.

  “We’re nearly done,” he said sympathetically. “I’ve just got a few more questions for you and then we’ll stop.” He looked directly into my eyes, and it felt as if he was boring into my soul.

  “Do you believe that you are responsible for these deaths?”

  “Yes, in some ways,” I admitted.

  “Did you kill any of them?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Do you find that you have problems with your memory – difficulty remembering what you did on the previous day for example?”

  This last question took me by surprise. “Not really, no,” I answered him.

  “Do you ever experience blank periods? By that, I mean times when you notice that a lot of time seems to have passed but you don’t really know how you’ve spent them?”

  “I suppose that sometimes time passes without me noticing it, but not really in the way you mean,” I told him.

  His face relaxed, and he sat back in his chair. “That’s us done, then,” he said and unfastened the pads from my fingers.

  “Go on then,” I said when he’d finished. “Tell me what you’ve made of all that.”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked without a hint of humour.

  “Is it that bad?” I said with a slightly nervous laugh.

  “No, it’s not bad at all,” he reassured me. “It’s just you might find it slightly uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll risk it,” I told him firmly. “Has your machine told you that I’m emotionally unstable?”

  “Quite the opposite, in fact,” he answered. “I’ve never interviewed a client with such steady readings. Given the nature of what you’ve been talking about, I find that rather surprising.”

  I nodded for him to continue. “What the machine leads me to believe is that you’re someone who keeps a very tight reign on his emotions. No doubt that’s a result of the childhood abuse, in that to survive you had to blot out the pain of those early years. What it’s meant is that you never allow yourself to fully feel any emotion. It’s not that you don’t feel things at all, it’s just that you only feel them very superficially.”

  As he’d predicted, I was feeling very uncomfortable. “Can you explain that a bit more?” I asked.

  “Alright,” he said. “You talked about the break up of your marriage, something which was obviously very hard and for which you blame yourself, but the readings didn’t change a fraction. The same is true when you talked about the death of your counsellor, who you say you regarded as a friend, and when you talk about Christopher Upton and the distressing circumstances of his death.”

  He continued. “As I said, you do feel emotions, but you never allow those feelings to be very deep. The readings changed slightly when you spoke about your current girlfriend, and slightly more when you described the manner in which the latest two victims were killed. I suspect the fact that you couldn’t completely control your response in those cases means that your feelings there are, for you, very strong indeed.”

  “You seem to be describing a robot,” I said in despair. “Is that your conclusion?”

  “No, not at all,” he said quickly. “I’m describing someone who has been hurt a great deal, and who has tried to protect themselves from being hurt that badly again. That’s lead you to keep a tight hold of your emotions. As a small child, I’m sure it was necessary for you to survive, but as an adult, I would suspect that it’s doing you more harm than good.”

  “So does that mean you can’t tell whether I’m telling the truth or not?” I demanded.

  “As I told you at the start, it isn’t a device to determine between truth and lies, just to measure levels of emotion and stress, which can sometimes be linked to deceit,” he answered calmly. “For what it’s worth, I believe that your answer that you did not kill the four people was an entirely truthful one.”

  Despite the sting of what he had already said, I felt a great wave of relief. “Thank goodness for that,” I said with a heavy breath. “Maybe that will help to convince the police.”

  His expression was non-committal. “What is it?” I asked. He didn’t respond at first, and was clearly struggling to decide how frank to be with me. At length, he spoke.

  “There is, however, one other possibility that I will have to mention in the report. It’s not uncommon in cases such as yours where severe childhood trauma has resulted in the repression of emotions, for the person to need to find some way of releasing the feelings of hurt and anger – a safety valve if you like.”

  “Which means what?” I asked.

  “In a few cases, this results in the phenomena sometimes called split or multiple personality disorder. On the face of it, the person is mild and placid, never losing their temper. However on occasion they switch to an alternative persona who is frequently very angry and violent. In some very rare cases, the “Nice” person remains totally unaware of the existence of the other person, who acts to right perceived wrongs done to the individual.”

  “How is that possible?” I asked, genuinely interested at this stage.

  “The normal persona just switches off for a period, and has no memory of the actions of the other.”

  “Which is why you were asking me about losses of memory and blank periods,” I realised.

  “Precisely. I have to say that the fact you haven’t had those experiences makes it even more unlikely that this is what’s happening in your case.”

  “But you still think that it’s possible?” I challenged him.

  He fixed me firmly with his gaze. “If we’re talking in abstract terms, then yes I do think that it’s possible that a person with that condition could kill. Indeed, there are several documented cases where we believe that it had happened. Could that anger come out towards a counsellor who had failed to solve the person’s problem; a trusted vicar who was discovered to have a double life; a family the person had helped who he perceived as insufficiently grateful, or who provoked feelings the violent persona found threatening? Again, in abstract terms, it’s perfectly possible. Could that person even go so far as to send notes of hate to their rival personality? Yes, they could.”

  He stopped for a moment to allow me to absorb the impact of his words, before going on.

  “If you’re asking me do I think that you are such a person, and that you have unknowingly murdered them, then my instincts tell me “no”. But it would be unprofessional of me not to raise the possibility in my report to the police, no matter how remote I think the chance, of that being the true explanation, is.”

  “Great,” I said with heavy sarcasm. “So now they’re not just going to be convinced that
I’m a killer, you’re going to tell them that I’m totally deranged.”

  His voice remained impressively calm. “That is not what I’m going to be telling them,” he stated again. “As I’ve said, I would be failing in my duty if I didn’t mention the possibility of multiple personality disorder to the police. However, I will be making it clear in my report how very remote I believe that possibility to be in your particular case.”

  That seemed to be the best I was going to get out of him. I stood up, thanked him for his time, and left. Once he had closed the front door behind me, I stood there for several minutes, thinking. One of the consequences of having low self esteem, is that you’re always very quick to believe anything bad that someone has to say about you. So I stood there, tormenting myself with the question – could I be the killer?

  Was it possible that I had some sort of dark alter-ego, that was trying to destroy me and everyone that I was close to? For a split-second I was almost convinced that it was true. Fortunately, logic kicked in before I plunged too far down that road. While I supposed a split personality could send notes to their alternate selves, I knew for a fact that I had had a dialogue with “Guignol” on the web site. Even if the police hadn’t found any trace of the site subsequently, I knew it was a concrete fact that we had talked. There was no way I could have been having that conversation with myself. Therefore, there was no way that I could be the killer.

  Feeling stupidly relieved, I started down the path to the road. To my surprise, Laura Smith was parked directly opposite the house. She wound down the passenger window, and called “Get in.” I crossed to the car and leaned in.

  “It’s alright,” I told her. “I can easily walk home from here.”

  “I just want to talk to you for a moment,” she said. “Get in and I’ll give you a lift home while I do.”

  Accepted the inevitable, I climbed in beside her. The car pulled smoothly away. “Couldn’t you wait for the doctor’s report?” I asked her.

  “It’s nothing to do with that,” she said seriously. Then she glanced across at me and spoke in a fierce voice. “You and I never had this conversation, do you understand?”

  Now I was really confused. “OK,” I answered.

  “Michael is very frustrated and angry at the moment. You saw that in the interview room,” she began.

  “Yes,” I agreed, still with no idea what she was getting at.

  “What I want you to remember is that DI Palmer and I are investigating this case together,” she continued. “There should be no reason why any interview of you isn’t conducted by both of us. You might want to be very careful before letting one of us see you on their own.”

  “Are you trying to warn me?” I asked suddenly.

  “Like I said, we never had this conversation,” she repeated. “But, as a hypothetical, if DI Palmer were to arrive at your flat and request a private interview, you might be wise to get in touch with me before allowing him access.” She handed me a small piece of card. “My direct number and mobile numbers are on there,” she said. “I’m sure you must have picked it up on some other occasion. You might want to keep them close to you just in case such a situation as I’ve described were to arise.”

  “What exactly are you trying to tell me?” I asked her once again.

  “As this conversation has never taken place, I’m not trying to tell you anything,” she insisted. “I’m putting myself in a difficult situation here. All I’m suggesting is that you might be surprised and understandably cautious if either DI Palmer or myself tried to interview you by ourselves. Someone who had been through the things you’ve experienced in recent weeks might feel they should be particularly careful at the moment.”

  The car pulled up outside my flat, so I climbed out of the car. I leaned back in to look at her. She stared pointedly ahead out of the windscreen.

  “Thanks, I think,” I said to her.

  She began to move the car forwards, so I hastily pulled my head out and closed the door. Just before it shut fully, her voice drifted back towards me.

  “What for?” it said, and she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Once I was back in my flat, all the emotions of the day finally got the better of me. I slumped down on the couch, feeling completely wiped out. The answering machine had one new message on it. It was from Katie, asking me to ring her as soon as I got back, no matter what time it was. I composed myself, and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” Katie’s anxious voice came on the first ring. Once she heard it was me, she said, “Oh Jack, thank goodness it’s you. I’ve been so worried since George rang to say what had happened. I don’t know what to say – I know how much you cared about them.”

  “It’s just all hard to take in at the moment,” I admitted, and my voice cracked with emotion. Just hearing her voice and the care and sympathy in it had brought me close to tears again.

  “Don’t try and talk,” she said quickly. “I’ll be right over.”

  “You don’t have to,” I began to protest, but she had already rung off.

  It was less than ten minutes until the flat buzzer sounded. I pressed the button to let her in to the building, and opened the front door. As she came into the flat, her eyes bright with unshed tears, she just stretched her arms wide.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said in a barely audible voice.

  I moved towards her, and we held each other tightly. We stood like that for an eternity, like two drowning people clinging on to a rock. I could tell from the trembling of her shoulders that she was sobbing silently, and found my own cheeks wet as the comfort of her being there let me release some of the bottled up grief.

  Eventually, the storm had calmed and we sat down clinging onto each other. There was no need for words, and we just sat in silence, each drawing strength from the other. I have no idea how much time had passed, but when I caught a glimpse of my watch it was reading 1.30am. I tilted her head gently up to look into her at her beautiful face.

  “Don’t you need to get some rest?” I offered.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “There’s no way that I’m going to leave you on your own. Not tonight.”

  I leant forwards and kissed her. It started as a simple kiss of thanks, but as she responded to the kiss, it turned into something quite different. The whole atmosphere of the room seemed charged with electricity, and I was shocked by the rush of desire that suddenly overwhelmed me. I looked into the deep green of her eyes and saw a mirror of my own feelings.

  “I didn’t ..,” I began to say and then tailed off.

  “It’s alright,” she said. “I understand.”

  We stood together, and walked into the bedroom hand in hand. Inside we paused to kiss again, and I drank in the smell of her perfume and the soft warmth of her lips as if it was my first day on earth. As we kissed, she raised her arms and let me lift her jumper slowly off over her head.

  She stepped away for a moment to remove her jeans, and I felt bereft that our bodies had parted. As I began to undress we came back together in a rush of heat and longing. We parted again as she took off her underwear, giving me a fleeting glimpse of her breathtaking body as she slipped under the covers of the bed.

  In an instant I was besides her, and we began to learn the intimate secrets of one another. Time, loss and even life and death lost all meaning as I explored the mysteries of this amazing, wonderful woman, and our bodies became one inseparable being. I had never dreamed that such passion, such joy, such oneness with another person was possible.

  When finally we were both utterly spent, we lay in a quiet embrace which was no less precious than the ecstatic moments that had preceded it. Before long, Katie was asleep, her soft breath warming my chest as I lay awake gazing at her.

  If I could be frozen in one moment of peace and happiness, it would be that one. But of course, life doesn’t work like that and in almost no time at all, all the familiar self doubt and recriminations had crept back into my mind.


  There’s a part of the film “When Harry met Sally?” where he tries to explain that one difference between men and women is that after making love the man wants to get up and go home, while the woman wants to be held all night. I certainly didn’t want to stop holding Katie, but as the thoughts began to rush in, I was reminded of the image of just after they make love for the first time. She is curled up against him while he lies with his eyes wide open, wishing he could go.

  So I lay, tormented with irrational thoughts of guilt and regret. Katie had come here to be a comfort and a support, and I had taken advantage of her love and compassion. I hated myself.

  I tried to argue against that thought, pointing out that it was been fairly obvious that Katie had wanted it as well. The next accusation was even less easy to defend myself from. Dr. Mitchell had described me as someone who didn’t allow themselves to feel emotions, other than superficially. When he’d said the words, I knew with a lurch in my stomach that he was right.

  That was precisely why my marriage to Liz had failed, because I was so closed off to her. In the end, living with an emotional cripple, no matter how much you may love them at the start, wears you down and slowly strangles the love that was there. How could I possibly be so cruel as to let Katie get more and more involved in a relationship with me, when I knew it would end up painfully? If I’m not capable of the sort of love she deserves, then what was I doing letting the relationship develop as if I was?

  More than that, there was the unshakable picture of what had been done to Jill and Sophie. If the killer was determined to strike at the things that were most precious to me, then I could be putting Katie in danger right now. Continuing the relationship with her might not just be selfishly causing her to be hurt emotionally, it could be putting her life at risk.

  The thoughts raced inexorably through my head all through the next hours. By the time morning eventually arrived, I had pretty much convinced myself that the greatest moment of my life had been a terrible mistake.

  Fortunately, I had enough sense not to share this insight with Katie over breakfast. She approached me a little tentatively, but then seemed to relax as I hugged her while getting out the bowls for cereal. If I was a little quiet as we ate, I hoped that she’d put it down to my worry about the killer, rather than anything else.