Phil Lovesey - Ploughing Potter’s Field

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?

‘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.’