Ploughing Potter’s Field

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

‘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.’

Allen sighed. ‘Don’t bank on it. You’re an intelligent man. Read the papers, they’re littered with Rattigans and their victims. But I wish you well. Just don’t set your heart on finding some ulterior motive for the murder.’ He stood and offered a hand. The meeting was over. He looked me in the eye. ‘Perhaps,’ he said deliberately. ‘It’s just as important to understand the reasons why you need to know.’

‘You mean my own motives?’

He held my gaze. ‘You could be doing anything, Adrian. Yet here you are, hoping to rationalize a ten-year-old murder, unable to accept the killer’s own motive. I think perhaps it might prove provident for you to understand your own agenda with Rattigan, don’t you?’

I nodded and left the office, glad of the fresh air outside the hospital. I walked quickly to the car without looking back, slapped in some Aretha Franklin and drove away with ‘Chain of Fools’ assaulting me full-blast.

The trouble was, I knew Allen was right. There was something in me which was desperate to normalize Rattigan’s crime. I’d felt it for years, pushed it under with drink, work, life. But the more I tried to uncover its dark beginnings, the less I could pin it down, as if memories had been silenced by time itself.

All I could say for certain was that somewhere within was a knot of fear and shame which was gradually unravelling, day by day, reaching out from my subconscious, readying itself to do battle with my conscience.

And it scared the hell out of me.

6

That night I had the dream again …

The ship was listing, spilt diesel oil vaporizing on the salted air as the huge iron hulk began its obscene journey into the foaming black sea.

A lifeboat swung dangerously, tossed by storm-force winds, held by straining steel cables, a puppet boat, dooming its terrified occupants as it crashed into the dark swell below.

But I was safe, a young boy swimming powerfully, away from the sinking liner, making for stiller waters, passing weaker passengers, feeling occasional connections with tired limbs as I crashed by.

Just another thirty yards or so, twenty at the most, then I could turn, tread water, enjoy the dreadful spectacle of the fizzing, popping boat slide into the deep. Safe – beyond the fatal pull of the whirlpool which would condemn so many others to follow its huge turning propellers.

Ten strokes, now.

Nine.

Eight.

Then I heard their voices, coughing, spluttering – Mum and Dad – old, useless, tired.

Mum, hair in thick wet black ropes, struggling to reach me, my point of oceanic calm, calls out.

‘Adrian!’

Dad tries too.

But they are too far away.

‘Save us!’

How could I? They were as good as dead. To turn back and try and save them would only mean that I would perish alongside them. Lose my life. We’d all die. What point would the fatal heroics prove?

‘Save us, please!’

But I wanted to live. Let them die. Not me.

Suddenly the whirlpool catches them, and for a second their progress stops. I catch a look of complete disbelief and surprise on their faces, as the huge current begins sweeping them screaming towards the same dark sea the boat once occupied …

After, I wandered downstairs to the silent kitchen for a coffee. Jemimah’s dream kitchen, elegantly tiled and strewn with cast-iron pots and pans hanging from stainless-steel rails. I sat at the heavy pine table wondering at the laughable irony of the ad business wherein such luxury is achieved by its employees pushing tat on the masses. The result is very often a lifestyle only dreamt of by the unknowing punters.

A sleepy voice from somewhere behind. Jemimah, dressing gown open, yawning. ‘Can’t sleep?’

I shrugged.

She joined me at the table. ‘Bad dreams?’

I nodded.

‘You saw Rattigan again today, didn’t you?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Don’t want to talk about it?’

‘That’s part of the problem, J. I don’t know what I want.’

Middle of the night’s a bad time to brood, I know that much.’

‘Maybe it’s the best time.’

‘What’s wrong?’ she playfully chided. ‘Has that nasty man been calling you names again?’

‘He’s not the problem. I think I am.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Something someone said to me today. Saying I should take a long hard look at the reasons why I’m doing this.’

‘The PhD?’ she replied, then smiled. ‘Because you’re going to make the best forensic psychologist the ad business ever fired. Because you believe in yourself. Because I do.’

‘Thanks, J. It means a lot.’

She reached out for my hand. ‘Let me in, Adrian. I can’t help if you bottle it all up.’

‘Jesus, I’d love to.’

‘Then do it.’

‘Problem is, I can’t even get there myself.’

She half frowned. ‘I’m not sure I …’

‘Remember when I hit you?’

She withdrew her hand, avoided my gaze. ‘Adrian, you don’t have to …’

‘But I do,’ I persisted. ‘It’s all tied in.’

‘And it’s history. Bad history. We’ve moved on.’

‘But I did it. We can’t just ignore it.’

‘You were pissed. Weren’t yourself.’

‘But what if …?’ I started.

She shook her head, reading my thoughts. ‘Don’t go down this road, Adrian, please.’

‘Maybe I’ve got to.’

‘Why?’

‘To face up to it. To me.’

‘But it wasn’t you, don’t you understand? It was drink. And now I’ve got you back. We’ve moved on. Why the analysis? Why now, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Because I think I know why I did it.’

She was becoming unsettled, nervous. ‘You were bloody drunk. End of story.’

‘But I remember the feelings,’ I replied. ‘And perhaps the booze simply let them slip through. Surface.’

She said nothing, waiting.

‘I remember bits of it. I remember you telling me you’d exchanged on the house. Then there was this … awful pain …’

‘Can’t we just forget the whole thing?’

But I couldn’t. ‘It was raw, J. Familiar almost. Like some kind of replay from the past. I felt like I was being abandoned. It was terrifying. It all welled up, sort of roaring, overwhelming. Next thing I remember, I’d hit you. But I don’t remember doing it. It had happened. Like I wasn’t even there.’

‘As I said,’ Jemimah quietly replied. ‘You weren’t yourself.’

‘Then who the hell was I? A fucking wife-beater? But I have no memory of it, can’t tell you where the rage and the pain came from, except it’s there, real. Inside me.’

‘You’re spending too long on this. It’s not good for you. Or us.’

‘Listen, J, please. I know enough about the subconscious to realize that those feelings are still there, still have the power to race right up and overwhelm me again.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Adrian. We’ve all got a temper! Right now, you’re really beginning to test mine.’

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘But you wouldn’t hit me, would you? Then have no recollection of doing so. This is more than temper, J. This is about something I’ve buried as neatly as the time when I hit you. Something happened, I’m sure of it, a long time ago. It left me with the anguish I felt when you said you were moving. It’s still there, and it frightens the life out of me.’

‘So, get help,’ Jemimah frostily replied. ‘You’re a bloody psychiatrist. Get one of your student friends to recommend a good shrink. Hypnotherapy, regression, or whatever the hell you call it.’

‘Maybe.’

She stood. ‘I’m tired, I’m going back to bed.’

‘Sure.’

‘You coming?’

‘In a moment. I’m sorry.’

She stood by the door. ‘What for?’

‘Bringing it all up again.’

‘Yeah,’ she replied, turning. ‘So am I.’

‘Do you know what really frightens me?’

‘I’m not sure I want to.’

‘I’m meeting with a man who claims to have killed for fun. It’s his sole motive. According to him, he just went ahead and did it, because he wanted to. Yet I find myself wondering what is it about him that obsesses me? And it all comes back to me. He did something, grotesque, irrational, something I can’t possibly make any sense out of. Just like I did – when I hit you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adrian …!’

‘I think … I fear that in some senses Rattigan and I are possibly the same,’ I whispered. ‘We’ve both harmed others without a real motive. Perhaps that’s why I’m so hellbent on finding his. Because if I did it’d give me some kind of chance to apply it on myself. I don’t know, make me less of a monster than him.’

She’d had enough. ‘Christ’s sake, Adrian! Listen to yourself. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not a monster, you haven’t killed anyone, and you’re putting far too much of you into the whole stupid business. Honestly, it’s like comparing a petty shoplifter with the Great Train Robbers. You’re talking crap. I’m going upstairs.’

Which she did.

PC KILLER TO HANG

The trial of Joseph Attwood Rattigan concluded yesterday, when Judge Andrew Beaumont Clarke pronounced the death sentence for the silent defendant found guilty of the murder of PC John Scrimshaw, after a late-night brawl during January.

The jury deliberated for less than an hour before returning their unanimous guilty verdict, leaving Judge Clarke with no option but to don the black cap as he passed sentence.

Throughout the nine-day trial, the defendant had refused to take the stand, offering a plea of diminished responsibility and manslaughter, subsequently refused by the court. Upon sentencing, Rattigan silently shook his head, before being taken down.

The guilty verdict comes as no surprise to many who have followed the case. Evidence offered by the Crown during the trial supported its contentions that PC Scrimshaw had been mercilessly attacked while about his duties on the night of January 15th, 1949. Witnesses were able to testify that Rattigan had been seen drinking heavily in a series of public houses found on the Mile End Road, when, stumbling upon PC Scrimshaw about his duties, he proceeded to enter into a drunken verbal exchange with the 22-year-old police officer.

An altercation ensued which rapidly developed into a violent assault on the officer, resulting in Rattigan pushing Scrimshaw through a plate-glass window of a grocery shop. PC Scrimshaw was later identified as dead at the scene of the crime, his throat fatally cut from injuries sustained during his fall through the shop front.

It was only the selfless action of three brave passers-by who managed to manhandle the fleeing Rattigan to the ground as he sought to escape, so bringing the cowardly killer swiftly to justice.

At no point during the trial was Rattigan prepared to offer any motivation for his crime, leaving the jury with little option but to conclude that the defendant’s actions were the result of overintoxication due to drink.

In passing sentence, Judge Clarke stated, ‘It is the intention of this court that your punishment serve as a warning to all others foolish enough to consider assaulting officers of the law as legitimate sport, following reckless drinking of the sort you were undoubtedly involved in immediately preceding Officer Scrimshaw’s untimely demise. Let no one be in any doubt – the law has only one response to perpetrators of this vile, increasing crime. Police officers of any rank will be protected by the law, using its ultimate sanction. And those of us empowered to dispense the righteous justice of retribution will not cower from the responsibilities of our office.’

Solicitors representing Rattigan thought it unlikely he would appeal, as the condemned seemed fully resigned to his fate. At no stage during interviews with arresting officers did Rattigan ever express remorse for his crime, or give solid reasons for his unprovoked attack on PC Scrimshaw.

The Times, Wednesday, 2nd April, 1949.

7

Forty-eight hours later, I found myself back in the smoky, pokey office of Dr Stephen Clancy once more. He had in front of him a thin manilla file entitled HMP Oakwood High Security – Graduate Training Programme. My name had been crudely added to the cover.

I had no idea why he’d asked to see me.

‘Come in, sit down,’ he gushed. ‘Glad you could come.’

‘Is there some sort of problem, Steve?’ I asked.

‘Problem? Good heavens, no. Just thought maybe we should have a little chat.’

‘Could’ve used the phone, surely?’

He shifted a little. ‘I wanted to talk face to face, Adrian. Clear the air, perhaps.’

‘Go on.’

He chose his words with care. ‘I gather from speaking with Neil Allen that you expressed some surprise that I kept him so closely informed of our conversations.’

‘I can’t remember saying anything at the time.’

Another long draw on the cigar. ‘He sensed it. He’s a master of body language.’

‘Now that you mention it, I was a little taken aback.’

‘Don’t be. It’s perfectly standard. I’m more or less obliged to report back, so to speak. It’s nothing personal. Just the form.’

‘The form?’

‘Procedure, dear chap. Let’s just say that one has to exercise great caution when allowing research students to meet with inmates. The experience can prove … a little upsetting to those with sensitive dispositions.’

I began putting the pieces together. ‘And neither Oakwood or the university would want any adverse publicity should something go wrong, right?’

He smiled. ‘You probably think we’re all being dreadfully paranoid, but we have good reason. Very occasionally, exposure to Rattigan and his like can have unforeseen consequences. A similar scheme in Cumbria nearly came unstuck two years ago. The student in question, a woman, I believe, jumped from a tower block midway through her thesis researches.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Fancy held up a hand. ‘Now, I’m not saying there was any connection between her death and the work at the hospital, but it could’ve turned nasty. I mean, for all we know, the woman’s love life was probably in a damn mess.’

‘You’re all heart, aren’t you?’

‘I’m merely saying it doesn’t do to make any assumptions. You only have to cast your mind back to the field day the damn press had with the balls-up at Ashworth to realize the Home Office is rather keen any whiff of scandal emanating from Her Majesty’s secure hospitals is kept to an absolute minimum.’

I well remembered Ashworth, the catalogue of damning allegations made by an inmate concerning visits by children to suspected paedophiles. ‘You say don’t make assumptions, Steve, yet you assume I’m a candidate for the suicide-watch, too?’

He laughed, stubbed out the cigar. ‘Good God, no. It’s simply that I know you far better than Allen does. And if it looks like the pressure’s getting to you, I’m duty-bound to inform the old sod.’ He passed the file over. ‘This is yours. Inside you’ll find a transcript of every interview, together with an assessment of your performance. You can copy all the material inside for use in your thesis should you wish, but you must ensure you return the file for updating at every interview.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken a peek. Seems you’re still keen Rattigan tells you more about the girl.’ He leant forward. ‘Just don’t pin your hopes on anything.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘With good reason. Besides, what if he tells you something astonishing? Could you ever trust him to tell the truth?’

‘He’s sitting on something, Steve. I’m sure he is. He keeps letting things slip.’

‘Maybe he’s doing that deliberately. I suspect you’re legitimate sport as far as he’s concerned. “Fun”, even.’ He stood, made for the door, putting on his overcoat. ‘You still got that Aretha Franklin tape in the car?’

‘Yes?’

‘Grand. Shake a leg. We’re going for a drive. The good Dr Allen’s arranged a little surprise for you and Aretha’s just the dame to serenade us on our journey.’

‘Bingo!’ Fancy exclaimed. ‘We’re here.’

Twenty minutes later we drew up in front of the Essex Police Headquarters, just five hundred yards from Chelmsford Prison, me still none the wiser as to what the hell we were doing there.

Throughout the journey, Fancy had playfully resisted all my questions, until I grew tired of asking. I contented myself with following his occasional directions, trying desperately to ignore his tuneless warblings.

We parked before a huge complex of grey concrete buildings and playing fields. Stepping from the car, I noticed the tired rows of nearby semidetatched houses, looking as if they clung to the place for the security offered by the Essex home of law enforcement.

A group of young recruits struggled to complete the required number of press-ups barked at them by a muscular intructor, and I found myself cringing at the effects institionalized buildings and their occupants had on me. Just like Oakwood, everything had been seemingly designed for the single purpose of intimidation, the faceless architects responsible having no ethical dilemma over form versus function. Likewise the inhabitants themselves, uniformed, regulated, cracked, all empathy syphoned off by the real brains of the machine – ancient laws and flawed systems laid down by our long-dead forefathers. Difficult to believe these men were all cooing babies once.