once more.
I tried hard to concentrate on the tall, thin, bespectacled doctor. ‘Rattigan decides how far it goes. He doesn’t like the look of you – it’s off. That simple. Anytime he wants to end it, he can. He deals, Mr Rawlings, you play.’ Allen held out a hand. ‘We’ll be in touch. My staff will inform me of your progress. And give my regards to Dr Clancy at the university, will you?’
He didn’t wait for my reply, which was just as well, I had none, throat parched from fear and excitement. I tried my best to steady what fading nerve I had, standing before a stencilled door emblazoned RECREATION SIX. This was recreation? For whom? I felt myself falter, suddenly wanting to be back home, normalized, basking in the silence of an emptied house echoing to the pandemonium of the family breakfast.
But there was no time for second thoughts. This was the moment I’d waited for. Planned for. My meeting with the Beast, the man I’d done little else but read about, speculate over during the previous six weeks, the man who killed for fun.
My legs felt suddenly too light for the weight of my body. What the hell do I do now? Knock? Simply walk in? What would he look like in the flesh? What waited to greet me behind the door?
Ever the polite PhD-student-come-to-visit-an-insane-psychopath, I steadied myself, counted to ten silently, then opted to knock. Twice.
A voice answered. His? ‘Come in,’ it calmly instructed. Couldn’t have been Rattigan’s voice, surely? A beast would howl, wouldn’t it?
The door opened.
‘Adrian Rawlings?’
I nodded, watching as the big, bearded orderly waffled efficiently into a walkie-talkie confirming my visitor’s-pass details with some unseen agent deep within the hospital. The Muzak changed to the theme from Lawrence of Arabia, in any other circumstances an old favourite of mine. Here it seemed tarnished, almost obscene.
He introduced himself as Warder-Orderly Denton. There were stains on his tunic and the black boots he wore smelt strongly of polish. I tried to act as casually as possible, avoiding the urge to peer over his shoulder at the other seated figure beyond.
Finally, the checks were complete. I was ushered inside.
Which is where I met my first surprise. It was just an ordinary sunny room, bland, institutional, innocuous. Not a prison bar nor wall-mounted restraining ring in sight. Just a room, rather like any of the uni.’s study rooms in the humanities building. It didn’t seem possible. I wasn’t naive enough to expect a medieval dungeon, but I’d imagined something a little more correctional. It seemed incredible that this room also held the Beast.
Next, I found myself taking a ridiculous interest in the grey lino tiling as Denton settled into a plastic bucket seat by the wall. I simply couldn’t face looking at him, felt I still wasn’t ready for an eyeball-to-eyeball encounter. But I knew he was there, caught another glimpse of the figure slumped disinterestedly behind a large table, watching, waiting for me to make the first move.
I gave it as long as I dared, then looked up, met his amused gaze, stared into the blue-grey eyes. And … there he was – Frank Rattigan – the Beast of East 16, alive, well. Full-colour flesh-vivid, not a ten-by-eight black-and-white. My second surprise of the morning. Gone was the arrogance I’d imagined to mask some telling sadness, replaced instead by a mid-fifties man, squat, puffy face and lips, balding ginger hair, clean-shaven, waiting for me to sit opposite and begin.
Silence all around. Just the three of us, alone in the room. I sat, making a show of taking items from my briefcase, placing them on the bare tabletop.
He was so close that I caught his breath on my face. Then, the moment came. I could delay no longer. I remembered my tutor Dr Stephen Clancy’s advice – stick to the script, be in charge – and I tried to ignore my bone-dry throat and finally begin my first brush with the real world of forensic psychiatry.
‘Have you been told why I’m here?’
Rattigan smiled. A normal-looking smile from a normal-looking man. ‘Have you been told why I am?’
I nodded, acknowledging the quip. ‘My name’s Adrian Rawlings. I’m a postgraduate student currently undergoing work on my docorate thesis. My university has connections with this institution. Dr Allen passed a copy of your file to my tutor, Dr Stephen Clancy, for me to read. So yes, I’m well aware why you’re here, Mr Rattigan.’ I was pleased with the way it was going, but wondered why no one else appeared to hear the beating of my heart as acutely as I did.
Then suddenly, ‘You’re a pedantic little twat, aren’t you? A “yes” or “no” answer would’ve sufficed.’
I silently counted to three before continuing, hoping the pause would stop me from running from the room. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.
‘Good reading, was it?’ The Beast goaded.
‘Sorry?’
‘My file?’ Rattigan licked his lips, leant forward, brought himself closer. ‘You married, Mr Adrian-fucking-Rawlings? Show it her, did you?’ His voice dropped to an obscene whisper. ‘Get her going, did it, Frank’s naughty behaviour?’
‘I’m here to ask you some questions. If you agree …’
‘I’ll get some fags and a few shitty privileges from these tossers.’ Rattigan sat back, jerking his head at Denton. The cold eyes quickly resettled on mine. ‘I know the fucking score. Been done a dozen times in here. Arrogant little pricks like you come to pick our brains to try and figure us out. Only I’m a little bit smarter than the average defective they’ve got banged up in here. And the way it’s been painted to me, I’m the paymaster. I don’t like the look of you and it’s over. You have to find yourself another sicko to play with. So you’d better keep Frankie sweet, or I ain’t gonna come out and play.’
I looked briefly across to Denton, who offered no support whatsoever. ‘You are empowered to terminate the arrangement whenever you chcose. As am I.’
Rattigan smiled again, but this time his bloated lips parted to form a hideously darker, more sinister crack. ‘What you got to understand, son,’ he said softly. ‘Is that I don’t get many choices in this shitbin. I’m enjoying this. I could let you dangle for some time, couldn’t I? You think we’re getting on all right, do you? Going well, is it?’
I cursed myself for having no quick answer, feeling so easily exposed. To my right, Denton suppressed a yawn.
Rattigan sensed my hesitation, leapt on it. ‘Never answered my first question. Very rude, that.’
I was hopelessly unprepared for the speed of his attack. ‘I’m not sure I …?’
The voice rose. ‘I said are you fucking married? Hitched up?’
‘I don’t see what …?’
‘… that has to do with anything? Jesus Christ! How old are you?’
‘Thirty-nine.’
He paused to laugh. At me. I felt stung by it.
‘It was rhetorical, you cunt!’ He laughed some more. Then stopped suddenly, milked a heavy silence. ‘We have to develop a little trust, Adrian. A little rapport. I know what you want from
