‘If we’re going to accept DPD as our diagnosis,’ said the neurologist, ‘it seems as if your alter ego hails from Ireland. In fact he – it sounds like a “he” by the way – apparently knows Ireland quite well.’
He did know it well, thought Benedict. He lived there until he was about twenty. No, I mustn’t think like that – none of it was real. But oh, God, how much did I tell them when I was zonked on their loathsome pills? He forced himself to listen to Nina who was demanding to know how Benedict would know about a country he had never visited.
‘Oh, books, films, television,’ said the consultant. ‘Absorbed by the subconscious mind over the years.’
This was instantly reassuring. That’s how all this has happened, thought Benedict. Even the chess piece – maybe even that photograph of the Mesmer Murderer in those old newspapers. I saw them the day of the funeral and didn’t remember. He said, ‘That’s interesting about the subconscious mind. It’s one of the arguments put forward to disprove reincarnation, isn’t it? To debunk the descriptions of what people believe are past lives dredged up under hypnosis.’
‘Yes. As for your case – when I said your alter ego seemed to know Ireland, I should have said he knows an Ireland. It mightn’t be an accurate picture – it’ll be the picture you have of it.’
‘Taken from my own mind?’
‘Yes. The human brain is remarkable. We don’t understand more than a tiny part of it,’ said the doctor. ‘But we do know that with DPD the mind can fashion fragments of facts – half-remembered memories and experiences – and use them to clothe the alter ego. Usually unconsciously. But make no mistake, these second selves have very distinct personalities and if you do have this condition, Benedict, you’ll believe very strongly that your own alter ego exists somewhere in the world – or maybe has existed sometime in the recent past. And you’ll certainly question our diagnosis, even if you don’t do so openly.’ He smiled. ‘But also remember that this diagnosis isn’t definite yet. We’re keeping a very open mind, and it’s important you do the same.’ He paused, then said, with slight reluctance, ‘All the same, you’ve certainly displayed what are called auditory hallucinations of other personalities, and that’s typical of the condition.’
‘Oh God.’ This was Nina. Benedict looked at her, and thought: this might terrify you, but for me it’s liberation. I feel like going off and celebrating – getting drunk from sheer relief. I feel like giving this wonderful neurologist with the crumpled face a thousand pounds in gratitude.
The crumpled-face neurologist was saying that dissociative personality disorder did not need to ruin anyone’s life. ‘DPD is a condition that’s controllable – within certain parameters, that is.’
‘You’re telling me you couldn’t get rid of . . . of this alter ego,’ said Benedict, carefully. ‘But that you could probably keep the volume tuned to “low”. Have I understood that right?’
‘Yes, you have. Although it’s more a matter of teaching you how to keep him tuned to a low setting,’ said the doctor.
I’ve done that for years, thought Benedict. But if we can turn it even lower, that would be a bonus.
Nina suddenly said, ‘What about his eyes? Nell West – that’s the friend who found him – said they changed colour.’
‘Yes, they did. Brown to blue. Actually, sufferers from this condition do sometimes display different physical states while in the grip of—’
‘An attack?’ said Benedict, and the doctor smiled.
‘I was going to say in the grip of the alter ego,’ he said. ‘But that sounds a bit macabre, doesn’t it? Some EEG tests done on patients – sorry, Miss Doyle, EEG is electroencephalography – have recorded brain scans showing changes in blood-flow patterns. Changes at the moment the switch between the personalities happens. Sometimes blood sugar levels change, as well. We didn’t see that with you, Benedict, but we did see the change in eye colour. It happened twice in the first twenty-four hours. It’s a curious symptom and quite unusual – I’ve never personally seen it before, but I’ve talked to colleagues working in this field, and it’s not unknown.’
‘But what causes this illness?’ Nina’s tone was challenging and slightly suspicious.
‘It doesn’t necessarily need a trigger, although there’s a fair body of evidence to indicate that a childhood trauma can contribute. Or even,’ said the neurologist, his voice carefully expressionless, ‘some form of abuse.’
Benedict said at once, ‘I’ve never been abused.’
‘But there was trauma,’ said the doctor. ‘Your parents died when you were young. Eight years old, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, and that was massive – the worst thing that can happen to any child. I was devastated for a very long time. Of course I was. But I thought I recovered fairly well.’
‘We all thought so,’ added Nina.
‘I missed them for years,’ said Benedict, speaking a bit unwillingly, because he did not like having his emotions probed so rigorously. ‘I still do sometimes. I’d have liked them to see that I managed to get to university, for instance. But the . . . the pain of loss got less as the years went along. I lived with my aunt – that was Nina’s mother – and she was very kind, very loving and supportive. Always so proud if I achieved things. I truly don’t think she ever made any distinction between Nina and me.’
‘She didn’t,’ said Nina. ‘And as far as I was concerned you were – you still are – my brother.’
‘Thanks,’ said Benedict, a bit awkwardly. ‘But you see what I’m saying? It was a happy background. I had all the normal family things.’
‘How about school?’
‘I quite liked school. I wasn’t bullied or anything. And I like university now. I’m reading criminology and law – criminology especially is fascinating. I’ve got friends, a fairly good social life – not wild partying or clubbing, but it’s lively enough.’