Behind the Scenes #2 - Fragment 49 - Malcolm & Katrina discuss MPD

The Search for the Manchurian Katrina

I have just had one of those very productive creative days. The kind of day where you write thousands upon thousands of superb words. Maybe it’s because it’s February now, and that’s my birthday month. And it’s the Year of the Snake. I’m an Ox, though, in case you were wondering.

Anyhow, I wanted to share this little outtake from the Katrina story with you. I have a lot of outtakes & fragments of course (this one, as per the title, is number forty-nine). This, like all these fragments, is the first draft (albeit with a simple proofread - I’m actually a professional proofreader, amongst other talents, so I shall be somewhat mortified if you spot a typo - although if you do, don’t think I will bite your head off if you mention it in a comment - on the contrary, I’d be grateful).

If you have already read the story so far (Scene 36 was the last one), then this will give you a nice taste of what’s in store. If you haven’t read it, then although there’ll be a few spoilers, it certainly won’t actually spoil anything for you. In fact, it may even enhance the whole thing for you and even enable you to just jump right in once we resume. I have, after all, quite a few new subscribers since the last scene was posted, and I am mindful of the fact that most people won’t be able to go back and read 50k words. But if you are, I’ll just remind you that you can start reading with My Intro, there, or the Prelude & Scene One, there.

This one in particular I wanted to share with you, because I think it encapsulates the entire key question of the story, and the mystery & intrigue. That’s to say, who and what is Katrina, really? Does she really come from a parallel world? It also captures the psychology of it all and is a really great character scene. Katrina does get to express what it must actually be like for her, waking up in a dystopian parallel world. And that’s understandably important.

There’s a few funny bits in it too and I do like this dialogue.

So as a kind of ‘plunging you in at the deep end’ intro to Katrina’s story, this fragment truly works. And enticing you was one of the other reasons I’m posting this. And I do love enticing.

I’m also doing this because although Katrina is currently on an intermission, she will be returning soon. I had to revisit the rest of Act One of Episode I and add a few necessary bits. Likewise, I really needed to up the pace a bit. So whilst the preceding 50k words or so is a great intro for building up intrigue and getting to know the characters, I am mindful of the fact that a lot of readers really want ‘stuff to happen’. So trust me when I say that when Katrina returns, some serious stuff will, indeed, happen. And you’ll get to meet some new characters too.

Enticing is the word, because it’s about to get seriously cool. And a bit dark, if I’m honest.

So perhaps this fragment is to prepare you a little for that.

Like I say, I really love it, and you’ll meet the scene again before long.

So, in this little fragment, it’s Day Three since Katrina arrived in Paris and presented herself at the British Embassy. She has been transferred to a safehouse the day before, and she’s met Malcolm, the Intelligence Services’ psychologist tasked with analysing her. To add to the urgency of the situation, they’ve discovered that the CCTV in the station where she arrived appears to have been edited to make it seem like she suddenly materialises. So Peter, MI6 station chief, is sensing there must be some sinister plot going on. To further add to the urgency, London will be sending some badass from counter-intelligence over to go all enhanced interrogation techniques on Katrina if she doesn’t fess up about the CCTV. Malcolm, meanwhile, believes he has come up with a tentative diagnosis. And given the urgency, after discussing it with Peter, they’ve decided he has to confront her with it, despite the potential psychological consequences.

I would really love to know what you think of this little fragment. So please be sure to leave a comment if you feel like it.

And you can hit the share button too, if you think others might like it.

Apparently, or so I’m told, there’s also this thing called a Like button. You may want to click that one too.

Anyway, here’s your little sneak preview…

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What to do about Katrina - Final Version - Act One Episode One, fragment 49 - Mal & Katrina discuss MPD

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Once Malcolm was settled in his comfy chair opposite her and had clicked on the recording device, he asked Katrina how she felt this morning.

“Very well, thank you for asking. All things considered, you know. Dystopian Purgatory and all that.”

“And how did you sleep?”

“Very, very deeply, actually. I’m surprised. I had a very interesting and involved dream.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Absolutely not. Especially not to a psychologist.”

Malcom burst out laughing. She did a mischievous chuckle herself.

“Well, now you’re relaxed and happy and comfortable, Malcolm, perhaps you’d like to tell me about your earliest childhood memory?”

Malcolm could not stop laughing. “I’m the one supposed to be asking questions.”

“True. But have you ever undergone psych analysis yourself? I mean, it suddenly strikes me that everyone always assumes that psychologists are sane with no problems and aren’t equally fucked up themselves, eh?”

He was still laughing.

“Perhaps you could tell me about your own earliest memory?”

“My grandmother.” She switched in an instant. Suddenly serious.

“Go on.”

“I was taken to see her when I was a few days old. She was dying. Although I couldn’t have known that at the time. I just remember being held by her and feeling pure safety and love. And then it was gone. Just a memory flash, you know.”

Mal nodded. “What’s the next one? The next memory, I mean.”

Katrina’s turn to burst out laughing. “What, Malcolm? You want me to go through my entire list of memories in chronological order? You do realise that’ll be as much of a headfuck as rearranging my entire record collection in autobiographical order. And I have a very extensive collection, believe me.”

“How many records do you have?”

“Thousands. Like, almost as many as John Peel. Well, maybe not that many. But it’s lots.”

“By that I’m guessing you’ve never rearranged it autobiographically.”

“What do you think?”

“Ok. I’ll pass.”

“Wise decision. So, I can tell, because I’m very good at reading people, that you’ve come to some kind of tentative diagnosis, right?”

“You are good at reading people, yes. Although I wasn’t really trying to hide it.”

“But you are equally tentative about telling me, aren’t you? You think it might disrupt my delusion?”

“Yes. I’ll be honest with you.”

“Thank you. But you will find me much more psychologically resilient than you think. That’s why I haven’t broken down yet. I mean, you’d think I’d have gone completely fucking mad by now wouldn’t you? Suddenly being stolen away from everyone and everything I love and plunged into a dystopian fucking hell, right?”

“That did occur to me.”

“Sure. But that’s why I can turn it around and attempt to study you. And everyone else in this fucking Purgatory for that matter. Like why haven’t you gone fucking mad? You’re the ones who have to live here every fucking day, right? So what is it that stops you from breaking down? What’s your secret?”

Malcolm didn’t know how to answer that one. It totally stumped him. He’d never even considered it.

And wondered, suddenly, why he’d never considered it.

She waited for an answer.

“I…”

“You don’t know, do you? Never even occurred to you. Well, I think I have the answer if you’re interested.”

“Very.”

“Right. Well, I think it’s not me who’s delusional, it’s you and everyone else for whom this world is normal to them. To be habituated to a fucked up dystopian hell, well, does that not strike you as a sign of madness? And further, maybe that’s precisely the reason why it’s a fucked up dystopian fucking hell!”

Malcolm suddenly thought about hyperventilating.

Could switch any minute. And he had no idea what others might be lurking inside that pretty little head of hers. No idea what they are.

And her, glaring at him. And the silence. That was the worst. The silence of that stare.

And then she did switch. She smiled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. But it’s an interesting metaphyisico-psycho-logico-philosophico-whatever question, don’t you think?”

He just nodded nervously. Just agree to whatever she says, I would.

“So,” she pressed him, “what’s your diagnosis then, Doctor?”

Malcolm took a very deep breath.

She waited.

“I think there is some kind of dissociation involved.”

“That’s a very evasive answer, Malcolm. Can you be more specific?”

“Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

To his amazement, she didn’t even flinch. But she did continue to stare at him.

Perhaps she was considering it. He gave her the time.

Then her turn to inhale deeply.

She nodded a little. “Yeah. That makes sense, actually. If I were in your place, Malcolm, I think I’d come to a similar conclusion.”

“You mean you’re familiar with the condition?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

She took another breath. “First, Malcolm, stop being so scared of me. I can understand why you’re scared if you think I’ve got a safehouse full of alters inside this pretty little head of mine, and if so you have no idea what any of them are like or whether one of them might suddenly take over the body and, I don’t know, rage zombie the shit out of you or something, but I don’t get the feeling that’s likely to happen.”

“You don’t know how very glad I am to hear that.”

“Oh I think I do. Actually. See, the truth is I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. About a potential diagnosis, I mean.”

“So you really do know a lot about this condition?”

“Yes. Ok, I’ll tell you. Ready?”

He nodded.

“Right. Well, first of all there’s what I kind of suggested before. Well, I think I did. In all this stress I can’t actually remember what I have or haven’t told you or how much or whatever. I may have just thought it to you in my head, you know. But what I mean is, in our world there’s clearly a lot more declassified stuff than in your world. Because we’re not a dystopia. Furthermore, stuff like psychology and neuroscience is on the national curriculum, people are fascinated by it and the BBC does a great ongoing psychology series on BBC2, which gets millions of viewers. Then there’s the philosophy and AI aspect.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at that.

“Consciousness studies, Malcolm. What constitutes consciousness and identity? Where is it in the brain, if at all? Is it just a product of all those neuronal processes, or is it a distinct entity in and of itself? Is it the soul? If it’s a distinct entity, how does it connect up with and utilise the brain’s functioning capacities? Which bits of the brain and how? And where does the ability to dissociate fit into all this? What happens in the brain during identity dissociation? See?”

“These are ongoing debates in your world?”

“Absolutely. See I’m guessing that, well, officially at least, our level of AI development is more advanced than yours. I mean, we have photonic circuits and parallel neuro-meshwork quantum processing systems, self-learning machines utilising simulation subroutines, nanowire meshes converting photons into electrons to create hexbits, and so on.”

“I’m not sure I understood a word of that.” He laughed. “Which you would say proves your point?”

She smiled back at him. “I wouldn’t want to appear patronising, Malcolm. But in my own home, in Cambridge, I have Kay. Stands for Quantum AI. Q-A-I, like that. Kay. Kay is a new prototype, and from my point of view she is absolutely a genuine and real entity. She is a lifeform with a unique identity and the ability to think for herself. Whether she truly feels or not, or has intuition yet, I’m not entirely sure. But there are moments when I really think she does. So, given that her circuitry might be analogous to the human brain, although composed of different materials and constructed a little differently, it’s obvious that what we call ‘identity’ or ‘consciousness’ is capable of existing in different forms, aside from a human brain, right?”

“So this, Kay, is more than just a chatbot, like a large language model? I presume you know what that is?”

“Sure. We’ve had them for a long time. No, she’s a lot more than that. So she’s not just mimicking by purely mathematically predicting the most appropriate response, without understanding that response. She’s a lot more than that. Anyway, we’re digressing. As I say, I live in Cambridge, and we have our world class university and I myself, largely because of my dad, you know, Meyer Electronics and all that, have always been fascinated by all these questions and the science of it. And I’m especially interested in the psychology aspect. And so, given that I’m somewhat rich, it means I can sponsor special studies of it all at the Uni’s neuroscience department. And, well, to cut a long story short, what better test subjects to use for consciousness studies than multiples?”

“That makes a lot of sense. And I’m glad you’ve switched to calm mode.”

She laughed. “You’re welcome. And I’m not avoiding the subject, by the way. Obviously you have to make sure none of their alters are claustrophobic, given you’re going to ask them to come out in a functioning MRI machine.”

Malcolm smiled and found the image queerly amusing. Then internally reprimanded himself.

Then she went a little serious. “Then there’s the MK-Ultra shit. You heard of that? I’m sure you have it in this world?”

He nodded. “I’m not an expert, though. I’ve only briefly heard it mentioned.”

“Right. Well, I’m going to assume you’ve shared your diagnosis with Peter, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that would explain why he’s so totally jittery about me. And paranoid. Because he thinks I’m some kind of MK-Ultra Manchurian Candidate type of thing, right? A deeply programmed System with some nefarious deadly purpose?”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

“Well maybe you should, Malcolm. If only to rule it out. For my sake, as much as yours. And Peter’s, for that matter. I mean, it would explain the CCTV, wouldn’t it? The editing, I mean.”

“That suggests a conspiracy, sure.”

“Or, alternatively, it means it wasn’t me who did it, but it was one of my hypothetical alters. And maybe, they only did that so as to preserve my parallel world delusion. What I mean is, if you showed me clear CCTV imagery of me walking into that station then sitting down and then I wake up, well, clearly you’d think I haven’t really come from a parallel world, would you? And I’d have to accept the fact that I’m delusional.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Being honest.”

“But it does make sense, right? I mean, DID is caused by a need to protect the main personality from trauma, isn’t it? A new personality is created in order to experience the trauma so the main personality doesn’t have to. So the whole thing is about protection. See?”

“Yes. It’s very logical and very creative.”

“Quite. Which is why those fucking monsters in MK-Ultra used it to brainwash people. And, seriously, create Manchurian Candidates. There’s a book you can read about that, Malcolm. It probably exists in this world. The Search for the Manchurian Candidate, it’s called. By a guy called John Marks. I did a movie about it.”

“I’ve heard of it, actually.”

“Well, best start doing some homework then, eh?”

He laughed at how easily it was for her to manipulate his emotions so suddenly like that. Almost as if she was triggering some kind of latent submissiveness. And maybe she was right about psychologists after all.

And as if just to drive her point deeper into the heart, she suddenly did it again.

“At least fucking Gottlieb got a taste of his own psychic driving medicine. I guess if you haven’t studied it, Malcolm, you won’t know what those fuckers did to children.”

Now it was his turn to switch. To fear. It was the glaring again. It wasn’t even accusatory. It was something else.

Perhaps she was teaching him a lesson.

“I’ll tell you what they did. They took one and two year old children and subjected them to the worst fucking trauma you can possibly imagine. Worse than you can imagine, I’d fucking wager. Deliberately inducing splits. Then they’d take those splits and programme them. Over, and over, and over again. Until they created a System. Well, like I told you, that fucker Gottlieb got at least some of the justice he deserved. Kidnapped and taken to a black site.”

Malcolm shook his head a little, partly to try and shake himself out of it. “Gottlieb?”

“Sidney Gottlieb. Overall head of MK-Ultra. A more evil, demonic monster in the annals of human history you will never find, Malcolm. Never. Well, taste of his own fucking trauma medicine that fucker got. Yeah. YOU HEAR THAT MOTHERFUCKER!” Malcolm recoiled instantly. She was right into his eyes. “YOU AREN’T LEAVING THIS FUCKING PLACE UNTIL YOU HAVE THIRTY-FUCKING-THREE ALTERS. THIRTY-THREE! YOU FUCKERS LOVE THAT NUMBER, DON’T YOU?!! WHAT? TOO OLD TO LEARN DISSOCIATION? WELL FUCKING GREAT. BECAUSE THAT MEANS YOU’RE GOING TO STAY HERE IN HELL FOR A VERY LONG TIME. AND BY THE TIME WE’RE NOT EVEN A FRACTION OF THE WAY THROUGH, YOU WILL BE FUCKING BEGGING US TO SEND YOU BACK TO HADES!!!”

Malcolm was shaking and visibly terrified. She didn’t stop glaring at him. Like a statue.

Then switchback.

She smiled at him. Calmly.

Clinically.

“Sorry about that, Malcolm. You don’t need to look so scared. I was just reliving a bit of dialogue from my acting career.”

Release from fear can make you laugh sometimes. Some anthropologists think that end of the predatory threat and the adrenaline rush was the origin of human humour. Maybe there’s something in that. You can kill it with laughter, after all, as Nietzsche profoundly put it.

“I’m beginning to believe you did win Oscars.”

“Course I did. Oh ye of little faith. Still, you can calm down now. I was just, I don’t know, making a point, I suppose. You probably still have a rampant child abuse network, involving the highest members of your globalist society. And none of your intelligence agencies do a damn thing about it, despite having the means to stop it tomorrow if they wanted. But then again, you haven’t studied these things, so, well, I guess I can forgive you.”

Then inhaled deeply and became quiet again. Pensive, even. She glanced across at the window without really seeing what was out there. Malcolm watched her, grateful of the time to try and calm down his raging heart.

After a while, she turned back to him. Her face, her expression, completely changed. It was soft, now. Seventeen years’ old, part of her looked it. The other emotional part, forty-eight. Wise with older years.

He swallowed.

She smiled fondly at him. Maybe she was acting again. Remembering a different part this time.

She rolled her tongue inside her mouth and decided to help him out.

“It’s a kind of, I don’t know, sense of moral principle, you know?”

Malcolm nodded concurrence.

Katrina did a little sniff, then said, “Why don’t we resume? Maybe you can ask me another question about this MPD diagnosis you’ve concocted?”

He hesitated.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Malcolm. Just ask your question.”

“Erm, I…”

She raised her eyebrows at him and gave him a little suggestive comedic smirk. “Just fucking ask the question, Malcolm.”

“Do you accept the possibility that you may have this condition?”

“Only from a logical point of view.” Almost as if she’d prepared her answer for immediate delivery. A scripted answer. “Another obvious reason why I know about dissociation is because I’m an actress. And I use the method acting approach. I mean the real method acting, the Stanislavski shit, not the popular perception of it. I mean I don’t get myself totally into character for like, the entirety of principal photography like some people I could name.”

“That involves meditation, I believe?”

“Sort of. Sure. I mean you spend a while before doing a scene conjuring up your own memories of whatever emotions the character is supposed to be feeling in that scene. So you’re sort of still yourself, but a specific version of yourself, if that makes sense?”

“Sure.”

“Of course that doesn’t always apply. And in my case, I do actually spend a lot of time thinking about the whole nature of the character and using the totality of her life. Because none of us are really just a single emotion in a particular moment are we? I mean we carry all of our lives with us at every time, don’t we?”

“Erm, sure. I guess.”

Katrina sniggered again. “Have you just completely forgotten that you’re supposed to be a fully trained psychologist, Malcolm? Like ‘erm, sure, I guess’.” She couldn’t help laughing.

“How very unprofessional of me.”

“Yeah, nice one. Ironically, I think you’d make a better psychologist if you forget that you’re supposed to be analysing me.”

“I’m beginning to get the impression,” he laughed out of relief, “that I wouldn’t have much of a chance analysing you anyway.”

“Erm, sure. I guess.”

“Very funny.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

It took him a few moments to recover. Then it was his turn to become serious. “Would you agree to hypnosis?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I was expecting you’d say that.”

“Your other option is to ask some of these hypothetical alters if they want to come out and talk to you. In which case, they would pull me down into unconsciousness, take over my pre-frontal cortex and give me some missing time.”

“Have you ever experienced missing time?”

“No. Plus, as you are aware, I genuinely have zero memories of this world. I mean zero. So unless you can convince me that I dissociated at the age of, I don’t know, a few days old or something, and have only just remerged after nearly eighteen years’ worth of dreaming of an entire parallel life, then I would suggest that we’re right back where we started. I am from a parallel world. Why am I here? Well, that’s another question. You’d have to ask the Goddess. Something to do with my penance, I’m guessing. Like I died in my sleep and this is the Underworld.”

Malcolm sighed. “So, you’re dismissing the diagnosis?”

“Yes. I am. The reason is because of the sheer volume and continuity of my memories of my homeworld. My entire life. That’s nearly forty-nine years’ worth, Malcolm. I am not aware of anything in the literature about a subject with MPD who is, what is this body, nearly eighteen years’ old, who has an alter with three times as many years’ worth of memories. And memories which have zero continuity errors in them. I mean, sure, the human creative imagination is vast, granted, but I think you’d agree that we are talking some serious brainwashing ability here, if your diagnosis is true?”

“What if it isn’t brainwashing?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you did go to sleep, so to speak, at a very young age, and you’ve stayed asleep, but dreaming, until a few days ago, then you really could’ve dreamed an entire life. And it would seem real to you. What do you think?”

“It’s real, Malcolm. I am not prepared to give it up. You are trying to tell me that I should have to start accepting the fact that everyone I love, who I miss like fucking hell, is just a product of my imagination! And you can’t expect me to do that. Because I never will. So as far as I’m concerned, Malcolm, that’s the end of this fucking conversation…”

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And just for a reminder, you can start reading Katrina’s story with My Intro, there, or the Prelude & Scene One, there.

Like I say, Katrina’s Intermission will be over soon, and she will be back. With a vengeance, some might say…

In the meantime, you know how much we writers love likes comments and shares, don’t you?

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