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‘Try me.’
‘Fighting talk. Like that. Always loved a tear-up. Bit of a pro in my own way.’ He paused, squinting slightly, as if the act of conversation was suddenly a leaden effort. ‘Know what I learnt from geezers who talked tough?’
I supplied the obvious answer. ‘They weren’t really all that tough inside?’
Another squint as he struggled to impart whatever ran through his ruined mind. ‘I’m mad, right? One of them psycho-whatnots. Done all the fucking tests a million times. Take more drugs in a day than the Rolling fucking Stones in a month. But that’s only ’cause I can see through people, like they’re fucking transparent or something. Just like I’m looking at you now. Trying to get all chummy with me. Talking like mates. I don’t have to tell you fuck-all if I don’t want to.’
‘So let’s just stick to the questions on the form, then, eh?’
But he wasn’t through. ‘Know why I hate wankers like you?’
‘I feel sure you’re about to tell me.’
He feigned a slow handclap. ‘You’re unnatural. Fucking freak. Should be dead.’
I struggled to grasp the concept.
He enlightened me. ‘Only the strong survive, fat-boy. Little gits like you have to lock people like me up, ’cause you can’t handle us. But you’re all fascinated. You poke us about, prod us, ask us shit – always trying to “understand”. And you ain’t never going to find any answers. We’re always going to be out there. Taking what we want. Doing what we want. That’s what we’re here for. To pass on our genes, or whatever. Fuck ourselves a stronger human race. Science is dead. Drugs won’t hold us for ever.’
I wrenched myself from his sneering gaze, turning to Denton, who sat bored by the wall. He’d heard it all before, a thousand times, maybe.
I let a few seconds’ silence pass. ‘Is that what you were trying to do to Helen Lewis, Frank? Build a stronger human race? Trying to have sex with her?’
He laughed. ‘Tinpot theory. Ain’t you done no fucking homework? Last thing on earth I wanted to do was fuck the bitch.’
‘Yet you stripped her, tortured her?’
‘Which turns you on, right? ’Cause that’s the only connection your fat little filthy mind can make, isn’t it? Just ’cause she was naked, I had sex with her, right? But that’s your interpretation, you sick piece of shit.’
‘So tell me yours.’
‘Fuck off.’
Deadlock. There was little to do but recommence the preset questions. ‘Ward?’
And in an instant the demeanour changed. His tone calmed, and we talked like old friends. I didn’t know which face frightened me more, the angry Beast, or the good-buddy Frank. ‘You see, Adrian,’ he grinned and winked at me. A shiver coursed down my spine. ‘Reckon they’re taking the piss out of both of us. We already know all these answers.’
I found myself apologetic, unravelling in my naivety. Why in God’s name wasn’t Denton being more assertive, shutting Rattigan up, making him toe the line? ‘Dr Allen and the team prepare your questions,’ I said. ‘I’m just the poor fool designated to ask them. I don’t even see them until I arrive. That’s how it works.’
‘You’re crap at this.’ A two-beat pause. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I’m …’ I shot what must have been an obvious look of desperation at Denton.
‘I find it insulting,’ Rattigan added threateningly.
‘I’m sorry about that …’
‘It’s making me feel demeaned, like some fucking performing seal. And I don’t like feeling demeaned, Adrian. I really don’t. It just pisses me off, and I do things.’
Suddenly, here it was – a break, a slip, a crack of a chance. I was on it in an instant. ‘Like what, Frank?’
He smiled, and I hesitantly returned it, knowing he was drawing me in, but somehow powerless to resist. ‘Like with the lady, fat-boy. Now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we? Your turn.’
‘So you felt demeaned … when you …?’
‘Oh, I felt lots of stuff.’ His fat head nodded slowly. ‘Pretty as a picture, she was. Pretty as a fucking picture.’
My throat was bone-dry as I struggled to control the delivery of my next question. ‘That demeaned you? Her beauty?’
A slight twitch above his left eyebrow. ‘What are you implying?’
‘That perhaps you felt threatened by it in some way?’
‘That I’m ugly?’ He sounded ugly, too. Instantly loud and dense. His eyes narrowed to pig-slits, and his bottom jaw gaped ludicrously.
‘I’m not saying anything, I’m …’
He turned to Denton, standing and pocketing the cigarettes. ‘Take me back to the unit. I don’t have to take this shit from an arsehole like him.’
Denton stood, quickly moving between Rattigan and myself. ‘Calm down.’
‘Will I bollocks! This cunt’s a wind-up artist!’
Somehow, through my fear came another feeling – stronger, more urgent. Anger. I’d been bloody set up, I was certain of it. I sat seething, staring at the floor and shaking my head. It simply wasn’t my fault, none of it was. The whole session had got off to a terrible start with the set questions. But I didn’t decide those, Allen and his unseen cronies did. Yet I was the poor mug asking them, getting sworn at and intimidated into the bargain.
I felt Rattigan move past me. ‘I’m not a cunt, Frank,’ I said quietly.
But he simply left the room, Denton half a pace behind, leaving me with a well of hatred I hadn’t felt in years, and a conscience struggling to pull myself from his hostility.
But I also knew full well his anger was born from my delving. Questions I’d asked had rattled the ice-cool facade. His response, his anger at me, was explainable, understandable, logical, rational. Sane, almost. He didn’t want me poking, prying. Tough – I was going to upset him a lot more in future.
He felt he’d won – round one to Rattigan. Maybe, but it was going to be a long fight. I’d already beaten the bottle. There was no way Rattigan could be a worse opponent than alcohol.
Could he?
5 (#ulink_585335ac-af27-509f-81d2-65c7cc96e606)
‘Will I bollocks! This cunt’s a wind-up artist!’
Dr Neil Allen switched off the micro-cassette and regarded me cautiously. ‘I don’t want you to be put off by this, Mr Rawlings. You’re doing well. Surprisingly well.’
‘It’s “Adrian”,’ I offered wearily, slumped in one of three chairs in his surprisingly spacious office. The distant echo of New Age Muzak did little to calm me.
Allen sat behind the desk, his back towards several large charts denoting duty nursing rosters. It took me a moment to work out what was missing from the room. Windows. Working there would’ve driven me as crazy as the inmates. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
He poured two cups from a large jug-shaped flask. Institutional black, no sugar. Hideous. ‘You’re not here to make psychiatric history, Adrian. No one expects anything from you.’ He paused. ‘Except yourself, maybe.’
He was analysing me. I resented it. ‘Oh?’
He stroked his long gaunt face quite slowly, almost caressing the pointed chin. I briefly wondered if his stark looks were in any way connected with the ugly minds under his charge, if perhaps he had started out quite rugged and handsome, then fallen physical victim to their mental neuroses, like certain owners look like the dogs they keep.
‘The way you sit there – slumped,’ he continued. ‘I can tell that it’s not turned out as you hoped. I’ve had words with Dr Clancy. He told me you were pretty shaken from your first meeting with Rattigan.’
‘He knew my numberplate, Dr Allen,’ I replied. ‘I think that gives me the right to be slightly worried.’
‘About what, exactly?’
‘Who told him, of course.’
‘You have your own theory?’
I shifted uncomfortably. But I had to voice my concerns. I was worried. ‘Rattigan mentioned something about Warder-Orderly Denton perhaps …’
Allen allowed my half-mumbled accusation to hang in the air for a toe-curling few seconds. ‘And you suspect Dr Millar is in league with Frank Rattigan?’
‘Dr Millar?’ What in God’s name was going on here?
‘Your personal assessor and bodyguard, Adrian. Dr Millar holds black belts in three martial arts. Frightfully competent man. As well as being a vital witness on all your sessions, he’ll ensure Rattigan’s in no position to carry out his threats.’
I was flabbergasted. ‘Millar’s Denton? So why the subterfuge?’
‘For Rattigan’s benefit. He assumes Millar to be another screw, so he’s more likely to open up.’
‘But doesn’t he already know Denton’s Millar, or whoever?’
‘Rattigan’s kept in the Personality Disorder Unit. It has its own staff. Your sessions are the first time he’s set foot outside for years. He sees Dr Millar dressed as a screw and obviously assumes him to be one.’
I was aware I was frowning.
‘And as for your numberplate – it’s mind-numbingly easy. Rattigan is, in institutional terms a rich man. Cigarettes buy information, Adrian. It wouldn’t take much for him to get a message to one of the inmates up on D-Wing. Their cells overlook the visitors’ car park.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shame, isn’t it?’ Allen sighed, stifling a yawn. ‘Like finding out an illusionist’s best work is done with the humble mirror. Believe me, Dr Millar has only your best interests at heart.’
‘Then why didn’t he tell me all this?’
‘He hasn’t had the chance to. Rattigan’s always around. Chap doesn’t want to blow his cover in the first couple of sessions.’
‘Even so,’ I pressed. ‘I’d quite like to talk to him at some stage. Even if it’s just to get his opinion.’
‘Maybe. He’s a busy man. Anything else that’s particularly bothering you? You don’t look very relaxed about all this.’
‘The questions,’ I said carefully. ‘They were … ridiculous. Stuff that was completely superfluous.’
Allen smiled, holding immaculately manicured hands close to his lips as if about to pray. ‘That was precisely the point.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The questions were designed to antagonize.’
‘Deliberately?’
He nodded, allowing it to sink in. ‘We need to see how someone like Rattigan interacts with a stranger, Adrian. We’re using you, quite blatantly.’
‘I’m not really with you,’ I mumbled, embarrassed.
‘The study,’ Allen continued. ‘Is as much for the benefit of my staff as it is for the forces of law and order. A spin-off, if you like. We use you in order to get to know much more about Rattigan, his triggers, length of his fuse. Remember how he reacted when he thought he was belittled?’
‘Demeaned,’ I half-heartedly corrected, determined to score at least one point. ‘But you would’ve known all about that already. Your own counsellors, access to his psychiatric record –’
‘Irrelevant,’ Allen interrupted. ‘Past history. The study of the human mind is in its infancy. We know damn-all about Rattigan, and we’ve had him here years. The best we can do is adjust his medication to keep him stable. But it’s a risky business. Ultimately, our distant aim is to have some insight into the origin of our inmates’ various psychoses. Then perhaps we can alter their behaviours therapeutically instead of medicinally. Some at the Home Office think it would be cheaper and probably safer. Certainly, it would be impressive, don’t you think? Ground-breaking, even.’
‘I’m not sure you’re not making fun of me,’ I replied, uncomfortable with the way the conversation had turned. I was still quite shocked that my old pal Fancy had betrayed my feelings about Rattigan so quickly. I thought I’d told him in confidence. I began to feel unneasy – again. ‘What do you really think?’
He laughed at my naivety. ‘The old cliché, Adrian. I’m not paid to think. I’m little more than a dispenser in a suit. They give me drugs, I prescribe them. They come up with some newfangled scheme – I’ll run with it.’
It was becoming depressingly clearer. ‘So that’s all I am – just a budgetary obligation?’
‘You get valuable experience, Adrian. A lot more than money can buy.’ He sipped loudly at the tepid excuse for coffee. ‘And now you think I’m a cynical humbug, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what to think, really.’
‘Let me put it this way. You have an opportunity here to witness institutional life first-hand. Even if that’s the sole result of your visits here, it’ll have been worthwhile.’ He paused, pointing to the micro-cassette. ‘You’re looking for a motive, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘A reason why Rattigan killed the girl.’
‘An insight, perhaps.’
‘From someone who’s certified insane?’
‘Too ambitious?’
‘Certainly not. Delve away. Though don’t pin your hopes on it. He’s stuck rigidly to the same story for years.’
‘That it was “fun”.’
‘Perhaps it was. His criminal history is peppered with serious violent assaults.’
‘But to simply pick on a random individual and torture, mutilate and kill them? For no reason?’
‘For fun, Adrian. Reason enough, perhaps.’
‘There has to be more.’
