not there in the middle of the night. That’s when my mind begins to wander, Adrian. That’s when I want to go over stuff, know what I mean?’ A long pause. ‘No – I guess you don’t. But you want to. That’s why you’re here.’
I finally found my tongue. ‘Maybe. But …’
‘Maybe – good word that. Like “maybe” I’d like to know more about your missus. Maybe I’d enjoy spending some time imagining all sorts with her.’ He sat back suddenly. ‘She goes for all that puppy fat, does she?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘They’ve got a gym in here. You look like you could use it. Too soft. Too easy. How much do you weigh?’
‘Is it important?’
‘Close on thirteen stone: am I right?’
‘More or less.’ I hadn’t bothered weighing myself in years, but I knew he was damn close. Unnervingly close.
‘Height? About five-ten, yeah?’
Bang on the money. I attempted an unconcerned smile.
‘Know how I know?’ Rattigan asked. ‘Because it’s in me. Takes me about five seconds to suss any fucker, strengths, weaknesses. I look at you now, fat-boy, and I know all I need to know.’ He closed both eyes, exhaled, then suddenly blinked them open again. ‘Got any kids? Love kids, me.’
Denton moved slightly. ‘Less of the pantomime, Frank.’
‘Or what? Another month strapped to the fucking trolley?’ Rattigan turned quickly back to me. ‘A little trust, fat-boy, a little gesture is all I ask.’
‘The cigarettes you’ll receive,’ I replied, struggling to prevent myself from cursing back. ‘The privileges, they’re the only gestures I can give. You’re right. If you don’t like me, you can end this, but that privilege is mine, too. You abuse me too often, and I’ll inform Dr Allen.’
He aped at pretending to be scared, then instantly switched to concern. ‘My life story for a few packs of fags. Bit fucking tacky, ain’t it?’
‘I don’t make the rules.’
‘What you here for, then?’
‘It’s part of my thesis. Work experience, they call it. With your permission, we’ll meet once a fortnight when I’ll ask you an assigned series of questions before asking some of my own. None of which you are obliged to answer if you don’t wish to.’ That felt better, building into a rhythm after the early derailing. I almost felt back in charge – for a moment.
‘So what’s her name, your missus?’
‘I’m not allowed to tell you anything about my private life.’
‘Yet you want to know everything about mine?’
‘I want a doctorate.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll find it all out anyway.’ Another nod towards Denton. ‘See that cunt over there? Mr fucking charm himself? Bent as a fucking coathanger, he is. He’ll tell me all I need to know. Quick poke around the guv’nor’s office, and I’ll have the lot.’
I glance at the bored warder-orderly whose eyes remained firmly fixed at his feet.
Rattigan continued. ‘Names of your kids, ages, schools they go to, boyfriends, girlfriends, I’ll know the bloody lot. Phone numbers an’ all. Maybe give you a bell from time to time. Quick chat to the wife while you’re fucking around studenting. That’s the way it’s going to be, Adrian. That’s what you’re starting with me. I’m going to crawl into your soul and …’
‘Shut it, Rattigan,’ Denton ordered, checking his watch and rising from the chair. ‘Playtime’s over. Let’s get you back to the unit.’ He turned to me. ‘Mr Rawlings, if you’d like to make your way back to Dr Allen’s office now, thank you.’
Dumbly, I complied, beginning to repack my briefcase, eyes doing their best to ignore the grinning, leering face before me.
‘So,’ Rattigan asked innocently. ‘I think that went very well, don’t you?’
‘As I understand it, the decision’s yours.’
‘I like you. Gonna tie you in knots.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
‘Listen to the fighting talk, I love all that.’ Rattigan stood. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Ask me any damn thing you like, and I’ll give you the God’s honest truth.’
An unprofessional impulse overwhelmed me. The session had apparently ended. Now wasn’t the time to pursue anything, except a quick exit. But something in me had to ask, had to start somewhere. ‘Why Helen Lewis? Did you know her?’
The Beast waved an admonishing finger. ‘We all know Helen Lewis,’ he replied slowly. ‘Even you, fat-boy. Trouble is, you ain’t done for yours. But I have for mine. And that bitch ain’t never gonna …’ He paused, frowned slightly.
‘What?’
‘Make sure they’re Rothmans.’
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I felt like he was unpicking me.’
‘He probably was.’
‘Any chance you could open the window?’
Two hours after my first encounter with Rattigan, Dr Stephen ‘Fancy’ Clancy sat in his college room pulling heavily on a slim panatella cigar. I had the beginnings of a headache, made worse by the exhaled fumes swirling within the confines of the chaotic little boxroom which laughably passed as his office.
I remembered vividly as a psychology undergrad, a mature student, thirty-two, clutching a photocopy of the Essex University humanities building floorplan, walking the humming corridors, searching for his room, buzzing with clichéd expectations of its high ceiling mounted on elegantly windowed walls groaning with dust-laden volumes offering valuable historical insights into the hidden workings of the mind. I expected a pickled brain in a bell jar at least.
But Fancy’s ‘office’ was a toilet, even by his own admission. Blind always down, desklamp permanently burning – his attempt, he explained jovially when we first shook hands, to, ‘Tardis my hutch into a tolerable space.’
He’d smiled, and I’d responded. I liked him. Still do. I began a friendship with my tutor that often included him coming over to my place for supper, or Jemimah and I visiting him and his wife Sheila in their Tudor house in Roxwell. In retrospect, I believe that the minimal differences in our ages helped forge the friendship – although at times, his devotion to the long lunch put it under certain strains. He drank – I didn’t. Not any more.
‘Sounds as if you found the trip out to Oakwood heavy going,’ the tall, permanently tanned tutor surmised. ‘From what you’re saying, Rattigan appears ready to go, and you’re
