What to do about Katrina, Ep. I, Act I, sc. 14-16
Separate channels of curiosity
If you have just joined us, you are very welcome! Of course you can just jump in here if you like, but you may wish to possibly avoid any confusion and start at the beginning, either with my intro, or the first instalment.
To recap, in the previous instalment, Tom from MI5, who is not having the best of days, provided the lovely Audrey (aka Exhibit A) with Katrina’s details to research, and had to deposit the insufferable girl in a hotel (with watchers in attendance, naturally), who then proceeded to wind him up a little. Anyway, in this instalment, Tom returns a little belatedly from his errands to see what Audrey has discovered. Peter, meanwhile, seems uncharacteristically contented. And Malcolm has a moment of hypothesis.
Much of the artwork I’ve chosen for this serial - which I hope you are enjoying, by the way - is at least vaguely or obliquely referential to the story (although you’d possibly have to do a little lateral thinking and know a little about the characters involved in La Belle Époque, and the gay (in more ways than one) twenties that followed). I thought with these scenes it’s another excuse for me to go all Luc-Olivier Merson on you. This one is called La Mer de Bretagne (1895-1907).
Audrey brushed her blonde hair back around her ears, leaned back in her chair, sighed and crossed her arms then squinted and squished her cute mouth and nose a little in frustration. She had reached a clear dead end. And she did not enjoy the fact that the image of the girl staring back at her on the computer screen was demonstrably gorgeous.
And Tom was half an hour late.
She considered the phone on her desk. She picked it up and studied it like it was a strange new object. Or some primitive alien artefact. No, that would be submissive. She put it back down again.
The door opened just as her finger hovered over the escape key. Her blue eyes widened as she turned around.
It was Peter. She sighed.
He strolled over. “Good-looking, isn’t she?” he motioned at the screen.
“Peut-être.”
Peter didn’t believe her of course. “So,” he enquired, “what do we have so far?”
“Not much.”
“Not much is at least something?”
“There is no match with missing persons from the photograph. No report either of anyone of her description.”
“I’m not entirely surprised by that. Go on.”
“There is no exact facial recognition match. Lot of people who look like her, of course, but you would have a lot of spy investigation work to do if you wish to account for all of them, I think?”
Peter frowned.
Audrey went on, “And there is no one of this name. I mean of her age, anyway. There are some Katrina Meyers, according to the Internet, but they are not her.”
“Equally unsurprised.”
Audrey squinted up at him. “You think she is lying about her name? She is really someone else? A Russian spy, peut-être?” She raised her eyebrows at him somewhat sarcastically. She was well aware of his perpetually suspicious nature.
“Peut-être.” He mimicked her, although not particularly well. She laughed inwardly. “I did warn your beau about honey traps of course. You’ll be happy to know that, I’m sure.”
She wasn’t, as it happens. She often wondered how much he thought she was a honey trap. Part of her enjoyed the idea, however. She continued. “I cannot find the names of her parents. At least on the databases I have access to.”
“Hmm. How about the grandparents?”
She shook her head. “But did she not say they were not English? Perhaps you could do your spying and check other countries’ databases?”
“Very funny, Mademoiselle Manadou. Still, that’s clearly an option. I’ll get Tom to do his liaison job then and go talk to the Germans and the Irish.”
“I am not sure he will be happy with this.” She visibly frowned up at him.
Peter smirked. “I think what you mean is you would not be happy with this, no?”
She didn’t like that. “No, I would not. We were intending to spend the evening together.”
Then for once, Peter did feel a little sympathetic. Not necessarily guilty or sorry, of course, but there was no point overdoing it.
“I suppose it can wait till tomorrow, then. He’s late, isn’t he?”
She didn’t need to answer that one. She just crossed her arms and sighed.
“Well,” he finished, “I’m going to call it a day and go for a drink with an old friend. If I were you, I’d give him another five minutes then do the same.”
So Peter raised his eyes suggestively at her, smiled, then left.
Audrey watched him leave, then turned back to the screen. She checked the time.
Ten minutes, peut-être. Possibly fifteen.
But no more than twenty. Definitely no more than twenty.
Tom closed the hotel door behind him and checked the time on his standard issue watch (the one with the microphone) and frowned.
Then his phone rang.
“Malcolm! Hi! Thanks for phoning back. Sorry to déranger your holiday, by the way.”
“Hah. Deranged being the word of the day, then, I take it?”
Tom sighed audibly. “I’m not having a good day, put it like that. I tried to like her, but now she’s insufferable. And totally mad.”
“Then I suggest a drink. But not too many. And the company of a good woman.”
“I am fully intending to arrange that.”
“Excellent. Right, your message suggested it was urgent, or is this just Peter’s view?”
“Well, actually, I’m beginning to come round to his way of thinking in this instance.”
“Hmm. How so?”
“You know I mentioned the parallel world delusion, but also the fact that within this fantasy she has a husband and children with Russian names?”
“That would be more than enough for Peter.”
“Quite. Well, the other suspicious thing is that her delusion, or fantasy, seems to fluctuate. What I mean is there are times when it’s apparent, when she rambles on about it, but then she’ll suddenly appear as normal and sane as you or I.”
“I would say speak for yourself, but now might not be the time for that kind of joke.”
Tom chuckled. “Humour might be appropriate, as it happens. I’m trying my best. Anyway, there are times when she just throws in a comment here or there, some off the cuff remark relating to this parallel world of hers. I mean the kind of throwaway detail that would seem irrelevant to the, I don’t know, psychological purpose of a delusion?”
“Have you been doing some homework?”
“Well, not really. I mean I had a cursory look on the Internet and the main takeaway was that psychologists always say there’s a purpose behind the delusion. Would you agree with that?”
“Yes. Completely. It’s nearly always related to something relevant and important to the subject. Such that the more you study the delusion the more insight it gives you into the psychology behind it. Like a trauma, for example. You mentioned she said she just woke up in a waiting room at the Gare de l’Est?”
“Yeah. Pretty much her exact words.”
“Did she say what she was doing immediately before that?”
“I think she said she just went to bed as normal the night before.”
“Hmm.” Tom allowed Malcolm some thinking time. “So her delusion is all about what happened before she arrived in this world, yes?”
“I guess.”
“So she must have some kind of memory loss, correct?”
“That seems obvious now you say it, sure.”
“So, you’re on the right lines with the delusion. Delving into it should provide some clues as to what she’s forgotten, which will almost certainly be a trauma of some kind. Probably a very serious one, too.”
Tom took another audible breath and thought about it. “So,” he suggested, “if we are able to find out who she really is then that may solve this?”
“Yes. It would then be a case of helping her remember, in a safe environment, and come to terms with it. Process it, that’s to say.”
“So she has, what, PTSD or something?”
“Quite likely. PTSD manifests in many different ways. In her case, dissociation. Sounds to me like she may have an extreme form of dissociative identity disorder. That’s just a hunch, but it would fit.”
“And what’s that, in English?”
Mal laughed. “Used to be called multiple personality disorder. It’s a post-traumatic condition involving memory loss, blank spots surrounding the trauma, and the creation of a new personality to deal with it. It’s a very creative process, as it happens. And nothing whatsoever like Hitchcock’s stigmatising propaganda.”
Tom laughed. “I think the Katrina I know would definitely get on with you, Malcolm.”
Mal joined in. “So she’s somewhat offbeat, then? Her new personality, that is?”
“Offbeat doesn’t get anywhere near!”
“Right. But,” Malcolm went serious again, “you’re not entirely convinced that she is mad? That she’s putting it on?”
“That’s Peter’s suspicion, yes. In other words it’s a cover story, not a delusion, that she is actually method acting the whole thing, in which case we’re dealing with an exceptionally convoluted plot, here.”
“Which would’ve required a massive amount of planning, too. I agree that makes it urgent.”
“The other thing is that she admitted she knew about this standard issue watch.”
“The one with the microphone?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Now I see where you’re coming from.”
“Does that mean you can come and visit? Peter’s being insistent again.”
“He doesn’t need to be. My curiosity is more than sufficient. And if I interview her a few times I should be able to tell the difference between delusional aspect and cover story. Essentially, if no delusional aspect, then it must be acting. If you see what I mean?”
“Completely. I will be totally grateful to you. Especially if this takes her off my hands. At times she’s just utterly intolerable and demanding.”
“In what way?”
“Maybe later. I really just want to get back and take your advice about the wine, woman and, maybe some song too.”
“Audrey, isn’t it?”
“Sure. Just don’t call her Exhibit A. That’s Peter’s way of trying to provoke me.”
“Try finding a riposte. That’ll do it.”
Tom laughed. “I’ll definitely work on that one. And I am sorry for disrupting your holiday.”
“That is really not a problem. The ancient byways of Brittany are not going anywhere anytime soon. Neither is my bike, nor this excellent cider. They will still be here whenever I wish.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. So when do you think you can get here?”
“Hmm. Shall we say around lunchtime tomorrow? I am definitely staying here this evening, however, then I’ll get the train up in the morning. How about that?”
“You’re a star, Malcolm. Thank you.”
“Pleasure. Now go and do what the doctor ordered.”
Tom laughed, and ended the call.
But then he checked the time.
“Oh, crap.”
“You took your time.” Audrey checked her watch just for show. Twenty-five minutes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Tom wasn’t in the mood for her usual admonishes. “She’s being infuriatingly high maintenance. Where’s Netflix?” he feigned prissy and complaining, “There’s no Netflix! I should be in the Hilton! Don’t you know who I am? Little Miss Self-important.”
Audrey sniggered. With a little relief, it should be noted.
“And she’s getting even more fantastical.”
“Oh?”
“She says she owns Netflix.”
Audrey giggled. “Something tells me you believe her, I think?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just that she can be disconcertingly serious when she wants to be.”
“You are using long English words again. From your posh education?”
“And you are being disconcertingly teasing again. The two of you would get along very well, I think?” he mimicked her cute accent.
She frowned. “She will seem serious because she believes it, of course?”
“True. Still, look up a company called ‘Meyer Electronics’.”
Audrey pulled a face. “This is her company?”
“Her father’s, apparently. There might be something in it.”
Audrey blinked and turned back to her screen, typed it in. Tom peered over her shoulder. “One in Illinois, one in Hong Kong. Neither of which make quantum computers.”
Audrey burst out laughing. “You really thought it would exist, didn’t you?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“I think she is getting to you, chéri.”
“Well, she’s that sort of girl.”
Audrey narrowed her eyes.
“Not like that. Anyway, how far have you got with the other names?”
“They do not exist. Not on the databases I have access to, that is. Same with the grandparents. You will have to do spy stuff.”
Tom frowned. More homework. His salary didn’t cover this kind of thing.
“Peter says you have to go to the German and Irish Embassies. Do your liaison job. Rather you than me with the Germans, of course. They don’t like the French. The French do not like them.”
“Well, given that you don’t speak German and I do, you don’t need to worry about that.”
“They don’t like the English either. They just don’t admit it.”
“Probably true. I’ll do my best to be polite. Difficult, under the circumstances, but -”
“But,” she smiled and anticipated his objection, “he also says you can wait till tomorrow.”
Tom smiled. “So he’s not all bad, then. Duly noted. How about Anna Terfel, though, her alleged grandmother?”
She turned back to the screen and clicked through her search history a few times. “Nothing. There is also no Anna Terfel, born 13 March 1917. Some Welsh women with this name, but not her.”
“So no such thing as Terfel-Black Syndrome, either, then?”
“Not according to the Internet. In my opinion, she is just making it all up.”
“Hmm.” Tom considered. Then something clicked. He grinned. “Katrina has a distinctive Sussex accent.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because it’s where I’m from.”
She frowned. “You did not mention this.”
“You never asked.”
Then she crossed her arms pointedly. “And you clearly forgot to ask her where she’s from, you silly boy. But what else have you not told me about you?”
“Not now, Audrey. My question is how did her Irish mother meet her Anglo-German father and come to live in Sussex?”
“How am I supposed to know this?”
“Try her mother’s maiden name in the list of visas. Sugrue. Same date of birth.”
Audrey sighed again, turned back to the computer and typed it in. “Oh! Here, see! There is a student visa record!”
Tom leaned in a little closer. “Ursula Sugrue, 05 December 1948. Issued at Tralee, County Kerry, Ireland. Visited England,” he squinted a little closer then caught his breath, “1967! There you go!”
“So if Katrina is not who she says she is,” Audrey suggested suspiciously, “how does she know this?”
Tom smiled speculatively at her. “An excellent question. And we’ll not tell Peter just yet. What do you think?”
Audrey liked that.
“So, then,” Tom smiled, motioning for the both of them to go, “Irish Embassy it is, then.”
She shut down her PC and got up to leave. “I like the Irish,” Audrey giggled.
“That’s because they also hate the English.”
“I do not hate the English!”
“But you’re French.”
“Now who is teasing who?”
But as the door closed behind them they were both smiling…