Ploughing Potter’s Field

‘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.’