10. These indices were well above normal limits, suggesting that Mr. Gow has either a tendency to lie all the time or a desire to disguise his true profile in this test. However, the attempts to lie were done in a surprisingly intelligent and consistent manner, suggesting a degree of ability when it comes to duplicity. None of the scale scores were outside normal limits apart from the psychopathic personality scale which had a significant T score of 76. Clinically this is of note, being a relatively high score. The general pattern of his test scores and attitude to the psychologist suggest that attempts at rehabilitation may be problematic. Of particular concern is his attitude to the charged offenses. He is either refusing to talk about them because he cannot excuse them, or he simply has no memory of them. The former seems more likely. In light of his high score on the psychopathic personality scale, it is suggested that future treatment of this man should probably involve: (a) limiting his work and activities; (b) perhaps group work to attempt to prompt him to talk about his offenses; (c) always approaching his self-report with care and skepticism.
11. I will be pleased to clarify or expand on anything in this report if necessary.
I hope that it will serve some useful purpose.
Yours faithfully
Valerie Elliott
chapter sixteen
I’VE GOT A HANGOVER.
Morris and Bangor came over last night and took me out for a pint. When I saw them coming through the gate, I threw the kitchen door open and ran across the lawn to them. I found myself getting a bit carried away. Luckily Morris punched me on the arm and I could pretend that it brought tears to my eyes. It’s essential never to show fear or pain in front of Mum or she’ll sit you down and try to make you talk about it. It’s inconceivable to her that anyone would rather not talk, or would like to talk to anyone but her. Of course, I wouldn’t be saying this if there weren’t a lock on this door.
Mum was delighted to see Bangor. She’s always liked him and is pleased that I’ve stayed friends with what she refers to as “degreed folk” (like the little folk but with better prospects). I think it comes from not having been to university herself. She thinks you have to be clever to get in. When Bangor flirts with her and calls her Mrs. H., she clasps her hands in front of her and looks contented.
We went for a pint and talked about football. Neither of them mentioned Susie or the papers or the trial, apart from asking me if I was all right. It was great. We sat in the snug, next to the fruit machine, and sipped Guinness and ate smoky bacon crisps.
The business of the evening: Morris is still having an affair with the receptionist in his practice, and Bangor says he thinks his new girlfriend, Nurse Julie, has heard about it from the district nurse.
“Well, she either knows or she doesn’t,” says Morris.
“Well, she does,” says Bangor.
“How do you know for sure?” asks Morris.
“Because she told me.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me she knows that you and the tart with the fat arse from Kingspark are at it.”
“Is she going to tell Mrs. Morris?”
“Nurse Julie thinks Evelyn already knows.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Julie’s going to tell her.”
“She can’t. The bitch just can’t trample all over people’s fucking lives like that. Has she no feelings? No sense of propriety?”
During this exchange I think of Gow and Susie, and I know they weren’t shagging. They couldn’t possibly have been shagging. We’re sitting there getting more and more pissed, and I feel great. I’m not the one with the problems, and there’s nothing strange here. We’ve all known each other forever, and Morris is up to mischief again and Bangor is trying to trick him into doing the right thing. I sip and nod along and laugh because I’m not the focus and all we have to talk about is frivolous shit. It feels roomy and comfortable.
But when I went to the bar to get a round in, the guy serving kept looking at me and frowning. Finally, as he was giving me my change, he asked where he knew me from.
I was feeling cocky because of the drink, so I said, “Dunno, mate. In here?” But we both knew it wasn’t.
I got back here at ten-thirty. I was standing in the dark kitchen, making a big buttery sandwich with the leftover roast lamb, when Mum came down and switched on the light. She put the kettle on and made us both a cup of tea. We sat at the table together. Full of drink and goodwill, I said thanks for coming. We had quite a nice chat. She said what nice friends I have, how good of them to come over and cheer me up. I didn’t tell her that I phoned and told them to come. The Guinness made me mellow, and I leaned across and kissed her cheek and said it’s been nice having her here, talking about it in the past tense, hoping she’ll get the message. She patted my hand and washed her cup before she went to bed.
I put the lights out again and opened the French doors to the garden. I sat on the step as if it were summer, as if there were nothing wrong. The dead leaves evaporated, the sky lightened, and the cup of tea in my hand turned into a can of beer. I looked out at the paper plates thrown in hedges and the bits of burger bun strewn across the lawn and decided to leave it all until the morning, what the hell, give the foxes a treat.
Behind me Susie was chatting about something Bangor had said to Saskia and laughing. She came over and sat next to me on the step, lifted my arm over her shoulder, and took the beer can from my hand. I squeezed her waist.
“What a pretty garden, Lachie. Aren’t we lucky to live here?” she said. “One day we’ll have kids of our own and they’ll enjoy it, too.”
“We’ll have hundreds of kids,” I said, burying my face in her neck.
“Well”- she smiled and patted my knee fondly-“tens of kids, maybe.”
I heard a noise behind me in the November kitchen. Yeni had crept in and was standing uncertainly by the door. I stood up and waved to her. Without making any noise, she waved back, glancing up at the ceiling nervously. I motioned for her to come over, I don’t know why; I didn’t have anything to say to her. She got the marzipan bar out of the fridge, brought it over and halved it, and we sat on the step in the dark in the cold, cold kitchen watching the moonlight slither about the grass. It was great marzipan. It had a spongy chocolate bit in it with pistachio stuff on top. We munched through it silently, nodding and smiling at each other like top pals.
Today I can actually feel my liver throbbing, although I may be imagining it. The alcohol is making something bad happen to my innards. It never used to be like this. I used to get pissed and bounce back the next day and go for a fry-up. I never want to eat a roast dinner again, but even through the bitter haze of a terrible hangover, I still remember how nice the marzipan was. I must find out where Yeni bought it.
chapter seventeen
I GOT A LETTER FROM SUSIE THIS MORNING ASKING ME NICELY NOT to come up to this study anymore. I wrote back and didn’t mention it. She can piss right off. I’ve got to go and visit her tomorrow and I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about this being her room. I want it to be my room.
I’ve been looking at this report for days without realizing it was written by Jon Compton, Susie’s old supervisor. She did all the typing for him, and I remember she said she sat in on this interview as part of her training. It was probably the first time she ever met Gow. She said he was creepy and stared at her tits.
Box 1 Document 7 Gow’s Psychiatric Report 1994
State Hospital