Robert Bloch's Psycho (2 page)

But it wasn't, so he just sighed and pushed back his annoyance. He didn't want Norman Bates to read any hostility in him. He stepped farther into the cell and looked at the patient sitting on the single bed. “Hello, Norman,” he said. “How are you today?”

None of that chirpy “How are
we
today?”—not for Norman Bates. Norman's whole problem was that he was a
we
already, a multiple personality. Dr. Goldberg, the hospital superintendent, had sent Dr. Steiner to deal with Norman shortly after he had been captured, and Steiner had determined that
three
different people inhabited the man.

There was the adult Norman Bates (whom Steiner, not too cleverly, Reed thought, called Normal), the man who ran the motel and lived in the real world. There was the child Norman, the little boy who couldn't bear to be parted from his mother. And finally and most disturbingly, there was
Norma,
the mother herself, whose death the child Norman would not accept. Norma Bates, the one personality of the three that dominated the host body in times of crisis. Steiner had called Norman's multiple personalities “an unholy trinity.”

Reed hated the term.
Unholy
was as judgmental a word as could be imagined. In truth, there was no holy and unholy, no good and evil. There was only sickness and health. Norman Bates had been very, very sick. And it was the job of this institution, this
hospital,
to make the sick well again, to make the wounded whole, like the fabled balm in Gilead “to heal the sin-sick soul,” if Reed had believed in the concept of sin, which he didn't. Still, the words of the old hymn resonated in light of what he had to do.

Norman was Reed's patient now. He'd had to beg Goldberg to allow him to treat Norman. Goldberg had discussed it with Steiner, who was Reed's superior only in terms of seniority, and Steiner had agreed. Nicholas Steiner was a good man, more temperate and kindly than Dr. Goldberg. In a way, Steiner seemed relieved to have Reed on the case, and Reed suspected that he'd seen something in Norman Bates that he didn't like. Something deep and dreadful, or else why would he have used the word
unholy
?

As shorthanded as the hospital was, it was unusual for a single patient, and probably one who would never be released, to receive individualized psychotherapy on a near daily basis. But Norman Bates was an unusual case, the most pronounced example of multiple personalities any of the doctors, including Dr. Goldberg, had ever seen. It was this aspect of the case that had helped Reed to convince Goldberg to allow him to take on Norman as a pet project. He had stressed repeatedly to Goldberg that this was not mere schizophrenia but a far more uncommon case of multiple personalities, and at last Goldberg had grudgingly acquiesced, as long as Reed continued to perform his other duties.

Felix Reed's treatment had barely started, and as yet had brought about no response from the patient. After his initial interviews with Steiner, Norman had gradually grown quieter, responding at first only in monosyllables, then saying nothing at all. It was almost, Steiner had suggested, as if he realized he had said too much already, and Norma, the dominant aspect of the three, had shut down all communication. Now Norman was almost beyond amnesic fugue, approaching catatonia, in which the patient ignores external stimuli until strongly pressured to respond.

Reed sat on the chair. “Norman?” he said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. Norman said nothing. Gently, Reed took Norman's face in both hands and lifted his head until Norman's eyes, staring undeviatingly straight ahead, looked into his own.

There was intelligence there. Reed could see it. Norman saw Reed's face, he heard his words, Reed was certain. But he didn't respond.

“I'm here, Norman,” Reed said softly. “And I'm going to
be
here for you. Whenever you're ready to talk to me, Norman. Whenever you're ready to share your thoughts. Because I know that you
want
to do that. You want to come back. You've been away for a while, and I understand that. You
had
to go away, to get things in order inside yourself. But you can't do that alone. I want to help you. And so does Nurse Marie, and Ben, and Dick. We all do. We want you to come back, Norman. We're not going to hurt you, understand that. We want to help. We want to help you feel better, about yourself, about where you are and what you might have done.

“But we're in no hurry, Norman. We can take our time. As much time as you need.”

Reed heard a footstep and the slight clearing of a throat. He turned his head and saw Marie Radcliffe, the ward nurse, standing in the doorway with a tray of food in her hands.

“I can come back,” she said quietly.

“No, that's fine. I imagine Norman must be hungry.” Slowly Reed let the weight of Norman's head down on the thick stalk of his neck until the man was once more looking at the floor. Reed stood up and saw, in the hall just behind Marie, Ben Blake and Dick O'Brien.

Usually the attendants, all of them male, brought meals and fed patients in Norman's condition, but when Norman hadn't responded well to the attendants, Reed had thought a gentler presence might be more effective. With Goldberg's reluctant approval, Reed had asked Marie to feed Norman, and the results had been good.

Just the same, two attendants were always present when Marie fed him. He seemed docile, but patients could be unpredictable, as they'd found out just a week before when Elvin Bailey, a predictably placid man who had murdered his wife and two young children ten years earlier, erupted and took a student nurse to the floor. The attendants had pulled him off and subdued him, and the girl had only a few bruises as a result. Reed had to give the girl credit, since she was back at work the next day.

“Come on in,” he told Marie, picked up his clipboard, and edged past her out the door, stopping next to the attendants to watch Marie's procedure.

“Hello, Norman,” Marie said as she set the tray on the table. The dishes were all plastic, as were the utensils and the tray itself. The drinking glass was tin. “We have meat loaf tonight. With mashed potatoes and gravy, and carrots with butter. And chocolate cake for dessert.”

As she talked, she put a hand under Norman's arm and lifted the big man from the bed. It didn't take force, just direction, and Norman obeyed. Reed found himself wishing he could do the same thing with Norman mentally as Marie did physically, but it wasn't so easy.

Marie guided Norman until his bulk was seated on the cushioned chair, the tray in front of him. “Would you like to feed yourself today for a change?” Marie asked, holding out a plastic spoon. There were no forks. Anything sharp wasn't permitted.

Norman didn't respond, didn't look up.

“All right then,” Marie said. “I'll be happy to help you. Here we go. Shall we start with meat loaf?”

Reed couldn't help but smile, just a little, at the way Marie wheedled Norman into opening his mouth by delicately tugging on his lower lip, the way mothers often did when their children were reluctant to try something new. “Have a nice dinner, Norman,” he said, nodded to Marie and the attendants, and headed toward his office, wishing that tugging on a man's lip could make him speak as easily as it could make him eat.

*   *   *

Norman liked the taste of the meat loaf. He liked the taste of nearly everything when Nurse Marie fed him. The meat loaf wasn't as good as Mother had made, but it wasn't bad. It was softer. It fell apart in his mouth more easily. The mashed potatoes weren't nearly as good as Mother's. Hers were fresh, and had some lumps in them. There weren't any lumps in these, and Norman thought it was because they were made from some kind of powder. The gravy made them passable, though, and the carrots were fresh and not overcooked. They crunched a little when Norman chewed them, just the way he liked carrots.

Nurse Marie was talking to him, but he tried not to listen to her. If he listened too closely or, even worse, if he tried to respond to her, to thank her for feeding him, or to tell her that the meat loaf was good or he liked the cake, Mother would get mad and yell at him. He hated it when she did that. It was too quiet in here, and there wasn't anywhere else he could go to get away from her.

Nurse Marie put down the plastic spoon and picked up the paper napkin. She touched it to Norman's mouth, dabbed either side of it, then wiped it. It felt good when she did that, when he felt her fingers through the thin paper trace across his lips as though he were kissing them, and when they were just under his nose he inhaled, trying to get the smell of her flesh into his nostrils. He did it again now, and there was an audible sniff, which he hoped Nurse Marie hadn't noticed, and then …

Bitch.

Norman froze. He stopped chewing and listened, fearing the worst.

“Norman?” he heard Nurse Marie say. “Is anything wrong?”

In spite of himself, he was about to answer, to open his mouth full of carrots and tell her, even though he knew that would be a big mistake. But it was already too late.

Yes, Norman … is anything wrong?

Mother. She was angry. She knew that Nurse Marie's wiping of his lips had made him have bad thoughts. She knew. Mother knew everything.

Is anything wrong, Norman? Why don't you tell the bitch? Tell her how much you like having her touch you! Maybe you could dribble in your lap and see if she would wipe it up! You'd like that, wouldn't you, you dirty boy!

Stop it, Mother. Please.

Then you stop thinking that way, Norman. It was those kinds of thoughts that made you kill that other girl, wasn't it? You couldn't have her in your dirty way, so you had to kill her, isn't that right?

No, Mother!
You
killed her, not me!

You wouldn't have done it if you hadn't wanted to, Norman. Don't you blame me.

“Norman?” he heard Nurse Marie ask again. “Aren't you hungry anymore? Have you had enough to eat?”

Norman didn't answer, but he started to chew again. He chewed the carrots, and the crunching sound was loud inside his head, loud enough to drown out Mother, and he swallowed.

Crunch away, but I know what you're thinking, boy. I always know.

It was only a whisper in his head, but he heard it clearly. He was finished eating now. He thought Nurse Marie had said something about chocolate cake, and he liked chocolate cake, but he didn't want Mother to get mad again.

Mad.

That was it, wasn't it? Mother had gone mad and killed the girl, and Norman had let her. He tried not to think about it, because his thoughts were never his own. So instead he thought about books he had read when he lived at home with Mother. He let the eyes of memory roam over the spines on the bookshelves in his little bedroom, and there were Von Hagen's
Realm of the Incas,
Murray's
The Witch-Cult in Western Europe,
Ouspensky's
A New Model of the Universe.

They were books that had expanded his horizons beyond the house and the motel, books that made him think there were things beyond his knowing, that magic could exist in the world, and that people who seemed unimportant and powerless could be stronger than anyone could imagine. Curses could be cast, spells woven, the dead brought back to life.

And that last he had done, hadn't he?
Mother …

In brief seconds, Norman had a nightmare vision of an open grave, an open casket illuminated by the glint of a flashlight and the full moon, a face, once loved and dreaded, now sunken in, hollowed out, with pits for eyes, lips curled back, yellow teeth grinning.

He had been mad too, hadn't he? He must have been to have done what he did.

He forced his mind back to the bookshelves, and there were the books on taxidermy, but better not to think of them. No, there on the bottom shelves, beneath Huysmans's
Là-bas
and de Sade's
Justine
 … those few books without names on the spines, the ones he would page through when Mother was sleeping, those with the pictures that made him feel …

But no. Better not look at those either. Mother was never sleeping here.

Norman …

Was that her again?

Norman, do you want …

Mother? Or …

“… some cake?”

Nurse Marie. Oh, God, yes, Nurse Marie. And he
did
want some cake, in spite of Mother. He opened his mouth, hoping that Mother wouldn't speak aloud out of it.

*   *   *

Marie Radcliffe finished putting the last bite of chocolate cake into Norman's mouth, then efficiently wiped his lips and chin one final time. “There now,” she said as she stood and picked up the tray, “that was good, wasn't it?”

“He liked that cake,” said Ben Blake from where he was standing against the padded wall, his arms folded. He smiled as he watched Norman, and the smile got wider when he looked at Marie.

“There's extra back in the kitchen,” Marie said, “if you boys are hungry later.” Giving them both a nod, she left the cell with the tray.

Ben and Dick O'Brien got on either side of Norman Bates and lifted him so that he stood, then positioned him over the bed and let him sit. “There you go, Norman,” Ben said. “We'll turn the lights off, and you can go to sleep whenever you like.”

They left the cell, making sure the door was locked behind them, then Dick pressed a switch that turned off the lights inside. Ben slid back a several-inch-wide slot in the door so that the light from the hall would provide Norman with the equivalent of a night-light should he need it, and together the two attendants walked down the hall toward their next charge.

“Got ten minutes,” Dick said. “Grab a smoke?”

“Sure,” Ben replied. “Maybe a coffee too.”