by Neil Randall
I picked up the next sheet of paper.
6th June 1989
Early hours, sitting at the kitchen table in pitch blackness, muggy, hot, can’t sleep (again!!!) How I have I got myself into this position: living with someone I despise, someone I can’t bear to be around? I feel trapped, manipulated, a prisoner. Whenever I’m close to Nigel, it’s as if he’s sucking the very life from me. The jealousy, the constant interrogations (yesterday, he insisted that I strip down to my underwear, so he could sniff me all over, so he could tell if I’d been with another man) are wearing me down. His behaviour is so erratic. From one minute to the next I don’t know what he’s going to do or say. If I ever try and show him any affection, if we ever sleep together, he’s so rough and domineering, as if he’s got to prove a point, to put me in my place, to show me that he’s a real big man. There’s no tenderness or intimacy – all the things I desperately need from life. Why can’t he see that? Why can’t he treat me as an equal not a possession? If I had anywhere else to go, bar my parents’ house – which would only lead down the same dark road as before – I’d be out of the door, bags packed, in a shot, never to return. Even my counsellor is advising me to get away from Nigel, encouraging me to make a new start. But at least he’s hanging onto that job at the council – the thought of having him around all day makes my skin crawl, makes me want to cut myself again. When will this nightmare end? When will I be free?
Again I stopped reading at the end of the entry and put the papers aside. Again I was completely perplexed by Michelle’s words, as I’d always considered this particular period–’87 to ‘89–to have been the best of our relationship. We’d just moved in together, were deeply in love, held hands everywhere we went, couldn’t get enough of each other. Five or six times a day, she rang the office just to tell me that she loved me, that she couldn’t wait until I got home. In the evenings, she’d prepare a lovely meal, we’d drink a glass or two of wine, listen to music, take long, lazy baths together. In regards to our sex life, our lovemaking was always slow, soft and considered, full of the intimacy she claims was lacking (and I know it was, because I’d missed and longed for it ever since we split up). There were no jealous scenes. I never insisted that she strip so I could check for signs of infidelity. It was as if she’d written an alternative version of reality, where she’d completely reversed true life events. The only question was why?
I picked up the final sheet, the final entry, a shorter but no less disconcerting entry.
11th January 1993
Another letter from Nigel. Why won’t he leave me alone? It’s been over two years now. But every week, without fail, a letter lands on my doormat, full of the same threats and accusations. If I didn’t have Jeffrey to confide in, to lean on, I don’t know what I’d do. He’s so intelligent and level-headed. He tells me to make notes, to keep track of everything, that even if I don’t want to open the letters, I should file them away in chronological order. That way, when the police get involved, I’ll have a clear record of what undoubtedly constitutes serious harassment. Only I’m scared. If Nigel, after all this time, still can’t let things go, if he can’t get on with his life, then I’m certain he’ll come looking for me, I’m certain he’ll make good on one of his outrageous threats, that my horrible death will be at his hands.
Chapter Twelve
I told the police that the diaries were complete nonsense, that I had no idea why Michelle had dreamed up such outrageous falsehoods, that our relationship, right up to the very end, had been a relatively happy one.
“Ten years,” said Watson, “that’s how long Miss Rouse kept this, complete nonsense as you call it, up for. Highly unlikely, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course. But what you’ve got to understand is that we were both suffering from mental health problems. We didn’t think or act like normal people. Michelle had attempted suicide numerous times. She could be a very manipulative, highly-strung young woman – one moment up, the next moment down. Completely benign comments could send her into a dark depression. Perhaps the diaries were just a coping mechanism, perhaps she did feel suffocated by me at times, and this was her way of expressing herself.”
Watson and Kendrick exchanged a brief, doubtful glance.
“Look. What’s actually happening here? Have I become the number one murder suspect simply because my old girlfriend wrote some harsh words about me?”
“No, no, not at all,” said Watson. “But put yourself in our position – three grisly murders, you’re the only concrete link, on searching your former girlfriend’s house we find boxes of old diaries painting you in a far from flattering light. We have to follow-up on this information, Mr Barrowman. You understand that, don’t you?”
Reluctantly, I nodded my head.
“And in light of the diaries, we took another look at your medical records.” Watson held up a file. “It says here that you had serious problems with the anti-psychotic medication you were prescribed, that you often became argumentative, unreasonable, that you struggled to distinguish between what was real and what was not, that you suffered from blackouts, and couldn’t remember what you’d said or done. There’s even mention of you assaulting a nurse.”
“All true. But that was a long, long time ago. I was just a boy – seventeen or eighteen years old. The incidents you just mentioned were, erm…isolated, confined to a particular three-month period when I trialled a hugely controversial drug, one that was later deemed unsuitable for my condition, and quickly removed from the market.”
“Okay, okay, Mr Barrowman, that’s enough for today. Once again, thank you for your time. I know how stressful this must be, but, like I said before, you’re the only link we have between the murders.” He got to his feet. “Why don’t you go home now and get some rest?”
When I got back to the flat, I found a note and another carrier bag on the kitchen table.
Nigel,
Thought since you weren’t going to be about, that I’d pop back into London and get that book. Didn’t have a chance to look at it myself – I’m at The Samaritans again tonight, so won’t be able to see you until sometime tomorrow. Try not to worry about things too much. We can have a good chat then.
Hope everything went all right at the police station
Thinking of you
Liz
XXX
A Complete Guide to Native American Folklore had a glossy cover depicting an Indian chief, complete with feathered headdress. The foreword, penned by a renowned scholar, eulogised the Native American way of life, the purity of their philosophy and worldview, their unique spiritual attachment to the land, the antithesis of modern environmental excesses that had ravaged the planet.
I turned to the contents page and ran a finger down the list of sections and subsections, eventually finding a chapter entitled Ishkitini: The Legend of the Horned Owl.
Ishkitini: The Legend of the Horned Owl
Wapasha was born to one of the Choctaw tribes most respected families. A strong healthy boy, he grew into a fine, muscular, handsome young man, a prolific hunter, skilful rider, and brave, valorous, if hot-headed and sometimes impetuous warrior. From an early age, Wapasha had been betrothed to Isi, who would become one of the tribe’s most dazzling beauties, a squaw with shiny coal-black hair, dark skin, strong white teeth and a full, supple figure. As young children, Wapasha and Isi had been almost inseparable. Each day they played together, held hands, would often be found in a shaded grove, whispering into each other’s ears, laughing and joking around. To impress Isi, a teenage Wapasha would perform daring feats, like walking on his hands, throwing machetes into tree trunks or lassoing wild horses. As they approached adulthood, becoming man and wife was inevitable, truly a match made in the heavens above.
When Isi fell pregnant with their first child, there was much rejoicing in the settlement. For these young people were the perfect embodiments of the Choctaw way of living. In such uncertain times, with white frontiersmen forcibly removing Native Americans
from their sacred lands, waging bloody battles, wiping entire tribes from the face of the earth, young and old were looking forward to welcoming a new generation of Choctaw Indian into the world.
However, when Isi went into labour, a true misfortune befell the parents-to-be: a horned owl was sighted in a nearby tree, a terrible omen, one that usually heralded the death of an infant. No sooner was the baby safely delivered than the owl let out a fearsome screech, one that was heard for miles around.
When Wapasha presented his newborn son to Chief Antiman, therefore, the wise old man gravely shook his head.
“What is it?” asked Wapasha. “I bring you my firstborn child, a new descendent of the great Choctaw line.”
The Chief pointed to the tree from which the horned owl had just alighted.
“Ishkitini,” he said, a solemn expression etched across his wrinkled, weather-beaten face. “At the moment your son was born, the horned owl screeched. Wapasha, you know what this means. Wherever Ishkitini ventures, death quickly follows. Within seven days, your son will be dead.”
This news sent Wapasha and Isi into a deep, disbelieving depression, for their healthy newborn child could not have been a more perfect representation of their love for each other.
“Why?” Wapasha ground a balled fist into the palm of his other hand. “Why have the Gods cursed us like this? What have we done to deserve such a cruel injustice?”
Beside himself, Wapasha rushed to see Chief Antiman again.
“I’ve been expecting you.” The Chief gestured for Wapasha to sit opposite him. “I feel your pain, but you must remember, life is not separate from death, it just looks that way. And what is life? – the flash of a firefly in the night, the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime, the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset?”
“You talk in riddles,” said Wapasha. “There’s so little time. Can anything be done to reverse the prophecy of the horned owl, this horrible curse which has befallen my family?”
“No,” said the elder. “The shadow of death cannot be removed from your newborn son. You must accept it and move on.”
“But I—”
“Listen,” Chief Antiman interrupted, “or your tongue will make you deaf. We do not inherit this Earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children. And in your case, there will be more children. You and Isi are young and strong. Enjoy the time you have left with your child. Rejoice. Always remember him in your hearts and minds. Don’t let yesterday use up too much of today. Try and—”
“But why?” cried Wapasha, shooting to his feet.
“Wapasha, calm yourself. This anger will consume you forever more if you do not rein it in. Remember the story of the wise old man who tried to teach his grandson of such things. “A fight is going on inside of me”, he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, self-doubt and ego. The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, sincerity, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith. This same fight is going on inside of you and inside of every other person, too”. The grandson thought about this for a moment and then he asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?” The old man replied, “The one you feed”.
That night, Wapasha suffered a terrible nightmare. In this vivid, disturbing dream, a horned owl swooped down from the skies, snatching his child from Isi’s arms, whisking him off high up into the sky. And no matter how hard Wapasha gave chase, he was powerless to stop the bird from disappearing out of sight.
Wapasha woke up screaming.
“What is it?” said Isi, comforting her husband.
“No–Nothing, a bad dream.” He sat up and rubbed his hands up and down his face. “Isi, I cannot accept this terrible curse. Within the hour, I will leave the settlement with our son. Under cover of darkness, I will take him to a place where nothing or no-one can harm him.”
At that moment, they heard the screech of the horned owl, the one the elder had warned them about. Both raced over to the crib, finding their newborn son, open-eyed, wiggling his arms and legs, with what looked like a smile breaking out across his soft fleshy face.
“I must leave now,” proclaimed Wapasha. “Wrap the baby up tightly. When the seven days are up, I will return to the settlement with our son. On that you have my word.”
Once outside, Wapasha gathered the baby up in a bundle, clambered upon a horse, and rode through the blackness of the early morn. Within minutes he could hear the hooting of the horned owl, giving chase. For many miles, Wapasha rode furiously, not once letting up. But every time he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the winged pursuer out of the corner of his eye, getting closer and closer.
It was then Wapasha knew that he would have to face the horned owl himself; that he would have to try and kill the demon bird once and for all. Directing his horse over to the bow of a fallen tree, he carefully stowed his son away in the hollowed-out trunk, in such a manner, it would be almost impossible for the horned owl to get at him. Unsheathing his machete, Wapasha swung round just as the owl appeared, landing on the dusty ground, not six feet away.
“Come,” said Wapasha, raising his weapon. “If you want my son, you must get past me first.”
To his shock, the horned owl started talking to him in a clear, human voice, “You are a brave, worthy young man, a man of spirit and conviction. But why waste your energy? You know that once the horned owl appears, a prophecy has already been foretold.”
“I do not care,” said Wapasha, lunging forward, swinging the blade with terrible force, intent on killing the bird with one true blow – but all he sliced through was thin air.
“Over here.”
Wapasha swung round, to where the horned owl had reappeared.
“It is better to have less thunder in the mouth, Wapasha, more lightning in the hand. Your efforts are useless. I give you one last opportunity to say goodbye to your son. Then I will take him from this world.”
Enraged, Wapasha lunged at the horned owl once again. And once again, his flailing blade sliced through nothing more than air. Only this time, when he swung back round, all he heard was flapping wings, and when he looked up to the sky, all he could see was the horned owl disappearing across the horizon, carrying the bundle containing his baby son.
Unsure of the story’s significance, I opened an internet session and typed: ishkitini, horned owl, Native American folklore, Choctaw owl myth and the like, into a search engine, widening the scope of the original search I did with Liz last night. After scrolling down the list of results, I found a link to an article by Doctor Rabie, an extract from his one and only published book, Is There Any Such Thing As a Feeling?
The Boy Who Could Not Escape His Own Fate
In Choctaw folklore, there is a famous story about a horned owl that prowled the night killing men and animals. A hugely superstitious people, the Choctaw believed that when Ishkitini screeched, it meant sudden death, much like a murder. In one variation of the story, a brave young warrior refuses to accept that his newborn son has been cursed to die, when the owl is heard soon after his birth. Whisking the child away, he attempts to reverse fate, to fight back, physically, at the cost of his own life. But Ishkitini follows after him, takes the child and fulfils the prophecy.
In many deluded patients suffering from schizophrenic episodes, I have witnessed a similar phenomenon. Through suicide attempt, self-harm or self-intoxication, they have attempted to escape a version of their own fate, a version that has built up in their heads, waging a battle like the young Choctaw warrior. One particular patient, a very troubled young man who participated in experimental group sessions, heard voices, voices which urged him to take his own mother by force – sexually. For many months, if not years, the patient battled these voices in his head, only to succumb one morning, sensing that fulfilment of the rape fan
tasy was inevitable. However, he was unable to see it through to the end. And herein lies the conundrum: does a patient have to obey the voice in their head, playing things out to a concrete conclusion, before they will be able to move on in life? Put simply: if they feel that they have to cut their own wrists, will the impulse only be neutralised once they actually, physically slice their skin with a blade?
Undoubtedly, the patient Rabie wrote about all those years ago was Jeffrey Fuller – anybody who had attended our sessions would have recognised the description. Had Jeffrey, therefore, read Doctor’s Rabie’s book, and resented it so much, seeing it as far too revealing, that he was determined to have his revenge?
Chapter Thirteen
The following afternoon, Kendrick called round again.
“Ah, Mr Barrowman.” He placed a thick file on the kitchen table. “Apologies for disturbing you on a Sunday, but Senior Detective Inspector Watson wanted me to have another chat with you, to clear a few things up re: the alleged correspondence with Miss Rouse.”
