The Medea Complex (2 page)

Dr George Savage

M.D, M.R.C.P

October 12th, 1885.

Royal Bethlem Hospital

Preparing for my next entry, I scan through Lady Stanbury's
admission notes and find myself taken for a moment by her photograph. Such a
normal looking woman. Demure. Soft. Kind.

Her eyes stare at mine and I close the book, pushing it
away.

 Alas, such insanity is scarcely recognized until it
interferes with the law in some way. As a father myself the brutality of her
crime scratches at my heart, yet I understand on a professional level that she
is not to blame. Indeed, I hold forth great hope that she will, given time,
recover completely; but sometimes I wonder if it would be a mercy for her if
she did not. I remember all too well the screaming crowd outside the hospital
on the day she arrived. men, women, and even children armed with placards, all
shouting for justice and many demanding the death penalty.

Society is scared of that which it does not understand and
my job, nay, my role in life is to enlighten them. Lady Stanbury's crime is
widely viewed as the worst a woman could ever commit: the very nature of it
inciting other women to question their own status. As if one woman’s' broken
virtue could taint them by mere association of a shared gender.

I pull the case book towards me, licking my finger and
flicking through it until I reach the next blank page. Picking up my ink
eyedropper in one hand and a pen in the other, I carefully fill it without any
spillages and smile. Preparation is everything. I do not want to run out
mid-sentence.

It has now been little over a week since Lady Stanbury's
admission to Royal Bethlem Hospital, and as yet, no discernible progress has
been made. Despite rest and recuperation, everything of which she suffered on
admission is still very much established. There are no longer any doubts nor
questions regarding the initial diagnosis.

Patient is violent, and as a direct
consequence of this I am unable to do a complete physical exam, though she is
still lactating and remains ammenorehic. Friction of the breasts with salt and
castor oil has as yet proven impossible.

There is no sign of mastitis.

She remains flushed in appearance.

I am in complete agreement with Dr
Goldenheind and Dr Johnson; the two physicians who signed the first
certificates of insanity. Their reports adequately reflect the behaviour I
myself have witnessed since.

She remains in isolation for her own
safety.

Commissioners duly informed.

I read over what I have written, carefully correcting the
bottom curl of a 'y'.

There.

At this time, Lady Stanbury is certainly a person whom
requires that she should be deprived of her liberty as much for her own sake as
for that of society.

She is not the first woman to be admitted to an asylum on
this charge, and will not be the last.

Behind her beautiful smile lies the diseased mind of a
lunatic.

Anne

October 16th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

Last night I was kept awake by the sound of a woman weeping;
an awful, incessant, irritating sound that rose steadily in pitch and
prolongation as the night wore on. Covering my head with the flimsy blanket in
an effort to block out the noise proved useless. "It's difficult enough to
sleep in here, you fiends!" I cried, hammering at the handle-less door
that confuses me so; the yellow, metal gateway separating me from my freedom.
It does not even have a keyhole for me to peer through. I’m not entirely sure
whether something worse than incarceration awaits me on the other side, but the
most terrifying thing is not knowing.

I do know that I’m at the mercy of my captors if I can't
find a way to open it.

Damn them all, the bunch of goats. I roll over and try to
get comfortable; a few strands of straw poking me in the eye.

My father must be frantic, and what of Beatrix? I hope they
are both safe and well, and that they have not been abducted too. No doubt the
police have been contacted by now, and I imagine they are searching through
fields and rivers, looking for my body. Surely my kidnappers left clue's that
will lead them to me.

I rub my eyes in an attempt to clear them. I am glad that I
am without a mirror; combined with the awful night-gown I am forced to wear, I
imagine I resemble a lower-class prostitute. I can’t remember the last time my
hair was brushed, my face washed, or my finger-nails filed. I haven’t had a
warm bath in days. I could shed tears just thinking about it.

The darkness of my cell begins to fade. I get out of bed and
move over to the window, standing on tip-toes, listening closely for any sounds
the day may bring. I stay here for a long time, and it occurs to me that no
church bells toll the hour. I must therefore be somewhere in the countryside as
opposed to a city. I keep listening, my suspicions eventually confirmed with
the rewarding crow of a singular cock somewhere in the distance. I have no way
of telling the time in here; no clocks adorn the walls, and I wonder idly
whether my captors might be kind enough to supply me with a stick. As I
consider my plight and troubles with keeping time, the sound of my cell door
opening disturbs the quiet. The same fat woman that appears every morning is hovering
in the doorway, holding my breakfast tray.

Watching me.

Well, at least my captors don’t wish me to starve to death.

“What unsolicited advice do you have for me this morning?” I
say, as she moves wordlessly into the room and bends to put the tray onto the
floor.  She normally comes armed with a prepared speech regarding my behaviour:
stop banging, stop shouting, stop crying. My breakfast unsurprisingly consists
of a single bowl of thick, tasteless, glutinous porridge: a vast and sad
difference to the perfectly golden, buttery toast to which I am accustomed.

"To be quieter at night?" It is a rhetorical
question, and she doesn’t bother turning to look at me, busying herself with my
breakfast.

I peer at her large behind. The fabric is stretched tight across
her buttocks. If she bends forward any farther, she is liable to rip open the
seams.

"Were you trying to kill someone last night?" I
imagine all sorts of wonderful foods that she must eat in the mornings. Bacon,
eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages. All piled high on beautifully polished silver
plates.

 "No, Anne, I wasn't."

“I'm sorry, you 'wasn't' what?”

“That’s the answer to your question.”

“What question?”

What is she talking about?

“You asked me if I was killing someone last night. I
wasn't.”

Oh, that.

"You were,” I say, picking at my nails.

"I wasn't."

She's such a dirty liar! I resist the childish urge to stamp
my foot.

"You most certainly were.” 

She stares at me.

“Look,” I say, pretending to be nice. Polite. "Can I
have something other than this slop for breakfast?"

"No."

"Who do you think I am, Oliver Twist?"

She mutters under her breath and stands, turning as if to
leave.

"May I have a stick to tell the time?" I ask
quickly, not wishing to be thwarted so soon. She spins and looks at me as if I
am mad.

"No, Anne. I dread to think what might occur if we gave
our inmates sticks. Full out war, I expect. And how do you suppose a stick will
help you tell the time?”

Inmates?

“Well, you place a stick in the ground, upright – normally
easier if you have a bit of soil, which I don’t, but I’m fairly sure I can make
it stand up somehow. In that porridge, most probably: for it is thick enough.
Anyway, then, when the sun hits the stick, you look at the shadow as you would
imagine a clock-face, and-“

“Anne, stop. The only times you need to know are that of
mealtimes. In fact,” she says, sneering, “You don’t even need to know the times
of those. You are to remain inside this room.” She pauses and looks about her,
before bringing her face close to mine. Foul breath invades my nose as I stifle
a heave. “Do you need to be somewhere?”

“Well, yes, I need to be at home.” I stutter, the stench of
sewage blocking my voice.

“I will bring you your food for now. When, and if, you are
eventually allowed out into the hospital freely, a bell will ring at the times
of breakfast, lunch and dinner.” Backing away from me, she adds, “A
stick...Lord have mercy!" She pulls open the door, for which I am
semi-grateful, and semi-despondent, but I try to peek around her.

It's no use.

She's too fat.

And yet....

Any human contact is better than none.

"I want to observe the body." I entice her to
stay.

"Oh, Anne..." her fat chins ripple as she closes
the door. I am reminded of the red jelly Mrs Cook used to make for me when I
was a child.

I shudder.

I don’t think I will ever eat it again.

No matter.

I leap onto the floor and search the porridge with my
fingers.

No keys.

Dejected, I sit with my back to the wall and watch the sun
rise in the sky through the window. I realize with a sudden clarity that I've
seen that woman before, in the dream I had a few nights ago. What if it wasn't
a dream, maybe that’s how I got here? I ponder this for a while, but quickly
tire of thinking. I'm bored of everything. The days in here are long and
utterly pointless, and nothing holds my attention.

Eventually dawn turns to noon as the yellow fireball peaks
at the uppermost part through the bars, and at once my stomach grumbles. It has
learned that lunch will be delivered soon after the sun hits that particular
spot in the glass. Yet the fact that my hunger pangs will soon be satisfied is
not enough to lift me from my abject misery. I have too many matters to mull
over.

What do they want with me?

Do they intend to harm me?

Who are 'they'?

And where is Beatrix? I miss her. Nobody else here speaks
French and if I don’t practice, I may forget how to speak it. I can only hope
that my confidante, my best friend, is outside these four walls, discussing my
freedom with my kidnappers. It is lucky my captors are not French too, as
Father would be absolutely hopeless in any sort of negotiation, and Beatrix
would be of utmost importance.

There is a tickling sensation in my hands. Looking down, I
find I am holding a pile of yellow paint chips. I must have spent my morning
picking them off the walls as I watched the sun rise. I brush them away,
scattering them onto the floor.

The fat woman in the apron returns right on time but she is
not alone, she is accompanied by a younger, slimmer version of her foul self.
They are wearing identical aprons, so no doubt this newcomer is a lying,
thieving fiend too. This new one reminds me of a rat, she's all teeth and bones
and her eyes protrude from her face.

My, they do employ the most graceless women.

"I don't suppose you speak French, do you?" I say,
staring at the newcomer, hopefully. She shakes her head and remains silent,
looking at the floor and twiddling her key-chain.

"Does she even speak English?"

"Be quiet," the fat one replies. "Today we
are going to take you for a walk. God knows, I shan't be taking you alone.
You'd like that, I imagine?" She nudges Rat-Face in the side, who startles
before running over to me and grabbing me by an arm. I ignore the urge to smack
her.

“I thought you said I couldn't leave the room,” I say.

The fat-one snorts.

“Yes well, the doctor has decided he wants’ you out for a
while. Might drive you crazy if you stay in here for too long.” She slides a
look at Rat-Face, sniggering, and this time it truly takes all of my
self-restraint not to hurt her.

“Oh, well, how wonderful! Yes! I would love to go for a
walk!” I smile innocently. Bastard, only letting me out for a 'walk' like a
dog. If a fair opportunity should arise, I'll give them both the slip, that
would surprise the 'good doctor', wouldn't it?

"Let's get it over with then,” the fat-one says,
grabbing hold of my other arm, and the two of them pull me out of my cell into
the longest corridor imaginable.

Light!

One side is made almost in its entirety of large windows, as
far I can see. Sunlight pours through them, shining stars and whorls up the
walls. Wooden benches run along both sides of the passageway at regular
intervals, and potted flowers bloom in the golden rays.  It is incredible. The
twitter of canaries co-mingles with doves cooing; the sounds emanating from
ornamental bird-cages scattered everywhere on small wooden tables.

And people! There are other women! This fact delights me for
a moment, and I almost jump with joy until I remember that I am a hostage and
whoever my captors are, they must earn a fortune in ransom money if I am not
the only one here. I am smiling and frowning at the same time; a stifling,
rumbling pot of contradictory thoughts.

As I am flanked on either side by my two captors, escape is
imminently futile. I have no choice but to follow wherever they lead me.

"Thieves, robbers." I gripe quietly under my
breath, loathe to make my feelings known in case I am marched firmly back to my
cell, but unable to repress them completely. I stay inconspicuously alert for
signs of an exit whilst letting myself be manoeuvred down the corridor.

As we make our way through the hallway, we are forced to
slow down by a woman curled up in a foetal position, moaning and crying on the
ground. We stop just in front of her, and my fat captor nudges me in my side
with a surprisingly knobbly-feeling elbow. The woman is laid at another’s feet;
those of a handsome, fair-haired woman who is leaning forward, stroking her
hair. She is dressed in the same apron as my captor, but she seems different.

She looks kind.

"Anne," the fat-one says to me, "Do you see
this woman?"

"A little hard to miss, seeing as if I take one more
step I shall trip over her." I say.

"This is your body."

"Pardon?"

"The body you presumed had been left after the alleged
murder last night," she replies, grinning at me, and elbowing me again in
my ribs, making me wince. "I told you nobody was killed."

"Oh." I am momentarily lost for words.

"This is another patient, just as you are a patient.
Her name is Grace."

"Miss Grace, could you kindly move your body off the
floor so we may walk by?" I say, studying her. Grace stops sobbing and
looks up at me. I smile, but this is wasting time. I need to find an exit.

"Don't be cruel," says her captor, who stops
stroking her head for a moment to assess me. "This is Grace's spot. She
stays here all day, and she's been here much longer than you have."

"Her family hasn't paid the ransom then yet?" I
shake my head, sadly. I tut, and waggle my finger. “Shame on you. Shame on all
of you. Cretins.” I am rewarded with a curious, questioning glance.

"She thinks she's been kidnapped." says my fat
jailor.

"I have been kidnapped," I say with assertion,
nodding my head.

"Oh, this is the one, who you know..." says the
nice looking jailor, her eyes flicking over me from head to toe.

"Yes,” says the fat-one.

"Pardon? I’m the one who what?" I'm confused.

"Nothing of your concern at present," says
Rat-Face. "Now come on, we can walk around Grace and continue on our
way." She starts tugging at my arm now, and the fat one pulls at the other
arm in the other direction. We're not going anywhere unless they pull me one
way or the other, not two. Rat-Face gives up the fight and let’s go of me.

"Are you taking me home?"

"No. I'm taking you for your salt and castor oil rub.
You're leaking. "

“Leaking where? What do you mean?”

She sighs.

“Forget it, Anne.”

I do.

"Well then...can I please have a stick?"

"No."

I sigh, and turn to the fair haired woman.

"Do you speak French?" I raise my eyebrows
pleadingly as I am pulled past her.

"Oui."

That one word gives me the hope and courage I need to smile
and let myself be dragged onwards.

***

“What is your name?”I ask, as my fat jailor leads me back
along the corridor. We had a not-so-nice walk up and down the corridor, for an
hour. Rat-Face scuttled off somewhere halfway through, possibly to find some
cheese, or a dead body to chew upon.

“My name? Oh, Dear Lord-” and she starts laughing, wiping a
tear away from under an eye with a tubby finger, skilfully keeping one hand
firmly shackled on my upper arm. “My name is not the one that should be of
importance to you: it is your own.”

“What?” We reach my cell door and she hands me over to a
nearby woman, asking her to keep hold of me for a second whilst she unlocks it.