The Medea Complex (5 page)

“But I have ten of each, you fiend, in case you can’t count;
and I shall cut off your fingers and toes lest I get the chance." She
shakes her fist at me, and counts her fingers out loud. “One, two, three,
four...”

"I think it's time to leave," I say to Lord
Damsbridge. He looks once more at his daughter.

"I love you Anne."

Something passes between them, a flicker below the surface
of her features, a ripple across his. A mutual recognition. It disappears as
quickly as it appeared, and she frowns, rubbing her hands together, turning her
face away from him.

"Oh, go away Father. One of my feet is already in the
grave.”

As we close the door, she shouts:

"Send Fat Ruth back here, will you? I like her more than
you."

Edgar

October 16th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

“Mr Stanbury, please, calm yourself. Anger is a quite
unnecessary emotion. A poison to the body.”

“My wife is a lunatic.” I say calmly, yet inside I am
seething. My fingers curl protectively around the metal ring in my pocket.

Insane. Positively mad. Perhaps I made a mistake in marrying
her after all. 

Lord Damsbridge, unable to stay in the hospital for even
another minute, took his leave after my wife’s parting words. “Cruel, cruel
words for a daughter to say to a father,” he muttered, distraught, as left me
outside of the doctor’s office.

She had cruel words for her husband, too.

“How can I not be angry, doctor? I hate her for what she has
done. I was upset when I saw her, and now I'm just....just...” I search for the
right word. I find it. “Enraged! Oh, I don't know what to think of her! 
And...the manner in which she spoke to us both! Quite unlike anything I have
ever heard!” A noise buzzes in my ears, and I am having difficulty taking a
full breath. I lay my hands on the Doctor's desk and try to calm myself. “A
woman, speaking like that to her husband!”

She is a criminal lunatic, not an ordinary one. She murdered
my son.

Does it really matter how she spoke to me? Why am I focusing
on that, now?

"I can understand you questioning the love you have for
your wife, but you are wrong to hate her, Mr Stanbury. She is ill.” Dr Savage
comes around his desk, placing a hand upon my shoulder.

“But she does not appear so.” All the women I saw on the way
back to the office looked insane: a woman in a corner cackling away to herself,
another screeching as she ran down the corridor imitating a bird, or a cat, I'm
not sure which. I look at my wife and I don't see a crazy person, I just see
the woman I love: changed, somehow.

Wait.

Love, or loved?

Either way, the doctor's platitudes ring empty.

“Most lunatics don’t, Stanbury. Most of them look as sane as
you and I.” He pats me firmly before moving around to his chair and lighting a
cigar. Without waiting for a response, he blows smoke at the ceiling and
continues. “Someday, you will be able to forgive her. Your wife is suffering as
much as you are, but in a different way. Wait until she remembers what she has
done...Would you care for a smoke? These are from Cuba. One of the governors
brings back boxes of them every time he goes to America. The best quality in
the world.” He holds out the tin box, tapping it with a fingernail.

I accept, it might help with my breathing. Lifting it to my
mouth, I pause. Strange; dust covers the palms of my hands. I wipe them on my
trousers before cutting and lighting the cigar.

“Perhaps if I understood, Doctor, why she murdered my son,
maybe I could forgive her.” How can he not understand the severity of the
situation? My wife didn't start having affairs, or become lazy with regards to
her wifely duties. She didn't start cutting the grass with clippers or
something equally innocuous, like painting her face with flour, as had one
patient I saw in the corridor. “She killed a person, doctor, a child. A baby.
My baby. My son, my John.” I start crying again and shame forces me to turn my
head away. John's blue eyes stare at me inside my mind, and I remember the
first time he really looked at me with them, focused. His first smile. I
remember everything about him, yet the memories bring me great pain, a twisting
sickness that agonizes my body and soul.

The doctor sits back and exhales loudly, looking almost
annoyed at my incomprehension. Yet he quickly rights himself, sitting up tall
and composing his features into something that aptly suits the situation, and I
wonder if I imagined it.

“She is mentally ill, Stanbury. May I call you Stanbury, or
do you prefer a prefix? I believe we are going to end up friends, you and I.”

“Stanbury is fine,” I say, not much caring about titles or
names anymore.

“Right. Good. Stanbury, you are the person that
unfortunately, is in the most pain at the moment. When Anne remembers her
crime, well...the agony of remembrance is too much for many women. When we
reach that point, we will be keeping a close eye on her indeed. You never know
what a mother will do to themselves when they realize they've killed their own
child.” He offers me the ashtray and I notice belatedly that my cigar has burned
out. I barely smoked it.

I panic. She can't. She can't take something else away from
me.

“Are you suggesting she might try to kill herself?”

He shrugs.

“She may. She may not. I never can tell which ones go on to
try it, and which one's don't. In that respect, we pay close attention to them
all.”

But...

“Why doesn't she remember now? Why has she forgotten us?”

“Amnesia,” he says absently, opening a brown folder and
searching in the desk's drawer for something. “Aha, here. Right. Yes, she has
amnesia, Stanbury. Though I don't expect it will last too long, it never does.”

“Am-what?”

“Amnesia. Puerperal Mania is an umbrella term for symptoms,
one of which in Anne's case is amnesia. A loss of memory. A most wonderful
psychological defence mechanism.”

Behind him, a potted plant lays dead on the windowsill. A
rotten petal falls crisply to the floor in the silence that settles upon us as
I try to understand. The doctor notices my gaze and peers over his shoulder, or
perhaps he hears it too. “Yes, that. It's a disgrace really. I did have a
secretary, but she ran off with an ex-patient last month. Dratted flowers are
dying everywhere.”

 “Don't secretaries type letters and such?”

“Yes, but she had this idea about 'cheering the place up'. I
agreed with her so long as she promised to water them, which she did...until
she left. I'm afraid now, the only ones that get maintained are those the
patient's care for outside of this office. Now I have to write my own letters,
so I have even less time than before, never mind time for watering darned
plants.” He mumbles something under his breath about women, plants and the
workplace. He looks up at me. “I don't suppose you can recommend a good maid,
perhaps?”

I shake my head in the negative.

“Shame, I'm considering employing from abroad-”

“About this memory loss, doctor...”

He perks up, and rearranges his glasses, forgetting about
his lack of secretary and maid.

“Yes, a most troubling yet fascinating trick of the mind.
Truly, it never ceases to amaze me how the brain can protect itself, like a
caterpillar in a cocoon. Let me...” He trails off, fiddling about with
something underneath his desk. Eventually he pulls out a gold bell. Slamming
his hand upon it, he looks at me triumphantly.

“Now, what did I just do, Stanbury?”

“You rang a bell.” What is he doing?

He smiles and bangs it again.

“And now? What did I do?”

“Well, erm...” I look around me, not sure of his point. “You
rang it again, I suppose.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw you do it, and I heard the bell.”

“Yes!” The doctor becomes animated, and jumps from his seat.
He takes a bow. “And why do you suppose you saw and heard me ring the bell?”

I remain silent, as he laughs at the expression on my face.

“It is not a trick question, Stanbury. You heard it because
you are awake. You are in a strong state of consciousness. Now,” he draws a
circle in the air above his head. “Tell me, did you dream last night?”

“Well, I...” I realize I haven't the faintest idea.

“You're going to tell me you don't remember, aren't you.” He
smiles.

“Well,” I say, nodding. “Yes. I mean no, I'm afraid I don’t
remember at all.”

“Do you suppose you dreamed of me, ringing a bell?”

“I doubt it, Doctor.”

He sits and interlaces his hands underneath his face,
scratching at his beard.

“But nobody remembers their dreams, doctor. I don't
understand the relation of this to the...am-whats-sit”

“A comparison Stanbury. The mind. Bear with me. When you
first wake up, do you ever get that feeling, or even a slight memory of
something? And yet the harder you search your brain to try to catch it, it is
gone with the rising of the sun, and before an hour is out you forget it even
existed?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it. I'm glad you understand. Because this is the
reason your wife doesn't remember anything.”

“Because of a dream?”

“Basically, in its most simple terms, yes. Oh, I could talk
all morning about consciousness and nerve cells and pathology and physiology
until you're half crazy yourself, but I shan't subject you to that. You will
remember me ringing this bell for weeks, months, possibly years to come,
because you are in a conscious state. However, when you are asleep, you are in
an unconscious state. The latter is not conducive to memory, and for good
reason. Can you imagine what would happen to us if when we went to sleep of a
night; we woke up with seven, eight hours worth of memory of things that didn't
really happen, except in our own minds?”

I can't, no. It sounds ridiculous to me, and I say so.

“Well, that’s the reason we don’t, Stanbury.” Satisfied, he
leans back on his chair and grins at me. “Although it occurs to me now, that
that could be the reason half of my patients are here.” He writes something on
a piece of paper.

“But doctor...that explains her inability to remember her
crime. But how can she not remember me? She knew me for a long time before
this...this...” I stutter. “This, awfulness. It doesn’t make sense that if her
mind is protecting her from something awful, that it would blank me from her
memory.”

He blinks, his forehead crinkling.

“Doctor? Why doesn't she remember me?”

“The mind is a strange thing, Stanbury. And quite unique.
Every person is different from the next.” He taps a pen against his desk,
silent for some moments. Finally, his frown lifts, and he smiles. “No doubt,
because she knows she has hurt you. That fact will hurt her, because she loves
you. So her mind has shut you out too.” He beams. “Yes, that's it. Of course.”

Why is he so happy about this?

“Stanbury, try not to worry yourself. It is better to leave
the where's and art thou's to us alienists: drat the man who coined such a
phrase.  I have various methods to explore the subconscious, and the hidden. I
can find these memories.”

“So you can treat my wife?”

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“How?”

“That, Stanbury, is something we will decide and implement
as we proceed. It is very much dependent on her, really.”

I can't help but think back to the horror stories he told me
and my father-in-law to forget; of men and women being chained from their necks
to posts and left to rot. We've all heard them growing up. I idly wonder if
perhaps they still do those things, away from prying eyes down in the basement.
I wonder if I care if it happens to Anne. They thought of her conjures up such
opposing feelings inside me, that I really can't decide whether I want to kiss
her or kill her.

“Do what you will, Doctor,” I say, standing up and bowing to
him minutely, trying to sound authoritative. “My wife needs to be returned to
me via whatever means necessary.”

“I assure you I will try my very best,” he says, rising and
offering his hand. I shake it firmly. He leans back on this chair and reaches
into his bookshelf. “Here, take this. Read it; it may help you understand.” He
hands me a book, Insanity and Allied Neuroses. “Wrote it myself. You won’t find
a better source of information,” he declares proudly. “Take good care of it
though, that’s a first edition.” I promise I will, not sure if I'll read it but
unable to summon the strength to tell him so. I simply nod and without a
backward glance, stride out of the gloom into the sunshine, intent on seeing my
lawyer. A man is rummaging amongst the flowers, shouting something incoherent
about trying to find himself.

He's not the only one.

Anne

November 3rd, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

A few weeks have passed since the sack incident, and having
been on my best behaviour they've decided to let me attend a dance.
Accompanied, of course, by one of the jailors, but at least this time it is the
nice blonde woman, Agnus.

Fat-Ruth is part of the band, imagine.

"What is the point of Grace attending this ridiculous
ball when she can’t enjoy the music?" I say, stuffing another sandwich
into my mouth. I realized she was deaf by shouting into her ear one morning and
getting no response. Swallowing back a lump of ham and cheese, I wait for
Agnus' reply, but none is forthcoming.

She has dressed Grace in a beautiful silk dress, pinned her
hair into a French pleat, and sat her onto a chair, but it all seems rather
contrived and pointless. I get the impression Grace doesn't much care as to how
she appears, nor where she is. In fact, I'm certain she would rather be back on
the floor in the corridor.

"And I don't know why you bothered yourself to dress
her up, really. She still looks like my grandmother. And really, dressing her
in silk? She cannot dance in that, even if she actually wanted to, or
could." I continue, picking up another sandwich.

"Anne, please don't eat so fast, those sandwiches are
meant to last. And will you kindly stop being rude about Grace?"

"She can't hear me," I say. "Though perhaps
you imagine that dressing us up in such mock finery will entice us all to beg
our families to pay you the ransom, is that it? Well, I'm just here for the
free food." I purposefully pick up another three sandwiches and stuff them
all in my mouth at once.

"Anne..."

"Schsmsugfh." I say, showing her the contents of
the half chewed up bread.

I swallow.

"I can't imagine why they bother. Did the ransom money
pay for such a mockery of a feast? And the band is truly terrible," I say,
watching them. Five idiots; all liars, thieves and robbers. None can play a
tune."I hope for your sake that their hostage taking skills are better
than their musical talent." Turning my back on Agnus, I pick up another
four sandwiches and make my way over to one of the longer trestle tables, atop
which stand dozens of different colored bottles containing various coloured
liquids and towers of cups. I fill two with something brown and bubbly; and
pour one into a nearby potted plant. I wait a moment. Satisfied, I drink the
remaining cup quickly and ditch both empty cups onto the floor underneath the
table. The squashed sandwiches in my hand meet the same fate, making a sad
looking picnic indeed.

There must be thirty-some people in here, possibly even
forty. Difficult to tell, as everybody is moving, dancing, walking, mingling,
making my eyes cross and blur. They are all dressed in various states of
eccentricity: some are still in their green linen gowns, and others are wearing
'normal', non-convict clothes. Some must be drunk because they keep falling
over, and shouting. Bewilderingly, a cup flies past my head and I duck, looking
around to see who the perpetrator of such a pointless exercise could be, but
see no-one.

Loathe as I am to admit it to Agnus, at this point in time
I'm rather unsteady on my feet. The confusion generated by not knowing who is
who hurts my head, yet I am becoming aware of something.

This is a double edged sword.

This ball is a perfect opportunity for me to escape! For
most surely, if I am unsure of whom they are, they must equally be confused as
to who I am.

Incompetent fools. Why hold a ball for your hostages? Serves
them right if all of us escape.

Aha!

A plan forms inside of my head.

I think back to the window in my cell, the one with bars
across it.

I look at the windows here, in this large room. They don't
have any bars across. But even if I managed to smash one of them, at least
twenty jailors would be on me before I could make a move towards freedom.

Hmm.

Weapons seem to be inconspicuously absent, but there must be
one somewhere.

Pretending to be absorbed in the music, I stand at the side
of the room, humming to myself, making it appear to all who might be watching
me that I am simply observing the dancers. I put a smile on my face: essential,
after all, for a ball. Without turning my head away, I let my eyes wander
further.  A few more bird cages, some useless plants. Same story as the
corridors. No, I cannot attack anyone here, I would be swiftly thwarted. What would
I do anyway, release a lark fly into their face?

"Missus, would ye do me the honour t'dance with
me?" A man emerges from the crowd and stands in front of me. Bending
forward in a respectful bow, he motions to me with a slight movement of his
right hand. He no doubt presumed I was waiting to be asked; poor, deluded
creature. I am inclined to refuse his invitation: his obviously common accent
doesn't help matters, yet maybe...

Could he help me?

And anyway, it is bad manners to mar the pleasures of others,
and he is dressed beautifully; from his black waistcoat, tailored trousers and
white vest to his black cravat. Though by no means handsome, he could be a
diversion.

"With pleasure, Sir." I hold out one of my gloved
hands, and he elegantly takes it, leading me onto the dance floor.

“Me names’ William. William Smith. Nice t’ meet ye
acquaintance.” He places a hand upon my waist, and I incline my head a little
to the left.

“Anne. Just call me Anne.”

He starts to tell me about all the dances he's learnt whilst
being here. “I bin' taught t' polka, t' t' gallop, and the waltz!” he declares,
a little too proudly.

“How about the Polka-Masurka?”

The resulting confusion on his face makes me feel rather
guilty, so I shake my head slightly and offer him a rueful smile.

Half way through our dance, our eyes meet and he smiles at
me. In them, I see recognition of a fellow comrade.

"How do ye' like t' drinks?" he asks me,
performing a perfect two-step, engaging me in the prerequisite small-talk of
ballroom etiquette.

"Rather unpleasant," I say, matching his dance but
not really wanting conversation. I'm too annoyed at trying to pull my skirt out
to the side when I'm not wearing one. "I much prefer root beer."

"Coca-Cola, they're calling it. Developed by some quack
called Dr Pemberton."

I snort, the sound lost under the screeching of a violin.

At this point, I suggest making an escape.

"Aye, I would love to," he says. "The damned
idiots in here keep makin' me miss me train. Do ye know, I have tried ten times
to get out of this place?"

Another song starts and we continue to dance.

"How did they kidnap you?"

"Kidnap? Lady, me' family put me in here. Damn
them."

Interesting. Perhaps they paid the captors to take him? But
what possible reason would they have for this? But no matter, I hardly have
time to ponder another issue. I backtrack to his unsuccessful escape record.

"How can you possibly fail ten times?" Perhaps I
have not picked the best fellow to aid me.

"Well, the first time I broke me' hand tryin' t' break
a window," he says, blushing. "It's the first thing ye try in here -
break a window, and freedom is yours. Not so."

I feel a little idiotic for falling for the same sentiment.
I stay quiet.

"Second time, I picked a lock with a hair pin I'd found
on the floor. I managed to open the door but ran straight into a bunch of
orderlies." He laughs. "That got me put into a cold sheet for two
days. No matter. Third time, I went on hunger strike, and when they tried to
put the tube down my throat I grabbed it...and not much happened. The tube went
down my throat. That was a plan without much foresight, really.

"Fourth time I hid behind my cell door, and punched the
orderly when he entered. Knocked him clean unconscious I did, but then I
tripped over him and unfortunately knocked meself' out too on the
doorframe."

I giggle.

"Aye, very amusin'. Sixth time, sixth?"

"Fifth."

"Ah. Right-o, so fifth time, I put a piece of thin wood
I'd whittled down out of the workshop into the side of the door-frame. The plan
was that when the door closed the lock wouldn't be able t' engage. It fell out,
and that was that. Sixth time was a plea for release really, which fell on deaf
ears, so not sure if that really counts as an 'escape attempt'. Seventh time I
crept into the kitchens and started a fire, but they apprehended me minutes
after, the cook having spied me immediately." He sighs.

"You're not very good at this." I say.

"Why should I be? I'm just a tobacco merchant." We
dance a quick step silently as a jailor walks past us.

 "So, eighth time I tried to seduce one of the female
orderlies, and was rewarded by a squeal, a slap, and isolation for a month.
Sexual predator, they called me. Ninth time, I tried to seduce a male orderly.
Got stuck in the hole for that, and almost ended up back at court. Did you know
it's illegal for a man to lay with another man, but in Persia he can have sex
with a goat? Anyway, tenth time I tried to poison myself with weeds from the
garden, but simply ended up vomitin' for a week."

I feel sad for him. "Didn't your family pay the ransom
then?"

He squints. "What?"

I frown. Why does everyone act idiotic when I mention the
ransom? Is it such a verbal fax-paux in here? Why am I not allowed to state the
reality of our affair?

"Anyway darlin', whatever ye think, I'm definitely
interested in attemptin' escape number eleven, with such a bonny face as
yours." He squeezes my hand.

"You know, on the outside, I am a Lady." I say,
slightly taken aback.

"Doesn't matter in here," he says. "Though I
s'pose I should beg ye pardon. Sorry. But the reality, me Lady, is that we're
all trapped. What difference does rank matter? Hey, if I get ye out of here,
maybe p'rhaps ye could invite me to one of ye fancy dinners. I ne'er been to a
lady's manor before."

"Certainly, if we ever get out of here, I would even
pay you handsomely," I say. "I'm simply loathe to pay these foul
thieves and robbers a single penny. They can snatch it out of my dead hands,
more like. I do have some moral standards."

"I don't quite understand ye, but I do understand ye
sentiments," he says. "Right-o. So what do we do now?"

I can't think. Oh, but I must. There has to be a way out of
here.

"Can you recognize any of your male jailors?" I
ask him.

"Jailors, ha ha. Ne'er heard that one before. Ye, of
course I recognize the male orderlies. That one oe’r there is George Davis,
damn him he gave me a bloody nose once b’foor. The ot’er ones John Wilson.
Bastards."

"What are they wearing?"

"Same as me. Though of course, no-way near as
handsomely." He chuckles, then stops and looks at me. "My Lady, I do
believe ye just hit upon a potential plan in that pretty head of yours."

I am glad, and giggle.

"Ye askin' me to pretend to be an orderly, right?"

"That I am. And I can be the 'disorderly' captive,
right?"

"Patient?"

"Pardon?"

"Ne-er mind. Captive it is. Oh, I always dreamed of
taking a lady captive, taking off her corset..."

I raise my eyebrows reproachfully.

"Sorry, me' Lady. My thoughts do run away with
themselves. Me wife wouldnae b’ ‘appy. Right-o. I suppose ye must act
disorderly, then. What do ye suppose ye can do?"

"I could have a fainting episode?"

"No. They would come running over to check if ye were
alive. Not a good thing."

Hmm.

"This will never work. How about we just steal a bunch
of keys?" I say.

"And how, pray tell, d’ ye s’pose we do that?"

"How about you seduce a female 'orderly'?" I
suppress a smirk.

It is his turn to frown.

"Aye, at least someone in here has a sense of humour.
God forbid, I thought it had been banned from t’ entire human population. No, I
already told ye, they seem strangely immune to my charms. Did I tell ye I
murdered me wife, by the way?"

"Pardon?"

"Just jokin’. Ye should have seen the look on ye face.
Here, I know what to do." With that, he pulls me into a pirouette and
pushes me to the floor.

"Ow!" I cry out. "I twisted my ankle! I hurt
this one as a child! Oh, you selfish, brute headed rhino!"

"Oh!" He cries in a loud voice. "Patient
two-oh-three has sprained her ankle! Here, let's get ye back to ye room, here's
a love." He crouches over me, pulling his hat discreetly lower over his
face. I note he has his back to the band.

"All of the long term orderlies are on the stage,"
he says, whispering. "Except for the new ones, who can't play a tune.
Those are dotted around the place, and seeing as they only joined last week,
they shan't know I am a patient from the back. Now, stay quiet." He picks
me up and hoists me over his shoulder.

With that, he carries me out of the ballroom.