Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  He throws my bag down. ‘Who else could’ve got in here?’

  ‘I don’t bloody well know. Isn’t it their job to find that out?’ I gesture to the two policemen who are watching our little meltdown. ‘Whoever it is certainly has a grudge against you, if the state of our bedroom is anything to go by. You need to ask yourself who hates you that much?’

  Michael turns away, dismissing me. ‘See, officer, she’s admitting it indirectly. Her doctor will tell you that much of Jessica’s paranoia is directed against me. She makes things up, like this ridiculous job she was supposed to have had. As for her case notes, you’ll never be able to work out what’s real and what’s fantasy from her words. No, I’ve had enough of it. After what you said to me on holiday, Jessica, this is the final straw. I want you out of here tonight. I want to press charges.’

  The policemen exchange looks. ‘But really, sir, there is no evidence,’ says my constable. ‘I can see how you might conclude she is responsible, but there’s nothing we can hold her on. If we found the missing things on her, that would be different.’

  ‘She stabbed the bloody mattress with a carving knife! That’s not the action of a sane woman! Then I want her sectioned. I’m ringing her doctor.’

  ‘Sir, calm down, please,’ says the cat-loving officer.

  I sit down, feeling so weary. Drew’s right. Michael is like my father after all. It’s his feelings, his life that matters here, not mine. ‘He’s not my doctor, Michael. He’s my psychiatrist, my therapist, but he’s really more your friend, isn’t he? I’m not going back to see Charles. He’s not impartial. He listens to you rather than me. I only got out from under his thumb because I started to say the things I know you wanted me to, but I’m done with that.’

  ‘See what I’m dealing with?’ says Michael, appealing to the officers in that awful man-to-man thing he does. ‘She’s even projecting her paranoid fantasies onto the expert who’s done so much to stabilise her.’

  The constable closes his notebook. ‘We’ll send a team round to dust for prints. Please don’t move anything in that room until they’ve given you the all clear. We’ll also take your prints for elimination purposes.’

  ‘Take my prints!’ Michael looks ready for another round of explosions.

  ‘They won’t be kept – it’s just a formality.’

  ‘But they’ll be in some database somewhere. It’s an infringement of my civil rights.’

  The policeman’s mood has swung from sympathy to annoyance. ‘We can’t do our job without collecting evidence. Are you saying you don’t want this investigated?’

  Michael struggles for a few moments, choking on his words.

  ‘We’ll go away as soon as you say you’ve changed your mind about pressing charges.’ Both officers are now on their feet. From their point of view, I can see this is a minor crime, probably domestic in origin, nothing of great value stolen.

  ‘Yes, dammit, I’ll drop the charges. I’ll settle for getting her out of my house.’

  ‘And, Miss, will you be all right if we leave you now?’ the officer asks.

  I nod. ‘He may huff and puff, but he won’t blow the house down. I was thinking of leaving anyway. You can see how welcoming he’s become recently.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll show ourselves out.’

  The sound of the door closing behind them punctuates the silence between Michael and I.

  ‘How did we come to this, Michael?’

  ‘I want you out in fifteen minutes. And you’d better return Emma’s things or you’ll be sorry you ever crossed me.’

  ‘Believe me, I already am. I didn’t do that to our room.’

  ‘You just say that you didn’t but who else could it be, tell me that? I’m afraid you’re so lost in your own fantasies that you don’t even know if you did it or not. You need help, Jessica. I’ve tried and I’ve tried but I can’t save you if you don’t want saving. You’re on your own from here.’

  Chapter 13

  Emma, 5th January 2010

  It’s odd how you can be thinking your life was heading in one direction when suddenly – bang – you come into a room and everything changes. What has caused this epiphany? OK, confession time: I met the most gorgeous, wonderful guy today. God, I sound as if I’m about sixteen, not twenty-six. I’m going to be so embarrassed when I read this back. Please forgive me, future self – you will if you remember what it was like to see him today. Coming out of a rough patch as regarding men, I have to be wary. He could be too good to be true, has to be. Surely, I’m too cynical to think he is a) intelligent; b) single; c) solvent; and d) did I mention gorgeous?

  I quickly google him before I get too carried away. Hmm. He sounds pretty much the real deal and no mention of a wife, not even an ex. He’s in his early forties so, if this profile is to be believed, somehow he has reached his fifth decade without a litter of failed relationships or children he doesn’t see except at the weekend. Not bad, Michael. You don’t mind if I call you Michael?

  Wow, I’m flirting with him and he’s not even here. That guy must be like catnip. I’m taking a break to splash my face with cold water.

  OK, I’m back and I promise I will behave. Let me give you the full story. It was quite by chance that I signed up for the conference on youth psychology. I was only prompted to do so by my line manager who thought it would help me adapt to the responsibilities for which I had volunteered in my new part-time position at the college. Dr Harrison, Michael, was there as the guest speaker. I do not lie when I say that all the straight females in the room, and probably all the gay guys, perked up when he strode in to give the seminar. Battered brown leather jacket, anyone? That just does it for me somehow. Joe in the seat next to me arched a brow but I just grinned.

  ‘No chance,’ I mouthed. Move over, boys, this is one man who is not going to be playing with his own team.

  I spent the entire seminar trying to think up an intelligent question. I was aware Dr Harrison’s gaze fell on me a few times, probably because I was looking pensive. I hope he didn’t think I was tuning out. I came up with something decent in the end and waited until a few others had broken the ice with their queries.

  ‘Would you say, Dr Harrison, that there is a predictable age at which psychopathic and sociopathic tendencies can be diagnosed in the young?’

  That sounds OK, doesn’t it? And my voice didn’t squeak or do anything embarrassing as I asked it.

  He complimented me on my question and went on to give a long answer about the difference between the two conditions. It was actually very interesting so I jotted it down. Just for future reference, both are obviously an antisocial personality disorder and can exhibit quite similar behaviours. To fulfil the definition of a disorder, they will show at least three of the following: regular law breaking, lying, impulsiveness, aggression, disregard for the safety of others, irresponsibility, such as not meeting financial obligations, and not appearing to feel remorse. But where they differ, that’s also fascinating. The current theory is that psychopaths are born that way and are without a conscience. There’s possibly a brain malfunction in the limbic system, so in the future you may be able to diagnose the condition with a brain scan – that was the answer to my initial question. Sociopaths often have a conscience, weak though its voice may be, and are more often created by their upbringing. Basically they are messed up by their parents – or lack of parents. Neither are necessarily harmful to society, there’s a whole range from mild to severe in both conditions, and there will be many on these scales living perfectly decent lives among us. Possibly even in this room.

  That got an uneasy laugh.

  It’s what they choose to do next that causes the problem. Harold Shipman, for example.

  I suppose that’s reassuring. The courts can’t hold someone responsible if the person is prey to their brain chemistry. In Dr Harrison’s description of the mentality, there are still checks to behaviour available to the person with the disorder. The mental vehicle is not completely out of their
control. Some prison psychiatrists are having success in treating offenders by helping them recognise where their thought processes differ from the mainstream experience. In a sense, helping them construct the idea of a conscience they don’t naturally have.

  When he finished his answer he made a point of coming back to me and saying he’d be happy to discuss this further if I had any follow-up questions. As I was walking out of the lecture hall, he gave me his card so I don’t think I’m being over-confident when I say that I believe the attraction went both ways.

  He might be a good person for me to go out with as a way of re-entering the dating arena after a long drought. Life is a struggle at the moment, and I would appreciate someone to help me get over the bumps, someone with whom to have just simple adult fun. Biff, and Katy too in her own way, try their hardest but they can’t be the man in my life. Both sense I’ve been down in the dumps since November. But, hey, new year, possibly new man. I’d say things are looking up.

  Chapter 14

  To: chaslam@wellmindassociates.org

  August 9

  From: dr.michael.harrison@expeditedmail.co.uk

  Subject: Developments regarding Jessica

  Dear Charles,

  Sorry to contact you so soon after my last email but there has been a development regarding Jessica’s behaviour which demands your immediate intervention. She has escalated from her usual fantasies to destroying my belongings and my half of the bed. She has also removed Emma’s picture, one of her diaries and her wedding rings – a theft calculated to injure me where I am most vulnerable. This is the last straw and I have told her to move out. Indeed, I’m not sure I’m safe with her now, as she took a carving knife to the mattress. If I had been here, would it have been me? She is upstairs packing her belongings but whether or not she actually leaves is anyone’s guess. She made a joke to the policemen who interviewed her in my presence, comparing me to the big bad wolf, so I have no hope of her treating this as seriously as I do. I certainly can’t stay under this roof with her here.

  However, I would not be a responsible friend to Jessica if I did not try for a final time to get her appropriate care. I truly believe she might be a danger to herself and those around her. I understand that it is difficult to get adults sectioned but as her responsible clinician, surely you can get her detained under the Mental Health Act and see that she gets the treatment she requires? The accusation that she sexually groomed a child at Eastfields will help, as will today’s violent outburst. She denies everything and I sometimes wonder if she doesn’t believe it – that she is having periods that she blanks from her memory. You’re the expert on her state of mind, so you’ll probably be familiar with other patients with similar conditions and will know the appropriate action to take. I know from my work that family permission is often sought before sectioning is undertaken. If you wish to speak to Jessica’s closest relatives, she has both a father and mother still living. The mother is somewhat detached from reality – I sense she has some of the same mental issues that afflict Jessica – so you might be better off contacting her father who still lives in her old family home. I’ve not met him but understand from Jessica that she hasn’t seen him for years and has no wish to heal the breach. Knowing Jessica, he’s probably a decent guy who just had the temerity to call her bluff on her fantasies. You might not want to go down that path but he could be useful if family permission is necessary. I attach his details.

  The best outcome would, of course, be that Jessica surrenders herself voluntarily to your care. Now I’ve calmed down a little from my initial dismay over her actions, I will suggest it to her, but I don’t anticipate that she will welcome this from me. If you could see your way to talking to her tomorrow, she might respond better as she knows you have your patient’s best interests at heart.

  Regards

  Michael

  Chapter 15

  Jessica

  It is difficult to imagine the man who swept Emma off her feet could be the same person as the one downstairs. I can hear Michael typing furiously on his laptop on the kitchen table. I bet his message is all uptight and so… so Dr Harrison, I presume, God’s gift to the universe. He has got out one of his prized ten-year-old single malts from his whisky collection so I know he is serious about pampering himself to get over the shock. Folding my clothes into the second-best suitcase, I wonder who he is writing to? Probably his friend, Charles, who also doubles as my psychiatrist. That was not the best idea I ever had, now I come to think about it, but I had been desperate at the time when I agreed to start seeing him as a patient. Michael and Charles went to Cambridge together – Emmanuel College in the early Nineties – and seem to be on the same wavelength: both fond of women but with no genuine respect for us. I learned that after three weeks of inpatient treatment at Charles’ clinic. Once you get the key to his behaviour, it is then easy enough to say the right things to get yourself discharged, like seeing the answer to a riddle that has eluded you. I wasn’t going to get out any other way, so I became the patient he wanted and showed the recovery he predicted. Some of it was genuine.

  Stopped halfway between wardrobe and case, I catch myself staring down at the ruins of the bed. It would’ve been a good revenge if I’d caught Michael cheating on me, but I haven’t and I really don’t have that kind of energy. At lunchtime, I had been planning a civilised conversation and a mutual parting of the ways, not Armageddon. Does Michael know me so little that he seriously thinks I’m capable of this? Shouldn’t we be putting our heads together to work out who really is behind it? He might be in real danger.

  That’s not Michael’s way. Once he found out I had a condition with a label, he immediately assumed I was completely crazy. He’s like a doctor seeing a mild cold giving a diagnosis of bubonic plague. He doesn’t get it. I suppose he spends his life studying those on the extreme and forgets the rest of the range. Mental illness is complex. Most of us suffer from it in some degree at some point in our lives. My condition is very small fry compared to some issues with which others have to deal.

  I move to the chest of drawers and start transferring my T-shirts and underwear. I’ll need a second case if I’m making this in one trip. There’s a crunch under my shoe and I pick up a photo frame containing a picture of Michael, Charles and me and one of Charles’ short-lived girlfriends, taken when skiing last year. I don’t mean she died or anything; just that he dumped her after a couple of months. What was her name? Katherine? I don’t think she’s the same as the Katy in Emma’s diary as she didn’t stay around very long. As a divorcee, Charles shows no signs of settling down again and risking his assets by hooking up with anyone so they have a claim on him. At least I can be slightly grateful to Charles for working out that I was suffering from undiagnosed ADHD. Most people these days associate that with unruly children, the kind who are bouncing off the classroom walls after two minutes of sitting still, but girls are more likely to go undiagnosed as our reactions are less disruptive. Not being able to pay attention is usually the first sign there’s a problem. When I was little, my restlessness was put down to naughtiness and my lack of focus was labelled daydreaming. My blunt comments were called – variously – refreshing or loud-mouthed, depending on whom I’d upset. It’s like I’m missing a filter between brain and mouth – things just emerge which I wish I’d kept as private thoughts. Mostly, that’s not a problem because I can laugh it off, but sometimes it lands me in serious trouble, as it did at Eastfields.

  I’m not blaming my condition for that debacle – I am responsible for my actions – but I do claim it as a mitigating circumstance for how I handled the false accusation. I am truly my own worst enemy.

  The front doorbell rings. It’s probably just Lizzy checking up on us. She will have seen the police car.

  I hear voices – male – Michael’s growing louder with each exchange.

  ‘Jessica!’ he bellows.

  Oh God, Kubla Khan’s men. I’d totally forgotten, in all the drama of the last few hours, that I am
also hiding from my ex-boss’s ex-landlord’s debt collectors. I don’t reply. I curl up on the armchair by the window, waiting this out.

  ‘Jessica!’

  Not here, not listening. ‘Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread.’

  An argument ensues on the step. I hear fragments.

  ‘No, I bloody well am not letting you into my house. Nothing here is hers so you’re wasting your time.’

  The men are being insistent.

  ‘I’m not fetching her for you. I’m not a bloody butler. It’s between you and her, nothing to do with me. Now get off my land or I’ll call the police.’ The door slams. Feet stamp up the stairs.

  ‘What the hell is going on, Jessica?’ Michael throws a sheaf of documents at me. I don’t touch them. If I haven’t actually picked them up then they can’t be said to have been served on me. ‘Those men say you owe them rent for an office in Soho.’

  ‘Thank you for not letting them in.’ I hug my knees to my chest. ‘Will you listen to an explanation or will you just shout at me?’

  ‘I can’t believe you, renting something like that without the means to pay for it! What were you thinking? You’ve taken playing at having a job way too far!’

  He has picked the shouty option.

  ‘I don’t owe anyone anything.’

  He picks up the documents, rolls them up. ‘That’s not what these say!’ He pokes them in my chest. ‘Go on, read them.’

  I try to fend them off. ‘Stop it!’ He starts hitting me over the head with them as I flail at him with my arms, trying to get free. ‘Michael, stop it!’

  ‘I’ve had more than I can take of this!’

  And then somehow the pokes with the rolled-up papers convert to a slap with his free hand. As I reel from the chair, he grabs me by the back of my shirt and hauls me up. He forces the papers into my face, grinding them against my mouth and nose like a twisted version of the custard-pie joke.