by Max Hardy
‘Impressive brush work. His strokes have a feel of Munch, the face has a similar contortion to that in ‘The Scream of Nature.’ There are those that think Munch found his inspiration from a lunatic asylum near to the location depicted in the painting. His sister was in there at the time, apparently. Very apt. This guy might have been a psychopath, but he certainly studied the masters.’ Saul said, before turning and offering a hand for Dr Ennis to shake, adding, ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice Doctor. I appreciate your time.’ he finished, looking directly into his eyes, gaze unwavering.
Dr Ennis stared back for a moment, a simmering anger evident in his glare, hands still firmly forced into his waistcoat as he looked down to the proffered hand with obvious disdain. ‘Yes, well.’ he said, a tinge of red rising on his neckline above the brilliant white and perfectly starched shirt collar as he looked Saul up and down, snorting as he took in the tuxedo. ‘Let’s continue this in my office. Follow me.’ he ordered while turning and striding off in the same direction from which he had come.
Saul sighed, shook his head and slowly followed him down the clean, white walled corridor and into his office. As he came through the door, the décor changed from crisp, clinical lines and materials, to paisley papered walls, mahogany furniture and classic paintings. Saul’s attention was drawn to a painting on the wall behind Dr Ennis’s desk and he continued to look at it while he was offered a seat and Dr Ennis took his.
‘The Cezanne behind you, is that an original? I don’t recall it being there the last time I was here?’ asked Saul, motioning to the picture which depicted a table with apples spilt onto it from a fruit bowl, a pitcher beside it.
Dr Ennis looked up to the picture as he sat then turned to Saul with a perplexed look. ‘I’m sure you haven’t come here to ask me about art, have you?’ he said, while resting his elbows on the table, steepling his arms and hands on the desk and resting his chin on the thumbs.
‘Sorry, no, I haven’t.’
‘It was bequeathed to the Institute by one of our patrons. We received it amongst about a dozen other painting three months ago along with a large financial donation. We have all the paperwork if you need to see it.’ he said.
‘No, it’s not why I am here. Just an interesting painting, that’s all.’
‘So, Saul, why are you here? Is it further allegations of brutality towards my patients?’ Dr Ennis stated, crossing his arms and leaning forcefully forward in his seat, not able to stop himself bringing the subject back to his agenda.
Saul held his penetrating gaze and answered. ‘Dr Ennis, I appreciate that you are unhappy with me and the investigation we undertook into those allegations, and if you want to vent your frustrations, then please feel free. What I can tell you is that we presented facts found in the investigation to the CPS, they took a decision to prosecute, and you and your staff have been acquitted. That is the process and the system that I respect and it has done its job. I am not here to harass, or hound, or claim any umbrage with regard to the outcome. I am here on a totally separate matter.’ he concluded, holding Dr Ennis firmly in his eye line.
‘Just as long as you accept that we were just doing our job. We deal with extremely psychotic individuals here, individuals that would kill someone in a split second with no reservation whatsoever. We need every tool available to us to manage them. I recognise face down restraint can be dangerous, but it is also effective: very, very effective.’ Dr Ennis stated, anger still driving his tone.
‘As I said Dr Ennis, I accept that due process was followed and an impartial jury accepted you were doing your job. I have nothing more to add to that. I do need to talk to you about Rebecca Angus though as a matter of urgency, so could we please move on to that?’ asked Saul, his tone conciliatory, even if the statement wasn’t forgiving.
Dr Ennis was still simmering with resentment, which was evident in how hard he was balling his fists, how his head was juddering and how his right eyelid was twitching under the strain of his own self-restraint. ‘Alright Saul, let’s leave it at that: for now. What do you need to know about Rebecca?’
‘Thank you Dr Ennis. As I mentioned, we are investigating a potential murder at the moment and have reason to believe that Mrs Angus could help us with our enquiries. Do you feel she is in a position to be able to answer some questions?’ Saul asked.
‘Given what I know of her mental state, I doubt that very much. The other issue you have is that she is no longer a patient of the institute. She was moved to Broadmoor two weeks ago.’ answered Ennis.
‘Oh, right. Is that usual? Moving between hospitals I mean. I thought that there would need to be a court order to move care from the designated authority?’ Saul questioned.
‘It’s not usual, no. In this situation however, her new consultant, Dr Hanlon and I thought it best for the treatment of her condition. And yes, it was approved by the court.’ he finished tersely.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound accusatory, I’m just surprised our systems haven’t been updated with that information. Would you be able to get in touch with Dr Hanlon and see if it would be possible to interview her?’
‘I can try.’ Dr Ennis began, picking up his desk phone and ringing his receptionist. ‘I’m not sure he will be in the office this early, depends what shift he is on. Celia, could you give Broadmoor a call and see if Dr Hanlon would be free to have a quick chat about Rebecca Angus please.’ he asked as the call was answered. ‘Thanks, just buzz through if you can get him.’
He hung up the call and continued. ‘I still don’t think you will be able to talk to her. For six months before she left us she was continually sedated to protect her and my staff. I very much doubt that has changed dramatically in two weeks.’
‘Perhaps you can help while we are waiting. We know that Mrs Angus was committed to you for the murder of her son. In your time providing care to her, did she ever mention anyone else involved in his murder?’
‘You do know why she was in here with us, don’t you?’ Dr Ennis asked, surprised.
‘Unfortunately we don’t have too much information at the moment. We only found out about a possible link to our investigation a short while ago and haven’t got all the paperwork through from her original conviction. If you could let me know, that would help.’ Saul answered.
‘Rebecca was diagnosed with psychotic Dissociative Identity Disorder. She has multiple personalities. Two to be precise. One, the guilt ridden and suicidal celibate lesbian that worshipped her son, who we know as Rebecca. The other, a sultry, vivacious psychotic dominatrix who will eat you alive, literally, who she refers to as Madame Evangeline. We have spent the past year trying to bring out the Madame Evangeline personality, without any success. It’s one of the reasons we moved her to Dr Hanlon’s care, he has some innovative ways of treating DID.’
‘If you haven’t been able to bring that personality out, how do you know she has a multiple personality?’ Saul questioned, slightly bemused.
‘That comes back to your question about was anyone else involved in her son’s murder. When you do eventually see the investigation transcripts you will see Rebecca continually referring to Madame Evangeline. How she met her, their relationship, her involvement in Michael’s death. You will also see reports of prolonged periods of time where Rebecca can’t account for her whereabouts or actions. The police could not find any evidence from any of the sex clubs she frequented of a Madame Evangeline. They remember Rebecca, but always being there alone. From a psychological perspective, the blank periods in her recollection and detailed observations about Madame Evangeline are classic symptoms of DID. We believe that the last act Madame Evangeline carried out, the brutal murder of Michael Angus, was so traumatic to Rebecca’s personality that she has figuratively locked the room and thrown away the key that would allow us access to her. We have to try and find that key. It is the only way we will really understand why Madame Evangeline committed this murder.’
Dr Ennis stood up then and walked to a
set of filing cabinets behind Saul. ‘It might help you to understand more if you see what Rebecca looks, or looked like, and how she sees Madame Evangeline.’ he continued, taking a file out of the cabinet and bringing it back to the desk. He took out two photographs and one drawing, placing them on the desk facing Saul.
‘This first photograph is Rebecca before she murdered her son. Don’t know when it is, it’s just what she used to look like. You can see she is tall, very slim, yet curvaceous with a natural beauty about her. She has long flowing brown hair and bright green eyes, much like yourself. The second is a police artist sketch of what Rebecca thinks Madame Evangeline looks like. Notice she is tall, slim, curvaceous with a natural beauty, bright green eyes, but red hair. The second photograph is Rebecca just before she left. She pulled all her hair out, inflicted those cuts and bruises in many, many suicide attempts. She has no tongue to speak of now, pardon the pun.’
Saul paused for a moment, taking in the images, obviously upset by the last picture. ‘So, there was no evidence at all to suggest that Madame Evangeline was real?’ he said, rhetorically.
‘None. In fact, while most of her recollections of Madame Evangeline have at least a basis in fact, her story about the night Michael died seems to be almost totally fictitious. We feel that is also part of the trauma during her last hours before killing him.’
Saul was about to speak just as the phone rang. Dr Ennis picked it up. ‘Hello. Ah Celia. You have him, great. Can you put him through please?’ he said, putting his hand over the receiver and addressing Saul. ‘Dr Hanlon is in.’
‘Hi Ben, its Gordon, Gordon Ennis. Sorry it’s so early. Wanted to have a quick chat about Rebecca Angus if you have five minutes.’ he began, listening for a second. ‘Oh, sorry, bloody receptionists!’ he exclaimed, skin suddenly reddening under his collar again. ‘I was after Benjamin Hanlon, he’s looking after a patient we transferred down there two weeks ago. Is he in do you know?’ he asked, vehemently jotting down Celia’s name on a pad in front of him, underlining and overwriting it harshly, over and over as he continued on the phone.
‘No, he’s an Irish fellow, in his sixties. Enjoys his single malts.’ he paused as the person on the other end talked, face reddening continually, and the ferocity with which he was overwriting on the pad breaking through pages. ‘Of course there is someone with that description working there. Is this some sort of joke! I have been dealing with Benjamin Hanlon for three months now. He is an Irish gentlemen. Three weeks ago a court order was issued in his name to transfer Rebecca Angus into his care. Two weeks ago we transferred her.’ he shouted, standing up as he did so, listening to the reply.
‘You can assure me as much as you want, Sir. I know there is another Dr Hanlon. I have e-mails, I have correspondence and I have been ringing him at your bloody hospital. Now I don’t know what game you are trying to play, but….’ he paused. ‘Hello, hello. He hung up, the bastard hung up.’ he stabbed zero on the phone. ‘Celia, get me Broadmoor again, and make sure it’s the right fucking Dr Hanlon this time.’ he finished.
The colour started to drain from his angry features, his expression one of astonishment as he looked at Saul. ‘That was Dr Hanlon. Not the Dr Hanlon I have been dealing with. But the only Dr Hanlon at Broadmoor. He is adamant about that. He is also adamant that there isn’t a Rebecca Angus under their care. They have no record of her at all.’
6:02 am
Dr Hanlon came back into the cell, an empty bucket in one hand, a cup of steaming tea in the other.
‘You’ve been gone a while, I thought you just went for a pee?’ Rebecca asked rather curtly.
Dr Hanlon smiled at her as he positioned the clean bucket back under the seat from where he had removed it earlier. ‘Rebecca my dear girl, you aren’t the only patient I have to look after. Would that you were, life would be so much simpler. Now, I am going to take your head restraints off so that you can have a decent cup of tea without drinking through a straw. I am trusting you, so don’t let me down.’
He expertly loosened the buckles on the straps with one hand. Rebecca let her head sag forward and then circled it around her neck, revelling in the release, her eyes rolling with the simple pleasure of the movement. ‘That feels good.’ she said as Dr Hanlon raised the cup to her lips and she took a few sips. ‘That feels even better. I haven’t had a cup of tea for…god I can’t even remember how long. I can remember plenty of times tea being drank around me, when they were on their breaks.’
Dr Hanlon let her have a few more sips, then sat back down in his seat with a gentle groan as his knee bones cracked while bending. ‘Tell me, was Dr Ennis ever involved in these break time sessions?’
‘Oh yes, he was always involved. Perhaps not in the way you are thinking though. It was only ever six of the orderlies and eight of the guards that played with me. The women were the worst. By that I mean they were the more aggressive. The men were just trying to get me off, or get themselves off. I seemed to be some kind of challenge to the women, an affront to their femininity, an aberration they had to punish. Either that or they just got off on the violence of the action rather than the sex. No, Dr Ennis never touched me. He only ever watched. I would see him, his features framed in the oblong observation orifice of the door to my cell. I knew that look on his face. I had lived his voyeuristic eyes devouring every last morsel of the depravity that was being exacted in front of him. The frenetic vacillation of his face told me he was masturbating.’ she said, calmly.
He leaned over, offering the tea again, shaking his head disconsolately. ‘How can you be so calm about that Rebecca? It is abuse, plain and simple abuse. Regardless of the fact he never touched you, he was aware and involved in the act.’
‘Perhaps. Don’t confuse the legality with the morality of the act. They are very different. What you would consider to be morally reprehensible is not necessarily illegal.’
‘I am very clear on the legality of what you are telling me, Rebecca. It’s encouraging to see you raising the philosophical question. In this instance it is illegal. As much as you feel complicit in not discouraging them, as much as you have an empathy with Dr Ennis’s voyeurism, as much as your sexual preferences may not be morally acceptable to some, you were allowed to be systematically sexually abused by fourteen people by a man who was charged by the state to look after your welfare, to protect and nurse your fragile mind. A mind I may add, that is showing me an exceptional level of self-awareness.’ He gave her another sip of the tea. ‘Tell me about Madame Evangeline?’ he asked.
She smiled a crooked smile, a wicked glint in her piercing eyes. ‘Well, now you are talking morally questionable. Hannah was the only lover I ever had. When I killed her, I promised myself that I would devote my life to bringing Michael up. And I did. Until he left home and went to University, I never had another lover, I never had a single sexual encounter and never even masturbated, not once in all that time. My focus was Michael, my life was Michael. When he left I felt utterly lost. Oh, I talked to him most days and he came home at least twice a month, mainly for me to do his washing. But he had his own life, his own interests and his own friends and didn’t need his mollycoddling mum any more. I was alone. I was lonely. I didn’t have a Scooby about relationships. There had only ever been Hannah. How sad is that. In my forties and not a clue how to date.’
‘One of the girls from work was getting married and she invited me out on her hen night. I know she was expecting me to say no. I had every time anyone else asked me. This time I said yes. I had to get out there somehow and at least try to find some friendship, even if it was just with my work colleagues.’
‘I fussed for weeks building myself up for that night. I bought and changed twenty six dresses before settling on the one I wore, a simple black A-Line, very short on the leg, but elegant. I had my hair straightened and my nails done. You might not believe it now but I used to be pretty. There were thirteen of us including the Hen and we initially went for a meal on the deck of the Cruz Bar, a boat on the riv
er right in the centre of Leith, next to the Customs House. It was a great venue, good food, lots of smutty girlie talk and an ideal opportunity to people watch Leith life. I was nervous and very reticent in the early conversations, but after a few Jager Bombs, I loosened up a little, watching and talking to the girls more than people watching.’
‘It was around ten when Sammie, the Maid Of Honour, announced that we were ready to head off to the next venue. She wouldn’t tell us where that was. We all had to put on blindfolds. A slight chill of excitement, of anticipation ran down my spine as I put mine on. She then led us in a slightly drunken conga out down Bernard Street. We sang all the way, passing numerous pubs and clubs, being cheered on by the night time revellers, some of whom copped a sneaky feel or fondle, which was tantalising. After about ten minutes we arrived at our destination and Sammie led us, still blindfolded, into the venue. The crisp evening air outside immediately changed to a warm, close atmosphere, sudden aromas of musk and pot invading my senses, the gentle, disjointed confusion of light Jazz entering my ears.’
‘’Right Girls.’ Sammie said, ‘After three, take your blindfolds off: One, two, three!’ she announced. We took them off and girlie shrieks, some of excitement and some of shock rang out above the ambient jazz, as we took in the room. It was dimly lit, with small booths around the walls, cigarette and pot fumes adding to the haze. We were in one of the booths, looking out into the room where there were tables in front of a stage. On the stage were two very voluptuous blondes, totally naked, pole dancing for the women seated at the tables. In the booths that were occupied, we could see lap dances going on with the women sitting in them. In one corner, a quartet of beautiful women, dressed in spats, white cuffs and collars, hair sleeked back, moustaches drawn on their lips, but naked otherwise were the source of the music.’
