by K. L. Slater
I mentioned Dougie’s disturbed sleep and Rosalie swiftly dispersed my concerns with the waft of a hand.
‘It is completely normal for a child of this age to have trouble sleeping. He is probably teething, too. Rest assured it can have nothing to do with the work the professor is doing,’ Rosalie insisted. ‘Why, the child will have forgotten any distress by the time you step out into the corridor after each session.’
So when the time comes to visit Professor Watson for possibly the last session, I take care to dress a fractious Douglas in his one best outfit: a cream shirt and a pair of brown moleskin shorts with braces.
‘My goodness, don’t you look smart!’ I coo, and he gurgles and kicks his chubby legs with pleasure, his earlier irritation forgotten.
I follow Rosalie through the familiar warren of the near-identical corridors featuring pale-green glossed walls and echoing concrete floors, until the turning for Professor Watson’s wing appears.
To my surprise, Rosalie turns in the opposite direction and leads us into an unfamiliar wing of the hospital.
As we walk without speaking, only our heels clicking on the floor make a sound. I notice how the walls soon merge into a softer cream shade and a quality woven carpet appears underfoot, muting the harsh clack of our shoes.
‘Ahh, there you are.’ Professor Watson appears at the end of the corridor, his long, lean frame disguised by a voluminous white coat. ‘This way, please.’
We walk a little further, make a sharp right turn, and Professor Watson stops at a set of double doors.
‘We’re going to be working in here today,’ he says, watching Dougie, who keeps peeking at the professor and then burying his head back into my shoulder, whimpering. ‘The main lecture theatre.’
I shiver. I know this theatre is used regularly for specialist post-mortem lectures. I hope Dougie won’t have to sit on the steel table used at such events, but before I can comment, the professor pushes open the doors and Rosalie ushers us through.
As soon as I enter, bright lights hit me, momentarily blinding me. When my disorientation passes, I look around and gasp. The surrounding tiered wooden benches are packed to the brim with both medics and academics.
Rosalie leads us to the staged area in front of the tiered seating where the dreaded steel table sits waiting and the chatter and obvious excitement die down, fading away to silence.
‘Professor, are all these people here to see Dougie?’ I whisper. ‘Your study is that important?’
‘Immeasurably so,’ Professor Watson remarks. ‘Nobody has carried out an experiment remotely like this one.’ I flinch at his use of the word experiment, but he doesn’t appear to notice. ‘It will shed light on one of the most mysterious areas of psychiatry. That is, whether selected behavioural responses are innate or can be learned. I hope that people will be talking about it for years to come.’
‘I see,’ I murmur, but I don’t see at all. Better to just let him get on with it, I decide. Soon Professor Watson’s study will be concluded. I have the whole day off and plan to take Douglas to the park later.
‘If you’re happy, then let’s begin.’ The professor turns to his assistant. ‘Let’s start with the baseline reactions, Rosalie.’
I stand next to the raised platform, clutching my son. In the spotlight, I feel like a bug under a microscope. Blinded by the light, I can hear Professor Watson and Rosalie busying themselves with preparations behind us, and I can feel the weight of expectation amongst the now silent spectators occupying the tiered seating.
Douglas shies away from the spotlight and whimpers. I struggle to contain him as he wriggles.
Professor Watson begins to speak in a booming voice, powerful enough to reach the back rows of the lecture theatre and those people standing in the balconied floor above.
He introduces himself, gives a brief account of his work so far, and then begins a detailed description of his experiment which I confess I struggle to understand.
‘You can put the baby down now,’ Rosalie whispers to me, patting the metal table. ‘And then step back out of the light, please.’
I try to sit Dougie on the table, but his legs become rigid as he whimpers louder and clings to me. He doesn’t want to let go. I am just about to ask if we could try again another day, when Dougie is in better spirits, when Rosalie steps forward and pulls him away from me, setting him down, startled and alone on the sterile-looking surface.
Just as Dougie opens his mouth to wail, Rosalie produces a small cage containing a white rat. She slides up the side and removes the wriggling rodent, handing it to Professor Watson.
Dougie falls quiet and watches the animal with wide eyes. I watch as my son reaches out to touch its warm, soft fur. He is OK. Dougie is going to be fine, I tell myself silently.
I am getting the whole day off and will be receiving an expense payment, and my son is to become part of a very important study in the area of psychology.
Everything seems to be going quite well until Dougie lets out a blood-curdling scream.
1920 Johns Hopkins University Hospital, Baltimore
Extract from the confidential case study diary of Professor J. Watson
OVERVIEW
Session five, the final stage, takes place in the hospital’s private lecture theatre in front of a carefully selected audience of esteemed academics. The presentation is made by myself, Professor John B. Watson. Also present is Dr Rosalie Rayner and Beatrice, the subject’s mother.
STAGE FIVE
Albert is taken to a well-lit lecture theatre to allow me to present my findings so far and to demonstrate the effects of the conditioning on Little Albert.
Child is initially presented with the white rat without accompanying noise. There is an extreme negative reaction. The child becomes very anxious and distressed within seconds.
When calmed by his mother, all the other stimuli are presented, and the steel bar is hit each time.
The child is clearly terrified of anything resembling the white rat.
The conditioning is judged to be a success by all who are present.
BASELINE REACTIONS:
Child appears traumatised.
Child distressed at mere sight of stimuli and refuses to touch or remain close to them. At the sight of the white rat, Little Albert turns sharply and falls over on his left side.
He raises himself on all fours and proceeds to crawl away so rapidly, Dr Rayner is just able to catch him before he reaches the edge of the table.
Little Albert displays worsening fear reactions and we are unable to continue with the session.
CONCLUSIONS:
My interest in the Little Albert experiment first began because I wanted to develop and take the great Ivan Pavlov’s research with dogs a step further.
Pavlov noticed the dog would salivate when its food appeared. In his controlled studies, he showed, in a few sessions, that by ringing a bell when the dog’s food appeared, he could easily condition the animal to salivate without the food, simply at the sound of the bell ringing.
I pondered then; could certain emotional reactions not be classically conditioned in people? Could an ordinary child, showing no fear, be conditioned with a fear response in just a few sessions?
I have today successfully proven that this indeed can be done.
The boy initially showed no fear and is now terrified merely at the sight of the white rat, in fact, of all white objects.
Give me a dozen healthy infants, well formed, and I will guarantee to take any one at random and train him to be any type of specialist I might select – a doctor, lawyer, artist, merchant, and yes, even a beggar or a thief.
This is the power of my revolutionary study.
37
Viv is away on business, so I call Brenna and ask if she’d like to come over for a glass of wine and a chat later.
‘Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ she says before hesitating. ‘Are you OK, Freya? You sound a bit, I don’t know, weird.’
‘
I’m OK now, but we had a bit of an upset here earlier and there are one or two things on my mind. I’ll explain everything later, shall we say about seven? Then you can have half an hour with Skye before she goes to bed.’
I know I’ll have a hellish job to get Skye to sleep when she knows her aunt Brenna is around, but that’s the least of my worries. Having someone to talk to who knows me well . . . who knows I’m not crazy, is what I need right now to help me make sense of things.
I make Skye something to eat and tidy around a bit. Lily Brockley insisted on cleaning the window and windowsill in Skye’s bedroom. She even vacuumed in there, too, so we could be sure not one dead fly remained. I felt so grateful.
Dr Marsden had me doubting myself in the end but now I’ve calmed down; I know what I saw in there and that was a black wall of flies. I don’t know where they came from and where they went, but they were there. I was not imagining it.
If there’s some kind of hidden infestation in the house and the flies are coming through vents or pipes, it will only be a matter of time before they turn up in someone else’s apartment and then I’ll be vindicated.
I tidy our shoes near the door and think about the camera that was installed there. I’ve told Brenna to text me when she arrives so I can pop downstairs to let her in.
Strangely, I’ve only just noticed there’s no door intercom system here like most apartment buildings, where each tenant has the ability to buzz someone inside from the front door. I need to ask Dr Marsden what the process is for my visitors, too.
Just before seven, I’m in the bathroom and I hear a sharp rap on the door. Skye gets there before me and I hear voices in the hallway, including a man’s voice.
I wash my hands quickly and when I come out of the bathroom, Skye has taken Brenna into the lounge and our front door is closed again.
I hug and kiss Brenna. ‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ I squeal, and I really am. In fact, ridiculously, I feel like I might burst into tears. ‘Did I hear a man’s voice out there?’
‘Yeah, the creepy doctor let me in.’ Brenna pulls a face and Skye giggles.
‘Bren!’ I look meaningfully at Skye and back at her. ‘We don’t want anything repeated!’
‘Sorry.’ She grins. ‘I forgot I was supposed to text you, so I just knocked because there’s no buzzer, and he suddenly appeared there, just like Count Dracula.’
Skye snorted. ‘You mean Count Duckula, Aunt Bren, like the cartoon.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant, Skye. He appeared at the door like Count Duckula.’
‘Bren!’
‘Sorry! Anyway, Skye mentioned there was a problem with flies in her bedroom. Sounds nasty.’
The image of a swarm of buzzing black bodies fills my head for a second, like they’re all still there inside my skull. I shudder.
‘It’s . . . been sorted now,’ I say hesitantly.
‘Skye said you thought there were millions of them, apparently.’ She grins. ‘But then when the doc came up, they’d all gone.’
She’s looking at me with 1 per cent pity and 99 per cent amusement. I know exactly what she’s thinking.
‘They must’ve found a way to get outside again,’ I say. ‘It’s the only explanation.’
‘That’s strange because Skye said the windows were all closed when she got up here.’
I put my hands on my hips and shake my head at Skye, smiling. She’s managed to tell Brenna every single gory detail and she was only alone with her a couple of minutes! ‘Hmm, well let’s just drop the whole nasty subject. Sauvignon blanc OK for you?’
‘Lovely.’
Skye picks up her colouring book and Brenna follows me into the kitchen.
‘I take it you’d rather not talk about it?’ She leans against the counter, watching me.
‘I don’t want Skye getting worried, that’s all.’ I sigh. ‘I admit I did get a panic on. There’s been a lot of change in her life lately, we can do without more trouble.’
‘That’s my concern, too,’ she says lightly.
I take out two glasses and put them on the worktop. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’d hate to think of Skye getting worried because you’re stressed out and imagining stuff is happening.’ She keeps her tone light but the words still sting. ‘I just mean that you’ve had a lot on, too, Freya. It’s easy to get overwhelmed and start to—’
‘I did not imagine those flies, Bren.’ I enunciate every word.
‘Maybe. But Skye said you moved the furniture and then forgot you did it?’
‘I didn’t! I didn’t move the furniture; Skye must’ve done it. Look. I’m not going into all this with you, it’s not important in the scheme of things.’ I had wanted to discuss my worries with Brenna, but her continued assumption that I’m imagining stuff is starting to annoy me. I’m now in two minds whether to speak to her about what else is bothering me.
When I walk past her to get the wine out of the fridge, she lays a hand on my arm and speaks in a soft voice. Her psychologist’s voice, as Viv laughingly calls it.
‘If things are getting on top of you again, then you need to tell someone. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, but we have to make sure you get the help you need like you did before.’
I might have known she’d bring that up. I’ve suffered quite badly with depression and anxiety in the past, before I’d even met Brenna. Lewis was supportive and I sought help, but in the early days of our friendship, I told Brenna all about those dark, desolate times and now I wish I hadn’t.
‘We have to think about Skye’s wellbeing.’
‘I do realise that,’ I say curtly, noticing my hands are trembling a little. As I pour the wine with Brenna watching, I have to really focus so I don’t spill it.
Why is it that everyone can forget about physical ailments quite easily, but when it comes to mental illness, it sticks to you like glue for the rest of your life?
Everyone remembers your difficult time in glorious Technicolor, and it lives on, rearing its ugly head periodically just to remind you that even the people nearest and dearest are forever on full alert for any signs of a relapse.
‘Seriously, I’m fine.’ I hand her a glass. ‘I’m just a bit unnerved, like anyone would be in that situation.’
I make a snap decision not to speak to her about my other big worry. I’ve always managed to deal with most stuff alone in my life, and that’s what I’ll need to do in this instance.
Brenna takes our wine through to the lounge, and I open a bag of corn chips and empty them into a bowl. I grab the dips I bought earlier from the fridge, and as I close the door, I hear something click behind me.
I turn, expecting to see Skye or Brenna in the doorway, but I’m alone. I wait a few moments, frozen completely still.
There – the clicking noise again. It seems to be coming from the inside wall.
I walk closer to the wall and then stop, pressing my ear to the narrow space between the corner and the first cupboard. Behind this wall is the vacant apartment next door.
I wait, listening for the noise again, but there is nothing. Just silence.
38
One thing I seem to have forgotten about Brenna, is that you can’t keep deep-seated worries from her for very long.
Relaxed from the wine, I answer Brenna’s clever probing questions easily, and by the time I realise her motive, she’s already picked up on something I said.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Brenna stops me. ‘You said earlier, I think we could be really happy here.’
‘Yes.’ I shrug. ‘I think we will.’
‘But you subconsciously used the word could, which hints there’s a condition to be met in order for that to happen.’
I laugh to cover up my irritation. ‘Give it a rest, Bren, you’re not at work now.’
‘Maybe not, but you might as well just tell me what’s bothering you to save time.’ She looks at me over the top of her glass. ‘I know something is bothering you.’
I
try and use Skye as a diversionary tactic. ‘Come on, poppet, bedtime. Say goodnight to Auntie Brenna.’
‘Nooo!’ Skye wails, throwing herself at Brenna’s feet. ‘I don’t want to go to bed. Please, Auntie Brenna, tell her!’
‘Tell you what, go clean your teeth and get into bed and I’ll read you a story.’ Brenna winks at me. ‘How about that?’
‘Yesss!’ Skye punches the air before scampering off to the bathroom.
‘So’ – Brenna looks at me – ‘spill the beans.’
And so I tell her what I know about the mystery woman and her daughter.
‘And a local builder told you this?’ She tips her head to one side and looks at me.
‘His name is Mark Sutton and it was something he heard, working in the area. We also met a woman in a café who seemed spooked when I mentioned Adder House.’ Brenna watches me. ‘But creepily, when we first moved in, Skye talked about the little girl who used to be in her room.’ I sigh, thinking how silly it all sounds, hearing myself say it out loud. ‘She said she’d overheard Dr Marsden and Audrey talking about a little girl who used to live here.’ I shrug. ‘I did ask him about it, but he said he didn’t say anything of the sort and Skye must’ve got confused.’
‘And now Dr Marsden has categorically said a woman and her child didn’t live in this apartment before you?’
‘Yes. But he has now admitted there was some kind of an incident, a tragedy. Although it didn’t happen here in the house, he said, but neither he nor his wife would elaborate. Then earlier today, I got this in the post.’
I hand her the letter from the optician. She reads it and frowns. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘That’s obviously the name of the woman who was here. Sophie Taylor and her daughter, Melissa.’
‘I see where you’re coming from,’ Brenna says slowly, handing me the letter back. ‘But opticians do get people’s details wrong all the time. Still, you need to get this sorted once and for all. Let’s have another glass of wine when I’ve completed my aunt duties and we’ll come up with a plan.’
Brenna gets up to read Skye her story and I sit alone in the silence of the lounge. Nobody seems to think this is a problem except me. And Mark.
