I TURNED OVER the events of the night before in my mind as I left the house the next morning. I was absolutely certain I hadn’t imagined the face at the window, but it hadn’t been clear enough for me to recognize who it was; it could have been anyone. So I decided to assume it was merely a drunk taking a shortcut home through my garden and shoved it to the back of my mind. I had more pressing matters to concern me this morning. I had to get to Letterkenny for my appointment at the hospital.
Within two hours, I realized I couldn’t have chosen a worse day. A delegation from the County Council was visiting the hospital. I had to wait to get in to see my client, and when I finally did get to see him, the poor man didn’t even recognize me. I spent about twenty minutes with him to see if things improved and then I went looking for the Matron.
I found her standing in a corridor talking to a thin man in a gray suit. She introduced me.
“Ben O’Keeffe, this is Aidan Doherty, one of our prominent County Councillors.”
I shook Doherty’s hand. Though a handsome man, he looked as if he should be in one of the beds, not pressing the flesh. His hair was sticking up as if he’d been combing his hands through it for hours and his shirt looked as if he’d slept in it. His shirt, hair, and face were various shades of gray.
No sooner had we shaken hands than another man in a suit appeared at the end of the corridor waving at him and calling his name. Doherty nodded a polite goodbye and left.
“Lovely man,” the Matron remarked as she watched his departing figure.
“Is he? I don’t know him at all.”
“Not at all like your usual County Councillor. Always talks to the patients when he comes here. And, more importantly, he actually listens to them. I think he really seems to try his best to help.” She lowered her voice. “Much nicer than the wife.”
I hadn’t time to get into one of those conversations. I smiled. “About …”
“Oh, yes. Sorry – of course. He’s not so great today, is he? I’m sorry about that. You’ve probably had a wasted journey.”
“Not at all. I was glad to be able to see him. But I’m certainly going to have to come back.”
“Some days he is absolutely perfect, you know.”
“I’m going to get Brendan Quinn the psychiatrist to see him,” I said. “So maybe you would keep an eye on him for the next few days and let me know when he is having a good day?”
“Of course,” she promised.
“Great. I can call Quinn to do an affidavit of mental capacity and I’ll get up straight away then.”
It may seem obvious, but in cases like this, will and lucidity have to coincide. For a hospital will this can mean that the logistics are pretty awkward. If there is any doubt about a person’s capacity, you need an affidavit from a medical practitioner drawn up at the same time as the will.
An hour later I found myself sitting in a plush 1960s-style, low-backed leather armchair in the Buncrana waiting room of Dr. Brendan Quinn. An enormous fish tank filled with exotically colored tropical fish sat in the corner of the room. It occurred to me that maybe I should get some. Fish are supposed to be calming. I hadn’t felt calm since Wednesday morning and probably not for a long time before that.
I was shown into an office even more plush than the waiting room, if that were possible. The walls were a soft forest green with dark wooden panelling and the room was dominated by a huge mahogany desk in front of a bay window which looked out over the sea.
“Nice pad,” I said as I shook hands with the tanned, gray-haired man on the other side of the desk. Despite my dealings with Quinn over the years, I had never actually been in his office.
“Why thank you, Miss O’Keeffe.” The doctor bowed his head in mock formality.
“Were you away? That’s some color you have.”
“Italy for two weeks, the Amalfi coast. Without the lads, for once. We just got back yesterday.”
“So that’s why you’re working on a Saturday morning. I was surprised to see the light on.”
“Oh, I’m back in at the deep end. I arranged some appointments for this morning before I left. Did I see that you left a message about an affidavit of mental capacity for a will?”
“Yes. I left the client’s details with the message. He’s in Letterkenny General. I’d be grateful if you’d see him whenever you get the chance. You know the procedure. I’ll have to see him the same day, after you’ve examined him. As soon as possible if you can; he’s not expected to last long.”
Quinn took his diary from the drawer of his desk and made a note. “What’s he like today?”
“Not great, I’m afraid. The Matron is going to call me when he’s in better form, and I’ll call you, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll look in on him on Monday morning; I’m at the hospital anyway. I can give you a call after, let you know how I found him.”
“Great.”
Quinn sat back in his chair. “Now, what’s the real reason you’re here? You could have rung me about that. Or just waited for me to call you back.”
I smiled. “You can’t get anything past a shrink. I was wondering, what do you know about exit counseling – you know, cults and the like?”
He frowned. “Any particular reason?”
“A client of mine died during the week in rather odd circumstances. I’m pretty sure she was an ex-member of a cult called the Children of Damascus.”
Something about the expression on Quinn’s face made me wade in with both feet. “Her name was Marguerite Etienne.”
Quinn paled visibly. Jesus, I thought, he knew her.
“She wasn’t a patient of yours, was she?” I went on.
“You know I can’t discuss that.” Yes, she was.
I shook my head. “No, no, of course. I know that.”
All of the color suddenly seemed to have drained from Quinn’s face. His tan had faded to a yellowy-gray. “When did she die?”
“Tuesday night, they think.”
“She drowned. Her body was found on a beach close to Glendara. The guards are investigating her death but they seem to think it’s most likely to be suicide. I’m not so sure.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I just don’t think she killed herself. I thought you might be able to give me some information about exit counseling and the longterm psychiatric effects of being a member of a cult like the Damascans.”
Quinn looked down at his hands as if he wasn’t sure who they belonged to.
“And whether someone like Marguerite would be likely to do something like that?” I added.
His face was unreadable. He started playing with his fingers.
“So, do you know anything about it?” I pressed. “Or can you put me in touch with someone who does?”
He looked up. “What exactly is your role in all this?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “None officially. Just concern, I suppose. She was my client.”
Quinn looked for a few seconds as if he was struggling to come to a decision. When he spoke again, he appeared to have regained control. Cool professionalism had returned.
“Okay. Well, as you might imagine, cult membership is not a particularly big problem in Inishowen, so I’m not exactly an expert in the area. But if you want, I can give you a bit of general information about the whole theory behind exit counseling.”
“Shoot. I’m all ears.”
He leaned back. “Obviously, the ideal is that someone leaving a cult like the Damascans will obtain specialized counseling straight away. But if that doesn’t happen, it’s generally recognized that people who have been through a traumatic experience may not realize it consciously for years to come. Many people, and this is often true of ex-cult members, develop a coping mechanism called Dissociative Identity Disorder or DID, which effectively means burying memories. In the context of a cult which involves enforced thinking and behavior, often over a long period of time, these memories may not always be part of a person’s everyday thinking. They may become buried after that person leaves the cult, and are never dealt with.”
“Never?” I asked.
“Usually the memories resurface at some stage, triggered by something that reminds the person of their experiences or because they begin to feel safe with someone they can talk to. It is then that they find that they need to deal with their issues and should have exit counseling at that stage – even if it is years after they have left the cult.”
Alain Veillard’s death, I thought. That was Marguerite’s trigger.
“I see. And how successful would counseling be at that stage?”
“It depends. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be just as successful as if it had happened immediately after leaving the cult.”
“So, if you had someone who had left, say, twenty years or so ago, and they were now getting counseling, would you say they would be a suicide risk?”
Quinn avoided my eye. “Unlikely, I would have thought, if they were getting treatment, if they were under the regular care of a psychiatrist.”
At that point he began to examine a file on his desk with great interest. Disassociation was not only the preserve of the mentally ill, apparently.
Further questioning produced nothing. Dr. Quinn made it clear, as they say in Donegal, that I had got my gettings.
I was standing in the waiting room, just about to head out on to the street when something made me turn around and knock on the door of his office. Before Quinn had a chance to reply, I opened it and stuck my head in.
“The funeral’s at twelve o’clock today. In Glendara.”
He didn’t respond.