Fascinating.
Incidentally, I know quite a bit about suicides.
Suicides—and botched attempts—were commonplace at St. Augustine’s. I once saw an inmate trying to jump out a window. Even though we were only three stories up. A passing orderly was quick to react. Tugged her back before medicating her to kingdom come. The brunette three doors down had greater success. Banged her head on the wall in her room until it broke. Her head, not the wall. The honey-hued blonde seven doors away even did it in style. Tied the strap of an Hermès Birkin handbag to a bedsheet. God knows where she got the bag (but at least she had good taste in functional accessories). Slipped out from her room before dawn. The time when the warders are least watchful. When the sun rose, they found her hanging from a stunted poplar in the back garden. After that, only the lesser cuckoos were permitted to roam there. Individuals deemed not to be threats to themselves or to those around them.
Like Mariska Van Dijk and me.
Not that I ever attempted suicide. Even though I had once plumbed the darkest of depths. Even though I’d hated every second of my incarceration. I’d never once thought about killing myself.
I must be, instinctively, a survivor at heart.
A stayer.
Unlike that pill-popping, wrist-slashing Claire.
Her medical records are enlightening. It is indeed possible for a Mono who has everything to be unhappy.
It’s taken me ages to work out why. But I’ve figured it out. Those online images of her supply the answer. She always looks as though she’s out of her comfort zone. Even terrified at times, at gala parties and other events frequented by Duos. Wealthy, well-educated Duos of her husband’s league. People above her class. Folks with twice her capacity for remembering—and understanding the universe. Enlightened, sophisticated people. People who must surely make her feel inferior.
She’s a Mono married to a Duo. She can’t fit into her husband’s world. She never will. Monos and Duos cannot cohabit. One of them is likely to go cuckoo. Even suicidal.
I’m looking forward to using this piece of muck to my advantage.
At the right time, of course.
Patience, Sophia.
Patience. It’s the fourth variable on the path to success.
After seventeen years of St. Augustine’s, I can afford to be patient.
31 July 2014
What luck. I can’t believe my windfall. Fortune clearly favors those who wait.
He called earlier this evening. First to apologize for the fact that our next rendezvous will be in late August. He’s taking Claire to Nevis again for two weeks, he said.
I know why. Dr. Jong, after all, had prescribed regular visits to warmer climes as a means of curbing his wife’s depression. “Sun, sea, and sex,” he wrote, “may help her more than Lexapro and Pristiq in the long term.”
Was briefly tempted to scream at Mark for putting his wife over me. That stupid little suicidal Mono. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that he surely hasn’t been doing his bit as far as prescribed sex is concerned. After all the sex he’s been getting elsewhere. There’s only so much a man can take. Even a satyr. Dicks are not made for constant pounding. And men coming back from the Caribbean with shit-hot tans on their torsos are much nicer to bonk.
So I clamped my mouth shut. Listened to the next thing he had to say.
He’s decided to do it. After years of yearning to be a politician, he’s finally taking the plunge. Running as an independent candidate for South Cambridgeshire. After all, he has achieved everything he’s ever wanted as an acclaimed novelist. Fame, fortune, and all that jazz. But it’s time to move on to something bigger, better, and more satisfying. The world of politics, where he can make a difference in people’s lives. Perhaps even change things for the greater good.
These developments mean two things, he added.
We’ll have to be extra careful about our liaison and take pains to ensure that no one will find out about us. A more discreet location is a must. The Kandinsky, with its public foyer, will no longer be suitable. He’ll look into renting a fancy apartment in London. Somewhere in Chelsea, perhaps. Will give me a key to it at the first possible opportunity.
How different from Horatio Nelson, I thought. Nelson openly flaunted his mistress in London. But political aspirant Mark Henry Evans clearly intends to keep his in a covert Chelsea closet.
We won’t be able to see each other as often as we have in the past, he added. He’s likely to be campaigning in Cambridge during the weekends.
That’s fine, I cooed.
He said good-bye minutes later, relief in his voice. I must have sounded reassuring enough. Ah, the role of the understanding, discreet mistress. I’m going to play it to the hilt. Yet I had to hide the glee in my voice before I hung up the phone. What a stroke of luck. I couldn’t have hoped for anything better.
So Mark Henry Evans is entering the lion’s den known as the political arena.
What splendid news. The savage and unforgiving world of politics. Where aspirants are dissected by the national and local media. Their campaign platforms. Their track records. Their fashion sense. Their conversational gaffes. Their private lives. The skeletons they’ve been keeping in their closets.
Mistresses, amongst other things.
And depressive, suicidal wives.
So Mark Henry Evans has presented me with his own head. Served up on a platter. His gruesome downfall, I now know, will begin with the general elections in 2015. Much sooner than I’d hoped and from a much higher perch than I’d ever envisaged. Ambitious people tend to fall from greater heights. Ah, the cutthroat joys of politics. The delightful possibilities. The sweet act of demolition. I’ll be watching the process in slow motion. Frame by frame. Brick by brick.
Good things come to those who wait. Ghastly things, too.
I’ve waited long enough.
Study a man’s eyes, and they should tell you all you need to know about his intellect and acumen. Whether he is smart enough to keep hiding his secrets from you.
—Textbook of Criminal Investigation, volume 4 (Oxford University Press, 1987)
Chapter Fourteen
Hans
9? hours until the end of the day This psychiatrist must make a lucrative living from listening to other people. He’s nodding his head to indicate that he’s paying attention, never interrupting once, while displaying an open body position with his palms turned upwards.
His hair is indeed a spectacular shade of silver, as Sophia’s diary says.
I cast another glance round the man’s office; it boasts sleek furniture and muted lighting. Glossy coffee-table books top a credenza. A comfortable-looking couch occupies a corner of the room, replete with fluffy pastel-blue pillows. The space even smells of pleasant white musk. It’s the sort of venue that puts people in the right frame of mind to chat about themselves. Perfect.
“Now, Dr. Jong,” I say, deciding to cut to the chase. “You’re a Duo psychiatric consultant at this hospital.”