“Maybe when I get out of here, we could meet up for a drink.”
“I don’t think so, Gwydion.”
I looked down and noticed that he had put his hand under his jumper and was absentmindedly stroking the buttons on the front of his shirt.
I felt it was time to leave. I could see Gwydion was manic, perhaps hypomanic, and I knew that people suffering from the condition sometimes experience intense, and usually inappropriate, sexual urges.
“Will you come back and see me?”
“I’ll try to.”
I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile, and got up to go.
In an instant, his mood changed. He turned away from me and went back to staring out of the window.
“Take care, won’t you,” I added. I felt sad to be leaving him there, all on his own, sitting looking out at the view like an old man living out his last years in a nursing home.
But he didn’t reply. As far as he was concerned, I’d already left the room.
Back in my office, I went straight to my couch and lay staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows thrown on it by the leaves of the tree outside, and trying to make sense of what Gwydion had said to me. I replayed our conversation in my mind, paying attention to the exact words that he’d used. It’s a tip I learned from the master, and from Lacan: that the mind plays with words, conflates and confuses them, tries to give the speaker, and the listener, the slip; but I also know that, if you do your best to follow the trail closely, it can sometimes, with luck, lead you to the truth.
I’ve stopped myself dreaming the dream, Gwydion had told me. Well, that was pretty straightforward. He was telling me that his recurring dream was now over, that he was relieved of it. Strangely, though, he’d spoken as if he’d ordered his unconscious to dispel it, and had somehow managed, against the odds, to succeed. There was a sense of pride in the way he’d announced the news, like a small child who has managed to carry out a difficult task. And his next words had also confirmed that impression: I’ve buttoned up all the buttons. They’ll never come undone again.
That was Gwydion the child speaking, of course, and the child who went on, You see, sometimes she wanted them done up. And sometimes she wanted them undone. You didn’t have to be much of a therapist to work out who “she” might be, or an avid Freudian to suspect that there was a strong sexual aspect to all this. Evidently, “she” was Arianrhod, the mother, who had frightened Gwydion, the child, with her conflicting demands, to button and unbutton as she commanded.
But how did this connect to the dream? Could it be that Gwydion had been ordered, by Arianrhod, to “button up” or “unbutton” about the dream? Such an interpretation made a kind of sense. If Gwydion had had the dream as a child, in the days when Arianrhod was still trying to keep her marriage intact, and had told his mother about it, she might well have instructed him to keep quiet about it. But now, he was being asked to tell all, not only to Arianrhod, but to a judge and jury, in order to put his father behind bars. Such a conflict of interests, it was plain to see, might well lead a young man, still very attached to his mother and with hostile feelings toward his father, into deep mental torment.
I cast my mind back to my first session with Gwydion. He’d come to me with the button phobia, and that had now, apparently, been cured. But what if the cure had plunged him further into mental illness? What if the button phobia had been his bulwark, his attempt to create a symbolic, almost talismanic, protection for himself, against the reality of his situation: that he was still at the beck and call of his mother, that she called the shots, told him when to button his lip, when to unbutton it. And what if he continued to do her bidding because of his strong, perhaps still-sexualized, attachment to her, and his hatred of his father?
I thought of the phrase Gwydion had used about Evan kissing Elsa, a child’s phrase: Evan unbuttoned her mouth. That would have provided a further cause for hatred of his father: Evan, the errant husband, was free to do all the buttoning and unbuttoning he pleased, in contrast to Gwydion, the little boy, who had no control over the women that he loved: his ever-changing roster of au pairs, and his timid, neurotic mother.
The Oedipus complex, as I’m only too aware, is one of Freud’s more unpopular theories. It’s difficult to stomach, the idea that an adored child might harbor sexual designs on his mother and want to kill his father. The Victorians were horrified by it, and over a hundred years later so are we. It flies against our basic experience of parental and filial love; and on top of that, there are all the ramifications about the female child, the Electra complex, penis envy, and so on, which are far from convincing. But in my view, broadly speaking, it doesn’t seem to stretch credibility to an absurd degree to suggest that a boy might want to keep his mother to himself—after all, in most cases, she’s his first source of food, of warmth, of care, of love—and wish his father would, if not perish at said infant’s hand, at least disappear off the radar for a while. Sophocles was onto something when he wrote Oedipus Rex, and so was Freud when he dreamed up the Oedipus complex. That’s why those ideas have lasted: because they tell us a story about ourselves, a story we don’t want to hear, but feel compelled to listen to, despite ourselves.
A car went past the window outside, throwing a shaft of light through the shadows on the ceiling, moving the leaves in mysterious, circular patterns. It was only four o’clock, yet already the nights were drawing in. The window rattled as the car went by, and I felt a draught blow in. A sense of dread ran through me, briefly, but deeply, like an animal feeling the first deep chill of winter. Or perhaps it was an uncomfortable sense that I was beginning to find out more than I wanted to about the Morgan family, more than I’d bargained for when I first took on Gwydion and his button phobia; and that, now I’d set out on the trail, I’d let myself become bound to follow it, wherever it might end.
18
On Thursday evening, toward the end of another exhausting week, I went late-night shopping with Mari in town. On the whole I’m not much of a one for retail therapy. The sight of the high-street shops disgorging a never-ending stream of badly made, ill-fitting clothing no doubt stitched together by half-starved children on the Pacific Rim never fails to depress me. However, Catrin’s boutique in the Arcades, along with a few other independently run ventures in the same area, was a haven of taste and sanity. We stopped off there for an extended trying-on session. Catrin had saved me a couple of outfits in my size, and collected together some vintage costume jewelry for Mari to view. I bought a pair of navy-blue capri pants with a zip up the side, and a cropped cream sweater to go with them. Mari chose a sixties rhinestone brooch that she immediately clipped to her jacket lapel, though it was totally unsuitable for daytime wear. Then, armed with our booty, we went for a drink at the café opposite the shop.
We took a table by the steamy window that fronted onto the street, and looked out as the sky began to darken over the town. Mari ordered a red wine, and I had a coffee. When it came, it was hot and sweet. As she chatted, I took a swig, warming my fingers on the cup, and for the first time in days felt myself begin to relax.
“Any more news about the Morgan case?” Mari tilted her head on one side and looked at me quizzically.
“Not really.”
I didn’t really want to discuss the subject. I didn’t want her spreading a lot of rumors about the case and, more particularly, my part in it, so I didn’t elaborate.
“Will you be giving evidence? For . . . your client?” Mari’s tone told me that she was desperate to know who the client was, but I ignored it.
“They want a statement from me, yes.”
“Have you made it yet?”
“Not formally, no. I’m still thinking about it.”
“Oh?”
“There are one or two things I’m not sure of. Small details.” I didn’t want to give too much away. But on the other hand I knew that, as an ex-girlfriend of Evan’s, Mari might well be a useful source of information. And, to be honest, I’d gr
own rather curious about Evan himself since I’d met him.
“Tell me, Mari,” I said, trying not to sound too interested. “Did you ever go sailing on Evan’s yacht?”
“Of course.” She paused. “I think he took all his paramours out on it—a rite of passage, as you might say. There’s something very sexy about being seduced on a yacht. I suppose that’s why rich men have them.” She gave a short laugh, then checked herself, perhaps remembering what had happened to Elsa Lindberg.
“Did you go often?”
“Three or four times at most. As I said, we weren’t together long. But it was a lot of fun.” She sighed. “Looking back on it, I suppose it wasn’t very safe. We often got quite drunk out there. I remember one time, a storm blew up. Evan crashed around the boat, mucking about with the sails, reeling them in, reefing them up, or whatever you do, and I had to hold on to the tiller.” She smiled at the memory. “I know nothing about sailing, yet there I was, trying to steer this bloody great boat, with him yelling instructions at me. Of course, the wind was so strong, I couldn’t hear a thing. And the tiller was so heavy, I could hardly budge it anyway. In the end we almost capsized.” She took a sip of her wine. “Madness, really.”
“Weren’t you scared?”
“No, not particularly. In those days everything seemed fun.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice, as though she wished those days could have gone on longer, forever perhaps. “I have such happy memories of that time in my life. The Morgans used to hold these fabulous house parties down at Creigfa House. We’d play tennis, go sailing, stay up half the night, drinking and dancing. Bob used to come down sometimes, I remember. Before he met you.”
“Yes, he told me that.” Now that she mentioned it, I realized I should have asked him more about that when he first raised the matter. I couldn’t now. Our relationship had become too strained to discuss anything important.
“Did he run after a lot of women in those days?” I ventured.
Mari nodded. “He had quite a reputation, actually.”
“Oh?”
Mari hesitated. I could see that, ever since Bob had decided to defend Evan, her attitude toward him had changed. She was no longer prepared to hide her misgivings about my husband out of loyalty to me. Bob had hurt me, not just through his infidelity, but because he’d used me to further his own ambitions. She knew that, and now she felt no need for further pretense.
“And he didn’t always treat them very well either. There was one girl back home, I remember. He was engaged to her, but when he got his place at Oxford, he immediately broke it off. He was very ambitious.” She paused. “Can’t blame him, I suppose, but it was the way he did it. . . .”
I was shocked. Not so much at what Bob had done, but because he’d never told me about it. Lately, I was beginning to realize that I’d never really known my husband.
Silence fell. Mari evidently felt uncomfortable, because she changed the subject.
“It’s strange, isn’t it,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought Evan capable of . . . of rape, and certainly not murder.”
“No?”
“Not at all. He could be bad-tempered at times. He’s got a very short fuse. But I never saw him hurt anyone. I never felt physically threatened by him.” She frowned, as if she was trying to puzzle something out. “You think you know people. But you don’t, do you?”
“Yes and no.”
It was a feeble response to her question, especially for someone who’s supposed to be a psychotherapist. But to be honest, that’s been my experience. In most cases you can make some headway with people you encounter as you go through life—get to understand them, earn their trust, begin to trust them. But there’s always the odd one that remains unknowable, that blindsides you, shakes your faith in human nature. The type you simply can’t fathom, whose inner life is a complete mystery. I haven’t come across many like that, but there have been a few. Evan Morgan might be in that category, for all I knew.
We stopped talking about Evan, and Mari turned her attention to the subject of the upcoming Bassey biopic. She’d got a callback for the part of Bassey’s mother, Eliza Jane, by all accounts an extraordinary character. Normally, I’d have been fascinated by what Mari had to say, but I realized as she chatted on that I couldn’t concentrate. And, what with my heavy roster of patients, I’d had enough of bizarre personalities and aberrant human behavior, however amusing, for one day. So, after listening politely for a while, I made my excuses, pecked Mari on the cheek, and left.
Outside, it was a beautiful clear night, a full moon, and a dazzling array of stars shining like diamonds on the velvet of a jeweler’s window. I drove home slowly, savoring the eerie light, glad to be away from the babble of human voices. Then, as I pulled away onto the main road out of town, I began to think about what Mari had said. Something about her story had struck me, at the time, as odd, but it was only now that I was on my own that I realized what it was. She’d spoken of steering the yacht with a tiller. Gwydion, on the other hand, had mentioned that, when he’d seen them, Evan and Elsa had been sitting at the wheel of the boat. It was the same yacht, I’d established that; so one or other of them had been wrong about the steering mechanism of the boat. I wondered which one it was.
I cast my mind back to my meeting with Evan. He’d pointed out the yacht when we were sitting by the window in the pub. Did it have a wheel or a tiller, I wondered. I really couldn’t remember. I wasn’t even sure if, from that distance, I’d have been able to see.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was coming up to eight. Under cover of darkness, I thought, I could make a quick detour to the marina, take a look at the yacht, and drive on, without anyone noticing. Evan might be on board, of course, but if I was outside, in the car, just driving by, he’d never notice.
When I got to the marina, all was calm. It looked as pretty as a picture, with rows of lights strung along the walkway by the water’s edge. I drove slowly past the pub, glancing anxiously in at the window as I did. I half expected to see Evan looking straight out at me, but all I could make out was that there were a few people inside. Then I saw that the main part of the quay, where the yacht was moored, was inaccessible to traffic. I hadn’t noticed before, but there was a row of bollards in front of it. I’d have to park the car nearby and walk the short distance over to the quay.
I parked the car as close by as I could, cut the lights, and got out. I shivered as the chill night air hit my chest, and I tried to zip up my jacket, but my fingers were too cold, so instead I hugged it around me.
It was a windless night, with only a subdued clinking coming from the masts of the boats. I walked along the quayside until I came to Evan’s yacht, still tied up at its usual mooring. I peered in at it. It was immediately obvious that it had no wheel at the back end, like some of the larger, more modern boats. Instead it had a long, elegant wooden tiller.
I gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction. That was all I needed to know. I was just about to turn and leave when a light went on, the door of the cabin opened, and Evan Morgan walked out.
“Dr. Mayhew. What are you doing here?”
Damn, I thought. I had no reply. So I did what I usually do in such situations, where there’s no other way out. I came clean.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Morgan.” I wondered whether that sounded ridiculous, whether I should be calling him Evan. “I just wanted to check a detail on your boat, that’s all. For my statement. To the police.”
For a moment he seemed alarmed. But then he recovered himself.
“Well, you’d better come on board and take a look around.” He stepped forward, offering me his hand so that I could jump onto the boat with him.
It was curiosity, I suppose, that made me take his hand, hop onto the cockpit of the boat, and follow him down into the cabin. I wanted to see the inside of the cabin, be in the box that Gwydion had told me about in his dream. Experience it for myself. I wanted to know whether what Gwydion had told me was true; not that I
thought he’d lied to me, but I know all too well what strange tricks memory, and the mind in general, can play on us. And I’d seen for myself that he’d definitely been mistaken about the wheel; there was no wheel on Evan’s yacht. What else had he misremembered? Perhaps the interior of the cabin would tell me more.
“I was just passing by,” I said as I went in behind him. “I can’t stay long.”
“Drink?” he asked, ignoring me.
I looked around. The cabin was neat and tidy, the polished wood gleaming. To one side there was a small table, with a seat behind it, built into the woodwork. To the other, a galley kitchen, and beyond that, in the prow of the boat, a bed, nestled in a V-shaped frame.
“Well, if you’re having one.”
“I’m not. As I told you, I don’t drink anymore.” He indicated the glass of sparkling water on the table, beside a laptop and a pile of papers.
He went over to the kitchen, took out a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, a glass from another, and poured me a drink.
“No ice. That’s right, isn’t it?” He brought over the drink. I noticed his hand was shaking slightly.
I took a large gulp, and then another one. The alcohol immediately went to my head.
“What was it you wanted to check on the boat?”
“Oh, nothing much, really.” The whisky burned in my throat, but it gave me courage. “I just wondered . . . was the tiller always there?”
“The tiller?” The cabin was cramped, so we were close up against each other. I couldn’t help looking into his eyes. “Of course.”
“You haven’t changed it, have you?”
“How d’you mean?” He looked straight back into mine.
I breathed in the smell of him. The pheromones. I wondered if they were genetic.
“I mean . . .” I seemed to be losing track of what I was saying. “Was there a wheel there before?”
The House on the Cliff Page 21