by A K Shattock
And she had, thought Diane. She felt increasingly sorry for her patient. She hoped that she would cooperate well, and eventually when she went to trial, the jury would be more sympathetic with her. She also had to find out what her husband was guilty of. If she could get Mrs Fielding to speak about that, then perhaps she would speak about it in court.
But for now, she needed a diagnosis.
Diane spoke with her a bit longer and asked various questions about the DSM-5 diagnostic criteria of Dissociative Identity Disorder. By the end of the session, Diane was quite confident that this was what they were dealing with.
“Alright, Mrs Fielding,” said Diane. “It appears you are suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder or what was previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder. It’s nothing to be concerned about, you will get treated for this. There is no medication, or cure. But with frequent therapeutic sessions where we talk about coping strategies and triggers; you should be on the way to recovery. This also has a huge impact on your court case. I will notify the detectives and your lawyer will also have a copy of my notes. As I said before, I can’t guarantee one hundred percent confidentiality, and most likely what we talk about will be mentioned in the courtroom. But I will try my best to only give out essential information only that is related to the case. I wish you the best of luck. And I will try and arrange more appointment times for this week with the police department, if you are happy with that?”
Her patient agreed. “Thank you, doctor,” she said. “I’d never appreciated the value of… therapy before. I wish I had gone to someone sooner.”
Diane smiled. “It’s my pleasure.” She was only doing her job, after all.
After they had said their goodbyes, Diane made her way back to her clinic and finished up with a few of her patients there. It was evening by the time she was done.
As she packed away her things, Diane felt an urge that told her she was not ready to go home yet. She just couldn’t get Toby out of her head. Why did he call her? He could’ve called through to her receptionist, Cath. He could’ve got someone else in the station to contact her. He could’ve called a different psychiatrist. Why ring her mobile after all this time?
For a psychiatrist that was supposed to know the reasons behind everyone’s behaviour, she was still pretty clueless about Toby. He was a hard one to read. It was difficult for him to show that he cared. He wasn’t very romantic. He was just… a regular man.
Diane made her way to the nearest tube station and considered her options. She didn’t have anyone to hang out with. All her colleagues had families to go back to, Cath had recently started seeing someone. Before she could even think about what to do next, she found that her legs were taking her towards the Circle line. Within the next half an hour, she found herself standing outside her local bar. Her and Toby’s local bar. The bar where they had first met each other and had never gone anywhere else together since. She hadn’t been there at all the past six months. Sometimes, if she was in the neighbourhood, she had deliberately passed the bar, looking in through the windows to see if she could spot him. It was desperate and it was sad. But she couldn’t help it. And now she was here. What would she do if she actually saw him? She checked her watch. It was a horrible, dark, wet Tuesday evening. Would he have better things to do? Probably not.
If he was here, she decided, then this would be a sign. Otherwise, surely, he would go somewhere else? Somewhere else that didn’t fester all the happy, funny memories that they had in that place.
It was too late to turn back now. Diane hitched her bag firmly onto her shoulder and strolled in, airing fake confidence. She could see Tom, the waiter, at the bar. And there he was. Perched and swaying on that wonky bar stool, was Toby. But he wasn’t alone. A beautiful girl with huge blue eyes was sitting with him. They appeared to be in deep conversation. A bit too deep. She looked younger than him. Younger than her. He’d called her and then he replaced her anyway. With a newer, fitter model.
Diane didn’t know how long she stood there, riddled in shock. She hoped it hadn’t been longer than thirty seconds. She could feel her heart breaking all over again. Then she swivelled on the spot and marched straight back out.
MARY
CHAPTER TWELVE
Why I wanted you dead.
The third reason why I hated my husband.
We were in severe debt. And he owed a lot of money. And he was using my name for fraudulent activity. It took me a while to figure it all out, to piece it together.
I suppose the money trouble must’ve started around a decade ago. That was when Greg started to get grumpier, more impatient. I didn’t think much of it at the time. And then slowly, slowly, now that I think back; there were multiple signs. He suddenly became stingier with money, not as lavish as he once was. He used to tell me off for spending excessively. Then there were the phone calls. I had picked up one of them and it was a stranger at the end. “Do you know Mr Stanley Hudson?” They would ask. I shoved the phone down instantly. I was only educated to highschool level, but that didn’t mean I was stupid. I had asked Greg about the calls. He became very defensive. “Don’t ever say anything to them!” he spat. That was my first inkling that something was very wrong.
Then about two years ago, Greg surprised me with a luxury holiday.
“We’re going to the Middle East!” he beamed. He had been to Dubai many times, but for business. This time, he wanted to take me.
I was so excited. I had never traveled outside of Europe before. I spent weeks preparing for the trip, buying summer clothes and sun cream. I hoped this could change things between us. Perhaps, we could be a normal, happily married couple.
But I was wrong.
He took me to a glorious hotel. We didn’t stay in Dubai, like most tourists do. We stayed in Ras Al Khaimah; a smaller and quieter Northern Emirate that was completely beautiful in another way. None of the famous skyscrapers, but a wonderful, natural landscape of mountains and mangroves, the culture of the country had seemingly been left intact. This was where Stanley Hudson now lived; Greg’s business partner.
Apparently, he had expanded their art gallery business to the UAE. He had been doing quite well, and Greg had wanted to show me. He showed me one of the posh, gallery outlets, with its gleaming marble floors and walls, high ceiling and magnificent lighting.
I was in love with the country. I loved the hot weather. I loved its beauty, it’s culture, and how relaxing it felt. I loved the people, the vastness of the different nationalities; all living together as one. If I couldn’t have children, maybe Greg could let me have this?
“Stan lives here for work,” I had said to Greg, one magnificent evening by the pool with a bottle of vintage red wine. I very rarely drank alcohol, but this holiday was a special occasion. “Why can’t we? I think it would be an amazing experience to live out here, just for a couple of years.”
The smile on Greg’s face disappeared and a look of thundering anger appeared. “What on earth do you mean? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! You know I have to run the gallery in London. I can’t live anywhere else!” I couldn’t describe the disappointment I felt. I was tired. Tired of always having my ideas and dreams shut down. The rest of the holiday went downhill from there.
The next night, our last night, Greg took me to Stanley’s villa. It was a glorious house; it was situated right on the beach inside a secluded housing estate. My mouth almost drooled at the sight of all the elegant, stunning buildings; complete with little restaurants and cafés, a seaside walk with numerous well-tended parks and gardens for children to play in. I couldn’t believe how lucky Stan was to live here. Stan’s house was also wonderfully furnished. It was very spacious, and the modern furniture appeared minimalistic and expensive. My heart ached with jealousy. Stan greeted us with a warm embrace, in one hand a cocktail he had just made from his own bar. He shook up some drinks for us and was a very accommodating host. To begin with.
“Mary,” Stan beamed at me. “Yo
u wouldn’t mind doing us a big favour would you? There's a document I really would like you to sign. It’s nothing to worry about, you don’t need to read it,” he reached behind him and brandished these papers, seemingly from nowhere. I glanced at Greg, who was also smiling keenly.
I looked down at my delicious cocktail and realised I had been played. Massively. This whole holiday was a ploy to get me to sign this paper. Whatever dodgy thing they were up to, they wanted to palm some of it onto me. I’d been a puppet that had happily obliged. Well, not anymore.
“I don’t think I will, if that’s alright Stan,” I said through gritted teeth, suddenly feeling rather sobered up. “I don’t have anything to do with your art galleries, so it doesn’t make any sense for me to sign it.”
I could see Greg and Stan exchange steely looks between them. I realised, with my heart pumping, that it may have already been too late. My name was probably plastered all over their ‘business’ paperwork.
“Mary,” Greg’s voice was stern. “Stan has invited us into his home, he even paid for our hotel room and you won’t even repay him with a simple gesture?” I stared at Greg in shock. How much else did Stan pay for? What was happening that was so desperate for them to get me all the way over here, three thousand miles away, to sign this paper?
“No,” I said firmly. “I will not sign.” I stood up. I had had enough. “I’m leaving.”
A hard fist clamped itself around my arm. The grip was so strong, I was sure it would leave a bruise. I yelped in pain.
“Mary,” Greg’s eyes were ablaze. “You will stop being ridiculous. You will sign. You are not leaving until you do. There is nowhere else for you to go. You’re in a completely foreign country. Do. It. Now.”
I pulled my arm away from him, in a panic. I’d never seen him like this before. I swallowed. Slowly, I came to realise that there was never any intention of me having any choice in the matter. I lowered myself gently back onto the chair. I reached for the paper. My eyes tried to scan over the papers briefly, but Stan had folded most of it over. I couldn’t catch any words. Some of it was in Arabic. I signed, with tears building up in my eyes. What had everything come to? They made me sit there for the next few hours, their tone drastically changed. They poured out more drinks, made jokes and were laughing; as if the exchange had never happened. By the end of the night, I wondered if I had dreamt it.
Later on, in the hotel room; Greg apologised. “I’m really sorry about that Mary,” he slurred, reaching out for me. “You know how tedious the whole business has been for me. This is the only way to get it back on track. You have to understand?”
I didn’t understand. I was humiliated. I was hurt, confused. I lay in the bed as far as possible from Greg. It was very late when I finally fell asleep. But it wasn’t long before I was being forcibly shaken awake by Greg. It was still dark.
“Get up!” Greg was shouting. “We have to leave, now.”
I rose, confused. Our flight wasn’t till that evening. “Now Mary!” he bellowed.
Within twenty minutes, we had packed and checked out. We ran out of the hotel, and to my surprise, Stan was waiting for us there in his large, gleaming fourby-four.
“Get in, quick!” he yelled. Greg threw all of our cases in the back. I could see that there was a lot of extra luggage as well.
Neither of them said a word as we sped to the airport. Stan parked in the car park and we rushed to check in. I didn’t ask about Stan’s car. Why he had just left it in an airport garage, the keys in the ignition. It was only after finally settling into our seats, after having difficulty getting an earlier flight on a lastminute plane; did it occur to me that we were doing a runner. We were fleeing the country. Something had gone terribly wrong.
Once we were back home, I tried to strike up the conversation with Greg. Each time I mentioned Stan’s name, he threw me a dark look, a menacing glare that was urging me to be quiet.
Then I resorted to the internet. I found various articles. Gallery Owner has fled the UAE after racking up a debt of millions. I also learnt that in the UAE, it was illegal to bounce checks, to be indebted. The punishment was imprisonment. It all made a lot more sense to me now. Why Stan had fled.
I then lay awake at night, panicking and wondering what else had been signed in my name; wondering if I was going to be arrested, taken in the night for a crime I did not commit. My heightened anxiety, then led to an increase in blackouts.
Sometimes, I would find myself on my bed in the middle of the day, with absolutely no recollection of getting there, my body aching. I would come downstairs and find Greg, warily staring at me in silence as I went about my usual tasks. Had I said something? Had I fought back? I wanted to know. The bruises were getting worse. They were appearing more frequently, larger and darker in colour. But I was too afraid to ask.
It was a good few months before I found out what had happened to Stanley. Greg had surprisingly brought the topic up without much prompting. He was in a very good mood, as it was a Friday night and I had prepared his favourite dinner.
“I saw Stan last night,” he chatted. “He’s doing well. He’s staying at his Mum’s at the moment, keeping in the low-down. He wants to come back to work at the gallery with me, but I told him that it’s best to stay where he is until everything blows over.”
I didn’t have much to say about that. How can a debt of millions just ‘blow over’?
I started to become increasingly more unhappy over time; a persistent fog over my life. This in turn, triggering my blackouts to an all time high, similar in frequency when I was a teenager. I knew there was a word for it. I knew there were treatments, therapy, people I could talk to, forums. But I knew there wasn’t anyone that could truly help me. No one that could get me out of this mess.
Instead, I just let all the hate fester.
TOBIAS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was about midday, the day after his evening out with Natalie at the bar, and Tobias was preparing himself to question Mary Fielding. There was a lot she had to answer for.
Natalie had gone to investigate Mr Hudson, as promised that very morning. First, she had gone to Mr Hudson’s property in Central London. She found that it had been rented out the past year and was already occupied by a large family. Next, she had tried Mr Hudson’s mother’s house in Brixton. Unfortunately, his mother hadn’t been very accommodating or helpful. She refused to let Natalie in her house, denied seeing her son for the past six months and claimed not to have any contact details for him. Natalie had managed to peek in and glimpse inside; two mugs of freshly-made, steaming, hot tea could be seen on the kitchen work-top. It certainly appeared that Mrs Hudson was lying.
She had then made her way to the art gallery, back up to Kensington. The place had been closed since Mr Fielding’s death. Armed with a warrant, Natalie managed to speak to the manager of the building to get herself inside the gallery. Upon searching the offices, she came across an interesting discovery. She found scores of paperwork that backed up the keyperson insurance life cover which had Mrs Fielding down as an employee. She appeared to be an essential part of the business; she was a shareholder, she had one of the bank accounts in her name and was even insured under one of the Gallery’s vehicles. What was even more interesting was that she had found evidence of somebody inhabiting the office premises; she’d found a mattress littered with old clothes, hidden away in a corner. It certainly appeared that Mr Hudson was keeping a very low profile, at all costs.
Tobias had sat down and mused over Natalie’s findings for a while. It was odd that Mrs Fielding’s active involvement in the business had never been mentioned before now. Did that mean that Mrs Fielding had a third motive? That she would be able to get her hands on the insurance money upon her husband's death after all?
Tobias sat patiently in the interview room, as he waited for Mrs Fielding. He’d asked Natalie if she had wanted to join as well; after all, she had done all the digging. But Natalie had looked quite stressed as she had p
oured over all the remaining case files and declined. A dark thought passed through his mind that maybe she was avoiding him. But that was ridiculous. They had a good time last night. Since when had he become so insecure?
Mrs Mary Fielding came into the room a few moments later. She looked considerably better than she had been the last time he saw her. Her hair had been washed, and she appeared less nervous. It seemed like Diane’s counselling sessions must’ve had a good effect on her.
Tobias switched on the recorder and introduced himself and Mrs Fielding to the tape.
“Mrs Fielding. You have been seeing Dr Diane Smith, is that correct? And she has given you a formal diagnosis.”
Mrs Fielding nodded. “She thinks I have something called Dissociative Identity Disorder. Or more commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. She thinks that explains my blackouts. She wants to treat me with therapy sessions.”
Tobias wanted to pat himself on the back. Just as he thought. Maybe he should become a psychiatrist himself, if being a detective didn’t work out. “That is good news. I hope the treatment goes well.” Tobias shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We have also been made aware that you were heavily involved in your husband’s business. However, you had never mentioned this as such. You have always claimed that you are unemployed.”
Mrs Fielding’s eyebrows rose in shock. “But I am unemployed! I wasn’t lying! Oh God… There is something I need to tell you about Greg and his partner.”
“Go on.”
“He made me sign a document once… him and his partner forced me to, without letting me read it. I think they used my name many times. I looked it up. I think they were doing it for tax avoidance. Tax is lower for family businesses. I don’t know to what extent they used my name, but I am being truly honest right now, I gave no consent to it.”
