The Sacrificial Man Read online

  “So if you could help me out, Charles? I just don’t understand why she’s here. Do you really think she’s a danger to herself?”

  “Today she seems calm. But on Tuesday she was far from stable. As I said on the phone, she was raging. That rage could have been projected, or turned on herself, but she was in a fury. Have you ever heard of Brian Blackwell?”

  “Sounds familiar. Was he the guy who killed his parents and then went on holiday the next day with his girlfriend?”

  “That’s right. There was some suggestion his mother abused him – he was seventeen and she still bathed him. After he murdered her, he moved her body to the bathroom. But I digress. I mention him because Blackwell’s charge was dropped from murder to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He had a narcissistic personality disorder. That’s how lethal the disorder can be. And on Tuesday, I wasn’t going to take any chances. Alice was furious and I believed she intended herself harm.”

  “What about now? She seems as well as before. Does she still need to be here?”

  “Staff have reported her as being angry, and several have picked up on her arrogance. The occupational therapist said she joined in with some of the team-building activities, but acted very superior and refused to cooperate with parts of the session. Alice is asking to be released, but when I had her sectioned she was very vulnerable. Let me get my notes.” He found the case file in grey cabinet behind him, and read the notes. The file looked battered, and its cover was torn. “The interview went wrong very quickly. I started by asking if her mother had a normal pregnancy and labour. It’s a routine question.”

  “How did she respond?”

  “She seemed perplexed, and then told me that she was adopted when she was a child, so didn’t know much about the details of her birth.”

  “Understandable.”

  “So I moved on to the next section that is standard in psychiatric assessments, and asked about early experiences, starting with school.”

  “Yes?” Cate leaned forward.

  “She said that she was a good pupil, but never very popular, that she always felt different.”

  “Different in what way?”

  “I asked her that. She suggested she was ostracised because of her extraordinary beauty and intellect. Of course, this arrogance fits with my initial diagnosis. It seems she only had one friend, her inferior in many ways, according to her. And then she became agitated and tearful.”

  “That can’t be unusual.” Cate herself saw many people in tears and every probation office had a box of tissues on the desk.

  “No. But I have previous medical records, from her GP, detailing some work conducted when she was a teenager. Her mother had concerns about Alice’s unhealthy relationship with a friend, which was exclusive and probably sexual, and she was eventually referred to a clinical psychologist. I wanted to ask Alice about this, and it was when I pressed this point that she became destructive, throwing things and grabbing for my notes. She was shrieking again and again ‘I won’t go to prison!’” The torn file had been sellotaped, but Cate could still see the tear. “She was in a rage, grabbing and breaking anything she could, including the vase.”

  Something shifted in Cate’s brain. Alice was refusing to go to prison. She remembered the broken glass on the floor. Snapdragons. The flowers were the same, but the vase had been swapped from the expensive blue to chunky yellow. She felt she was missing something, but what? She tuned back in to what Dr Gregg was saying, “We’ve got a new approved social worker at the hospital, so I called her to Alice’s house. She agreed with me that Alice needed sectioning. There was no way she would have come in voluntarily.”

  Cate glanced at her watch. She was already late for her meeting with Alice. Then a thought came to her, something triggered by what Dr Gregg had said before. “You said Alice looked a fright on Tuesday. What did you mean?”

  “She was wearing grey, baggy trousers, a well-worn t-shirt speckled with paint and, if you’ll forgive me, she wasn’t wearing a bra. She looked scruffy, and her hair was tangled and greasy. Very different to how she looks now.”

  “What about her face?” asked Cate.

  “She looked awful. Dark shadows under her eyes, a clear sign of sleeplessness, and a yellow pallor. She looked ill.”

  Cate thought of the purple and grey makeup on the mahogany dresser, in shades she had never seen Alice wear. “And of course she had marks on her arm?”

  “Superficial ones, yes.”

  Finally, it all clicked into place. It was the vase that had been changed, not the flowers. Why would a vase be changed if the flowers were not dead? Like a dawning light, Cate knew what had happened. She spread her right hand, clawing the nails and scratched her lower arms, digging hard until red welts appeared on her skin. “Were her arms marked like this?”

  Dr Gregg was about to protest, but she wouldn’t be stopped. Cate could suddenly see very clearly, and the vision was startling; she knew what had happened. She reached into her bag, removed some pewter shadow, peered in the tiny mirror within the case and smeared it under her eyes.

  Dr Gregg was saying, “Cate, you don’t need to do this… ” but she didn’t stop. She knew she was right. Ignoring him, she rubbed until her eyes looked bruised and tousled her hair on to her forehead. Cate peered into her pocket mirror, at the dishevelled, hectic face that stared back at her, and marvelled at how easy it could be to lose one’s sanity. She showed him the marks on her arms, her chaotic face, “Did she look like this?”

  Dr Gregg stared, his mouth slack. Perhaps he was thinking that she was mad. Then he sat back and carefully closed the file. “If you are right, then I must commend our patient’s acting skills.” He sighed, “But why would she want to put on an act?”

  Cate thought about what Alice said yesterday, about her fear of going to prison. “To get a hospital order rather than a prison sentence. She went too far and you sectioned her, but I think she was leading you to recommend a hospital order. Isn’t it possible?”

  “Maybe. But there’s something else you should know. That psychologist who saw her when she was just sixteen believed that she was exhibiting signs of a personality disorder. He even identified narcissism. She was already ill, all those years ago. Because of her age a firm diagnosis wasn’t made, but I think the notes show remarkable foresight. The episode on Tuesday, rather than being skilled acting, may in fact be a manifestation of a long-established case of narcissistic personality disorder. If she’s genuinely sick, and we mistake it for acting, she won’t get the help she needs. And that could be fatal.”

  Twenty

  I’m sitting on the bed with a tray balanced on my lap. The food is unappetising: pale chips and sticky beans, a child-sized carton of milk. I’m dissecting the beans with a blunt knife when Cate Austin throws the door wide. She has my full attention. Her neck is bunched muscle, her jaw set and her face and hair are a mess. She speaks before I have a chance to swallow.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been treated for mental illness before, Alice?”

  Her voice is fast over an undercurrent of resentment. I dab my lips with the paper napkin and push the tray aside. “I can’t eat this rubbish.”

  “I’ve just been to see Dr Gregg.” Cate looks hard at me, demanding a reaction. “He told me that you already had a diagnosis, dating back to when you were sixteen. A personality disorder. You lied to me.”

  “You’re wrong, Miss Austin. I was too young to be diagnosed. I’ve never said a word that wasn’t true.”

  “I told you that you had a choice, and one of those was to talk to me. I thought we were getting somewhere, that you were beginning to trust me.”

  I’m silent. She has great expectations.

  “I didn’t understand until just now why Dr Gregg sectioned you, so I’ve just been to talk with him. He believes you’ve relapsed. That you have narcissistic tendencies.”

  She pauses. I see that she’s uncertain about this diagnosis but it’s no surprise t
o me. I know how other people see me.

  “The thing is, Alice, you were fine on Monday. And yesterday, when I visited your home, it was immaculate. There was no sign anywhere of the woman that Dr Gregg sectioned. Except the black eye shadow on the dresser. The yellow makeup. And another thing – the smashed vase. It wasn’t the expensive blue and white one that I saw on the table. It was a cheaper yellow one, but the flowers were the same. Why did you swap the vase, Alice? Is it because you planned to smash it, and didn’t want to break your precious art? Is that why the makeup was still out on the dressing table? Had it been applied in a hurry, before the good doctor arrived at your door? I think you put on a little performance so Dr Gregg would think you’d relapsed. So tell me. Was it a sham?”

  “A sham?” I stand, move closer.

  She doesn’t blink or step away as I thought she would.

  “Don’t you trust his judgment, Miss Austin? It would take more than a broken vase and a bit of makeup to hoodwink Dr Gregg, surely?”

  “Stop patronising me, Alice. Just tell me, was it a sham?”

  “Do you want me to tell you the status of my mental health, Miss Austin, when you have already spoken to a professional?”

  “I don’t believe you’re mentally ill.” She speaks softly now, and it’s me who is angry. She’s still standing too close. Finally, she steps back. “But I’m not an expert.”

  “No. It doesn’t matter what you think or what I say. It’s the judge who’ll decide. And what Dr Gregg has done will weigh heavily with him. I can’t be locked up in prison. I haven’t the constitution for it, to live behind bars. I would be a plant in the shade; I would wilt. Whatever else happens, I must have my liberty. They can make me do anything else, clean ditches, work with cripples, whatever… but I had to convince him that I can’t be locked away in jail!” Cate slowly shakes her head, as if she has had enough of my words. “Look at me, Miss Austin. Wearing smart clothes, gold studs in my ears, face expertly made up. How could I be mad when I was so professional and educated? But if I’m not ‘mad’ then I must be something else, another label will be applied. And if that label is ‘bad’ or ‘evil’ then what will become of me? I’ll be sent to prison, perhaps for years, and I couldn’t let that happen. At least in hospital I’ll be released when I’m deemed well again.”

  Cate looks at me, silently considering.

  “My distress was real. You still believe I pulled the wool over his eyes with a bit of makeup? I suppose I should be flattered.” My anger has gone, and I taste bitter desperation. Honesty makes me vulnerable, and I sit down on the bed that sinks under my weight. “I’m scared, Cate. I want your help. Is there a choice, an option between mad and bad? Can I be reasonable? Plausible? It’s a risk but I want to be myself; I want to tell the truth. But I’m scared. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “I can’t make any promises, Alice. I don’t know what I’ll propose, and sentencing is just a week away. But I know this much: the games have to stop. Can you do that? You must tell me the truth.”

  I look away, swallowing a sharp taste. “I’ve never told you anything else. And I hate playing games.” She sits next to me, so close I can feel her warmth. It makes me want to weep.

  “Then help me to understand, Alice.”

  “I’m trying to. I’ve tried to explain.” I blink, cursing the tears that are close. I can’t hold on to my thoughts. My sanity is slipping from me.

  “Tell me about David. About your family. Did they ever meet?”

  I see that once again I have no choice. I must talk. I force the words to sound easy.

  They met just the once. I couldn’t face taking Smith to my parents’ home, so I agreed to afternoon tea in the White Swan. It was Easter, and Smith was visiting for the bank holiday weekend. I remember as we walked to the hotel he put his arm around my shoulder. ‘I’m quite looking forward to meeting your folks,’ he said. Sometimes he forgot that we were transcending normal relationships. Smith meeting my parents was something I would have avoided if I could, but Mum wore me down with her repeated questions. Finally I gave in, warning them that he was very ill so they mustn’t interrogate him. We agreed to meet on Good Friday.

  I didn’t tell him about the conversation I’d had with them, when I told them he was dying. That they assumed he had cancer. But I felt safe, believing my parents too polite to raise such a terrible topic. I just had to keep the meeting brief.

  The Swan is called a destination pub in the Sunday magazines. It’s a time warp of a place, with the young waiters, students on a gap year from the other side of the world, in white shirts and black trousers, holding silver trays at shoulder height. It’s comfortable with its own brand of shabby refinement, populated by Londoners and locals in tweed suits. Exactly the kind of place my mum dreams of visiting but then ruins by being over anxious.

  When we arrived my parents were perched on a window seat, still in their coats, looking awkward. They stood up and started to walk over, “Yoo hoo Alice! Over here!” Other people in the hotel turned to look at us.

  The sofa sagged under our weight, a long wooden table at our knees, while my parents each took a low chair opposite. Smith was impeccably polite, offering his hand to both my parents. He introduced himself with a fictitious one, as we’d agreed. “I’m Richard.”

  We ordered tea, and Mum insisted on a tower of cakes as if it was a party. On the top tier was a choux pastry swan filled with vanilla cream, and I remembered that swans mated for life. It was too beautiful to eat.

  Mum picked at a custard slice, smiling sadly, and sneaked glances at Smith. I knew she was trying to detect signs of his illness. It pained my parents that my boyfriend was ill, I knew that. But I also knew they were relieved that at least I had a boyfriend.

  I suppose it was nerves that made Smith’s hand shake, his cup clattering in the saucer as he held it. Dad noticed too. “Well, Alice, it’s been a while since we’ve seen you,” he said, “glad to see you’re still in the land of the living.” he stopped, realising what he had just said, looked at Smith, “It’s just an expression. I wasn’t referring to you… ”

  There was an awful smash as Smith dropped the delicate china. It shattered on the stone floor. He looked at me, and I looked at the broken pieces on the floor. A waiter sulkily began to clean up, a tight look of disapproval on his face. Smith’s hand was still shaking.

  “Dad!” I hissed, and he was looking sorry but still curious. Next to him, my mother’s head was slightly cocked as her eyes drowned with sympathy. I wanted to throw my drink in her face. Smith fumbled with a tissue, mopping up spilt tea though the waiter wanted him to stop interfering. Eventually, the broken crockery was cleared away and the waiter disappeared.

  Dad pushed his untouched tea away. “I’m sorry, Richard. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

  Mum pulled out a handkerchief from her handbag, which she must have slid between the purse and her lipstick in anticipation of this moment, and blew her nose. “No, he shouldn’t have said that.” She shot my father a black look. “But it’s so tragic. Our daughter is finally happy, and then… Is there nothing the doctors can do?”

  I was beside myself with rage, but also shame. Why wouldn’t they both shut up? But if I was distressed, Smith was worse. His face was drained of colour, both his hands shaking, clasped together between his knees. When he spoke, his voice was cold. “There’s nothing the doctors can do. There’s no medicine. No cure. It’s just a matter of time.”

  I never knew Smith was such a good actor. He was so convincing, Mum began to blub. Dad cleared his throat and said, “How much time have they said you’ve got, son?”

  I couldn’t believe he would ask such a question. If Smith really had been terminally ill the conversation would have been devastating. “About a month, maybe two. These things can never be exact.” His voice was warm, and my parents melted, my mother wiping away fresh tears and my father endlessly clearing his throat. I didn’t know what to do. Smith was doing such a good job, that I
couldn’t fail him. I put my arm around him, leaned my head on his shoulder. His body quivered, losing strength, and I seized our excuse for a swift exit. Mum pushed a custard slice away, and the tea went cold in the pot.

  Smith and I walked back towards my house. When we reached the brow of the hill he paused and looked across to the church. It was magnificent. Even I, who sees it daily, am not blind to its splendour; it’s large and lavish, perfect testimony to the success of the medieval wool trade in this area.

  “Let’s go in,” he said, leading me across the road and through the wooden gate. Perfect shrubs ballooned around us as we faced a fork in the path, and chose the left, which lead to St Peter and St Paul’s, flanked by sentinel daffodils. It’s one of the grandest parish churches in the country. The vast interior has cathedrallike proportions, and we stood looking up like tourists. In the silence, Smith squeezed my hand and we gaped at the ornate carvings, the hammer-beam roof, the luminous stained glass windows. We stepped forward, devout in our silence, heads obediently low. Silence was a relief after the horrible meeting with my parents.