The Sin Eater(49)
Michael said, ‘I’d have been a bit sceptical if you’d said you hadn’t tried anything. But I shouldn’t think dissociative personality would be caused by the odd spliff.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ said Benedict gratefully, and Michael saw his use of the slang term had been reassuring. ‘I thought you might. My cousin’s very kind, but she’s a bit—’
‘A bit removed from student life?’
‘Yes. And the doctors were very good, but it doesn’t occur to them that there might be another explanation for these visions. I don’t really think there is,’ said Benedict firmly. ‘I think the diagnosis is right. But the things I see – people and incidents – are so real. This personality they call an alter ego – his name’s Declan – I feel the emotions he feels.’ He frowned, then said, ‘I thought if I could disprove these people – if I could . . .’
‘Find there was no record of any of the people or places?’
‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Declan was my great-grandfather’s name, so I’m identifying the . . . the alter ego with him. And he did exist, of course. But there are other people with him. I do know you can’t prove a negative,’ he said, earnestly, ‘but I think it would be reassuring if a search – a real scholarly, organized search – didn’t find any evidence of their existence. I think I could just about cope with Declan waltzing into my mind occasionally if I knew he wasn’t real. But it’s this halfway state I’m finding so hard. Only I don’t know really how to go about making a search.’
‘Isn’t there anyone at Reading who would start you off?’ said Michael. ‘I’m not making a polite excuse – I’d like to help if I can – but I don’t want to tread on any toes. Your own tutors, for instance?’
‘I’d rather no one at Reading knew,’ said Benedict. ‘Well, not unless they have to. I’m hoping to go back in a week or so and I don’t want them to look at me sideways or wonder if I’m suddenly going to turn into Mr Hyde or the wolfman.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Michael. ‘I think you’d better tell me a bit more. Can I make some notes? I promise to eat them afterwards so nobody will know. Or,’ he said, glancing towards the window sill, ‘I’ll feed them to Wilberforce.’
With his usual instinct for timing, Wilberforce yawned and got up to walk across to the fire at this point, and Benedict smiled. Seeing that he had relaxed, Michael said, ‘Take me through the whole saga. Start at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop.’
With an air of a swimmer finally deciding to plunge into treacherous waters Benedict took a deep breath and said, ‘The beginning is two boys growing up on the west coast of Ireland.’
FIFTEEN
It was a remarkable story. As it unfolded, in Benedict’s rather hesitant words, Michael thought one of the really remarkable things was the logical, sequential nature of it. Declan Doyle and Colm Rourke’s childhood – their youthful infatuation with the red-headed Romilly as they grew up; the appalling incident with the renegade priest in the old watchtower – could Benedict really have dredged all that out of his subconscious? Could anyone? Michael reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about the subconscious mind. He reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about Benedict Doyle, either.
As he listened carefully, occasionally making a note of a name or a place, he thought: but there’s the chess set. Nell found that single piece – the king – and Owen found a reference to it, or to something that looked like it. And Eithne, all those years ago, had believed it was deeply evil.
When Benedict reached the part about Nicholas Sheehan’s death, he faltered, and seemed to find it difficult to go on. He accepted Michael’s offer of coffee, and drank it gratefully, then resumed his story. This time Michael found himself pulled deeper into the world of Colm Rourke and Declan Doyle, and into the Ireland of the late nineteenth century, and he found it an unexpectedly attractive world. Benedict’s voice was more assured now, soft and measured, with some of the consonants slightly blurred. Nice, thought Michael. The room was very still. Wilberforce was snoozing on his favourite window sill, and strong winter sunshine slanted in. A fly, fooled by the warmth into thinking it was spring, buzzed lazily against the window.
Michael put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. There was a mirror in direct line: it faced a row of bookshelves on the opposite wall and he liked sitting here and seeing the books’ reflections, with the lettering on the spines reversed as if they had changed into a secret or magical language. But as Benedict’s story unfolded, he began to realize he was not seeing the reversed images of the books as clearly as usual. He blinked, thinking it was the sunlight, but it made no difference. Something was obscuring the books’ reflections, something that was trying to take shape . . . It must be Benedict’s alter ego, he thought. It’s forming – this is what he sees . . .
He turned his head towards the window, half expecting to see that Wilberforce was uncurling from his snooze, or that a large bird had perched outside and was casting a freak reflection. But there was nothing and, when he looked back at the mirror, there were the rows of books, ordinary and familiar again and perfectly clear.
Benedict ended his story with Romilly’s death in London’s East End, and with Colm vanishing into the rain-drenched London streets, Declan following. He sat back, looking drained and exhausted, and reached for the coffee jug again.