Tara accused Fosca of threatening to kill her. Then … a few hours later, Tara was dead.
It wouldn’t hurt to stay for a few days in Cambridge, and ask a few questions about Tara’s relationship with the professor. Professor Fosca could certainly bear some investigating.
And if the police weren’t going to pursue him, then perhaps Mariana—as a debt of honor to Zoe’s friend—could listen to this young woman’s story … and take her seriously.
If only because no one else did.
Part Two
My argument with so much of psychoanalysis is the preconception that suffering is a mistake, or a sign of weakness, or a sign even of illness. When in fact, possibly the greatest truths we know have come out of people’s suffering.
—ARTHUR MILLER
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
And the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
If you do not carry them within your soul,
If your soul does not set them up before you.
—C. P. CAVAFY, “Ithaca”
1
I couldn’t sleep again tonight. Too energized, too wound up. Overexcited, my mother would say.
So I gave up trying—and went for a walk.
As I wandered the deserted streets of the city, I encountered a fox. He hadn’t heard me coming and looked up, startled.
It was the closest I’ve ever been to one. What a magnificent creature!—that coat, that tail—and those dark eyes, staring right back at me.
I gazed into them and … what did I see?
It’s hard to describe—I saw all the wonder of creation, the wonder of the universe, there in that animal’s eyes, in that second. It was like seeing God. And—for a second—I had a strange feeling. A kind of presence. As if God was there, on the street, next to me, holding my hand.
I felt safe, suddenly. I felt calm, and at peace—as if a raging fever had abated, a delirium burned itself out. I felt the other part of me, the good part, rising with the dawn …
But then—the fox vanished. It disappeared into the shadows, and the sun came up … God was gone. I was alone, and split in two.
I don’t want to be two people. I want to be one person. I want to be whole. But I have no choice, it seems.
And as I stood there on the street, as the sun came up, I had a horrible feeling of recollection—another dawn, years ago. Another morning—just like this.
That same yellow light. That same feeling of being split in two.
But where?
When?
I know I can remember if I try. But do I want to? I have a feeling it’s something I tried very hard to forget. What is it I’m so afraid of? Is it my father? Do I still believe he will emerge from a trapdoor like a pantomime villain, and strike me down?
Or is it the police? Do I fear a sudden hand on my shoulder, an arrest, and punishment—retribution for my crimes?
Why am I so afraid?
The answer must be there somewhere.
And I know where I must look.
2
Early next morning, Mariana went to see Zoe.
Zoe had just woken up, and was groggy, clutching Zebra with one hand and pushing away the eye mask from her face with the other.
She blinked at Mariana, who pulled back the curtains to let in the daylight. Zoe didn’t look good—her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked exhausted.
“Sorry, I didn’t sleep well. Kept having bad dreams.”
Mariana handed Zoe a mug of coffee. “About Tara? I think I did too.”
Zoe nodded and sipped her coffee. “This all feels like a nightmare. I can’t believe she’s really—gone.”
“I know.”
Tears welled up in Zoe’s eyes. Mariana didn’t know whether to comfort her or distract her. She decided on the latter. She picked up the pile of books on the desk, and looked at the titles—The Duchess of Malfi, The Revenger’s Tragedy, The Spanish Tragedy.
“Let me guess. Tragedy this term?”
“Revenge tragedy,” Zoe said with a small groan. “So dumb.”
“You’re not enjoying it?”
“The Duchess of Malfi is okay … it’s funny—I mean, it’s so insane.”
“I remember. Poisoned Bibles and werewolves. But somehow—it still works, doesn’t it? At least, I always thought so.” Mariana looked at The Duchess of Malfi. “I’ve not read it in years.”
“They’re staging it at the ADC Theatre this term. Come and see it.”
“I will. It’s a good part. Why don’t you audition?”
“I did. Didn’t get it.” Zoe sighed. “Story of my life.”
Mariana smiled. Then this little pretense that nothing was wrong collapsed. Zoe stared at her, a deepening frown on her face.
“Are you leaving? Are you saying goodbye?”
“No. I’m not leaving. I’ve decided to stay, at least for a few days—and ask some questions. See if I can help.”
“Really?” Zoe’s eyes lit up, and her frown melted away. “That’s amazing. Thank you.” She hesitated. “Listen. What I said yesterday—about wishing Sebastian was here instead—I’m sorry.”
Mariana shook her head—she understood. Zoe and Sebastian had always had a special bond. When she was very small, it was to Sebastian that Zoe would invariably run if she grazed a knee or cut herself, or needed comforting. Mariana didn’t mind—she knew how important it was to have a father. And Sebastian was the closest to a father Zoe ever had since the loss of her parents. She smiled.
“You don’t have to apologize. Sebastian always was much better in a crisis than me.”
“I guess he always looked after us. And now…” Zoe shrugged.
Mariana gave an encouraging smile. “Now we look after each other. Okay?”
“Okay.” Zoe nodded. Then she spoke more firmly, pulling herself together. “Just give me twenty minutes to shower and get ready. We can make a plan—”
“What do you mean? Don’t you have lectures today?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts,” said Mariana firmly. “Go to your lectures. Go to your classes. I’ll see you for lunch. We can talk then.”
“Oh, Mariana—”
“No. I mean it. It’s more important now than ever that you keep busy—and focus on your work. Okay?”
Zoe sighed heavily but didn’t protest further. “Okay.”
“Good,” Mariana said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Mariana left Zoe’s room and went down to the river.
She passed the college boathouse—and the row of moored punts belonging to St. Christopher’s, chained to the bank, swaying in the water.
As she walked, Mariana phoned her patients to cancel her week’s sessions.
She didn’t tell her patients about what had happened. She merely said she had a family emergency. And the majority of them took the news well—apart from Henry. Mariana didn’t expect him to react well, and he didn’t.
“Thanks a lot,” Henry said sarcastically. “Cheers, mate. Much appreciated.”
Mariana tried to explain there had been an emergency, but he wasn’t interested. Like a child, Henry could only see his own needs being frustrated, and his only interest was in punishing her.
“Do you care about me? Do you even give a shit?”
“Henry, this is beyond my control—”
“What about me? I need you, Mariana. That’s beyond my control. Things are happening. I—I’m drowning here—”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t talk about it on the phone. I need you … Why aren’t you home?”
Mariana froze. How did he know she wasn’t there? He must have been watching the house again.
She felt a sudden alarm bell ringing in her head—this situation with Henry was untenable; she felt angry with herself for having allowed it to happen in the first place. She’d have to deal with it—deal with Henry. But not now. Not today.
“I have
to go,” she said.
“I know where you are, Mariana. You don’t know that, do you? I’m watching. I can see you…”
Mariana hung up. She felt unnerved. She looked around the riverbank and the path on either side—but couldn’t see Henry anywhere.
Of course she couldn’t—he was just trying to scare her. She felt annoyed with herself for rising to the bait.
She shook her head—and kept walking.
3
It was a beautiful morning. All along the river, sunlight shimmered through the willow trees, making the leaves glow a luminous green above Mariana’s head. And under her feet, wild cyclamen grew along the path in patches, like tiny pink butterflies. It was hard to reconcile such beauty with her reason for being there, or with her thoughts, which revolved around murder and death.
What the hell am I doing? she thought. This is crazy.
It was hard not to dwell on the negative—on everything she didn’t know. She had no idea how to catch a murderer. She wasn’t a criminologist or forensic psychologist, like Julian. All she had was an instinctive knowledge of human nature and human behavior, derived from years of working with patients. And it would have to do; she had to banish this self-doubt, or it would cripple her. She had to trust her instincts. She thought for a second.
Where to begin?
Well, firstly—and most importantly—she needed to understand Tara: who she was as a person, who she loved, who she hated—and who she feared. Mariana suspected that Julian was right: Tara knew her killer. So Mariana needed to discover her secrets. It shouldn’t be too difficult. In groups like these, in small cloistered communities, gossip was rife and people had intimate knowledge of one another’s private lives. If there was any truth to the affair Tara alleged she was having with Edward Fosca, for instance, there was bound to be some gossip. A great deal could be learned from what others in college had to say. This was where Mariana would begin—by asking questions.
And, more important, by listening.
She had reached a busier part of the river, by Mill Lane. Up ahead, people were walking, running, biking. Mariana contemplated them. The killer could be any one of these people. He could be standing here right now.
He could be watching her.
How would she recognize him? Well, the simple answer was she couldn’t. And despite all of Julian’s claims of expertise, he couldn’t either. Mariana knew that, if asked about psychopathy, Julian would point to frontal or temporal lobe damage in the brain; or quote a series of meaningless labels—antisocial personality disorder, malignant narcissism—along with a glib set of characteristics like high intelligence, superficial charm, grandiosity, pathological lying, a contempt for morality—all of which explained very little. It didn’t explain how—or why—a person might end up like this: as a merciless monster, using other human beings as if they were broken toys to be smashed to bits.
A long time ago, psychopathy used to be called simply “evil.” People who were evil—who took a delight in hurting or killing others—were written about ever since Medea took an axe to her children, and probably long before that. The word “psychopath” was coined by a German psychiatrist in 1888—the same year Jack the Ripper terrorized London—from the German word psychopastiche, literally meaning “suffering soul.” For Mariana this was the clue—the suffering—the sense that these monsters were also in pain. Thinking about them as victims allowed her to be more rational in her approach, and more compassionate. Psychopathy or sadism never appeared from nowhere. It was not a virus, infecting someone out of the blue. It had a long prehistory in childhood.
Mariana believed that childhood was a reactive experience, meaning that in order to experience empathy for another human being, we must first be shown empathy—by our parents or caregivers. The man who killed Tara was once a little boy—a boy who was shown no empathy, no kindness. He had suffered—and suffered horribly.
Yet many children grow up in terribly abusive environments—and they don’t end up as murderers. Why? Well, as Mariana’s old supervisor used to say: “It doesn’t take much to save a childhood.” A little kindness, some understanding or validation: someone to recognize and acknowledge a child’s reality—and save his sanity.
In this case, Mariana suspected there had been no one—no kindly grandmother, no favorite uncle, no well-meaning neighbor or teacher to see his pain, name it, and make it real. The only reality belonged to his abuser, and the small child’s feelings of shame, fear, and anger were too dangerous to process alone—he didn’t know how—so he didn’t process these feelings; he didn’t feel them. He sacrificed his true self, all that unfelt pain and anger, to the Underworld, to the murky world of the unconscious.
He lost touch with who he really was. And the man who lured Tara to that isolated spot was a stranger as much from himself as he was from everyone else. He was, Mariana suspected, a brilliant performer: impeccably polite, genial, and charming. But Tara provoked him somehow—and the terrified child inside him lashed out, and reached for a knife.
But what had triggered him?
That was the question. If only Mariana could see into his mind and read his thoughts—wherever he was.
“Hello there.”
The voice behind her made Mariana jump. She quickly turned around.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
It was Fred, the young man she’d met on the train. He was pushing a bicycle, with a stash of papers under his arm, eating an apple. He grinned.
“Remember me?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Said we’d meet again, didn’t I? I predicted it. Told you, I’m a bit psychic.”
Mariana smiled. “Cambridge is a small place. It’s a coincidence.”
“Take it from me. As a physicist. No such thing as coincidence. This paper I’m writing here actually proves it.”
Fred nodded at his stack of papers, which slipped out from under his arm—and pages of mathematical equations cascaded all over the path.
“Bugger.”
He threw down his bike to the ground, and ran around trying to retrieve the pages. Mariana knelt down to help.
“Thanks,” he said as they collected the last of the pages.
He was inches away from her face, staring into her eyes. They looked at each other for a second. He had nice eyes, she thought, before banishing the thought. She stood up.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “Will you be staying long?”
Mariana shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m here for my niece—she—she’s had some bad news.”
“You mean the murder? Your niece is at St. Christopher’s, right?”
Mariana blinked, confused. “I—don’t remember telling you that.”
“Oh—well, you did.” Fred went on quickly. “Everyone’s talking about it—about what happened. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I have a few theories.”
“What kind of theories?”
“About Conrad.” Fred glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run right now, but I don’t suppose you fancy having a drink? Say—tonight? We could talk.” He looked at her hopefully. “I mean, only if you want to—obviously, no pressure—no big deal…”
He was tying himself into knots; Mariana was about to refuse and put him out of his misery. But something stopped her. What did he know about Conrad? Perhaps Mariana could pick his brains—he might know something useful. It was a worth a shot.
“Okay,” she said.
Fred looked surprised and excited. “Really? Fantastic. How about nine o’clock? The Eagle? Let me give you my number.”
“I don’t need your number. I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” he said with a grin. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date.”
“No, of course not. I don’t know why I said that. Okay … See you later.”
He got on his bike.
Mariana watched Fred cycle away along the river path. Then she turned and started walking back
to college.
Time to begin. Time to roll up her sleeves and get to work.
4
Mariana hurried across Main Court, toward a group of middle-aged women, all sipping tea from steaming mugs, sharing biscuits, and gossiping. These were the bedders—on their tea break.
“Bedder” was a term peculiar to the university, and something of an institution—for hundreds of years, armies of local women had been employed at the colleges to make beds, empty rubbish bins, and clean rooms—although, it must be said, the bedders’ daily contact with the students meant the role often crossed over from domestic service to pastoral care. Mariana’s bedder was sometimes the only person she spoke to every day, until she met Sebastian.
The bedders were a formidable bunch. Mariana felt a little intimidated as she approached them. She wondered—not for the first time—what they really thought of the students; these working-class women who had none of the advantages of these privileged, often spoiled young people.
Perhaps they hate us all, Mariana suddenly thought. She wouldn’t blame them if they did.
“Good morning, ladies,” she said.
Their conversations faded to silence. The women gave Mariana a curious and slightly suspicious look. She smiled.
“I wonder if you might be able to help me. I’m looking for Tara Hampton’s bedder.”
Several heads turned toward one woman who was standing at the back, lighting a cigarette.
The woman was in her late sixties, possibly older. She was wearing a blue smock, and carrying a bucket of various cleaning products and a feather duster. She was not plump, but stolid and moonfaced. Her hair was dyed red, white at the roots, and her eyebrows were painted on daily; today she had drawn them high on her forehead, making her look rather startled. She seemed a little irritated to have been singled out. She gave Mariana a strained smile.
“That’ll be me, dear. I’m Elsie. How can I help?”
“My name’s Mariana. I was a student here. And I…” she went on, improvising, “I’m a psychotherapist. The dean has asked me to talk to various members of college about the impact of Tara’s death. I was wondering if we might … have a little chat.”
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