The Seymour Tapes

by Tim Lott

  During the interview, however, this simple piece of research did not, absurdly, occur to me. I had frequently felt myself outmanoeuvred by her during the course of our conversations, and once again I felt she had put me in a situation that left me no option but to comply with her request. Also, she had made it clear that this was our last interview. There was nothing else to add. So I knew that this was the last time I would have to offer myself up for sacrifice.

  But what could I tell her? Any individual has only so many dirty secrets – or, at least, only so many that they can remember. Something that was going to satisfy her voracious appetite for raw, bloody lumps of my private history seemed out of reach.

  Finally something occurred to me – something that had happened a long time ago and that I had succeeded in driving into the most distant recesses of my memory. When it surfaced, I tried to force it back again but it kept bubbling up. I could think of nothing else. She was looking at her watch and, it seemed to me at the time, was about to wind up our last interview without giving me what I considered a vital piece of information. I was beginning to sense by then that Samantha Seymour was not merely disingenuous but manipulative and, quite possibly, blatantly dishonest. In short, I thought I had missed something important about my subject but at that point I had not been able to work out what it was. All I knew was that the more parts of the puzzle I put together the more appeared to be missing.

  Interview with Samantha Seymour (resumed)

  So. What have you got?

  I was a teenager. An immature one. And I did what teenagers in my area did. I joined a gang.

  What area was that?

  Southall, in West London.

  I know it, of course. We used to call it Little India.

  It was white when my family first moved there. Then the first waves of Asians came – from Uganda, I think. The character of the place began to change. Well – you’ve read The Scent of Dried Roses.

  Presumably what you’re about to tell me is something you’ve left out.

  Yes.

  And I thought that memoir was so searingly honest.

  But of course it was censored. By me – or, at least, my subconscious. Some things don’t bear remembering, let alone repeating, or publishing.

  I’m intrigued. Please continue.

  I was in this gang. Well, I call it a gang. There were about ten of us. We just wandered the streets looking for something to do. It was so damn boring. We were vandals, loafers, street-corner cider-drinkers. Reasonably harmless, or so I had always thought. Not the worst kids in the district by any stretch of the imagination. You wouldn’t have been scared of us. A bunch of spotty fourteen-, fifteen-year-olds, sprawled on the pavements, smoking low-grade resin, giggling. When it happened, it was hard to believe. Still is.

  I don’t remember what month or year it was, only that it was very cold. The streets were empty, there had been snow. I do remember that sometimes we would find cars with the doors unlocked, then fill them with snow and run away. That was about the extent of our hooliganism.

  I don’t know if we’d been doing it that night. Mainly we’d been drinking wine – cherry wine, from the off-licence on Allenby Road. Anyway, we were pretty drunk. We used to have competitions to see who could drink the quickest, see, and the wine was rough. We could hardly see straight.

  We were just hanging out on the corner of Somerset Road, just a few blocks from where I lived with my parents. Most of the Asians lived in what we called Old Southall, around the railway station. But they were gradually buying up houses towards Greenford, near where we were. It didn’t bother us much – although some of the parents were angry, felt it would threaten property prices and all that tripe.

  So there we were, hanging around on the corner. The road was icy, there was nothing to do. We were drunk and bored, raging with hormones and frustration. And this Sikh kid appeared from an alleyway and started walking towards us.

  I want to make something clear. We were not a violent gang. We’d never got into any trouble. We weren’t skinheads or thugs, just bored kids. And this Sikh, there wasn’t anything provocative about him. Except that he was scared as he walked towards us. We could all see it – we could all see him hanging back. He needed to walk past us to get to where he wanted to go and he didn’t want to do it. But eventually he reached us, ten of us, raucous, stupid, drunken kids. Then…

  Then?

  Then he slipped over. On the ice, right in front of us. He was lying down in front of us. As if…

  As if what?

  As if he’d wanted it to happen. I don’t know.

  You attacked him?

  That’s too simple a word. One of the kids we hung around with, he was a bit backward, a year behind everyone else. We let him hang with us because he got us blow – you know, grass – from time to time. Anyway, none of us moved to help the Sikh kid up. I don’t know why. He just lay there, looking more terrified than ever. That was it, see? His fear. It triggered something in us, some kind of pack instinct. Then the backward kid, he just sort of aimed a kick at the Sikh. On the behind. Nothing vicious, just a joke, really. We all kind of laughed nervously, but then he started screaming as if we’d really attacked him or something. We started to panic, telling him to shut up, but he was screaming more and it – it was infuriating. Then someone else – I can’t remember who – kicked him, this time in the stomach, and he grunted, but kept on screaming. We just wanted to shut him up. We just wanted him to stop so we wouldn’t get into trouble. Then, suddenly, we were all on top of him, kicking and punching and scratching and it was – it was horrible.

  You too? You joined in?

  And the reason it was so horrible was that we were enjoying it. It was like a fucking orgasm, you know, all this hate and anger coming out of us, being exorcized, on the head of this poor little scapegoat. I can still hear him – I can hear him when he stopped screaming at last and there was just this funny little whimper, like a little animal, a cat or something, and all the ice was brown with blood, and we all stopped at the same time and stood in perfect silence, and then we ran away. I’m finishing now – I will not continue.

  What happened to him?

  Will not continue. You have your pound of flesh.

  Did he die?

  He didn’t die. I can’t talk about this any more. Just leave me alone now.

  Author’s Note: At this point Samantha Seymour gets up to leave.

  Thank you for sharing. It’s OK to cry. I understand.

  You have to answer my question, Samantha.

  What?

  About the Seymour Institute.

  I’m sorry…

  Samantha, you agreed to answer the question about your salary.

  Oh, yes. I earn more than I did.

  Yes, but how much? I’ve heard it’s a very large sum. How much do you earn?

  I couldn’t possibly tell you that.

  But you said – we agreed –

  What I agreed was that I would tell you whether it was less or more.

  No. You said you’d tell me how much.

  I think if you check the transcript, that’s not the case.

  What?

  Here’s a tissue. Wipe your eyes. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed this, but it’s been necessary.

  Why? To keep paying your salary at the Seymour Institute?

  Good luck with the book. I’m sure it will be a big success. If you want any other information you can get in touch with my lawyers.

  We have the final tape to discuss, of your husband’s last hours with Sherry Thomas.

  I don’t think so. I’ve done enough.

  Samantha.

  Yes.

  I wish I’d never started this fucking book.

  That makes two of us.

  Don’t go. Not yet.

  Goodbye.

  Adams Street, Tape Three, Tuesday, 29 May, Time Code 21.57

  The location is Sherry Thomas’s flat in Adams Street. The external camera shows Dr Seymour arriving, slightly out
of breath. He is carrying a bag that contains all the equipment he had taken from Cyclops Surveillance. He rings the bell, but there is no answer. However, apparently the door has been left open because the camera shows him disappearing into the flat.

  The internal camera shows a disturbing scene. Sherry Thomas is splayed on the floor, face down, fully dressed. As usual, the flat is immaculately tidy. There is an empty pill bottle just out of reach of her fingertips. She does not move.

  – Oh, my God. Sherry! Jesus Christ.

  He rolls her over, takes her pulse. Then he reaches for the telephone, presumably to call for an ambulance, his back to Sherry Thomas, who remains prostrate on the floor. The moment his back is turned, Sherry Thomas rises from the floor, apparently silently, and almost in one movement. She is holding a large claw hammer that has been concealed under the adjacent sofa. She strikes Dr Seymour on the back of his head. With a puzzled look on his face, he drops the phone, but remains standing. Slowly, deliberately, Sherry Thomas takes careful aim and strikes him again on the left temple. Blood can be seen on his skull. Gradually, he collapses to the floor. She stands over him, breathing heavily.

  – Alex? Alex?

  Dr Seymour does not respond. He is apparently unconscious. Now Sherry Thomas pulls off his shoes, and drags him, with considerable effort, across the floor into her bedroom.

  The internal camera from the front room shows us nothing else for several minutes. Then she returns to the room to pick up the bloodstained hammer with which she bludgeoned Dr Seymour.

  Handheld Video Camera Tape, Sequence One, Tuesday, 29 May, Time Code 22.08

  This tape was nicknamed the Skin Tape after sections of it were posted on the Internet. A large number of people – many thousands according to some estimates – have seen part of it, although the total footage posted seems to be no more than a minute in length. Thus it represents only a fraction of the complete footage.

  I was not merely unwilling to watch it: I felt I would be unable to. It does not interest me, except as a brutal symbol of the extent to which voyeurism has the power to extinguish every decent emotional response to tragedy, replacing it with curiosity of the most life-negating and morbid variety.

  I will describe the tape, but the action that preceded it, recorded on Adams Street, Tape Three, is, to me, far more interesting – and, quite possibly, a great deal more frightening in what it reveals about the pathology of an empty soul.

  Dr Seymour has been stripped naked. He is tied to the bed. Behind the lens, Sherry Thomas is out of shot. Dr Seymour is coming round.

  There is a closeup of his face. His eyes flicker open, and he tries to take in his surroundings. Throughout most of the following sequence he is unable to speak, and seems to drift in and out of consciousness.

  – Sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry if I hurt you. But you hurt me too. Once again I feel I am forced to make… restitution. Would you like a drink of water?

  Dr Seymour manages to incline his head enough to indicate in the affirmative.

  – Here you are.

  Her hand appears in shot holding a glass of water to his lips. He drinks, and coughs.

  – Sorry. Has it gone down the wrong way? Sorry. Lord, I can’t help apologizing. It’s hard to explain but I really don’t want to do this. It’s like when I cut my wrists. It wasn’t really that I wanted to – I was terrified of dying – I just felt I had to. Don’t you ever feel like that? That you have to do something, even though it’s awful? I know what’s happening here is vile, disgusting and unfair. But sometimes things are out of control. That’s the way it feels to me right now. Like some kind of destiny – stupid word, I know, but I can’t think of anything more appropriate – has got hold of me. It feels very wrong, Alex, but also inevitable. I’m in the grip of that inevitability. It’s just cogs turning.

  Dr Seymour struggles weakly against the ropes that keep him tied to the bed.

  – I can’t untie you. I’m not lying when I say that I’d really like to. But there’s a larger part of me that won’t let me. I’m sorry. This is like a bad TV movie, isn’t it? And I’m stuck with having to watch it. You probably think I’m crazy. I can tell you do. I find it very upsetting when you think that of me. Although I can also see that in a way it’s true. But I’m not raving, am I? I’m not dribbling and twitching.

  Dr Seymour makes an attempt to talk but all that emerges is a series of splutters and gurgles.

  – Also, though, it’s a misogynist way of marginalizing my needs and desires. Ned was the same. I was ‘crazy’ because I didn’t want to have sex with him. I’m not saying all men are the same. Of course not. That’s just a cliché. But some men are. And I thought you – I thought you were someone I could trust. I genuinely thought you cared about me. But then you go and tell Samantha everything about me. You tell her all our secrets. You tell her about me and Ned.

  Again, Dr Seymour tries to speak. This time he manages a few mangled syllables.

  – My… wife…

  – I just don’t see what she has to do with anything. That she’s your wife didn’t stop you watching her secretly. And it didn’t stop you watching me and Carl and doing… well, you know. I don’t need to spell it out. You can’t play it both ways. Either she’s the keeper of the secrets or I am. ‘Wife’ means little here. ‘Trustee’ would be a better word. That person whom you trust.

  Dr Seymour makes another attempt to speak, but fails.

  – Please be quiet now, Alex, or I’ll need to hit you again. God, this is horrible. I wish it would stop. Time just never does, though. Tick, tick, tick.

  She puts down the camera on a table where it takes in most of the room. Dr Seymour’s face is bloodied, bruised and swollen. She moves into shot and stands next to the bed.

  – I’m so sorry I hurt you. I didn’t want to. But things have a way of happening of their own accord. It’s an awful thing to do, but I’m so very tired of people like you – almost as tired as I am of myself. People who can’t remain consistent. Who I think are on my side, then turn against me.

  Suddenly Sherry grabs her temples and moans.

  – Jesus, my head.

  She rocks back and forth, apparently in extreme pain.

  – These headaches – they got better for a while with you. With your hands. Now they’re back and they’re worse than ever. Why did you have to go and do that? Why make them worse than ever when I thought you were trying to help? People make no sense to me. That’s what makes me so furious. They’re perverse. They’re inconceivable.

  Sherry Thomas shakes her head now, as if to clear it. She looks up, blinks, as if seeing Dr Seymour for the first time.

  – What on earth are you doing here? You’re hurt.

  She reaches across and tenderly wipes away the blood from his eyes with a tissue she has taken from a box on the bedside table.

  – I wish I could make it all OK again. I can’t explain. Stop asking me questions.

  Now she looks at him directly, unmoving, for maybe ten seconds. Finally, Dr Seymour speaks, his voice so shaky and tearful that it’s hard to understand what he’s saying.

  – I’m scared.

  Sherry Thomas nods.

  – First I want you to explain. Why did you do what you did? We had things so good. It was so nice in here, watching the world. Safe. In control. You liked it. Don’t say you didn’t. It changed your world. So… why did you go and do that thing? That bad thing. Calling me up like that. Saying those things. When I gave you so much. You think the tape showed that she still loved you. That Samantha still loved you. And I’m going to let you go on believing that. Because I care about you. I’m going to let you go to… wherever you have to go to with a clear mind. With your faith. With everything you took away from me.

  Dr Seymour appears to drift into unconsciousness again, but she continues.

  – You see, despite everything else – despite this ludicrous, B-movie situation – I have my integrity. Dishonesty is just too untidy. Untidy in the head. />
  Dr Seymour opens his eyes and moves against the ropes. Sherry Thomas is still standing rigidly at the end of the bed, but now moves down the side, sniffing.

  – What’s that smell? God, Alex. You’ve made a mess.

  Her face contorts. Then she seems to bring herself back under control, but when she speaks again her voice is tight with fury.

  – Have a cigarette, Alex. Want a cigarette? No pressure.

  She takes out a packet of Marlboro Red and puts one between his lips. He shakes his head. She slams the video camera straight into his face. His nose, apparently broken, starts to bleed profusely.

  – Have a cigarette, Alex. You want one. Just be honest for once in your life.

  She lights the cigarette, and this time a clearly terrified Dr Seymour inhales deeply. Then she continues to feed him the cigarette.

  – How is that? I know you were a smoker, Alex. You’ll always be a smoker.

  There is silence while he attempts to finishes the cigarette, coughing and spluttering incessantly. Then he begins to mutter inaudibly. She leans over and listens carefully.

  – Speak up. I can’t quite make it out. What is it? Oh. The Confitor. I recognize that. In fact, I know it by heart. Nuns took me in for a while when I was a kid. You’re still a religious man at heart. That’s why you don’t get it, I suppose. The fact that we’re fucked and abandoned. That’s the thing. That’s the essential thing. You smell the shit, Alex? That’s the smell of life.