‘“I think it’s you, Ivy. I think deep down, you want an excuse for being touched by me.”
‘Then she might cry. Or go pale. But she was definitely troubled by this thought. So you see, Superintendent, she wasn’t motivated to resist me. Moreover, I had hidden the photos well, in the wall of my room. Then too, I had planned ahead. It seemed to me likely that the value of the photos would diminish over time.
‘I wondered, for example, what would happen after my eighteenth birthday. Would I still be able to threaten Ivy with those pictures? How long after a crime can one still be prosecuted? Back then, I didn’t know the answer to that, so I made doubly sure of Ivy’s loyalties.
‘The third time she came to my room to be my slave for the hour before lights out, I tied her up, in just a white panty and bra set. She made an X shape on top of my bed, with our school ties just long enough to loop around her ankles and wrists and to the legs of the bed.
‘Once I had ensured she really did have no wriggle room, I said to her, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
‘“Just get this over with. I’ve still some French homework to do.”
‘“Fine.” And I produced my Polaroid camera.
‘“No!” she turned her head to the wall.
‘I straddled her and took a picture. It came out well, her lovely, short, raven-black hair strewn across a cheek, a pale neck, shoulders and the white bra. Best of all though, was the eroticism of the pose, you could see that she was tied. When it had dried I showed it to her.
‘“I’m going to scream until someone comes.” She spoke defiantly and perhaps meant it. So I stuffed a pair of tights into her mouth. It was a savage moment and I was panting afterwards, a bit concerned too, in case I might suffocate her by mistake.’
McCarthy clicked the top of her biro and glanced up. ‘You do know that we could put every word you are saying before the jury?’
I could have kicked my partner. The fact that this was such strange, disturbed testimony could indeed prove very useful to us and it was a mistake to interrupt her. Amy Philips had for a moment been back in the past, almost dreaming. Now her eyes were sharp and appraising.
‘Oh, I very much hope you do, Detective Sergeant. In fact, I’m rather counting on it.’
‘Go on then,’ said McCarthy after a moment. ‘Enlighten us as to why.’
‘I will want the jury to believe that I feared for my life when Mike attacked me. The photos I’m talking about are important. He hated me because I used to torture him with them. There was a lot of anger built up in him over those.
‘I had Ivy tied up in my bed for about an hour, during which time I took about twenty – nineteen actually – Polaroids. They ran in a sequence that saw me removing her underwear, posing her naked and eventually, penetrating her with a courgette. Of course, these days a camera would have captured the scene so much more effectively. I would have gotten her muffled moans. But still, you imagine it all.’
‘You used these images to torture Mike? Why?’ I asked, hoping to move her towards some information that would help me understand why she wanted to kill him.
‘Oh, for being a silly boy.’ Philips paused, to check we were fully attentive. ‘He hated those pictures, you see. Absolutely. Yet when he was living with me, I used to get them out from a secret hiding place in the wall (and you can be sure he searched hard for them) and lay them out for him to look at then make him masturbate.’
‘Make him?’ asked McCarthy with a wince. This was hard going for her. Give my partner a straightforward murder, a gangland killing perhaps, and she handled herself well. Short, blonde, she looked out of place at a blood-soaked crime scene. But she wouldn’t bat an eye, had no trouble systematically compiling the evidence. This, though, was hard on her. I sympathized. Amy Philips, probably deliberately, was wrecking our heads.
‘He was completely in my power then. For various reasons. He would do anything I commanded, even though it disgusted him. I was trying to see if I could develop an incestuous desire in him by association sexual pleasure with those pictures. I even gave him oral sex while he was supposed to be looking at her. I don’t think it worked though. All he ever felt for Ivy was brotherly love.
‘Part of the anger he felt towards me though, a large part, was symbolized by those pictures. He didn’t mind being my slave, or at least, he put up with it for the pleasure it gave him. But it appalled him to think that Ivy had been – and still was from time to time – my slave also. And because I knew he felt that way, I would always goad him with it.’
‘You used these pictures to blackmail Ivy, just as you had done with Michael’s?’
Philips nodded at me. ‘And they were very effective. The thought of even the first one being shown to anyone immediately brought a bright blush of shame to her cheeks. And when, I obtained a copy of Readers’ Wives and told her that if she defied me in any way, they would get the pictures, well, you can imagine. She was in bits.
‘“Amy, you’ve made my life a nightmare. Why? What did I ever do to you? Do you want me to kill myself? Is that what you are doing?”
‘Now, I have to admit, when she mentioned killing herself a shiver ran through me and I felt a sudden urge to urinate. Because I could see it, I really could. Perhaps I had gone too far and Ivy would end up in the river or hanging from a tree branch.
‘So I had to backtrack somewhat. I touched her cheek for a moment – we were on our bench and I couldn’t be more demonstrative – and made sure she was really looking at me, properly, into my eyes. “Ivy, I’m sorry. It’s the very opposite of what you think. It’s love. I love you, Ivy.”
‘“You can’t!” She gave what would have been a scream, except that it was a strangled whisper. “You can’t love me. To bring me so low. I never knew how horrible life could be. Every night I can’t wait to fall asleep and escape you for a while. And every morning I cry when I realize I’m still here and you…” She began sobbing.
‘“It is love, Ivy, it really is. I know it’s wrong and twisted. But that’s how it is with me. Ever since my mother’s last words. I can’t trust anyone. I can’t have love in the usual way, between equals.”
‘“You’re cruel. Horrible. You make me do horrible things.”
‘“Don’t you enjoy them?”
‘“No, I do not.”
‘I could have challenged her on this thought. Because a part of her did enjoy submitting to my fingers and – more recently – my tongue. At least, her body betrayed her. This wasn’t the time to tease her though. “It wouldn’t do any good, though, killing yourself.”
‘“What do you mean?”
‘“I’d still publish the pictures and I’d go to the police with a story about Mike raping me.”
‘“Why? What good would it do you if I were dead?”
‘“None at all. It only does some good if the knowledge of what I will do stops you. So let me swear it, Ivy. I swear that if you kill yourself, I will still publish your pictures and I will get Mike sent to jail. You believe me, don’t you?”
‘She looked at me for a while and her face collapsed. “Yes. I believe you.”
Chapter Fourteen
‘You returned to Wexford after school.’ I took the opportunity of Amy Philips pausing to drink from her bottle of water to redirect the interview. ‘Did you continue in a relationship with either Ivy or Michael Patterson?’
She swallowed heavily and put the bottle down as if eager to answer. ‘Both. Both came to visit. Mike with desperate enthusiasm and Ivy because I insisted.’
‘You were living at the farm?’ asked McCarthy.
Amy Philips looked down and a very unpleasant scowl ran across her fleshy face. ‘Living. Alive. It was difficult, coming back to Wexford. My uncle had moved in, the house was much nicer than his own. He’d no right to do so. He’d made up a camp bed for me in the castle, which was freezing, so that he could take over the house.
I turned back a couple of pages in my notebook. ‘You were the only child and w
ere set to inherit the property?’
‘I’m coming to that, Superintendent. But yes, Oliver’s helicopter had been shot down by the IRA and Lucy had drowned almost exactly a year earlier. The problem was, my uncle was the executor of the will. It made him think he could do as he pleased. With Lucy gone, he’d spent the year occupying the farm, holding parties every weekend, running down the accounts. A real good-time Charlie.’
The expression on Amy Philips’s face was ferocious and I was encouraged by the thought that there were some issues that caused her to lose control when she thought about them.
‘What did the will say about the property?’ asked McCarthy and I made a note to myself that we should get a copy of it.
‘The farm and the savings were to go to the children equally, which at that time meant me. But until I turned eighteen, three weeks after I left school, my uncle could remain in charge of the estate and he really didn’t want to let it go. The moment the taxi left me in the courtyard, with my two bags either side of me and my precious Polaroids sewn into my coat, I knew there was something wrong.
‘My uncle was nothing like my mother. I can remember her long, wavy, brown hair. Her brother was going bald and the stupid man tried to grow the remaining strands long and comb them over the top. Not like you, Superintendent. Shaving your head makes you look dignified, powerful even. Not my uncle, he was an oaf.
‘I went in the front door to hear sounds of laughter from the lounge. There was my uncle with his arm along the back of the couch and nestled beside him was a woman. For a moment I felt as if an electric shock had hit me. Was it Ivy? No. Her hair was more brown than black and once I could see her face, it was obvious from the wrinkles around her eyes that she was much older. It was the same haircut that had thrown me.
‘Across from them was a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket. It was he who saw me first.
‘“Oh, hello. Who might you be?”
‘My uncle turned his head. “So it’s yourself. Home at last.” He barely bothered to greet me.
‘“Hello Uncle.”
‘The effect of my words was to cause the tweed-jacket man to put down a glass of red wine (on a table which had two empty bottles and the one they were working on) and get to his feet. “You are Simon’s niece? How delightful. I had no idea.” He stepped across and held out his hand, which I took. “Ruben ben Azir; my friends call me, ‘the Rube’.”
‘Since I didn’t respond, he held on to my hand. “And you are?”
‘“Amy Philips.”
‘“Amy. It suits you.”
‘That stupid remark didn’t endear ‘the Rube’ to me. Nor did his clammy palm and over-familiar eye contact. But I was schooled to be polite and simply smiled. There was an old armchair free, my mother’s favourite, so I walked towards it.
‘“I’ve made up a bed for you on the ground floor of the castle.”
‘“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with my bedroom?’
‘“I’m afraid there have been a few changes since Christmas.”
‘“Go on.” I folded my arms.
‘“Rube is in your room now.’
‘“Oliver’s?”
‘“A painting studio.”
‘“We paint race horses,” Rube looked at me with a false smile. “I can show you. They are popular around here. Like portraits. Only horses.”
‘“Lucy’s room?”
‘Uncle shifted around to look at me properly. “Deirdre has that.”
‘“Hi!” The woman with the Ivy-style haircut waved her glass slightly in the air. She didn’t seem to have a particular focus on me and I assumed she was drunk.
‘“And you are in the master bedroom?”
‘“That’s it.” My uncle nodded.
‘“It would be a lot warmer on that couch than across in the castle.”
‘“True, but I put a blanket or two out there. We can find some more. And in any case, we will be up late here.” With a yawn, my uncle turned away from me. “Sit down Rube. Amy knows her way around.”
‘“Where were we?” Rube picked up his glass again and settled back in his chair. He shot me a peculiar, appraising glance.
‘“You were explaining how you beat the bookies at Fairyhouse.”
‘“Ahh right.” Ruben smirked from beneath his curly fringe. “We had one person facing each bookie. As the odds changed, we signalled each other. It was pretty impressive, even if I say so myself, the sign language. This was five-to-two.” He tapped his right wrist with two widely parted fingers. “This-seven-to-two.” His elbow. “This nine-to-two.” His shoulder. “This eleven…” Ruben was in the process of tapping his ear when my uncle leaned forward and topped up his glass.
‘“Yeah, yeah. But then what?”
‘“OK, so the smart part was that one of us – and it was usually me – would spot when a horse was coming rapidly down in odds. That meant real money was getting behind it. You know the problem with Fairyhouse is that a lot of trainers don’t actually want to win. They lose so as to get a lower handicap for Aintree and Ascot.” Ruben checked that I was paying attention to him, looking at me invitingly.
‘“Go on,” muttered my uncle, restless.
‘“The only real way to be sure a horse is in earnest is to watch the money. If a lot of money starts to land on the horse, then it’s probably going to race. Now, here’s the clever part of the trick. At a meeting, the track bookies can’t all keep up. The odds drop on a heavily-backed horse, but not right away. There’s always one of the bookies a little behind, sometimes a good minute or two behind.
‘“That’s when we make our move. I give the signal and we go in heavy, each way, at fixed odds. Which means we always back a horse that has more value than its starting price.”
‘My uncle gave a loud sniff, that sounded sceptical. “And that works? You win money?”
‘“It certainly does.” Rube smiled at me: it was an expression of complicity and triumph.
‘I could see that I was going to be ignored by my uncle and that this Ruben character was a chancer who might even be flirting with me. Which disgusted me. Don’t misunderstand me, Superintendent, this had nothing to do with the fact he was obviously Jewish. It was the age difference and the circumstance that he was living and painting on my farm. Surely, that entitled me to some respect? Something other than being ignored.
‘What should I do? If I could have left and gone to a hotel, maybe then to arrange a trip to see Mike and Ivy, I would have. But you know the farm. It is quite isolated. Probably, I could have called a taxi. Instead, as soon as my uncle started pressing Ruben for more details of his racing scam, I picked up my bags and walked across the courtyard to the castle.
‘There was no electricity in the castle at this time – I put that in later – but I could see the dark outline looming over me. The weather was clear and you get a night sky rich in stars in Wexford. Ireland doesn’t have anything like the same light pollution as England does and out at my farm it’s very striking. You can see the Milky Way clearly, for example, and understand why the Greeks gave it that name. It looks like a line of spilled milk. The tower stood out against this sparkling backdrop. A severe black block, reaching up to block the heavens.
‘The heavy key to the castle entrance was in its lock. I turned it and went inside. Immediately, it was clear that I could not stay here. Quite apart from the dark and the cold, there was a strong and unpleasant mouldy smell. You wouldn’t leave a dog in a place like this. What was my uncle thinking? It occurred to me that I knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted me gone.
‘I turned around and went straight back in. Curiously, the room was silent. Ruben, the only person facing me, gave me a weak smile. It was obvious that they had been talking about me.
‘The castle’s no good. It’s cold and it stinks. I’m sleeping in my own bed.’ As I stamped my way up the stairs, I heard the scuff of chair on floor as someone rose hurriedly to their feet.
‘“Brat,” said my uncle, loud e
nough for me to hear.
‘“Ahh. Erm. Amy?” Ruben was hurrying up the stairs behind me. “It’s not really suitable.”
‘“I’ll tell you what isn’t suitable,” I replied without turning around, “the bloody castle.”
‘“Yes. Well, I did tell Simon that.”
‘When I threw open the door to my room, I could see – and smell – what he meant. Obviously, he had been living here for some time. His clothes were strewn about the floor. The bedsheets were thrown back and were stained. And the air was stale. On the table and bedside lockers were his belongings: a pack of cards; a watch; books; porn magazines; a camera; notebooks; pens and pencils; a wallet and some opened letters.
‘“Ah. Perhaps the studio might suit?” Ruben’s face, when I looked at him, was flushed and he appeared to be embarrassed.
‘“Oliver’s room, you mean?”
‘“Yes… Er.”
‘“All right, let’s see what you’ve done to it.”
‘Again I led the way, this time down a corridor whose wooden planks echoed our steps, as they had since I could walk. Oliver’s room was a disaster. You couldn’t see the bed for the painting paraphernalia that had been dumped on it. Empty tubes of paint, brushes, rulers, pencils, discoloured palettes, rags and bottles were just strewn about. Again there was a reek, this time of turps and oil paint. It seemed certain I would not be sleeping in fresh air, whichever room I had.
‘On the easel was what seemed to be a complete picture of a horse. It was strange though, because it was half colour, half black-and-white. When I looked more closely, I saw that he’d blown up a photograph, mounted it, and was very carefully painting over the photo. It didn’t really make sense.
‘“Ah. Do you like it? The clients want accuracy, you see. They want the personality of their horse to come through.”
‘There was a nervousness in Ruben’s tone that interested me. “But you don’t tell them, do you? You take the photo on the quiet and only show them the finished version.”
‘“Well, it doesn’t really matter how I get there. What the client wants is an accurate portrait of their horse, one that they can treasure.”
Struggles of Psycho Page 9
