Psychopath!

by Morton Bain

  ‘I keep passing people who look like my victims,’ I tell Chanda. ‘Look at this guy here. He looks just like someone I killed. So have all the others we’ve passed.’

  Chanda squeezes my hand. ‘Ignore them. They’re not real. Nothing is real apart from Divine Oneness.’

  I deliberately avoid looking at anyone else I pass before reaching the park. It’s a typical suburban park. Children’s play area at one side, near a small café; large grassy expanse with a border of trees; low iron fence. The only thing that sets it apart from thousands of other urban parks is the huge oak tree that grows smack in its middle. It looks as if it has to be at least four hundred years old, with a thick, twisted trunk and lower branches that have the same girth as most tree’s trunks.

  The oak tree’s position and size invites attention, and I stand looking at it for some time. Suddenly I am the tree, looking back at myself standing a hundred yards away. I feel myself occupy the branches of the tree in the same way that as a human I’m used to having the sense of a body inhabited. Unlike the way in which human consciousness seems to be centred in the head, as a tree consciousness seems dispersed between all the thousands of leaves the tree has. I wonder what will happen after autumn. Do I sleep until the spring? I try to wave at myself by moving a large branch. I can’t move the branch myself, but seconds after ‘I’ have this thought a gust of wind shakes the branch I had in mind. I’m over here. Look at me! From the distance the human me stands from myself I can’t see if I am aware of the arboreal greeting I’m giving.

  I stay in tree-consciousness for what seems like quite a long time. I can feel the weight of water droplets on my leaves, the swaying motion that bends me to my heartwood, the extent of my root network that extends almost to where Chanda and myself stand. I like being a tree. The sense of groundedness – it sounds corny, but I feel so secure rooted as I quite literally am in the ground. I feel a sense of timelessness, of nothing needing to be done apart from being, of nowhere to go and nothing to want for.

  I snap back to my human body and feel a wrench that has to be comparable to that felt by a newborn baby. ‘Fuck,’ I say. I become aware that I’m squeezing Chanda’s hand. ‘I just had the most amazing experience. Just out of this world. See that tree over there? I was it!’

  ‘Of course you are it,’ Chanda says. ‘You are everything you see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when you look at a tree – or anything – where is that image being created?’

  ‘In my mind – my brain.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re creating the image of the tree. That tree is part of you. You can never know a tree or anything else apart from through the agency of your mind.’

  ‘I guess, but why did I ‘become’ the tree just now? That isn’t normal.’

  ‘You’re breaking through, I think,’ Chanda replies. ‘To murder is to perform one of the most extreme acts a human can perform. You have committed several murders. I think these deeds are breaking the veil for you, allowing you to see the truth of reality. When you became a tree that is just a facet of reality – in reality you are the tree. You are the tree, and the wind, and the books you read, and the victims you kill. That is why murderers are punished straight away, because in killing another they kill themselves. Everything is One.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill anymore.’

  ‘Good - why would you? Who wants to kill themselves?’

  The enormity of the consequences of my behaviour over the last year – over the course of my life – hits me. I feel like I’ve just been trampled by an elephant. It’s hard to distinguish between the cocktail of emotions I’m feeling, but in amongst them is something that feels like I imagine remorse must feel. I think I actually feel sorry for what I’ve been up to.

  ‘This makes things simpler and more complicated.’ I say. We’ve started to walk the path that encircles the park. ‘I don’t want to kill, but that leaves me with options like flight, surrender or my own death. I don’t really want any of them, either.’

  ‘In a year’s time everything will be resolved,’ Chanda says. ‘You’ll be resigned to whatever has happened.’

  ‘Do you think I should hand myself in?’

  ‘I trust you to make the right decision, whatever that may be.’

  After a couple of circuits we start walking home. I still feel strange, my consciousness seeming to flit from where it is normally centred to random locations and objects. Despite the difficulty of the choices facing me I feel a peace that I’ve never really known before.

  When we get back Chanda leads me up to the bedroom and we make love. It seems the most natural and obvious thing to do. Our movements synchronise wonderfully, the tempo is perfect, and we both have deep and satisfying climaxes. I fall asleep, waking after an hour or so. When I open my eyes I see Chanda. She’s lying on her side looking at me, her head supported by a hand. I smile, and say, ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘So am I,’ Chanda says, moving her body onto mine.

  Later that day I pick the kids up from school. I spend some time playing with them after they’ve changed out of their school clothes. I feel like I’ve returned from a long, difficult journey. They seem to pick up on the change in me. At one point Chloe says, ‘Are you alright Daddy?’

  ‘I’m just fine,’ I reassure her.

  Later, when the kids are in bed, I say to Chanda: ‘I was always convinced I was a psychopath. From my reading of the literature, there isn’t really a cure for this condition. You can maybe learn to control your urges, but the urges and essential pathology remain. Have I been cured, I wonder? What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know about this psychopath thing. All I know is that labels cause as much problem as they solve. You are just you. If you now feel peace, then leave it there.’

  I imagine going straight over to Courtney’s house now and shooting him. Could I do it? A moment’s self-analysis reveals that I could, but also that I certainly don’t want to.

  As if thinking of him has called him, my phone rings and it is Courtney. ‘Fu . . . fucking . . . I . . . sh . . . ’ he mumbles.

  ‘Courtney, are you alright?’ I say.

  Before he can answer my landline starts to ring. ‘Courtney, I’ll call you back,’ I tell him. I pick up the home phone. ‘Hello?’

  It’s Ringer ringing, wanting to know why I haven’t emailed him as promised. ‘On its way,’ I promise him.

  Seconds after putting the phone down the doorbell rings. Opening the door I’m greeted with the sight of an angry looking Joey. He barges past me, saying, ‘Where is that fuckin’ moron? I’ve been trying to ring him for hours and no-one’s answering at home.’

  I follow Joey into the living room. ‘Who?’ I say to his back. ‘Courtney?’

  ‘Who fuckin’ else? He’s meant to be picking up some more bitches.’

  ‘I was around there yesterday,’ I say. ‘The spirits and dope were coming out. He’s probably caned. He rang me just now so he’s still alive.’

  ‘Forget caned, he’s gonna get canned if I don’t hear from him soon. Let’s go over and break his door down.’

  I hesitate. Chanda appears in the doorway. Fuck it, I think. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  On the drive over I’m tempted to think of possible responses to what we’ll find when we get to Courtney’s; what I’ll say, how I’ll react. In the end I decide not to bother. I’ll just go with the flow.

  Arriving at our absent colleague’s house, Joey gets straight down to hammering on the door. ‘Courtney!’ he shouts. ‘Get your fucking ass to the door!’

  There’s no reply, and Joey tries the gate that leads to the path that connects front garden with rear. It’s locked, and he gives the gate a kick. Joey returns to the front door and resumes hammering, pausing occasionally to kick the door. He looks on the verge of conceding defeat, when the door opens. Courtney stands in the doorway, looking like death.

  ‘What the fuck have you been up to?’ Joey demands
to know. ‘You’re meant to be fifty miles away picking some girls up.’

  Courtney looks at me suspiciously. ‘I don’t know what happen. I was having a drink with him. Next thing I know I’m like this . . .’

  ‘You were okay when I left you,’ I lie. ‘Don’t blame me if you decide to party the night away on your own.’

  ‘You look like shit,’ Joey says. ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Will you go with him?’ Joey asks me. ‘I’ve gotta meet a big coke customer.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  I take the wheel of Courtney’s car for the outward leg. Courtney sits beside me sipping a Coke and looking like he’s about to vomit. There’s an atmosphere in the car, and I wonder how long it will be before Courtney mentions our recent time together.

  It’s about ten minutes later that the subject is broached. ‘Did you spike my drink or somethin’ yesterday?’ Courtney asks.

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. ‘No. Why do you ask?’ I deliberately keep my eyes on the road.

  ‘Something ain’t right. I don’t really like booze in big quantities, but there’s lots of empty bottles in my house. Plus I can just about remember some stuff that just ain’t right.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s the whole point. I can’t remember it. Yet.’

  ‘Why would I want to spike your drink? You’re not my type . . .’

  My remark doesn’t elicit a response.

  We drive on for another mile or so before Courtney says, ‘Pull over here.’

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up. ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Just do it.’

  I pull over, making sure it’s directly outside a busy greengrocer’s. No point making it easy for him.

  ‘Get out,’ he says.

  ‘Why? Why should I?’

  ‘Get out, or I’ll throw you out. You lucky I don’t have a weapon on me.’

  I open my mouth to protest, and Courtney punches me hard in the left temple. I open the door, causing a car coming from behind to swerve right. I get out of the car and watch as Courtney shifts into the driver’s seat. The door closes and he takes off with the squeal of tires.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I stand on the pavement watching the rear of Courtney’s car moving away while massaging my head. What has he remembered? What’s he going to do next? I have a clear vision of him dialling Joey from his car. No, no, no. Not while there’s breath in my lungs. I pull my mobile out to ring Chanda, but discover to my alarm that it’s dead. There follows a frantic search for a phone box. I find one after about fifteen minutes, but then realise I don’t have any coins. Another ten minutes wasted as I break a note to get change. Finally I’m able to call Chanda; she picks up after about ten rings, saying, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Chanda, it’s me,’ I say. ‘Listen, things are moving a bit faster than I expected. I need you to get the kids together and get out of the house. Just take what you can easily carry. Go to that Italian restaurant at the end of the road – Bepe’s or whatever it’s called. Get a table and get something to eat. Don’t leave until I get there.’

  ‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine at the moment, but it isn’t safe for you to stay at home. Have you got money?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘There’s a couple of hundred pounds in the top drawer of the desk in my study. Take that. Take your phone with you. You got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be with you in about an hour. Try and be out of the house in the next five minutes.’

  ‘I will.’

  I get money out of a cashpoint machine, and then walk along the High Street I’m on until I find a mini cab office. A couple of minutes later I’m in the back of a late model Toyota that smells of tobacco, heading back towards Chanda and the kids. I know what I’m going to do first – pick up Chanda and offspring – it’s what I do after that that I’m not too sure about. I have to assume that Courtney won’t be a direct threat for a couple of hours – it’ll take him a while to do the pick up and drop-off. I also have to assume that he will be speaking to Joey or Jake – maybe both – and that he’ll be saying something along the lines of ‘he’s on to us’. Exactly what Courtney recalls from his scopolamine session I can’t be sure, but if he has a vague memory of spilling the beans about Jake he’ll probably assume he’s said more rather than less. If he knows I know that he and Joey are debating getting rid of me he’ll assume I’m either going to squeal to the police or try to eliminate my colleagues. Whichever course of action they think I’m more likely to follow, they’ll want to get to me first.

  I tell the cab driver to wait after we pull up outside Bepe’s. I make a quick scan of the road, then get out of the car. On entering the restaurant I discover Chanda and the kids halfway through a meal. ‘Sorry guys, we’re going to have to move,’ I say. ‘Come on, forks down, on your feet.’ The kids look at me, puzzled. I wave a waiter over. ‘Sixty cover this?’ I say, throwing some cash on the table. Without waiting for his response I begin shepherding my charges out of the building. I see a car that looks like Joey’s parked about fifty yards from the restaurant as we’re leaving the eatery, but tell myself it can’t be him. He’d been so anxious earlier to meet his coke customer. When we’re all in the taxi I say to the driver: ‘The Holiday Inn by Preston Park.’

  We check in to the hotel. Two rooms – one for the kids and me and one for Chanda. The four of us gather in Chanda’s room and I start fielding questions from the kids. Why are we here? When can we go home?

  ‘Some builders need to do some repairs to our house,’ I explain. ‘We’ll only be here for a couple of days.’

  Chanda opens the single travel bag she has packed and pulls out some toys and books, distributing them to the kids. They shift their attention to paper and plastic, and I use this opportunity to beckon Chanda into the bathroom. I leave the door open but keep my voice low: ‘That guy Courtney I was telling you about knows that I know that they’re thinking of getting rid of me. I think, anyway. That means they’ll probably want to get to me before I can do any damage. No way we can go back to the house until this blows over.’

  ‘How will it blow over?’ Chanda quite reasonably wants to know.

  ‘That’s what I need thinking time to figure out,’ I say. ‘We’ll be here for a while. No outside excursions at the moment. I’m going to try and sneak back to the house at four am or something – pick up a few essentials. I’ll go in if I’m sure the coast is clear.’

  Chanda nods. ‘This is for the best. You need resolution to these issues.’

  ‘I know. I just didn’t expect us to get to this stage so quickly.’

  I go down to reception to borrow a phone charger. After returning to the room we spend the following hours talking, reading to the kids and half-watching the crap being pumped out by the television. At about seven we order some room service; obligatory club sandwiches for Chanda and myself and sausage and mash for the kids. Against my better judgement I order up a couple of beers. My mobile has been on for a couple of hours but the only call I’ve taken is from one of my church deacons, enquiring about the replacement organist we’re having to organise for the following Sunday. Not a peep from Courtney or Joey. At about eight o’clock I decide we should all get some sleep. It’s past the kids’ bedtime, and I want to get my head down in anticipation of an early rise. Chanda volunteers to share her room with the kids and I decide not to argue.

  My iPhone alarm rouses me at three in the morning. Fighting the desire to ignore the gadget and go back to sleep I swing my legs out of bed and rub my eyes. I dress, check I’ve got phone, wallet and keys, then leave the room.

  I curse as I leave the hotel. It’s raining, and not realising this I didn’t get the hotel to book me a cab. I’ve got a walk of a mile or more to my house. I trudge in the direction of home. Cars pass me infrequently, their tyres swishing as they displace water. As I get to within a couple of hundred ya
rds of the house I start scanning for Joey’s or Courtney’s car. Courtney currently drives a banged up old Land Rover which would be hard to miss, but Joey’s wheels are a silver Japanese model, and I’m not sure I’d recognise it if it ran over my foot.

  I don’t see anything with four wheels that looks familiar as I close in on the house. Now I’m paying attention to every parked vehicle I pass, looking to see if they contain passengers. A few cars; no-one visible inside. A thought occurs to me: even if I can’t see anyone lying in wait for me, that’s not to stop Courtney or Joey breaking into the house and waiting for me there. The alarm wouldn’t have been set, and I’m sure either of them could gain access in less than ten seconds. I look around for a makeshift weapon, but can’t see anything more offensive than twigs.

  I’m now standing in front of the house. Lights off: no surprise there. My car’s still in the driveway: that’s good news. I advance cautiously, examining the front door and the ground floor windows at the front, looking for signs of a break-in. There’s nothing to suggest this. I creep over to the gate that guards the walkway to the rear garden and gingerly depress the lever that opens it. I give the rear door of the house and rear ground floor windows the same inspection I gave those at the front of the house – again no signs of someone forcing entry.

  It’s now or never. I go back to the front door and let myself in. As soon as I’ve swung the door open by about thirty degrees I pause and adjust my head to give my ears the best chance of hearing any sounds from within the house. Nothing. I open the door fully and walk into the house. I think about slinking from room to room until I’ve covered the whole dwelling, but decide instead to start switching lights on and making my arrival very obvious. What the heck, if there’s someone waiting for me creeping around will only extend my lifespan by about three minutes.