by Jon Tracy
‘So maybe life threw too much at Anna and her personality machine broke down trying to cope.’
‘You still believe it was something in her childhood?’
‘Has to be. After everything she said yesterday about her sisters and her mother, I would put all my money on Louisa’s childhood abuse theory.’ Valentina shuffles through some of the photocopies of the diary in front of her. ‘I think the answer lies in the original alters, Cassandra in particular.’
‘I’ve got a lot of stuff from her.’ Tom holds up a stack of sheets. ‘Listen to this; this is after Cassandra’s death in Cosmedin. They gather my bones and ashes. Loyal fingers seek out every part of me – what I was, what I am, what I will be… They poke among the embers of a pyre that was soaked in cups of oil and bouquets of perfume. My husband is not among the grubbers. He is long gone. Vanished after the feasting… No doubt he is now in our matrimonial bed, slaking his thirst for wine and boys.’
Tom lowers the paper. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that this alter – the Cassandra alter – continues to exist after she’s been killed?’
Valentina isn’t as shocked. ‘Why not? I guess if you’re a DID sufferer, it’s up to you to decide whether you want to let your alter live on after it’s died.’
Tom reads another section. ‘ Arria is here, of course. Sweetest Arria. She will be among the first to remember me at Parentalia. Was not Dies Parentales made for women with faces as sad as Arria’s? ’
Valentina is puzzled. ‘What on earth are Parentalia and Dies Parentales?’
‘They’re one and the same. Basically, a remembrance celebration for the dead. It ran from the thirteenth to the twenty-first of February.’
She searches her pile of papers. ‘Is there a date on her diary entry?’
‘No date, but I found this between several other entries that were in the personalities of fourteen- and fifteen-year-old girls.’
‘So Anna was probably a young teenager when she was already dissociating, or whatever the medical term is.’
‘Probably.’ Tom is keen to finish the passage. ‘The urn they have fashioned for me is a cheap one. From its lack of elegance I know already that they will not carry me to my husband’s tomb. I am pleased
… I shall not wait for him beyond the three canine heads of Cerberus.’
‘What’s Cerberus?’ Valentina asks. ‘Didn’t Anna mention that yesterday when she became agitated and started arguing in several voices?’
‘Yes, she did. Cerberus is a Latinised version of the Greek Kerberos, and according to mythology, it’s a three-headed hellhound owned by Hades that guards the gates of the underworld.’
‘I guess that makes sense,’ Valentina says flippantly. ‘A multi-headed dog to kill off multiple personalities.’
Tom explains a little more. ‘Cerberus had one head to watch over the past, one to guard the present and the third to look into the future.’
‘Quite a pooch.’
‘And a hungry one. All of the jaws hungered solely for live human meat. Cerberus was the perfect monster to ensure that no living soul entered the afterlife. It was also said to have a mane and tail made out of serpents, much like Medusa’s hair.’
‘Not exactly Fluffy.’
‘Fluffy?’
‘The three-headed dog in Harry Potter. One of the advantages of having a young niece who needs taking to the movies.’
Tom puts the paper down. ‘Mythology is everywhere these days. McDonald’s will be selling Zeus burgers soon.’
‘Are you willing to bet their Greek franchises don’t already do them?’
‘No. Joking aside, the mythology might also be some kind of clue.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, when Anna first started talking about Mother, I thought she meant the Holy Mother.’
Valentina nods. ‘Me too. So?’
‘Well, yesterday she also used the term Mater.’
‘That means Mother.’
‘Yes, I know that. But she said something odd, like: “Mater, who is all, is within us”, and that made me realise we weren’t in the realms of Roman Catholicism any more.’
‘We weren’t?’
‘No.’ He picks up Anna’s diary again. ‘And this confirms it. In here she talks about other women. She says: ‘ Before me I see my sisters. The others of the spirit world. Those who have for ever been and will for ever be. They are the keepers of the secret. The prophetesses.’
Tom looks pleased with himself.
Valentina still doesn’t get it. ‘ Sisters? Some feminist movement? Nuns?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, not nuns. I didn’t want to speculate until I’d thought it through.’
‘What, Tom?’ She presses him. ‘Come on, you need to give me something.’
He waggles the papers in his hand. ‘Cybele.’
The name means nothing to Valentina.
‘ Cybele! ’ he repeats with extra stress. ’I should have got it much earlier. I had coffee a few days ago with Alfie, and we found the name Cybele linked to the Field of Mars and to several temples in Rome.’
‘Tom, I really don’t follow. Cybele who?’
He blows out a sigh. Explaining this could be difficult. ‘She’s as old as time itself. Known to the Greeks as Meter, to the Phrygrians as Matar Kubileya and to the Romans as Magna Mater – the Great Mother.’
‘We’re talking about Mother Nature?’
‘Not quite. Not as simply and benignly and abstractly as we refer to Mother Nature these days. It’s more complex than that. People began worshipping Cybele centuries before Christ. She was the ultimate matriarchal icon, and some even say she was responsible for the birth of feminism.’
‘And all this is bad how?’ Valentina jokes.
‘Bad for men. She had a lover called Attis. He was unfaithful to her, and in revenge she drove him insane and made him castrate himself. Male followers in the sect of Attis were eunuchs, just as they were in the sect of Cybele.’
Valentina starts to see connections to her case. ‘We’re back to those… what were they called… galleys?’
‘Galli.’ He makes a scissor action with his fingers. ‘Only after they’d experienced the snip were they allowed to become priests. These were the only males permitted to be close to any of the sect’s priestesses.’
She climbs off the bed and moves to the desk. ‘Let me look at that section.’
He passes it to her.
She scans it a little, then reads aloud: ‘… the mortals take my burned remains to their dank resting place in the Colum barium. Here among the shelved peasantry is my place in the potted history of poorest Rome. My niche in society.’
She looks up from the photocopy. ‘Columbarium? As in Columbia?’
‘No. A columbarium is a public resting place for the ashes of the dead; it’s where poor people stored their loved ones when they couldn’t afford tombs. Urns were kept on numbered shelves, so relatives could come and find them and pay their respects.’
‘During Parentalia?’
‘Exactly.’
She carries on reading. ‘ No ornately engraved plaque marks my spot. No statue or portrait. Nor any message of love. Just a number. My sisters and I wonder if beyond the grave they can hear us laughing. The number is X.’
She hands the paper back to Tom. ‘Why would the number ten be amusing for Cassandra and her sisters?’
Now it’s Tom’s turn to look lost. ‘The number ten means nothing significant to me. You’ll find myths and legends that talk not only about Cybele, but also about various sibyls.’ He spells it out for her. ‘These are often the same prophetess, but I can’t recall the number playing any symbolic part.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t get too excited about all this. It’s probably just some crazy nonsense that went off in Anna’s head when she was imagining being dead Cassandra and living beyond the grave.’
She puts her arms around his neck. She’s had enough of the case for now. Enough of ancient Greeks and Roman myths. Enough of her susp
ension and her uncertain future. In fact, enough of everything except Tom. ‘Thanks for staying. For being with me throughout this madness. All this madness.’
He puts his hand on hers. ‘Think nothing of it; there’s nowhere I’d rather be. Besides, Paris was far too cold for an LA boy. I had to go somewhere.’
She gives him a friendly slap on the side of his head.
‘Hey!’
Mischief flickers in her eyes. ‘Hey what?’
She dances away from him like a boxer, hands up in pretend fists. ‘What are you going to do about it, eh?’ She feigns a slap with her left and then clips him with an open-handed right. ‘Woo-hoo! Come on, Mr Beeg Man, let’s see you fight for your place in the Roman sun.’
‘Right.’ Tom springs up with a smile as broad as Canada. ‘You are now so going to get it.’
Valentina jumps up on to the bed and bounces some more. ‘I hope so. I really hope so.’
78
Anna Fratelli can’t move her arms or legs.
As well as the chemical straitjacket of sedatives they’ve imposed upon her, she’s also pinned down with bed restraints.
Valducci is taking no chances. He’s reduced her to a state where she couldn’t even harm a proverbial fly if it settled on the tip of her nose, let alone injure herself again.
The Velcro fastenings on her wrists and ankles mean that her every waking moment is spent staring at the ceiling of the new high-security room they’ve moved her to.
Her only distraction is spotting the occasional movement of an overhead camera that records her 24/7.
Louisa Verdetti watches the camera feed with sadness.
She understands the need for the chemical restraints but thinks Valducci has overstepped the mark with the bonds.
So typical of him.
He selfishly jumps at any chance to show he’s in control and can dominate and intimidate.
She can see Anna’s lips moving but she can’t hear anything.
She fiddles with the audio control on the monitor, but all she gets is loud hiss.
Maybe Anna is silently mouthing the words to some prayer.
She turns the volume up to the max.
Nothing.
A deafening voice erupts through the speakers as the technical fault fixes itself.
By the time Louisa has turned it down and her eardrums have stopped banging, she’s missed the start of whatever is being said.
But it’s clear that it’s not Anna who’s talking.
It’s another alter.
The mean and powerful one that appeared when the cops were interviewing her.
‘Stupid girl! You disgrace us. Look at you lying there on your back, spread out like a cheap peasant whore about to pleasure the dimmest of farmers. You are not fit to be Cybeline.’
A weaker voice answers, ‘I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. It is not my fault that I am like this.’
Louisa feels like her heart is going to break. She was hoping Anna had put the trauma of simultaneous manifestations behind her.
Clearly not.
‘ Sorry? ’ The dominant alter stresses the word poisonously. ‘You do not have the right to even think about apologising to me. You are past that, child. You are lost to me.’
Louisa realises she’s wrong.
This is not just any alter. By the sound of it, this is the ultimate and most powerful one of them all. The Mother.
‘Lost, child! Do you hear me?’
‘No, please!’ Anna begs. ‘I have tried my best. I have done almost everything that you have asked of me.’
Louisa quickly pulls a small notepad from her white doctor’s coat and scribbles.
This moment could be key to unlocking the mysterious traumas that have messed with Anna’s mind.
‘Almost is not enough!’ The words are shouted out. ‘You have failed me. Failed all of us. Now I ask only that you show me the loyalty your sisters have.’
‘Mater!’ Anna is close to tears.
‘Stop sniffling!’ Her face wrinkles with contempt. ‘Your weakness disgusts me. Weakness leads to treachery. Have I not taught you to be stronger?’
Anna is too upset to speak.
Louisa finds herself torn between note-taking and intervention. If she ends it now, the Mater personality may submerge beneath the others and she could lose valuable insight into how to treat Anna.
‘Answer me!’ shouts Mater, viciously. ‘Have I not taught you to be stronger?’
Anna answers with a whimper. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you must know what I have come to do.’
There’s panic now in Anna’s voice. ‘Forgive me, I beg you. I had to run away.’ She struggles for breath. ‘I could not hurt my own sister.’
‘Your sister was treacherous. I had to make sure she would not betray us. As I have to make sure you will not.’
Anna thrashes against the bed restraints. ‘No! No! You’re hurting me, Mater!’ Her body thumps against the mattress, creating a sound like thunder. ‘Stop! Stop! You’re hurting me!’
Louisa has seen enough.
She rushes from the monitors to the room.
‘Please let me go!’
One of the wrist restraints breaks loose.
‘I cast you from the sanctity of the womb, I damn your soul to eternal exile beyond the boundary of the sisterhood.’
‘No, please, Mater! Please don’t.’
‘The jagged stone teeth of the Tarpeian Rock are too good for you. Strangulation on the Gemonian Stairs too honourable. I cast you down from a place above the clouds so that your organs and your bones will be obliterated like an ant crushed beneath a giant’s heel.’
Louisa opens the door of the electronically locked room just as the other wrist restraint breaks.
Anna falls from the bed. She is left dangling by her tethered feet, screaming in wild panic.
‘Anna, Anna, it’s okay!’
Louisa tries to lift her back on to the bed, but can’t.
‘Let me help you. You’re okay.’
She quickly releases the ankle restraints and lowers her to the ground.
Face down on the cold floor, Anna mouths three words: ‘The Tenth Book.’
Louisa kneels alongside her.
‘Shush. Be quiet now. Everything’s okay.’ She puts two fingers to the pulse point in the patient’s neck.
Anna’s body spasms.
Her eyes widen and she grabs Louisa’s arm. ‘Find… the… Tenth… Book.’
She spasms again. Then lies lifeless.
Louisa can’t detect a pulse.
Anna isn’t moving.
Her heart has stopped.
79
Federico Assante’s wife Mia has gone out for the day with their young daughter.
He has no idea what they’re doing or when they’ll be back.
Right now he has no idea about anything.
Mia left straight after breakfast, and he’s sure she knows something is wrong.
She always knows.
Federico can’t bring himself to tell her that he’s been suspended and sent home.
He’s too ashamed.
To Mia and her family, his job is everything. She’s always talking about how proud she is that he’s a policeman. A photograph of him in full ceremonial uniform stands on a cabinet in every one of her relatives’ homes.
He’ll never be able to tell her.
For the moment he’s told her he’s off sick. An injured back. Backs are always a safe bet. Not even doctors can prove you don’t have some form of back pain.
But he knows he can’t bluff for ever.
The curtains of their apartment are closed. He sits in the white vest he’s worn for two days, chain-smoking over a low coffee table filled with magazines that he’s not reading.
From somewhere in the pocket of his badly creased black trousers his cell phone sends out a tinny imitation of the iconic 24 ring tone.
Not even Jack Bauer could save this day.
‘ Pronto.’
It’s Enrico Ferrari. Unbearably upbeat and almost the last person he wants to talk to.
Federico pictures him, doughnut in hand, sugar on lips, his diary spread open in front of him as he calls around to find drinking chums.
Well, Federico doesn’t want to go out.
Not now. Not ever again.
‘Enrico, I’m sorry, this is a bad time, I-’
‘No it’s not!’ he insists cheerily. ‘This is actually a good time – a very good time.’
‘Enrico, I’m not really in the mood for-’
‘But Skywalker, your waiting is over.’
‘Enrico!’
His friend isn’t deterred. ‘No, no, listen, this really is a good-news call. I just read the full mitochondrial DNA test results on both Anna Fratelli and the severed hand recovered from the Bocca in Cosmedin.’
‘You lost me, Enrico.’
‘They’re sisters.’
‘Sisters?’
‘See, the news is so good you have to repeat it. Your handless victim is Anna Fratelli’s sister.’
Federico can’t get his head around it.
Anna never mentioned she had a sister.
One of the alters was referred to as Little Suzie, but from what he can remember, she wasn’t a sister to any of the others.
Come to think of it, the medical records they’d pulled didn’t mention any sister either.
‘Hello, are you still there?’
‘I’m just trying to work things out. You’re saying that Anna’s sister had her hand cut off?’
‘Oh boy! How did you ever make detective? Yes, that’s pretty much what I said. Though if you want to quote me verbatim, I actually said that your handless victim is Anna’s sister.’
‘How are you so sure?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I do, but keep it simple. Cop simple.’
‘Okay. Look, we have forty-six chromosomes; twenty-three we get from our mother and twenty-three from our father. We also get some mitochondrial DNA from our mother only. Using the mitochondrial DNA for sibling identification is quite accurate, because all children born of a certain female should share this DNA.’
‘And the father?’
‘Different. Totally different fathers. Sorry, I shouldn’t say “totally different” because of course they can’t be slightly different fathers. I mean, they’re either different or the same, aren’t they? You see what I mean? It’s like being a little bit pregnant; you can’t be – you’re either pregnant or you’re not.’
