Robert Bloch's Psycho (8 page)

Norman looked over toward where he'd left Dr. Reed. He was still there, but far out of earshot. He looked at Dr. Reed pleadingly, but the doctor looked back at him with no expression on his face, as though he was just
observing
Norman.

“Your name's Norman, right? So how you makin' out, Norman? My name's Ronald. Ronald Miller. Nice to make your acquaintance. Y'know, I was readin' about you in the papers. Got a little reputation goin', don't ya? Well, hell, so do I, though you may not know it.” The man gave a little laugh. “My vics don't tend to talk much about it, but everybody knows yours. Maybe I'd got more publicity if I hadn't left 'em alive, y'know? But that's me, too damn tenderhearted for my own good. Now,
you
had the right idea. Shut 'em up, then they can't blab about you, right? 'Course, you got caught anyways, and we both ended up here, right?… Um … you followin' me, Norman?”

Finally Ronald Miller was quiet. It seemed he'd been talking for hours, and the sudden silence surprised Norman so much that he turned and actually looked at the man. What he saw wasn't pretty.

Piercing blue eyes stared at Norman out of a gaunt, scarred face. They weren't the kind of scars that come from cuts, however. These were red and puckered, and ran from beside Ronald Miller's right eye across his cheek, around his mouth, and down the center of his neck. His right eye squinted, and the right side of his mouth was pulled slightly askew. It looked as though someone had once splashed his face with liquid fire. Although the scarring still looked painful, Norman somehow knew it had been that way for a long time.

“Hey, Norm—you hearin' me?”

Norman looked back down at the magazine in his lap. What was this man with the terrible face saying to him? That he had forced women to…? Norman suddenly felt guilty about reading this particular magazine, and slapped the pages shut.

“Whatsa matter? Don't you wanna talk to me? 'Cause I wanna talk to
you.
”

Ronald Miller was talking more quietly now, but also more intensely.

“I wanna hear about what you done. When you done that girl. How'd you do it? I read you stabbed her, right? Were you doin' it while you stabbed her?”

Norman's head started to swim. He felt as though he might topple out of his chair. The man was whispering now, his scarred, twisted mouth against Norman's ear.

“What noises did she make, huh? Was she cryin'? Could you see the tears?”

Norman felt hot, feverish. The man's hissed words snapped against his eardrums. His stomach started to roil.

And then Ronald Miller asked a question so vile, so horrible, that Norman's mind rejected it. No one could ask such a thing. No one could think of finding that kind of pleasure in such pain and agony. But though his mind refused to process the question, his body reacted. Norman lurched to the floor on his hands and knees as everything in his stomach revolted against the words that had assailed him, and splattered onto the tile floor.

*   *   *

“Whoa, Nellie!”
Ronald Miller said, leaping to his feet and backing up, both from the vomit that continued to spew from Norman's mouth and from the two attendants who were quickly advancing on them.

“What the hell,” said one of the men. “What'd you do to him, Miller?”

“Nuthin',
nuthin'!
” Ronald said. “We was just talkin'—about the magazine and stuff, and he just … well, you seen it.”

Then Dr. Reed was there, and he knelt next to Norman, who had stopped puking, and patted his back. “It's okay, Norman,” he said. “We'll go back to your room now. Relax.” And then the doc gave Ronald a look that told him he didn't like him. “What were you
really
talking to him about, Ronald?” the doc asked.

Ronald looked at the issue of
National Geographic
on the floor, with Bates's barf sprayed over most of its cover. On the untouched part, Ronald could see the names of a few articles. “Mexico,” he said. “We was talkin' about the mummies of Mexico, like it says in there. I read that article too. 'Bout, uh,
mummies
 … in
Mexico.
”

The doc's face got funny, like he'd just thought of something. Then he helped Bates to his feet while one of the janitors showed up with a mop and bucket to clean up the puke. The attendants told Ronald to back off, while Doc Reed led Norman, his head still down, out of the room. The doc glanced back once over his shoulder, and looked at Ronald like he thought he was something dangerous.

When the doc turned away, Ronald grinned. Guess he was, at that. He certainly hit on something that bugged the hell out of little old Norman Bates. Maybe Bates didn't
like
sharing his memories. Or maybe he'd just gotten sick on the shitty food in here. Whatever the reason for the throw-up, Ronald wanted to talk to—or
at
—Norman again. If the little freak didn't want to share his happy memories, at least it'd be fun to tease him, find out what buttons to push to make him puke again.

In here, you got your pleasures where you could.

*   *   *

“Norman? I have your dinner. Are you feeling better?”

Marie Radcliffe, carrying a tray, came through the door that Ben Blake was holding open for her. She was sorry to see Norman sitting on his bed, no book in his shaking hands. He was gazing down at his lap, not looking up and smiling, like he usually did when Marie entered.

Dr. Reed had told Marie about the encounter with Ronald Miller in the social hall, and the sudden, violent burst of vomiting. The doctor had seemed both brokenhearted and angry, and Marie felt the same way. Norman had come so far, and it was terrible to think of this incident causing any regression.

She was surprised to realize how concerned she was for Norman. Whenever she recalled what he had actually done, she had to suppress a shudder. But to equate those deeds with the substantial yet frail man who now sat trembling before her was nearly impossible. He seemed like a child who needed …

His mother? God, no, Marie thought. Anything but that.

What he needed was a friend. Dr. Reed was both friend and confidante, but Reed needed something from Norman—he needed him to
change,
to become less withdrawn and more of a social animal. It was a matter of professional pride to him. But Marie, though she didn't want to see Norman fall under the less-than-tender mercies of Dr. Goldberg and his treatments, needed nothing from him. Maybe she could just be a friend.

“Roast chicken and rice, Norman,” she said. “Maybe you could get down a few bites? I know your stomach's not feeling well, but…”

She sat down on the chair and looked at him. “You had a bad day, didn't you?” He didn't look up, but he nodded, and his trembling subsided a bit. “Norman, when I was in school, I was shy and a lot of times I was scared. I had trouble making friends, and sometimes kids laughed at me. My dad gave me a gift that helped a little.”

Marie reached into one of the pockets of her nurse's uniform and took something out. She held it out to Norman. “See?”

*   *   *

Norman was afraid to look at first, but, when he did, he saw in Nurse Marie's palm a small polished piece of what looked like stone. It was nearly round, and only the size and shape of the tip of his finger. It was gray in color, but tinged with purple, and veined with parallel threads of brown.

“It's petrified wood,” Nurse Marie said. “You know what that is?” Norman nodded, unable to take his eyes off the little piece of wood. “See the lines? They're tree rings. It's oak from Louisiana,” she said. “My dad said that it was something soft that got tough and strong, and that I could look at it and remind myself how tough and strong
I
could be.”

She took his hand and put the piece of petrified wood into his palm, then closed his fingers around it. “I'm going to give this to you, Norman. You can keep it. When you feel scared, just reach into your pocket and hold it, and think about how strong you can be.” Then he looked up at her, and she smiled. “You don't need your mother, Norman. Dr. Reed showed you that. You just need yourself, okay?”

Norman didn't speak, but he smiled. It seemed silly, but the feel of the small smooth stone in his hand
did
make him feel better, braver, and he nodded his thanks to Nurse Marie. Then he put the stone into his pants pocket.

“Be sure you put it toward the front of your pocket,” Nurse Marie said. “Those pockets are pretty shallow—you wouldn't want it to slip out.”

Norman nodded, did what she said, and patted the small stone under the cloth. Then he picked up the single utensil next to the food. He did feel a little hungry after all.

*   *   *

Time passed. Norman wasn't sure how much, since one day seemed very much like another. He had a session with Dr. Reed nearly every day in the afternoon. Norman didn't always remember what they talked about, because he was so relaxed most of the time. Mostly about his childhood, growing up, his school years, his relationship with Mother. Sometimes it was nice to remember those things, sometimes it wasn't so nice.

He hadn't gone back to the social hall, but every few days Dr. Reed would take him for a walk through the hospital, and they would also go into what they called the exercise yard, though Norman didn't see anyone ever exercising in it. It was a large outdoor area behind the building, bordered by the two wings of wards. Dr. Reed gave Norman a warm jacket and some gloves, because it was winter now, and it was colder outside.

Norman liked breathing in the cold air, and seeing the puffs his breath made. There were other patients in the yard, but they ignored Norman, which was fine with him. And he never saw Ronald Miller out there, which was good. Norman would walk around and look out into the woods through the chain-link fence with the barbwire on top of it, twelve feet up. It felt good to stretch his legs and see the sky, the clouds, the sun. Dr. Reed stayed nearby all the time Norman was in the yard, and Norman was glad for that.

When he and Dr. Reed walked through the building, Ben the attendant always came along, lagging a few steps behind. Ben seemed nice. They would walk down different hallways. Sometimes they stopped at the nurses' station and talked to some of them, or Dr. Reed would. They seemed okay, though Norman could tell they were a little uncomfortable when he was around. They still smiled, all except for Nurse Lindstrom. She didn't smile at all. She just looked at him, then looked away like she'd seen a disgusting bug. That was all right with Norman. He didn't want to talk to her anyway.

He didn't talk to any of them. Nurse Marie was the only one he'd talk to, and then just enough to get by. He didn't want to get into
any
trouble.

That was how his days went, along with the one or two books he read daily. So it was a real surprise when Dr. Reed came to visit him again one day, only this time long after dinner. There was a soft knock on the door, and he heard Dr. Reed say his name through the slot. Then the door unlocked and opened.

“Hello, Dr. Reed,” Norman said, getting to his feet. Dr. Reed was alone. He came into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Good evening, Norman,” he said. He hesitated, then motioned to Norman to sit back down. Norman sat on the bed and put a paper bookmark in the Louis L'Amour novel he'd been reading. Dr. Reed sat in the chair. He leaned toward Norman, hands between his legs.

“Norman, I … I have some news for you.” Norman realized he must have looked worried, because Dr. Reed immediately raised his hands. “Now, it's not
bad
news or anything, it's just … well, rather
startling.
Unexpected. Very surprising. To you and me both.”

Dr. Reed sat back and assumed the more relaxed position he took during their sessions. “Norman,” he said softly, “we never touched on this in our talks, but did your mother ever mention
anything
about the existence of … a sibling you might have had? In particular, a brother.”

Norman gave a little laugh. He couldn't help himself. He'd never heard of anything so ridiculous. “Dr. Reed, I…” He chuckled again. “I'm an only child. I don't have any brother.”

“You, uh, you may have to rethink that … aspect of yourself, Norman. You see, a letter, with some copies of documents attached, came to the hospital. It was marked ‘Regarding Norman Bates,' so it was given to me. It was from a gentleman who claims to be your brother. Your twin, actually. The documents were the evidence, and I have to say it's pretty compelling.”

“But … Mother never mentioned
anything
like that…”

“Well, under the circumstances, that's understandable. May I tell you what the letter and the documents claim?”

Norman nodded. His hands were trembling.

“This man who claims to be your twin—nonidentical, I might add—says that when he saw your photo in one of the news stories in the paper he was struck by the similarity in appearance to himself.”

“But if he …
we
are nonidentical, how…?”

“Family resemblance, I suppose, and I have to say that he's right. You're very similar.”

“Then you've … seen him?”

Dr. Reed held up his hands again. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll just say there
is
a resemblance. A very close one.
But
 … this man decided to look into the possibility that you were related. He'd always been curious about his birth. He had been adopted, and there was nothing on record as to the circumstances. He'd been … a foundling, you might say, left anonymously at a charity home far from Fairvale. Actually left for dead, since he had a gross physical birth defect. A misshapen skull that suggested brain damage.”