"When did Rebecca start to come back?"
Vebekka turned on the sofa, wriggled her body, her face puckered in a frown. "She started to get out. You see, she wouldn't stay locked up."
"I understand, but when did she become difficult to control?"
She held her hands protectively over her stomach. "My baby... she said there wasn't enough room inside me, not enough room for the two of us, she kept on trying to get out, but I fought her, she said terrible things, terrible things about the baby, she said it would be deformed, it would be deformed..."
Franks spent over an hour with her, and then decided he needed a break. He did not wake her because he wanted her to rest. He tucked the blanket around her, checked her pulse, and told her she would sleep for a while.
Helen poured a black coffee for the doctor. He sipped it, sighing with pleasure.
"Let me explain something to you, Baron. What you have heard may seem extraordinary to you, but it is quite common. At some time or other everyone's mind undergoes something akin to a split.
The easiest way to understand this is by way of an example: Let's say you've had a near-miss car accident — a voice will begin calming you, talking your fear down, telling you it's over, that everything is fine, that it was a narrow miss, et cetera, et cetera... Your wife created Vebekka because Rebecca was as she described, moody, bad tempered, fat. In other words, she was someone she did not like, did not want to be associated with. We do not know as yet the reasons for Rebecca's moods, or why she needed to split her personality. All we know is that for Vebekka to be able to survive, to live normally, she had to lock Rebecca away. There will be a reason, it will surface, but it will take time. I will begin taking her back to her childhood, perhaps something occurred with her parents that instigated this dual personality."
The baron drained his coffee cup. "You mean she could have been mistreated?"
"Quite possibly. Often the safety barrier is created to shield the memory of sexual abuse. We shall find it out, but as you can see, it is a slow process, a step-by-step process to get at the truth."
Helen was excited. "If Rebecca began to resurface during her pregnancies, this ties in with what Louis has said, that her breakdowns began when she was three to four months pregnant."
Franks nodded. "We shall see..."
Helen looked to the baron, then told Franks about the meeting with Vebekka's mother's sister, and that she was sure that Vebekka was adopted.
Franks shook his hand. "You must keep me informed, I have asked you to report any information, since everything could be of value. Did you receive the newspapers — the ones I asked for?"
"Not yet," said Louis.
"Please try and contact whomever you have working for you in New York to send you copies. And now I would like to be alone for a while. Do go out and have some lunch; when you return, you may go straight into the viewing room."
Franks walked out, and went to lie down in his office. But he did not sleep. He replayed slowly in his mind his exchanges with Vebekka. He was sure this was a case of severe child abuse, that had taken place over a period of years. What amazed him was that none of the many therapists and doctors who had seen Vebekka had diagnosed such a common trauma. However, he felt that there were more layers to be uncovered, he sensed that it was about something deeper — if not, he hated to admit it to himself, but he would be disappointed.
Vebekka slept deeply, totally relaxed. Maja checked her pulse, and drew the blanket closer around her. She emptied the ash trays from the viewing room, and then went to have a quick lunch, peeking into Franks's office to tell him she was leaving. He was fast asleep on his couch.
Grimaldi slept like a dead man. Ruda had opened the trailer windows, thrown out the empty bottles, but he had not stirred. She prepared for the afternoon's rehearsal. In the evening there would be the dress rehearsaclass="underline" in full costume, lights, ringmaster, and all. She still needed more time to get the cats used to the new plinths. She took out her costume, and got the ironing board ready to iron the jacket. She opened the blinds and looked skyward. The sun was still trying to break through, but more rain clouds had gathered. She crossed her fingers, hoping the forecasted storm would hold off, and then she left to feed the cats.
Grimaldi heard the door close, as if from some great distance. Slowly he opened his eyes, and moaned as the light blinded him. He lifted his head and fell back with a groan. His body ached, his head throbbed, even his teeth hurt. He let his jaw hang loose; his tongue was dry and rough. One hand gripped the edge of the bunk seat and inch by inch he drew himself into a sitting position. The room spun around and around; his heart hammered in his chest. He needed another drink. He looked around bleary-eyed, but could not see a bottle within reach.
He got to his knees, and then pushed himself upright. He fumbled in a cupboard for a bottle, knocking over glasses, sauces, cans of food. He began to retch uncontrollably and staggered into the shower. Turning on the cold water he slumped again onto his knees, and let the cold water drench him.
Grimaldi peeled off his soaking shirt and pants. He had such a pounding headache that he was seeing tiny white sparks shooting, dancing in front of his eyes. He moaned and swore, but now he eased off his pants and propped himself up under the shower, turning on the hot water. He began to feel the life coming back into his limbs, his chest, but his headache felt as though unseen hands were pressing his ears together. He could not remember how he had got into such a state and did not begin to piece it together until he sat down hunched up in a towel with a mug of black coffee. He hung his head and sobbed, but the movement made his head scream, so he gulped more and more coffee and a handful of aspirin. The pills stuck in his gut and he burped loudly. Weaving unsteadily to the sink, he looked at himself. His eyes were bloodshot; his face yellowish, unshaven. "Dear God, why do I do this to myself? Why?"
He began to shave, fragmented memories of the previous evening making him feel disgusted. Poor little Tina, he had to talk to her... and then he saw Ruda's face smiling at him, and saw Tina huddled half-naked against the wall, and he bowed his head with shame. He remembered now he had left her in the club, so aptly named the Slaughterhouse. In fact, he had led her like a lamb to the slaughter.
He got himself dressed, and the effort exhausted him. He sat morosely trying to find the strength to get himself out of the trailer and across to Tina's. He put on a pair of dark glasses, and, still unsteady, he crossed the trailer park, knocked on Tina's door and waited. He knocked again. A voice inside yelled for whoever it was to wait. Tina's girlfriend opened up, she was wearing jodhpurs and pulling on a sweater over a grubby bra. She looked at Grimaldi and tugged her sweater down.
"What do you want?"
"Tina in?"
"You must be joking..."
"Where is she?"
The girl went back into the trailer, and came out again carrying a rain cape. She slung it around her shoulders while he stood there like a dumb animal. The girl looked at him with disgust. "She's gone, packed her bags and gone, you bastard!"
He tried to reach for her arm, to stop her from leaving. "I don't understand, what do you mean she's gone?"
"Ask your wife, shithead, ask your bloody wife!"
"Gone where?"
"Home. She's gone back to the States."
"Did she leave a letter?"
"What you want? A forwarding address? Dickhead! She's gone — left, understand? You'll never see her again."
His mind reeled, and he leaned against the side of the old trailer. The girl sauntered off, calling out to two guys leading a couple of horses through to the ring.
Grimaldi walked a few paces and then stopped. He turned back to the trailer, sure the girl was lying.