The Devil You Know Page 25
Lydia seemed stumped by the question, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. This was not unusual. It was a new task, which can take some thought. She had been so articulate up to this point that I doubted she’d struggle for long. But the silence deepened and grew. I gazed out of the window behind her and watched the sky turn dark, and I waited. Eventually I started to say, ‘I know this can be a bit difficult—’ but she stopped me with a raised hand. ‘Don’t. I’m thinking.’ I waited some more. Then she exhaled deeply and said, ‘Sorry, no. I can’t think of any words. I mean, he was an excellent father in every way. Provided for our family. A really excellent man.’ ‘Is there any memory you have to go with that word “excellent”?’ Lydia furrowed her brow and gave no reply.
As the silence extended again, I began to feel uncomfortable. In attachment terminology, Lydia’s responses were ‘dismissing’ and detached, ‘avoidant’ of emotion and implying that my questions were pointless. I had a sense the atmosphere between us had cooled somehow, and the interview no longer felt relaxed. I also began to feel on my guard, and no forensic psychiatrist ever ignores these sensations. We are trained to recognise that every emotion we feel in the room is clinically relevant, whether it is irritation, as I’d experienced many times with patients like Marcus, or sympathy, as I’ve described in Zahra’s case. What I was feeling now was a nagging fear. I glanced at the panel in the door to see if anyone was out in the corridor, newly aware of the alarm I always wore attached to my belt, even when I was not in the closed areas of the hospital. I wondered what I’d said to her to effect this change, or whether I was imagining it.
My train of thought was abruptly halted by a jarring sound, a thudding click-thunk-click-thunk. Lydia had twisted in her chair and was bent over her briefcase, releasing its metal fasteners. What was in there? A weapon? As my anxiety level began to rise, she made a little grunt of effort and hauled out a fat lever-arch file from the case, stuffed to bursting with papers. She pulled it onto her lap and flipped it open. I relaxed a little, until I noticed that the papers she revealed were densely handwritten, not typed. Even upside down, I could see the text was full of underscorings, multiple exclamation marks and emphatic capital letters, with a manic quality that made me think something was very wrong.
When she began to speak again, it seemed to me Lydia’s voice had changed. It was colder, crisper, with the tone of a sergeant speaking to a subordinate. ‘What I need to explain, and what you need to get, Dr Adshead, is that this has nothing to do with my father. I don’t like your questions, and frankly I find them inappropriate and unprofessional. What I want to talk about today, and what you must comprehend, is that I have been the victim of a serious miscarriage of justice.’ My mouth felt dry, but I encouraged her to explain herself further. ‘I can show you exactly where the prosecution lied and conspired with my alleged “victim”’ – she almost spat the word – ‘to have me falsely convicted of a spurious offence.’
Her vocabulary had gone from genteel patter to curt legalese in an instant, a change as concerning to me as those hectic scribbled notes, which she was now riffling through with high energy, looking for a particular page. Clack – she released the binder clip and pulled out a hand-drawn flowchart, a complex mesh of lines and arrows between various boxes containing different initials and colour-coded markings. Holding it up for me to see, she traced her ‘logic’ by moving her finger from box to box as she spoke, as if presenting forensic evidence to a jury. This was verging on comical, I thought; the conveyancing solicitor turned dog-walker was playing the part of a criminal barrister. But she was deadly serious.
‘I will set out the evidence to you that Dr W is a serial sex offender who has preyed on myself and another four unsuspecting female patients, to my certain knowledge. I propose to appeal against my conviction and will see to it that Dr W is charged with aggravated sexual assault. I will show …’ – she peered at the chart for a moment as she deciphered her own handwriting, then finished firmly – ‘… I will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the prosecution deliberately withheld evidence that would have supported my case.’ Thwack – she brought her palm down hard on the thick file to emphasise her point. I tried not to react, but I felt myself flinch.
I needed to take a few breaths. She seemed to be untethered from reality, and I knew she was not in a state of mind to welcome my reflections about what she had just said. I decided it would be best to stick to what was in my own mind. I was confused, I told her. ‘When we first met, in the prison, you said you knew what you’d done was wrong, didn’t you? And you realised you had to move on from the past and wanted our support. Did I misunderstand anything?’ She looked askance at me, forehead furrowed, as if I were the one behaving strangely here. ‘Of course I want support. I need your help in my appeal against my conviction, so I can return to my work as a solicitor. I mean, I’m the victim here, the victim of assault and baseless lies, the one who has been forced to serve time in prison, can’t you see? It’s absurd! Dr W is a rapist, a man who preys on vulnerable women needing therapy. Doesn’t this disgust you? He was cruel and abusive and unkind to me, and I did nothing but bring his crimes to the attention of the police and the world.’ I began to wonder if my questions had tripped a mental switch. Those adjectives she was listing might sum up her father. Lydia had paused. ‘Are you listening to me?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Don’t you see, Doctor, I’m the one who’s suffered. You and I – we need to stand together.’ This seemed to be a reference to us not only as fellow professionals who might take up arms against a corrupt system, but also as the sisterhood; it was up to us to stand against the patriarchy together.
I had to think carefully and quickly. If she did not see herself as an offender or have real insight into how others saw her, then perhaps her mental state was much less settled than her probation team had thought. In fairness, she had been described as doing well in prison, and no signs of mental illness had been present. I thought back to an early call I’d had with Jane, her probation officer, who had mentioned that she thought stalking was an odd crime for a ‘woman like Lydia’. That was a kind of red flag I’d missed with Zahra too; it’s always worth exploring such assumptions of normalcy, which can serve to hide another reality. I also remembered that when we first met at the prison, Lydia had touched lightly on some past suicidal feelings, as if they were of no interest, like passing clouds in a blue sky. It occurred to me that perhaps, just like Dr W, all of us professionals who were keen to help Lydia had missed the signs of chaos and danger in her mind that could manifest when she felt exposed or needy. Her good behaviour was a mask, a persona she could put on or take off at will.
I went over her list of assertions about Dr W with her, one by one, as she snapped ‘Correct’ to each point. In a kind of mirror of her criminal barrister performance, I seemed to be acting as prosecuting counsel and she was in the dock. ‘To be clear, Lydia, you don’t accept the evidence presented to the court that you rang Dr W daily and sent him hundreds of texts begging to see him and saying you loved him?’ Lydia looked at me with contempt. ‘Lies. All a fabrication to try and silence me, to punish me for speaking my truth. Can’t you see that?’ I tried to make my tone more conversational, but it was difficult when I’d read all the transcripts, knew the details. ‘So did you not damage his car or leave rotten meat for his dog? Did I get that wrong? Were you not convicted of criminal damage?’
‘Oh, Doctor. Look. Don’t you see? I had to do those things because the police were simply not taking any action. It wasn’t “criminal damage”, it was the tiniest scratch with a key on the door of his car, for heaven’s sake. A bit silly, but certainly not worth arresting me for, or sending me to prison. Nobody was hurt, were they?’ I tried to nod, hoping I looked thoughtful and open-minded. ‘And it worked! The police finally took notice, and then I was able to explain everything to them in detail, at last: how he’d lured me in, gained my trust in my time of need, only to take advantage of me, as he had all the others.’
I mustered an unconvincing ‘Right …’, and she cut across me. ‘There you have it. I was the victim. And they did nothing. Nothing to him, anyway.’
I knew I shouldn’t reason with an unreasonable person, but I had to state the obvious. ‘Dr W was investigated by the police, I believe? And no evidence was found against him.’ Lydia waved her hand, dismissive. ‘A cover-up. A classic perversion of justice. And now look, he’s still out there, a menace to any unsuspecting woman who walks into his office. Back in his practice as if nothing ever happened, offering his so-called “Grief and Loss Counselling for Families and Individuals”.’ She must have googled him as soon as she emerged from prison, just as she had done with me. But before I could ask her, she went on, sotto voce, as if instructing me for an important secret mission: ‘They were all in on it, Doctor, don’t you see now? The police, the lawyers, the judge – everyone. Even my probation officer, I’m sure. They’re all against me. I know it. He must admit to what he did, to my face, and be punished. I just wanted—’ Her voice fractured, as if she might break into tears, but she wasn’t crying, she was furious. ‘I just want someone to make him apologise to me for taking advantage when I was so low. No one is helping me! No one ever has.’ Her tone didn’t match the plaintive words, I noticed; there was no emotional activity or warmth of feeling in those vulnerable statements, and the atmosphere in the room was still hard and strange, and confusing to me. I tried to steer my way back to her appeal for my assistance. Gently, I pointed out that I had no legal authority; I was a doctor. ‘What could I do that would be helpful to you?’ She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, gazing at me as if assessing my potential, or lack of it. ‘I read all about you online.’ I had no idea where she was going with this. ‘I know you work with sexual predators. You’re an expert. You’ve written about them, done lectures. You’ve seen it all. I want you to testify at my appeal that Dr W is one of them, that he assaulted me and that you believe me, that you’re on my side.’
Finally, it was clear. I was being cast in a supporting role, or at least in a bit part in Lydia’s drama. I realised that rational discussion was now impossible, and if I said anything else, she could lose control altogether. I slid another glance at her open briefcase, again wondering if it held a weapon, and I had a whiff of the real fear that Dr W must have felt. My own thinking was becoming disorganised by anxiety, and I might also be reflecting her paranoia with my own. I needed to close this down and get on the phone.
‘Lydia, can we leave it here for today? I need to think carefully about what you’ve told me. And will you talk it through with Jane too?’ Lydia slammed her fat file shut. She began stuffing it back in the briefcase, obviously disappointed in me. ‘Jane? She’s just another cog in the corrupt machine that put me in prison in the first place. That’s why I came to you. I thought you could help me. You know what I’m talking about – you get it. I know you do!’ Thunk-clack-thunk – that wretched briefcase was shut, which was a relief. She reached out and touched my arm briefly, and I thought she was close to tears. ‘Please help. I’m the victim here, Dr Adshead. There’s nothing wrong with me – it’s him. We have to … we just need to make sure the truth comes out. Save all those other women who might suffer in future from his terrible abuse and unkindness.’
It was extremely alarming that she had managed to hide the truth of her distorted thinking from every professional who had seen her since her arrest, including me. In fairness, the psychiatrists who had examined her for the prosecution at her trial had flagged some concerns. Unfortunately, Lydia’s ever so normal performance and her notable good behaviour in prison were taken as signs of a reformed offender, another example of how deceptive face value can be, even for someone trained to look below the surface and highly attuned to risk. I had failed to comprehend that behind Lydia’s monochromatic facade lay her ‘true colours’, an inner emotional life rich with vivid feelings like paranoia, fury and outrage. I now thought Dr W might be in real danger from her.
Lydia’s successful performance was an important reminder of how mental disorder can sometimes be a chameleon, hiding in plain sight. Ever since her arrest she must have been planning to return to her object of obsession at the earliest opportunity. No matter that he didn’t want her, or that his charges had sent her to prison for two years; her delusions were deeply entrenched. I had to think she was likely to seek reconnection with him soon, even as an adversary. I breathed a sigh of relief when she left, with a barked ‘Think about it, Dr Adshead’ rather than her habitual ‘Bye for now’ exit line. As soon as she was out of sight, I went online to see if Dr W had a website and whether it listed his address. I was glad to see there was a contact form instead, a precaution he might have taken in light of his experiences with Lydia. I called Jane, her probation officer, and we shared our dismay and concern. Jane said she would confer with colleagues and the police to formulate a plan of action. Meanwhile, I pictured Lydia fuming at home, hashing through her files and scribbled notes, tapping away at her keyboard in frustration as she scanned the internet to try and find Dr W.
I would later hear that Lydia went to Dr W’s old office, located in a community health centre. The young woman who worked at reception explained to the ordinary-looking middle-aged lady who asked to see him that he’d left months ago. Lydia insisted the receptionist was lying and pushed past her, throwing open the door of what had been Dr W’s office. She was furious to find it empty and launched into a bitter tirade, accusing the receptionist of hiding him and of being his lover. The terrified woman barricaded herself in the loo and phoned the police, while Lydia began to tear books from the shelves and upend furniture, smashing a glass vase in her fury.
The police came quickly, and she was arrested. A swift assessment was made by the local psychiatric service, determining that she was in an acute psychotic state. I have to say I felt mightily relieved when I came to work the next day and heard she was in custody. As sad and alarming as it was to hear of Lydia’s breakdown, the remarkably quick action taken by the professionals, with no harm coming to Dr W or his family, was a good outcome. Due to the history of threats to Dr W, the on-call forensic psychiatrist for the locality thought the risk was such that Lydia needed detention in a secure psychiatric hospital rather than a recall to prison under the terms of her probation licence. At least in a secure hospital she would have access to some therapy, though I did not know if it would help her.
I must admit that the more I learn about stalkers, the more I am struck by the obdurate quality of their obsession, the sheer heft and immobility of that ‘boulder’ in their consciousness. People like Lydia occupy an elaborately created parallel universe, where they are fighting for something they never had. I am coming to think of them as psychologically deaf, because they can’t hear rejection. Plain language like ‘I’m married, I’m never going to be with you’ or ‘I don’t want you near me’ would be hard for someone whose ears were open to ignore.
I thought that Lydia might continue in her delusion indefinitely, in order to keep unresolved distress and grief at bay. Sadly, I doubted that she would be able to use therapy that helped her explore the meaning of her actions, nor would she countenance the reality that her late father would never apologise for what he did to her. If she ever became aware of the full implications of what she had done, and what that meant for her future life prospects, she might become suicidal. Paradoxically, it could feel safer to stay in her fantasy world, where she was a well-bred and empowered professional, the daughter of an ‘excellent man’ who just had to find a way to convince the world that she was right and everyone else was wrong.
Like me, the reader may feel the pain of her story and of all that she had lost more than Lydia ever will. My brief interaction with her happened over a decade ago, and it is likely that she is still in the secure unit, preoccupied with writing her papers and drawing her colour-coded charts, absorbed in the conspiracy that is now her life’s narrative.
NOTES
1 James, W. (18
90) The Principles of Psychology (New York: Henry Holt and Company).
2 Crime Survey data on stalking: https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/crimeandjustice/datasets/stalkingfindingsfromthecrimesurveyforenglandandwales.
3 www.suzylamplugh.org.
4 Meloy, J. R. (1997) Violent Attachments (New York: Jason Aronson Inc.).
5 Dutton, D. G., Saunders, K., Starzomski, A. and Bartholomew, K. (1994) ‘Intimacy‐Anger and Insecure Attachment as Precursors of Abuse in Intimate Relationships 1’, Journal of Applied Social Psychology, 24:15, 1367–86.
6 Meloy, J. R., Mohandie, K. and Green, M. (2011) ‘The Female Stalker’, Behavioral Sciences and the Law, 29, 240–54. Also Strand, S., McEwan, T. E. (2012) ‘Violence Among Female Stalkers’, Psychological Medicine, 42:3, 545–55.
SHARON
‘Thank you for coming to see me today – may I call you Sharon?’ She didn’t look up from her mobile phone. ‘Whatever.’ I was aware of an anomalous mix of feelings towards her already: sympathy, irritation and sadness. She was nineteen, that liminal age where the girl and the woman jostle for position, and she was in danger of losing custody of her baby son. ‘I’d like to start by explaining how we—Sharon?’ I was addressing the top of her head, a white parting zigzagging through dark roots. ‘I know this may be a bit hard for you, but could you put the phone down so that I can explain what we need to do together?’ We were meeting in a local community centre, in a room which I used mainly for seeing people involved in the medico-legal cases that I took on from time to time. Other therapists used the room too, so there was a generic set-up, with comfortable armchairs, a couple of small tables with lamps, and the inevitable box of tissues. There were a few pleasant, anodyne framed pictures on the pale-green walls, as well as a clock facing my chair that told the time accurately, unlike most clocks in NHS settings.