the quintessence of evil

by William Jennings Chalk

‘You know, it’s kind of exciting,’ Amy said cheerily, as she walked around her empty house.

Julia listened to her sister talk over the phone and tried to bring her back down to earth.

‘I am not sure those are the right words, Amy,’ she said carefully. Experience had taught her that approaching things head-on in this family rarely worked; diplomatic and tactful was the only way that had a hope. ‘Oh, I know I should take it more seriously, but it’s only Simon, he just wants attention, he wouldn’t actually take the case to trial.’

Julia thought about these words as she replayed the facts as she knew them; her sister and her sister’s husband had been arrested seventeen days ago for domestic abuse, coercive control, and gaslighting of their youngest child, Simon. Since then, it had emerged that the last time anyone had seen Simon was when he had run out of the family home nine months before after being screamed at for asking for money to get the tube. Furthermore, his siblings had stepped in to confirm that their parents had deliberately targeted him for years and encouraged the same behaviour in them; bullying him in private and belittling him in public, all the while expressing their love for him if ever challenged. Now, Amy’s husband, Seamus, a rigid man who always seemed sure of himself, was in jail awaiting trial while Amy had been released on parole but was unable to leave the house.

‘Amy, I think you need to be really careful here. I don’t know if Simon will take this to court, but now the police are involved, everybody is going to be watching you, and acting blasé about the situation only makes you look guilty, or, at the very least, out of touch with reality.’

Amy sat down and looked out the window. Could this really be her life? At her age, there weren’t many things capable of stopping her in her tracks, but the prospect of prison was one. She wondered if her sister was correct and Simon would follow through on his report. So much of her life had been spent around chancers that she just assumed her son was the same. Could she really have been so wrong? She knew she had been a bad mother, and, by the letter of the law, she probably did deserve to be in jail. She had tried to make up for it later in life, even offering a half-hearted apology once. But each attempt had been met with hostility, as if the damage was too extensive, as if reconciliation was impossible. In quiet moments, she had hoped her son might just choose to end his life and she could bury the knowledge of her past behaviour with him. That he had lived and had had the gumption to go to the police was a shock, but now what? Was he actually going to try to put his parents in jail?

*****

‘I hear your boy is playing up again?’

It was the next day, and as much as Amy hated the scrutiny of the matter, she hated the silence of an empty home even more. As a result, she had been calling her circle of friends one by one hoping for support. This time, she had reached Kelly, an old confidante, and the wife of Benjamin, a pastor, who had gone to school with her husband.

‘Yeah.’ She sighed, appreciating the consolation. ‘He was such a nice boy growing up, I don’t know where we went wrong.’

‘Ted was difficult too,’ came Kelly’s reply, ‘but he settled down when he began painting,’ she noted, referring to her son who was a few years older and a well-known artist. ‘Maybe Simon just needs a craft to practise.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Amy tried to agree. She thought about all the things Simon might say if he ever learnt the power of his own voice before assuring herself that this was unlikely to happen. ‘I’ve started to think it might just be too late to expect anything different from him,’ she proposed. ‘At this point, I think I probably have to accept that I have a son who hates me so much he is willing to lie to the police.’

‘Were you overly harsh with him?’

Amy thought back to her screaming and how he had met – and exceeded – her rage. ‘I didn’t do anything to him that he didn’t do to me,’ she responded defensively. ‘Sometimes, you just have to step back and say I have done all I can as a parent.’

Kelly made sympathetic sounds on the other end of the phone as Amy helped herself to a chocolate biscuit from a pile that was sitting on the counter.

‘Don’t forget to pray for him anyway, remember that line from Isaiah that Benjamin always quotes, “though your sins are like scarlet they shall be as white as snow.”’

‘Thanks Kelly, you’re a good friend.’

‘Of course.’

*****

‘I hear they tortured him,’ Anna said conspiratorially as she walked through Regent’s Park with her two friends. They were all part of the same social circle, which included Amy and Seamus, however, this did not preclude their gossiping about the situation.

‘I heard that too,’ came Heather’s reply, a broad woman in her late fifties who seemed to believe that emphasising her words gave them more authority.

‘Apparently, they were deliberately inducing illness then blaming him for it.’

‘It’s just horrific.’ Anna affirmed, nodding.

‘You’re quiet,’ she said, looking at her third friend, Koren, who was walking next to her by the bank of the river. Koren was a diminutive woman, a little younger than her and Heather, and a practising psychologist. Ordinarily, she would be too serious for Anna, however, given the subject matter, Anna had hoped she would be a good source of information during the walk. So far though, she had chosen to keep her counsel.

Koren looked ahead pensively. Bringing her coffee to her lips, she took a small sip, her way of detaching from the lewd gossip of her friends. ‘If Seamus really is a covert malignant narcissist, it will be more complicated than the whole family ganging up on Simon,’ she said carefully.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Anna.

Koren took a breath. ‘So, narcissism is a term that gets thrown around a lot, but really, it’s a clinical diagnosis involving self-centredness, lack of empathy, and extreme sensitivity. You’re basically looking at a child in an adult’s body who experiences something so horrific during their own childhood that they remain emotionally stunted in whatever age that happened.’

‘Like abuse,’ said Heather firmly, accentuating the b for effect.

Koren hid her embarrassment at this and continued, ‘Like abuse, exactly. So, in lieu of developing an actual personality, narcissists will adopt a false self, which is usually whoever they needed to be at the time that would have enabled them to have power. So, for example, if there was physical violence then they become a violent adult, sexual violence, then a sex pest. It’s about control and never being hurt in the same way again.’

‘Okay, so you’re saying that Seamus was a victim and has become a victimiser?’ Anna probed.

This was more like it, and Koren appreciated that one of her friends could keep up. ‘Well, yes, probably, I mean, nobody is born wanting to do this,’ she agreed, ‘but there is more. So, everyone has been saying that Seamus is a covert malignant narcissist. This is a particular kind of presentation and probably the most dangerous of the narcissistic subtypes.’

This time, her two friends continued walking in silence, waiting for Koren to elucidate further.

‘So, typically, there are three presentations,’ Koren continued, ‘grandiose, covert, and vulnerable. Grandiose is your Donald Trump or Boris Johnson – big, blustery, larger than life vibes. Vulnerable, on the other hand, is your eternal victim, always something wrong with them, never satisfied. But covert’ – she paused for a moment – ‘covert is the hardest one to catch. They know what they are and that they are disordered, but they have learnt, over the years, to hide their character to such a degree that often, they are seen as kind and helpful.’

‘Just like Seamus was,’ Heather jumped in as if she had cracked the case.

Again, Koren let her initial reaction pass. ‘Just like Seamus was,’ she repeated. ‘The thing with the covert narcissist is that they can go undetected for years, even decades. You wouldn’t know unless you live with them, and even then, you get this feeling that something is off, but you can’t put your finger on it. The first time I saw it I was pretty shocked, actually. Part of their hallmark is a refusal to accept blame, and they often find partners who are willing to take up that baton as a way to keep the relationship alive. If you are not careful, you can lose yourself entirely trying to be the person you think you need to be to get their love.’

‘Eeeesh,’ interjected Anna. ‘It kind of sounds like an addiction.’

‘In some ways it is,’ Koren responded. ‘It’s a similar loss of a sense of self, only to another person as opposed to a substance.’

‘But what makes it malignant?’ interposed Heather bluntly.

A fleeting sentimentality had come over Koren as she thought about Amy’s situation. Heather’s question snapped her back into shape. ‘So, the malignant side is what makes it particularly scary. In general, narcissists are difficult and self-centred to the extreme, but they are not actively trying to hurt you. Malignant narcissists, on the other hand, take pleasure in causing others pain, they enjoy your suffering.’

There was another pause after this statement.

‘So, a psychopath?’ Anna broached.

‘Clinically speaking, there is not much difference in their presentations,’ Koren replied.

The three continued walking. The sounds of their feet brushing against the autumn leaves beneath them now suddenly seemed more apparent.

‘Christ,’ Heather said eventually, ‘aren’t they Christians?’

‘It’s not unusual at all for disordered individuals to join the church,’ Koren replied. ‘Imagine if you had this kind of personality disorder, who else is going to give you support and empathy while allowing you to preserve your reputation?’

Both women weighed this statement and thought about some of the other Christian men in their social circle.

“There was a German psychologist called Erich Fromm who called malignant narcissism, “the quintessence of evil,”’ Koren went on. ‘It’s basically the same make-up as Hitler or Bundy would have had. If this is what Seamus is, then the whole family will have been quite severely affected.’

Each woman thought about their interactions with Amy after this. They were happy to gossip over coffee, but none of them were actively malicious. They each considered what they would have done had they married a man like this.

‘So why didn’t anyone say anything before now?’ Anna queried.

Koren sipped her coffee. ’My guess is that the violence wasn’t distributed evenly. These types of people thrive on disorder. Their aim is to keep you so confused that you cannot think clearly. Often, they target any familiar member who they think might be onto them and try to turn the family against them.’

‘Like a scapegoat?’ Anna asked, proving once again that she was capable of so much more than this.

‘Exactly, they might even induce the others to participate in abusing the scapegoat, while keeping their own hands clean.’

‘Surely the others wouldn’t?’ said Heather. ‘The rest of them aren’t bad people.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Koren said firmly. ‘If you haven’t lived it, it’s very difficult to understand, but living with a covert narcissist is like living with a gas leak. Everyone is infected. The manipulation is so subtle you don’t even realise how it’s affecting you. He probably convinced the others that Simon deserved the abuse somehow, even wanted it.’

A chill ran through Heather’s body at these words, and she pulled a small chocolate out of her pocket to comfort this sensitivity.

‘I actually see this quite a lot in my practice,’ Koren continued. ‘You know I work with teenagers with addiction issues. I sometimes think that in richer families, if there is a kid with addiction or mental health problems, they are likely the scapegoat of a narcissistic parent.’

Again, Anna and Heather reflected, this time on examples of their children’s friends who they knew battled addiction.

‘So, you think Simon figured out what Seamus was?’ Anna asked.

‘Maybe, probably,’ Koren tried to answer, almost losing her professional perch for a moment. ‘It could be that or plain old jealousy. Normally, the scapegoated kid possesses traits the parent envies,’ she went on. ‘They’re chosen for their quality, which the parent then tries to break in them.’

‘It sounds like hell,’ Heather said.

‘Yeah, it’s pretty awful,’ Koren agreed, ‘but that’s why I say it’s complicated, this is a psychological crime as much as anything else, and it will take time for each of them to get themselves right.’

They had reached the gates of the park by this point and, without explicitly saying so, all of them were making moves back to their cars. The unspoken weight of this new evil was enough to cause a collective chill in each of them. Even Koren, by far the most familiar with personality disorders, felt unsettled. Their talk had reminded her of her own previous encounters with these types, and she rearranged her scarf a little as a distraction.

Thinking of her own children, she made a note to call each of them later as she reached her parked car. Opening the door handle, she settled into her seat, taking a moment to get comfortable, grateful for the warmth her vehicle provided.

*****

‘She is completely fucking delusional,’ Tony exclaimed loudly to Beth, his partner, as they walked to the local nursery to collect their child. He had just received a text from his mother inviting him to Sunday dinner at their family house, and it had caused him to blow up. ‘She is literally on parole and under investigation from the police and she is trying to play happy family,’ he said, outraged.

‘It’s likely a coping mechanism,’ Beth interjected. She was a petite, poised woman with long red hair who carried an aura of stability that gave her words instant gravity.

‘It’s embarrassing,’ Tony said firmly. ‘She should be begging our forgiveness for what she put us all through.’

Beth was silent. She knew his mother didn’t have a leg to stand on, yet she had spent time in this family and knew, too, that it was Seamus who was the dominant force. It didn’t sit right with her to blame the woman, and she suspected, although she was too wise to say it openly, that her partner’s exclamation was hiding guilt about how he had treated his brother. 

‘I mean, I literally saw him begging her to stop screaming when he was ill, and she just laughed and continued. Worse, she seemed proud of herself afterwards, like she had put him in his place,’ Tony went on, his hand shaking as he recounted the memory, and he quickly put it in his pocket to hide the effect.

‘You never told me that,’ said Beth softly, who, at the same time, was mentally cataloguing how she had treated Simon.

Tony slowed, ‘I know, I just remembered it last night. It’s like somehow, we were conditioned to accept how they treated him.’

‘This is what abusers do. They normalise their behaviour and make challenging them so difficult that you don’t bother.’

Tony had stopped walking and sat down on the pavement with his feet on the road and his knees upright. ‘He tried to tell us, he tried to tell me,’ he said, and this time he couldn’t stop his tears. ‘I just ignored him, I didn’t want to get involved, I didn’t want to become their target.’

Beth sat down next to him to console him.

‘Why would anyone do this to their own child?’ he asked, genuinely unable to comprehend their cruelty.

Beth rested her arms on his knees and said carefully, ‘It was likely done to them. Abuse never happens in a vacuum, and it’s rarely just one bad apple. I bet his parents did this to him and convinced him that it was normal, your dad might be so used to this way of behaving that he doesn’t even recognise it’s abusive.’

‘No, he knows,’ Tony replied. ‘If he didn’t, he would have treated us all this badly, he deliberately targeted Simon, and Mum joined in.’

Beth pursed her lips. ‘Sometimes, sharing the abuse of your child is better than sharing nothing at all with your husband,’ she said, the sadness in her voice evident.

Tony rubbed his partner’s hands and looked straight ahead. ‘He was always cleverer than the rest of us, I reckon he figured it out and that’s why Seamus went after him.’

Beth squeezed Tony’s palms. ‘You’ll see him again. It’s a good thing that they have been reported. It might take a few years to recover from, but abuse isn’t the death sentence it used to be. We can help him get his life back together and make sure our home never becomes like that.’

Tony rested his forehead against Beth’s, and they sat for a moment on the pavement together in silence. Afterwards, he began making moves to stand up, and Beth followed him.

 He took his hand out of hers and instead draped it across her shoulder. ‘We’ll never become like them,’ he said firmly, as they returned to walking slowly along the pavement to collect their child.

*****

Euston prison is a sturdy edifice. Constructed during the Victorian era, with battlements still protruding from its walls, it is as much castle as prison. Its stark interior a reminder that comfort was not at the forefront of the mind of its architect.

Jonathan looked at his visitor pass, just a lanyard separating him from the inmates inside as he followed a security guard to the visiting area. He was here to visit Seamus, one of his oldest friends and godfather to his daughter. He did not believe what was being said about him, and even if it were true, he fancied it was more a reflection of his son’s softness than Seamus’ nature.

They should have seen what our parents did to us, he thought. What the hell is coercive control, anyway? As if a parent isn’t meant to provide guidance to their child.

He followed the guard as they kept moving through the halls.

‘Alright, we’re going to have to walk past the SAs to get to the visitor area, okay?’

‘SAs?’

‘Sex offenders,’

‘Right, of course.’

‘You might want to cover your mouth and nose,’ the warden suggested.

‘Why?’

‘The spice in here can be pretty potent, don’t want you showing up to your pal high, do we?’

Jonathan did not know what spice was, but he wasn’t going to betray his naivety by asking. He did as he was told. The guard put his hand on the door ahead of them, and Jonathan heard a buzz from above as it was pushed open. Immediately, a harsh, acrid smell hit his nostrils as if someone had vaporised a solvent. He made sure his jumper was in place over his mouth and nose and followed the guard, who moved briskly down the wing, which he saw had metal doors on either side with small, windowed slits in each door. He tried to peer into one as he moved, but the smell and the smoke made it impossible to make out anything clearly. Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor as another buzz and door opening gave way to fresher air and less obscured vision.

‘Wow, that was something,’ he exclaimed.

‘First time in a prison?’ the guard asked.

Jonathan nodded.

‘Yeah, it takes some getting used to. Alright, keep following me, it’s not far now.’

They kept walking and, as they did, Jonathan realised the smell of spice was stuck to his clothing. He tried taking deep breaths, which seemed to calm his racing heart a little.

‘Just through these doors,’ came the guard’s voice.

Again, a buzz and the sound of metal doors being pushed open. This time, however, it wasn’t the smell that hit Jonathan but the noise. The doors had opened into a bustling room far wider than the corridors they had been walking down. In the room, which was flanked by guards standing by the doors on either side, were a number of wooden tables with four brown chairs placed around each one. This was clearly the visitors room, and looking around, Jonathan could see several small groups talking amongst themselves. An older white couple to the left of him; at the end, a well-built Latino man with, presumably, his wife and their children. Then, straight ahead, sitting alone calmly, sat Seamus.

He looked up, and seeing Jonathan, stood immediately. Even in prison, he had a presence. He was tall and full-bodied with the energy of a much younger man. His neck seemed almost too big for the top he was wearing, and his crisp stubble managed to make his all-grey jumper and bottoms somehow seem stylish. He nodded at Jonathan and held out his hand, which Jonathan took and shook quickly.

‘Good to see you pal,’ Jonathan said first.

‘You too,’ came Seamus’ reply, none of the authority in his voice having gone. ‘It’s times like these that you recognise who your friends are.’

They let go of each other and sat down at a small wooden table, Jonathan tucking in his chair precisely while observing Seamus who, leaning forward, had somehow already managed to make most of the table his own. This was the thing, although he had known Seamus for years, they belonged to the same church, and, if it ever came to it, he would vouch for him with the police or in the courts. Alone in this prison meeting room, he could honestly tell himself that he did not trust this man. There was something about entering his world that was off-putting, something in his eyes as he spoke that willed you to submit, leaving you captivated in the moment, but feeling oddly dirty right after. It was probably what made him such an effective spiritual leader and evangelist of the Gospel. Indeed, even as he thought this, he could feel Seamus’ aura catching up and overtaking his perception, for while they were together, they were in his world, and his world allowed for no dissent.

‘Of course, you know we would never abandon you,’ Jonathan replied. ‘I have spoken to some of the others in the church and we are all by your side.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ Seamus said solemnly.

‘What do you think made him to do it?’ Jonathan broached.

A flash of anger was replaced with a sigh as Seamus looked away and into the distance.

‘I don’t like to tell people this, and I have tried to protect her for years by saying nothing for as long as possible, but his mother can be very violent with him.’

Jonathan nodded. He had known the couple a long time, and it didn’t take a huge leap to believe that Amy’s passion could overtake her were she pushed.

‘Mmmmm,’ he mouthed in agreement, ‘and so what? You think he is trying to punish you for not protecting him? Trying to get revenge because his life didn’t turn out the way he wanted?’

Another deep sigh from Seamus. ‘Maybe. I probably should have done more to moderate things as he was growing up. I should have been more available and stepped in to curb the violence when Amy lost it.’

‘You were working, though,’ came Jonathan’s sympathetic reply. ‘You were paying for their lives. It’s not like you can do everything.’

The pained look of an unjustly persecuted man filled Seamus’ face.

Jonathan continued, ‘I mean, that’s not even mentioning what your father was like, honestly, it’s a miracle you survived your own childhood. Then to go on and be as successful as you have been, to raise a family, to contribute to the church as you have. As far as I am concerned, the only people who get to criticise your actions are those who don’t know what you have been through.’

A few tears began to fall from Seamus’ eyes. What comfort it was to hear those words. To be recognised and validated for the excruciating pain he had carried and managed his whole life. He took a moment to wipe his eyes clean and then reached his hands across the table, finding Jonathan’s and squeezing hard. ‘Thank you, thank you for that my old friend,’ he said, his voice breaking a little.

Jonathan felt a wave of sympathy for his buddy and, in that moment, any doubt as to his guilt quickly evaporated. He knew, he just knew, here was an innocent man, and he felt a wave of anger at his son’s selfish actions that had led to this eventuality.

‘You’ll get through this my friend,’ he said clearly and firmly as he gripped Seamus’ hands in reassurance. ‘I promise you, I will be by your side the entire way.’

Both men looked at each other in something close to care, and each felt a wave of intimacy for the other, igniting an internal spark that had long since vanished from either’s marriage.

‘Five minutes,’ came a loud voice behind them.

Jonathan broke eye contact to see a tall prison guard walking behind and to the right of Seamus.

 ‘How about a prayer before you go?’ Seamus suggested, unclasping Jonathan’s hands and slowly moving his arms back to his side of the table.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Jonathan replied.

They both closed their eyes. Jonathan pulled his hands together and upright in supplication on the table, while Seamus let his fall naturally.

‘Blessed be the name of the Lord,’ Seamus began.

‘Blessed be his glorious name,’ came Jonathan’s reply.

Image of William Jennings Chalk

BIO: William Jennings Chalk is a 33 year old tutor/mentor for teenagers based in Edinburgh. He is a graduate of the universities of Cambridge (BA) and Robert Gordon (Msc). He writes in his spare time.