Ploughing Potter’s Field

‘Frank Rattigan, on the other hand, has a personality seemingly designed to tease, humiliate and ritually mentally abuse the likes of those sent to gain access to it. But I’m afraid we might be crediting him with powers of which we have no proof. We suspect he revels in some kind of game with you. Whereas the reality is more soundly rooted in the explanation that he’s completely insane. Crackers, utterly bonkers. We can’t judge him by our standards and suspicions. Remember, it only becomes a game, old friend, if you agree to play it.’

I sighed, rapidly decoding the waffle. Rattigan’s nuts – don’t make him a clever nutter. ‘Maybe.’

‘We’ve all been there, Adrian. He’s your chance to prove a hundred little theories you’ve secretly developed as a BA/MA student. Just don’t rely on a loony, that’s all.’ He smiled, extinguishing the cigar at last.

I was reluctant to admit it, but there was more than a grain of truth in what he said. Rattigan was my chance, I’d felt it as soon as Fancy’d handed me his file. A real-life case study – a mine of horror and chaos waiting for my ordered explanation – my ground-breaking thesis. But we all think like that, don’t we? We all want to make some sort of contribution, be the first to spot the obvious, develop it, redefine it, have it historically credited to our good selves. It’s called making your mark. It’s a base drive. Animal.

‘He’s bored,’ Fancy announced. ‘And the more you rise to the bait, the more he’ll taunt and tease. Just stick to the script, get the thesis done and forget all about him.’

‘What if I can’t?’

‘Can’t?’

‘What if he calls my wife when I’m out?’

‘He won’t. He’ll be pulled from the interviewing process and his cigarettes and privileges will be withdrawn. Remember this is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to Rattigan in years. He’s going to stretch it out as long as he can. Next time remember you’re the one in charge. You can end it just as soon as he can. He’ll soon toe the line. The interviews are about the only thing that give him a little bit of temporary status in the hospital.’

‘How are they chosen?’

He stifled a yawn. ‘Oh it’s terribly top secret stuff, dear boy. Committee, proposers, seconders, Home Office types, specialists, the law, a whole plethora of …’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘OK. Basically, once a year, Neil Allen and I try to pair off a PhD student and an inmate.’

‘And did you pick Rattigan for me? I mean specifically for me?’

Fancy smiled. ‘You flatter yourself, Adrian. You suspect we, the sinister conspiratorial authorities, are at some sort of a loss to unlock the dark secrets of his mind. You see us labouring into the night, shaking our heads in weary defeat. Until … until … someone mentions Rawlings! Rawlings is the man for the Rattigan job!’

‘Piss off,’ I laughed, enjoying the energy of Fancy’s pantomime. ‘I just, you know …’

‘Neil Allen sends me a few files on selected members of his client group. I sift through them, pass the occasional one on to students I feel would benefit from the experience. It’s really that simple. Like I said, just stick to the script.’ He stood and squeezed past me to unhook his coat from the back of the door. ‘Hopefully you’ll get another set of letters after your name, after which you may be some sporadic use sat before a police computer compiling some godawful national nutter database, with which to recognize psychotic characteristics at any number of crime scenes.’ His coat was on and buttoned. ‘Now,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘They’re open. Buy me a drink and anaesthetize me before my undergrad lecture this afternoon.’

‘… and during subsequent testing and further detailed psychoanalysis, the subject retained a continuing indifference to the crime of which he is currently accused.

‘Indeed, throughout my investigations the subject proved himself an able communicator and was well acquainted with the potential outcome of his present situation. His thoughts and opinions were mostly ordered, and he showed little reticence in mentally revisiting the crime scene.

‘However, the prolonged ferocity of the attack itself, the abnormal levels of violence perpetrated on the victim point to a mental psychosis borne out by the subsequent psychological analysis.

‘Again and again the subject was confronted with the possibility that his attack was sexually motivated, which he vehemently denied in all instances. His previous encounters with women (if they are to be believed) appear to have taken the pattern of occasional congress with prostitutes.

‘The random nature of the crime of which he is accused also points to one of a number of currently understood sociopathic disorders. According to the subject, in no way did he “choose” his victim. Indeed, the very word “victim” seems entirely alien to him. By his own admission:

‘“She was there. So I did her. Could’ve been any fucker.”

‘Throughout all four interviews with the subject, he repeatedly denied any former involvement with the victim, or that any kind of selection procedure was used.

‘A look through his previous criminal record and associated life history reveals …’

‘So are you going to tell me, or not?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Adrian!’

‘What? Christ! I’m sorry.’ Ten before midnight the same day. The bedroom. I turned to my wife. ‘You’re right. I’m miles away.’ I put down Rattigan’s file on the linen-fresh duvet.

Jemimah Rawlings opted for tact, starting again. ‘I’ve waited all evening, Adrian. A word or two would be nice. You know, a brief description for the woman who’s had to bite her tongue every night for the last God knows how many weeks as you read about the secret freak you finally met today?’

‘It’s not secret, J. Just want to spare you some of the gorier stuff, that’s all.’

‘How noble.’ She went back to her reading, wearing the slightly-stung-but-indifferent expression which I always found strangely attractive. Her short pointed brown bob perfectly framed the frowning profile doing its best to ignore me. I remembered the first time I’d set eyes on her high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. She had the look of an Eastern European, a Hungarian noblewoman, perhaps, smuggled across hazardous borders to escape Communist authorities. A pity to have the romantic illusion shattered, then, when I learnt she’d spent most of her life in Catford.

I rubbed my eyes. ‘Want to know what he said?’

‘Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I can wait for His Master’s Voice.’

‘He said I didn’t look academic enough.’

She put down the book. ‘Well, you don’t.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Academics are supposed to look bookish and pale. You look more like a rugby player. Healthier, more well-rounded.’

I was grateful for the compliment.

‘Besides,’ she added. ‘I thought this Rattigan man was insane.’

‘Apparently.’

‘So it shouldn’t bother you what he thinks, then, should it?’

I nodded, conceding the point.

‘And what about him, then? What did he look like?’

I thought for a second. ‘Sort of normal, I guess. Not a horn sticking out of his head in sight. Which made it worse, I suppose. Knowing what he’d confessed to, and looking like the average Joe.’

‘And are you going to see him again?’

‘If he agrees.’

‘You want to?’

I closed Rattigan’s file, placed it on my bedside table. ‘I thought I did. It’s different, though, in the flesh. I was almost looking forward to it in a way. There’s so much about his story that just doesn’t make any sense.’

‘But that’s the point, surely?’ Jemimah replied brightly. ‘If he’s crazy enough to do whatever he did, then surely the motive could be just as crazy?’