Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

“I don’t know,” I said, sinking miserably to my haunches in the corner. “I didn’t think of it.”

She reached down impatiently and hauled me to my feet. “Stop being so bloody pathetic and show some guts,” she growled, pushing me on to a chair. “I know you’ve got them.”

I wondered if this was how she’d treated Nathaniel. If so, it was hardly surprising he’d preferred Madeleine’s flattery. I don’t know what I’d expected from her-sympathy and a little affection, perhaps-but it never occurred to me that she might be frightened. It should have done. I should have guessed that my mention of an intruder would take her straight to MacKenzie’s photo.

At the time she’d worked on the headshot, I’d expected her to bombard me with questions. She hadn’t, although I do remember her asking what the man’s name was and why I was doing it. She used the computer at the farm, with me sitting beside her, and she seemed content with the answers I gave-that it was someone I knew by sight, who was wanted in Africa for passport offences. The only comment she made was that it was surprising I was ignorant of his name when I remembered his face so well.

“Was it that man?” she demanded now.

I stared at my hands.

“Who is he? Why would he come looking for you?” When I didn’t answer, she reached for the cordless phone and held it out to me. “Call the police…I’ll give you the number of the local station. The person you should ask for is Steve Banks. He’s our community bobby, and this is his area. He’s a good bloke.” She put the receiver on the table in front of me. “You’ve got one minute to make up your mind, then I’ll do it myself.”

I pulled the phone towards me and cradled it against my chest. “There’s no point. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Then why tell me you did? Why lock yourself in here?”

“You wouldn’t have come if I’d said I’d locked myself in for no reason.”

She turned on the tap and ran some water into the kettle. “You look like shit,” she said severely. “Do you want to go upstairs and sort yourself out while I make some coffee? I’ll shut the dogs in the back room so you don’t throw a panic attack when you see them.” She flicked me one of her penetrating gazes as she switched on the kettle before heading for the door to the corridor. “And don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. If you take longer than half an hour, I’ll be gone…and I won’t come back. I really hate weepy women.”

DENIAL’S A WONDERFUL THING. You can survive forever if you say “no.” It’s “yes” that puts you at risk. Yes, I’d like a job. Yes, I’ll go to Baghdad. Yes, I know who abducted me. Yes, I can identify MacKenzie. I had a great-aunt who said “no” to everything. She died a virgin at ninety-eight and her death was the most interesting thing about her. She said: “What was I thinking of?” just before she died, and we’ve been wondering ever since.

Jess was right about my appearance. I did look like shit. Red-eyed and haggard, and easily as old and desiccated as a ninety-eight-year-old virgin. As I washed my face and tugged a brush through my hair, I asked myself what I was thinking of. I’d hardly written anything since I’d arrived-except emails to Alan and Dan-and the only people I spoke to on a regular basis were my parents, Jess and Peter. My days were spent surfing the net, researching information on psychopaths and deviants. My nights were spent dreaming about them.

“ Stalker types: The delusional stalker often has a history of mental illness which leads him to fantasize that his victim is in love with him. The vengeful stalker-the most dangerous-seeks revenge…”

“ Sadist Rapist: One who seeks to punish a woman by the use of violence and cruelty. The victim is typically only a symbol of the source of his anger. He is usually very deliberate in his rapes and plans each one carefully. The victims are often traumatized, suffer extreme physical injuries and, in many cases, are murdered…”

“ Torturer: One who inflicts extreme physical and mental pain for the purpose of punishment or obtaining information. Abuse may include: blindfolding; enforced constant standing or crouching; near drowning through submersion in water; near suffocation by plastic bags being tied round the head; rape…”

When John Donne wrote “no man is an island, entire of itself” he can’t have known about genuine introverts like Jess or sociopaths like MacKenzie. Such people might live within communities-albeit on the fringes-but their reclusiveness, their reticence, even their indifference to what others think, means, at best, that they’re only semi-attached to the “continent” of mankind. If they engage with the rest of us at all, it’s on their own terms and not on ours.

MacKenzie’s isolation had turned him into a predator, although it’s arguable which came first-his sadism or his alienation. It’s unlikely he was born with sadistic fantasies-what baby is?-but a harsh childhood might have led to them. By contrast, Jess’s introversion seems to have been inherited from her father, although the tragedies in her life may have exacerbated it. Sometimes, particularly when she refused to speak, I felt there was an autistic element to her personality. She was certainly a gifted artist and gave the same obsessive commitment to her work that savants show.

In her own way, she was charismatic. She inspired affection and loyalty in those who chose to interact with her, and a disproportionate dislike among those who didn’t. There was no middle ground with Jess. You loved her or loathed her, and in either case accepted her detachment as part of the package.

All of which persuaded me back downstairs within the half-hour limit because I needed her a great deal more than she needed me.

Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16-19/05/04”

…The police in Baghdad suggested that my alleged “ignorance” might be due to Stockholm Syndrome-I’d developed a bond with my captors to stay alive and was withholding information out of gratitude for my release. They told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to most hostages because their lives depend on their captors, and it’s a classic self-protection measure to befriend the one who threatens you. When I denied it, they lost sympathy with me.

…The only bond I developed was with the footsteps. I longed for them because I was afraid I’d been left to die of slow starvation and dehydration…and feared them because it meant I’d be taken out of the crate. I certainly developed a psychological attachment to sounds. I was owned for three days-and still am.

…I was never going to give details of what happened. How could I explain my smiles to strangers? Did I ever say no? Did I ever think about saying no?

…Do all sadists understand the power they wield? Are all victims programmed to respond in the same way to fear and pain?

…I wish I could believe that. At least it’s an excuse for cowardice. Why am I alive? I don’t understand that at all…

MY RETURN DOWNSTAIRS was a replay of my arrival. When I pushed open the kitchen door, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table and Jess stood mutinously by the Aga, staring at the floor. I hadn’t heard Peter’s car, and I stiffened with anxiety as soon as I saw him. He gave me a reassuring smile. “I won’t take offence if you give me my marching orders, Marianne. Jess told me to get my ‘arse over PDQ.’ She said it was an emergency, but, as I’m sure you know by now, diagnosis isn’t her strong point.”

Jess scowled at him. “You need to talk to someone,” she told me bluntly, “and Peter’s probably the best person. Just don’t let him put you on drugs. If he turns you into a zombie, you’ll be easy meat for any psycho that comes calling.”