by Neil Randall
And this incident, although minor, trivial, stupid in many ways, seemed indicative of everything else in Jane’s life. So much so she felt like killing herself, taking a knife and slashing her wrists again, just so she could leave a note to her parents, blaming them for her death, saying if only her mother hadn’t left her cutlery in a pool of gravy then none of this would’ve happened. ‘That’s how insignificant my life experience really is’.
On the next page, Jane wrote about a session with Doctor Rabie, but in a quite unorthodox way, like a journalist taking rapid-fire notes at a sporting event:
He knows more than he’s letting on, we are not being treated for mental illness, our welfare is of no importance to him or his superiors, we are being slowly brainwashed (this, in fact, she crossed out, replacing it with: we are slowly having our memories erased), the shouting and screaming conceals present events not those locked away in our past, when he asks us to let go of a troubling thought, he is asking us to forgot, to absolve him of blame, he knows the medication is unsuitable yet he increases the dosage, he knows which ones of us are most vulnerable yet presses us hardest of all, he will undoubtedly meet a bloody end.
A little further on:
Michelle is the key. During each session, I watch her closely, analysing her movements, expressions, the way her face sometimes betrays her emotions, mentally recording everything she says and does. In turn, I notice the way Doctor Rabie always treats her with extreme deference. In circumstances where he might be forceful and demanding of others, pushing us to answer a particularly uncomfortable question, he will let Michelle off, praising her for efforts she didn’t really make. Important point: with everyone else, he is very tactile, a skilful exponent of touch, utilising the reassuring pat on the back or arm around the shoulder, a warm handshake (always making eye contact), to put us at ease. But with Michelle he refrains from all kind of bodily contact, as if there is an invisible exclusion zone encircling her, as if she is too precious too touch. This only reaffirms my theory. If Michelle is the key, then she must’ve been the first one to be taken against her will. There’s a signal, if only I could remember the signal.
Then she backtracked and wrote:
Everybody’s signal is different, so I have no way of breaking each individual code. If only I could remember mine, I might be able to fool him, act as if I’m under his spell, and then learn all his secrets.
Towards the end, I found several handwritten sheets, different in tone to the preceding pages, as if she’d copied passages direct from a textbook.
Hypnotherapy alters the patient's subconscious mind.
The hypnotised patient is far more open and suggestible.
Victorian physicians used hypnosis to cure hysteria, whereas contemporary hypnosis is used to treat a far broader range of emotional and psychological disorders.
This was, to a certain extent, the theory behind electrical shock treatments undertaken in the United States during the later 1950s and early 60s, whereby, for instance, if an adolescent boy displayed homosexual tendencies, shock treatment to the part of the brain controlling sexual desire, attraction, would hopefully remove these tendencies altogether.
In the mid 1980s Doctor Lawrence Rabie, a renowned psychotherapist, undertook what he himself described as a groundbreaking hypnotherapeutic research, whereby he attempted to reverse the standard processes by bombarding a patient’s hypnotised subconscious mind with behavioural stimuli, which could then be aroused in the conscious mind – i.e. making patients adopt certain modes of behaviour, to act and think in a prescribed manner. This was usually triggered off by a key word, or signal of some kind, like clapping the hands or a shrill whistle. If successful, Rabie would then, in effect, be able to control his patients’ thoughts and actions in everyday life.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Where have you been hiding, Mr Barrowman?” Bannister met me in the hallway, a moment after I’d slipped out of the study and closed the door. “Miss Green has been looking for you.”
I told him about Jane and the somewhat cryptic contents of the file I’d just spent the last hour or so reading.
“So, if Miss Lines makes concrete reference to hypnotherapy in her journal, that would give my theory even more credence.”
“Theory? What theory?”
Bannister looked right and left, as if fearful of being overheard.
“Come with me.” He gestured to the stairs. “I know you’re probably eager to speak to Miss Green, but let’s lock ourselves away in the bathroom for fifteen or twenty minutes, let’s go over all the new information, and assess exactly where it leaves us.”
“Before you tell me about the specific contents of the file,” said Bannister, “I must make you aware of my recent activities, outside, while reconnoitring the area. Surprisingly, the extent of garden into which we are allowed to wander is quite large, affording a dramatic view over the undulating countryside, fields and hills. Having looked the area up and down, I’m convinced that there are no guards or marksmen in the woodland surrounding the farmhouse. If there were, they would be positioned at certain strategic vantage points, obvious to anyone with military training. But on a comprehensive survey, there was no sign of a military presence whatsoever. More worrying, though, it looks like the main road from the dirt-track is still fully operational. Through the trees, one can see and hear all kinds of vehicles – cars, vans, tractors and suchlike – none of which appear to slow down at any checkpoint or cordon.”
“But why would Cattermole lie to us like that? Surely you don’t think they’ve rounded us up here simply to hold us prisoner, or – or kill us and dispose of our bodies in the most expedient way possible, do you?”
Bannister’s brief silence told me that that was exactly his current train of thought.
“I never like to make a judgment without access to all relevant information. But that doesn’t mask the fact that we’re sitting ducks. Now, tell me about this file, the one Miss Lines requested that you read.”
The contents still fresh in my mind, I went through each individual section of the journal, making special reference to the insightful observations she had made about Rabie, Michelle, and the notes she appeared to have copied from a hypnotherapy textbook.
“That’s very interesting, Mr Barrowman, very interesting indeed. If you were all subject to effective hypnotherapy, it would account for you all having different memories of what took place during the counselling sessions. Perhaps Doctor Rabie did have control of your subconscious, perhaps he made you write that letter to Miss Clarke, perhaps we really are dealing with a plot of some kind, a cover-up, the secret of which lies deep in the recesses of your mind.”
As much as I hated to admit it, Bannister’s theory was the most plausible I’d yet to hear.
“You know, all of this brings to mind a covert operation I was involved in, one that had serious ramifications for the entire Middle East peace process. Via a network of underground informants, my team had infiltrated a group of local militia, intent on overthrowing a political figure I better not mention by name. Assassination was our ultimate objective. But getting close to this despot wasn’t going to be easy. After months of deliberation, where the situation on the ground was only worsening, we came to a drastic decision. On the inside, we had an operative, a member of the domestic staff who interacted with our target on a daily basis. Only we weren’t sure if we could trust him implicitly, certainly not to carry out what would in effect be a suicide mission.”
“What happened?”
“Well, my commanding officer was a very resourceful individual. Thinking out of the box, as if were, he flew a renowned hypnotherapist in from Israel, a man who, again, it’s probably best if I don’t mention by name. The plan was to hypnotise our inside man, to delve deep into his subconscious mind, planting a hidden signal, to murder our target at a prearranged time. All of which was to be triggered off by a keyword. Before we undertook the operation, we, of course, had to carry out a few experiments, to
see if the hypnosis was indeed effective, for if the operation failed, the target would know that the security services were plotting his assassination, and would disappear deeper underground, so deep we would probably never get the opportunity to kill him again.
“The results of the hypnosis, however, were as astounding as they were comical. To showcase his mastery of the field, the hypnotherapist convinced the subject that he was a dog, and had him down on all fours, chasing after his own tail. All of which proved, or so we thought at the time, that the operation, radical as it was, had a very high chance of success.
“That day, everything went to plan. Our operative entered the heavily armed complex as normal, and set about his daily work duties. At the appointed hour, he was called to his master’s chamber to serve refreshments. From reconnaissance reports, we knew he had a serious weakness for, of all things, Coca-Cola, and, accordingly, that was our key word, our signal, the trigger. Only–”
“Only what?”
“Only when the target said the keyword, our operative didn’t act in the way we had expected. No. He grabbed a sabre from a guard, cried God is great, and slit his own throat in front of his master.”
“What? Why?”
“Because the human mind is a very complex thing, Mr Barrowman. Not once during our trial runs did our man display any resistance. But, deep inside, his allegiance to his leader, his country, his family, his religion was far too great.”
“So there was a part of his brain which, in effect, overrode the subconscious instructions.”
“Exactly. I couldn’t have put it better myself. And when he heard the words Coca-Cola, he reacted in the only honourable way he knew – killing himself not his spiritual leader.” Bannister shook his head. “No. Not even medical specialists should tinker with a man’s mind like that. There can only be dire long-term consequences.”
We lapsed into silence.
“Mr Bannister,” I then asked, struck by something from what felt like another lifetime ago now, “can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course you can.”
“Your, erm…ex-wife, did she ever attack you with a weapon, a knife or…?”
Uncharacteristically, Bannister took a long time before answering.
“Let’s just say she left her mark on me forever more, Mr Barrowman, and leave it at that.” He checked his wristwatch. “Come on. Best we go downstairs. Best we tell the others everything we now know.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“So let me get this straight,” said Cara, pacing the front room, “you expect us to believe that we’re being held here as prisoners. And that, in all likelihood, the police, on orders from an unknown authority, people of power and influence, who may have had some sick twisted interest in us when we were younger, have created this situation, to, in effect, gag us, to stop us from finding out the truth.”
“I make such an assertion,” said Bannister, “on the evidence as I interpret it. And if, for instance, Miss Rouse wrote a wholly fictitious set of diaries, a wholly fictitious set of correspondence with Mr Barrowman – and I think at this stage, we all agree that that is more than just a possibility – then it’s likely that, under hypnotherapy, he, and I mean Mr Barrowman, composed the letter to Miss Clarke.”
“To provide an alibi,” said Jane, “to plant seeds of doubt, you mean, to give them a—”
“An alibi for what, though?” cried Gloria, her patience clearly stretched. “You’re talking in riddles. You’re—”
“For whatever happened to us in those group sessions,” I interrupted. “Because, let’s face it, if we all have completely different memories of a collective experience then someone, somewhere along the line, must’ve tampered with our minds.” I turned to Wendy. “Before you passed out earlier, you said something about the horned owl being the signal. Can you remember saying that? And, if so, what did you mean?”
Wendy took a few short, shallow breaths and lowered her eyes.
“Well, after our sessions with Doctor Rabie stopped, I – I suffered from terrible nightmares. It always started with the owl, a sharp hooting noise, incredibly loud, right outside my bedroom window. When I got out of bed and pulled back the curtains I’d see these terrifying eyes, glowing yellow, staring back at me. And as I cowered, turned and tried to run away, that’s when they grabbed hold of me.”
“They?” several of us said at once.
“Yes. The men, the ones who wanted to hurt us.”
This shook us all to silence.
“Look,” said Bannister. “What if Miss Lomas’ nightmare was not merely a frightening dream, but a subconscious memory, a memory of what really happened to you during your counselling sessions?”
“But that’s absurd,” said Cara, stubbing out another cigarette, “like a conspiracy theory.”
“And even if there is some truth to it,” said Gloria, “what are we supposed to do now? If the police are involved, complicit in the wrongdoing, maybe even guilty of murdering our friends, who do we turn to?”
“Exactly!” said Bannister. “There are no phone lines here. I’ve checked. Apparently, the place is often used as a writers’ retreat, contact with the outside world, therefore, is seen as an unnecessary and unwelcome distraction. Those of you who have mobile phones have had them confiscated, for, so the police said, fear of the murderer tracing your signal.”
“We know all this,” said Cara. “Still you haven’t told us what we’re going to do.”
“That’s because I’m not sure,” said Bannister, “– not yet. In the twenty-odd hours since I’ve been here, I’ve felt increasingly uncomfortable about the whole situation. Mainly because we’re so vulnerable, because we have so few options available to us. For instance, if you find my theory so hard to believe, then go outside and talk to the constables on duty, demand to speak to a senior officer, confront the situation head on. Or, alternatively, we could wait until the early hours of the morning, sneak out of the house, get up onto the motorway and hail down a car, head into London, contact the press, try to bring as much attention to ourselves as we possibly can.”
“You mean all of us?” said Gloria, “– on foot, in pitch darkness, across muddy fields and all sorts.”
“Couldn’t you go alone?” said Jane. “Sneak off and call for help?” A reasonable enough suggestion, or so I thought at the time, but Bannister shook his head.
“If I went alone, and something happened to the rest of you while I was gone, it would defeat the object of trying to get out of here safely. No? What I propose, therefore, to wrong-foot the police, to conceal our true concerns, is a reconnaissance mission. Tomorrow, after breakfast, when the police are least expecting a disturbance, I will sneak out of the garden, enter the adjoining woodland, and search for the nearest property, maybe even a vehicle, one large enough to accommodate us all, something I could potentially commandeer to effect an escape. Then, if and when the time comes, we’ll, at the very least, have a plan of action in place.” He looked at us all in turn. “Agreed?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Sorry about my disappearing act,” I said to Liz as we sat down in the study. “Only I thought it best to have a look at Jane’s journal straight away. And I’m glad I did. At least not everyone here remembers me as such a horrible bastard.”
“I know, and I’m glad, too. Jesus, that Cara has certainly got it in for you. Earlier, in the garden, she took me aside, asked all kinds of questions – whether you’d ever hit me or asked me to do anything I didn’t wanna do, you know, sexually. She warned me off you, told me a couple of horror stories about you and that Jeffrey Fuller fella.”
“About me and Jeffrey? What kinds of stories?”
In light of everything, I shouldn’t have asked. Whatever Cara had to say about me could only be monstrous, a gross misrepresentation.
“‘Bout the time you and him spiked a dog’s water bowl with a sedative.”
Apparently, one afternoon, Jeffrey and I abducted a local dog, a quite ra
re breed, although Cara wasn’t quite sure what it was, mashed the sedative up in its food, and dragged it down the park, near the swings where some much younger children were playing – in the main, ten-year-old girls. Calling them over, we rolled the dog onto its back, exposing its genitalia, Jeffrey working its penis back and forth, until it ejaculated, horrifying everyone present.
“She said that the police got involved, said that you made Jeffrey take the blame, that he had to spend a night in the cells, that it really messed his head up, that he was never the same again.”
Of all the things Cara could’ve said, acts of borderline bestiality were probably the last I expected. Still, there was something in what Liz had just relayed that got me thinking.
“That’s strange. In our group therapy sessions, I remember Jeffrey saying something about being locked up and drugged, about coming round, being naked and bound, surrounded by men in leather masks. But he said it in such a way I thought it was just another one of his filthy fantasies.”
“Did he do that a lot, then?”
“Yeah, yeah he did,” I said, struck by something else, a flood of Jeffrey Fuller inspired recollections. Because nearly everything he said back then revolved around sexual abuse, usually a dramatic, detailed rape scene. Maybe, like the rest of us, with the letters and diaries, he wasn’t just regurgitating his most sordid sexual fantasies to shock and disturb, but wrestling with his own subconscious mind, reliving abuse he may’ve suffered at another’s hands.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing,” I replied, not wanting to burden her with such dark, uncomfortable conjecture. “I was just thinking about—”
