Kind of Cruel (38 page)

I nod. ‘All right, come on, then. Back to the car.’ I am talking about moving without moving. I can’t think about anything apart from the shock of what I’ve just heard. How can Orianna not know the name Veronique Coudert? It makes no sense.

Nonie elbows Dinah. ‘
Tell
her,’ she says. ‘You have to. I hate this.’

‘Stop it! That hurt!’

‘Hate what? Tell me what?’

‘Or I will,’ Nonie threatens.

‘She said it might not be important!’

‘Dinah, you’d better tell me,’ I say, as a strange current of energy starts to move through my body. I think it’s fear. I want to turn and run, but I can’t. I’m with the only two people in the world that I would never, under any circumstances, run away from.

‘Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel,’ says Dinah matter-of-factly. ‘It’s no big deal, just . . . I know what it means.’

‘What?’ I grab hold of her, pull her towards me. My heart feels as if it’s tumbling down a steep flight of stairs that has no bottom. ‘What do you mean? You can’t . . . how can you know what it means?’

‘I’m the one who invented it,’ she says.

Did you know that, in psychotherapeutic terms, the house is a metaphor for the self? Jo tries to cram people into her house and keep them there because she fears that, at her core, there’s nothing but emptiness. Amber felt frustrated not to be able to fling open the door of Little Orchard’s study and reveal its contents; she is someone who values truth and integrity, forced against her will into lying.

And Simon’s feeling more uneasy by the second. He’s dying to know if there’s a shred of truth in anything I’m saying. We’re not helped by the fact that Amber’s choosing not to share with us an awful lot of important information. There are three things going on here: repression, denial and secrecy. Amber, just because there’s plenty you’re choosing not to tell doesn’t mean you know all the facts yourself. Some of what we need to know is hidden inside you, and you have no idea it’s there; some, you know it’s there, but you’re trying to pretend you don’t. That’s why you’re so proud of whatever secrets you’re keeping on a conscious level. You imagine that if you can keep those in, the other stuff doesn’t stand a chance of coming out.

And yet you’re here because there are things you want to know. Look, you’ve even brought a detective with you. I think you’re asking yourself the wrong questions, and that’s why the answers aren’t coming. Ask yourself this: what am I terrified of finding? What am I not prepared to let out?

Last time we met, you asked if most of my clients’ repressed memories tend to surface while they’re here with me, or do clients arrive and say, ‘Hey, some new memories have popped up since I last saw you!’? The way you phrased the question made it clear you found both options preposterous. I told you the truth: the overwhelming majority experience their breakthrough moments here, under hypnosis.

You were suspicious. You asked why that should be the case; surely a memory could spring up from the subconscious and enter the conscious mind at any time? I said yes, in theory, but a lot of repressed memories are painful. People know they’re safe here. They know it consciously and subconsciously. Patients are more likely to release trauma in a safe supportive environment that exists expressly for that purpose than at home on their own, or on their way to the office in the morning.

When I said that, you looked at me in astonishment, and that told me something about you: that you can’t imagine feeling safer in a relationship with me or any therapist than locked inside your own head, alone. You think keeping your secret or secrets is keeping you safe, but the opposite is true. However ashamed or guilty you feel, you will feel better if you let it out and deal with the consequences.

I don’t blame you for not trusting me. People who have suffered years of abuse by a narcissist find it difficult to trust themselves and other people. As you’ve said yourself, most of the time you try to behave in the way Jo wants you to. To avoid attack, you focus only on Jo’s needs when you’re with her, which makes you a co-narcissist. You resent her for forcing you into this role, and you resent yourself for playing it, which makes you suspicious of both narcissistic and co-narcissistic tendencies.

Before you’ll tell me what I want to know – and bear in mind, you’re the only person suffering from your
not
telling me – you need me to pass certain tests. I have to prove to you that I’m not a narcissist like Jo, that I’ll let you express your feelings and listen without judgement, and without telling you how you ought to feel. I hope I’ve proved that. It’s not enough, though; I also have to prove that I’m not a co-narcissist – by challenging you, by not letting you get away with anything. Which is why my behaviour might seem erratic to you, because I’m trying to satisfy both those needs simultaneously: provoking one minute, empathising the next.

It’s a risky strategy. If I confuse you, if you never know what behaviour to expect from me, there’s a danger you’ll mistake me for another Jo.

A therapist isn’t meant to show her hand in this way. I shouldn’t wave diagnoses at you like a big show-off, or let you lie there with your eyes closed and a self-satisfied smile on your face while I do all the work. I shouldn’t share all my cunning tactics with you. So why am I doing both? I’m trying to impress you. Simon impressed you the first time you met him, so much so that you’re willing to put yourself through this ordeal to help him solve his murder case. If I can wow you with my psychoanalytical brilliance and convince you that I’m both worthy and potentially useful, the big neon sign in your mind that’s flashing the words ‘Mustn’t tell Ginny’ might switch itself off; you might tell me whatever it is you’re withholding. Your subconscious would receive the signal that the warning sign had come down, which would make it more likely to—

What?

Amber? What is it? Have you remembered something?

10

2/12/2010

Simon was standing outside Jo and Neil Utting’s house in Rawndesley when his phone started to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, looked at the screen. Charlie. ‘Make it quick,’ he said. She’d probably only heard the ‘quick’ part; he’d started speaking as soon as he’d seen her name, knowing they weren’t yet connected.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘Just about to interview Johannah Utting. Why?’

‘I need to—’ Charlie broke off. ‘Who?’

Simon could have done without the suspicious tone, just as he could do without the snow that was landing on his head and the back of his neck. ‘What do you want?’

‘Who’s Johannah Utting?’ Charlie asked.

Simon closed his eyes, knowing what the next question would be:
Is she attractive?
It was what Charlie always said, whenever he mentioned a woman’s name.
Pathetic
. And confusing. How was Simon supposed to know what attractive was? ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later.’ End of call, phone off, end of problem.
For the time being
.

Jo Utting was probably what most men would call attractive, though not in a way that Simon found appealing. He had always been slightly alarmed by very curly hair, especially on women. It made him think of dolls coming to life in horror films. Not that he could remember watching a film in which that happened. Jo Utting’s hair was the curliest he’d ever seen, each strand a coiled yellow spring. Was there nothing she could do to straighten it?

Simon was ushered into the small red-brick terraced house by Jo and a foreign-sounding woman who told him with a grin that she was Sabina, as if he ought to have heard of her. He would have found it hard to describe the scene that he walked into – did find it hard, even in his head, where he was both raconteur and audience-who-already-knew-the-story. As a police officer, Simon had landed in many strange and unpleasant situations over the years, but never one quite like this.

An unfeasibly large number of people, some children, appeared all at once and all tried to engage him in vigorous conversation at the same time. None stopped trying when he or she noticed that everyone else was trying, assuming any individual noticed the others at all, which was by no means certain. Simon was trapped in a cloud of intolerable noise that promised never to end. He couldn’t respond because he couldn’t hear any of the questions. By the time he’d managed to absorb one in its entirety, he’d become aware that no one was in a position to listen to his answer; he was no longer the focus of interest. The various participants in this bizarre entanglement had turned their attention to one another instead and were making announcements over heads and between bodies about timetabling practicalities: what needed to be done, by whom, how long would it take. Simon heard himself mentioned frequently but was neither included in the discussion nor even glanced at occasionally as all present spoke at length and simultaneously about how they would fit in talking to him, given all the other things they had to do.

At the back of the hall – which seemed miles away, though it couldn’t have been more than four or five feet – a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crew cut was yelling into his mobile phone about the price of etched glass. Although the subject did not interest him, Simon clung to the sound of that distinct voice for as long as he could, until it was swallowed up by the wider cacophony. He heard the word ‘Pilates’, knew he’d heard it before, wondered what it meant.

It was impossible to move beyond the hall into a room, or to express the need to do so. A few seconds later and Simon had lost sight of Jo Utting, the person he was keenest to talk to. She’d been standing right in front of him – he’d had the impression that she was at the centre of the scrum – and then suddenly she wasn’t there any more. A large woman with limp, dark blonde hair who looked to be in her mid-thirties stood in a doorway staring at Simon, her mouth hanging open. She was wearing pyjamas with pink elephants on them. Simon registered that she was disabled. Behind her, he saw two thin unmade temporary-looking beds that reminded him of television news coverage of disasters, interviews with people who were living in sports centres because their homes had been flooded.

Or burned down . . .

A short elderly man appeared beneath Simon’s chin, demanding to know what was being done to save an important tree. A demolition order had been served on the tree, unfairly. It was the one on the corner of Heckencote Road and Great Holling Road. Was it fair to destroy a tree that was nearly a hundred years old so that yet another hotel could be built, which would only add to the traffic problem in Rawndesley? Talking over the old man was an even older-looking woman, insisting that Simon wasn’t here to discuss trees. They both fell silent at the same time, as if they’d cancelled each other out.

At last, here was a gap into which Simon could insert a response if he so wished. The problem was that he had no idea who the elderly man was, or the woman. He also felt that his own identity was less solid than it had been when he’d arrived a few minutes ago. This kind of environment, a chaotic family home, was alien to him. He’d grown up in a quiet, guest-free house. Until he’d moved in with Charlie, he had never had a guest in his own house apart from Charlie, who was never invited and who, in any case, didn’t count.

The European-sounding woman, Sabina, leaned over the old man to grab Simon’s arm. ‘No comment,’ she shouted in his face. This confused Simon, who hadn’t yet asked her anything. ‘I’m not saying nothing without my lawyer here,’ she went on in a pronounced Cockney accent. ‘I know my rights. No comment.’ She started to laugh, then said in her normal voice, ‘I have always wanted to say that to a policeman. Don’t worry, I am joking. It’s busy here. We are very noisy, I’m sorry.’

Jo Utting’s curly head appeared, protruding from the farthest visible doorway. ‘William, Barney, get out of the way,’ she said. ‘Let DC Waterhouse through.’

William and Barney, Simon thought. Two people; from Jo’s tone, probably the smallest two. There was no way he’d be able to get to the room that contained Jo if only two people moved, not without some heavy lifting of animate objects. At least four people needed to move.

Someone pushed him forward. ‘I will deliver you to Jo,’ said Sabina. How and when did she get behind him? ‘In this house, you must push in.’ Somehow, with her help, Simon made it through the crowd to the kitchen and Jo. The relief he felt was short-lived. He’d accepted Jo’s offer of a cup of tea, and was on the point of asking if he could close the door so that he could hear himself think when an earnest-faced boy appeared in front of him. ‘Do you know the difference between a transitive relationship and an intransitive relationship?’

‘William, don’t pester him,’ Jo said, reaching for a mug. ‘Why don’t you and Barney go and play on the Wii for a bit?’

‘It’s okay,’ Simon said. He didn’t know the difference. The boy looked about twelve or thirteen. If there was something, anything, that he knew and Simon didn’t, that situation needed to be rectified. ‘Transitive and . . . ?’

‘Intransitive.’ William straightened his back like an army cadet.

‘Go on, then, tell me.’

‘The Queen is richer than my dad, my dad’s richer than my uncle Luke . . .’

‘William!’ Jo rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed at Simon, blushing.

‘. . . my uncle Luke’s richer than me. That means the Queen’s richer than me. It’s a transitive relationship. But if the Queen was richer than someone who was richer than me, but the Queen
wasn’t
richer than me, that would be an intransitive relationship. Except with richer it would always be transitive. Intransitive could be something like lives next door to—’