The action of the play takes place during one evening in the office of DR ALEX FARQUHAR at Fairfields, an experimental hospital for the criminally insane. The office is cosy and old-fashioned, chintzy even. It seems to belong to the sixties, perhaps to the world of Hammer Horror.
A large, cluttered desk dominates the room with an old telephone and speaker-phone system to one side and a prominent alarm button to the other. Also on the desk is a Marks & Spencer bag which will be found to contain a box of tissues. Behind the desk, a picture of a distinguished-looking man who will be identified as Karel Ennis, the renowned psychotherapist and founder of the hospital. A window looks out onto fields, trees and a low wall. On the other side, a door opens onto a corridor.
Another picture in the room shows a sweet-looking dog on one side. There is a mirror opposite. A second door, next to a medical screen, leads into a reception room. There are plenty of books in the room. On the top of one low shelf stands a vase of sunflowers and an empty bottle of red wine. There’s a rug on the floor, a couple of armchairs, a plastic wastepaper bin and a wood-steel office chair. Incongruously, a complete human skeleton stands on a frame in one corner.
All this will change…
As the action continues, the scenery will play a game with the audience… parts of it changing while their attention is elsewhere. The aim is to suggest a shifting, faulty perception, a feeling that you cannot trust your eyes. I have not indicated in the text where these changes should take place…it should become evident in the direction. When the audience’s attention is on one part of the stage, changes can be made on the other: the simple misdirection of any sleight-of-hand.
The portrait of Ennis will slowly transform (one feature at a time?) into a portrait of a woman we will come to know as Jane Plimpton. The dog will become a hideous wolf. The mirror will become a second window, this one barred. The low wall outside the window will rise, brick by brick, until it completely obscures the view. The office furniture (telephone, lamps etc.) will become modern and utilitarian. The sunflowers will grow.
Each time the two doors are opened, they will be found to lead somewhere slightly different. These changes can actually be made while the action continues. During the interval, the curtains, wallpaper and rug can all be changed: the patterns can be very similar but somehow distorted. The audience should be aware of the change but should be unable quite to define it.
Sitting in the chair in front of the desk is MARK STYLER, a writer aged about fifty, casually dressed, a man with an air of self-confidence that borders on the smug. His face is pale and his haircut is a little odd…otherwise he’s the archetypal ‘expert’, the sort we’ve seen wheeled onto every BBC documentary late at night. He has a worn leather case by the chair.
He’s been kept waiting. He looks at his watch for the twentieth time. He gets up, examines the room. The pictures. The skeleton. Looks at his watch again.
A pause.
He takes a tape recorder out of his case and switches it on. He moves across to the window and speaks into it.
STYLER: Recording. Six fifteen, Thursday July the twenty-second.
Pause.
First impressions of Fairfields. Note to myself…why that name? The view from Dr Farquhar’s office. (He pronounces it ‘Farker’.) A nineteenth-century manor house set in its own extensive grounds in this secluded corner of Suffolk…if indeed that most ill-defined of English counties could be said to have corners. The wall that surrounds the place may be predictable but the attendant ivy and — I think — Japanese wisteria is surely not. As I drive up the perfectly manicured lawns with rockery to the right and lily pond to the left, it is only the click of the maximum security metal doors automatically closing behind me that reminds me that I am not a guest at some exclusive Home Counties health resort but a writer, privileged to be invited into the country’s most notorious asylum for the criminally insane.
Pause.
Query why sick bastards locked up at the tax-payer’s expense should enjoy perfectly manicured lawns, rock gardens, et cetera. Nice thought about the Health Resort.
Pause.
Easterman is here somewhere. I have come to find him. I must find him. It is the end of a journey that has consumed my life and somehow I will persuade Dr Farquhar to help me. At long last the two of us will be face to face.
STYLER considers what he has just said. He rewinds the tape part of the way and records again.
What does the office of Dr Farquhar tell me about the man who runs Fairfields? (Pause.) Evidently, he has little interest in interior design. Surprisingly chintzy and old-fashioned. Portrait on the wall some major psychoanalyst perhaps, painted by some minor artist most certainly. Picture of dog even worse — surely provided by the NHS in a job lot. Why the skeleton? A complete human skeleton standing in the corner. Did Dr Farquhar once study medicine…anatomy? In the office of a psychiatrist it seems oddly disconcerting but then maybe that is the idea. To disconcert. To keep you off balance.
A pause. STYLER continues his tour of the room.
Books predictable. (Reading a spine.) Group Psychotherapy, Sociometry and Psychodrama. (Continuing along the shelf.) Miller. Milner. Mishler. Moreno. Dr Farquhar arranges his books alphabetically. I wonder if I can trust him? (He picks up the bottle.) One empty bottle of Chateau Mavillion 1966. (Pause.) Chateau Mavillion 1966. It feels as if it’s been placed here like a prop for me to find. It’s a little ludicrous, like the skeleton. No glass. No half-eaten bowl of twiglets. Just the empty bottle. Was 1966 a good year? A good year for Dr Farquhar. The year that he qualified and they gave him a bottle of wine. A personal touch. (He puts the bottle back.) There’s not very much in this room that’s personal, and nothing at all that connects it with the world outside unless you count the telephone and what I take to be an alarm button. I wonder if Dr Farquhar sleeps on the premises? Sitting here in this office, walled in by his own A-to-Z of analysis, he’s probably as out-of-touch as the inmates and he’s kept me waiting here two hours, the rude bastard.
STYLER turns off the tape and puts it back in his case. He sits down again. He looks at his watch. A pause. He goes over to the door behind the desk and tries it. It’s locked. He goes over to the other door and tries that too. He’s unpleasantly surprised to discover that the second door is also locked. He tries it again, rattling the handle. And it’s now that the first door suddenly opens and DR ALEX FARQUHAR comes in. Also aged about fifty, FARQUHAR is a strange blend of the saturnine and the benevolent, as if Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson had somehow been blended into one. Penetrating, investigative eyes that have a habit of not focusing on what they’re looking at. Wind-swept hair. A louche quality. None of his clothes quite fit.
STYLER is a little embarrassed to have been caught, trying the door.
FARQUHAR: Good evening.
STYLER: Dr Farker?
FARQUHAR: It’s actually Farrer. The q is silent and the h is redundant but anyway I prefer Alex. Please, take a seat.
STYLER: (Sitting.) Thank you.
FARQUHAR: I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. We had a little trouble in B-wing. Nothing serious but it still demanded my attention.
STYLER: That’s alright. It was very good of you to agree to see me.
FARQUHAR: That’s my pleasure. Think nothing of it. Please…
FARQUHAR gestures at a chair as he moves behind the desk. STYLER sits opposite him. FARQUHAR gazes at him curiously for a moment.
Look, this is very embarrassing but I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me exactly what it is I agreed to see you for. The fact is that my secretary is on holiday and what with one thing and another my paperwork has rather got on top of me. I know it’s unforgivable but the truth of the matter is that as I stand here before you, I don’t have the faintest idea who you are.
STYLER: You don’t?
FARQUHAR: None at all.
STYLER: Well, please, consider yourself forgiven.
FARQUHAR: Thank you.
STYLER: I’m Mark Styler.
FARQUHAR: That’s your name?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: And what is this in connection with?
STYLER: I wrote a letter…almost a month ago. Your secretary didn’t mention it to you before she left?
FARQUHAR: I’m afraid not. But then she’s been gone a long time. To be frank, I’m often tempted to get rid of her. To let her go. The way she just ups and disappears like this. But she has excellent short-hand and filing skills and as I’m sure you’ll understand, good secretarial help is extremely hard to come by, particularly in this neck of the woods…
STYLER: You mean an insane asylum.
FARQUHAR: I was referring to Suffolk generally. You say you wrote to her.
STYLER: I wrote to you. And you replied. At least I assumed it was you. The letter was signed in your name.
FARQUHAR: It certainly wasn’t me. I’m very sorry but I have absolutely no recollection of it. Mark Styler, you say? The name does seem familiar to me. Are you a doctor?
STYLER: No. I’m a writer. You don’t know my work…?
FARQUHAR: I’m sure I should. I do apologise, Mr Styler…
STYLER: Mark.
FARQUHAR: It’s unlike me to be so…disorganised. Perhaps we should start from the beginning. I feel I should almost walk out of the room and come in again.
STYLER: Not with another two-hour wait.
FARQUHAR: You were kept waiting that long?
STYLER: Well…
FARQUHAR: You must be angry.
STYLER: I’m just glad you agreed to see me.
FARQUHAR: Any minute now we’re going to establish what it is I agreed to see you about. (He rummages on the desk.) If I could just find this letter of yours…
STYLER: Perhaps this will help.
STYLER reaches into his briefcase and takes out a sheet of paper.
FARQUHAR: And what is this?
STYLER: It’s a copy of my letter.
FARQUHAR: A copy of the letter you sent me almost a month ago?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: Excellent. That really is first-rate.
FARQUHAR takes the letter and tries to focus on it.
Ah yes. Yes. (He puts the letter down.) Actually, I seem to have mislaid my reading-glasses so why don’t you just take me through the gist of what it says.
STYLER: You can’t read it?
FARQUHAR: Not without my glasses.
STYLER: (Surprised but continuing anyway.) Well, it’s quite simple really.
FARQUHAR: You’re a writer.
STYLER: Yes. You know, Dr Farquhar, I’m quite surprised you haven’t read any of my books.
FARQUHAR: Should I have?
STYLER: I wrote a book about Chikatilo…
FARQUHAR: Andrei Chikatilo?
STYLER: Yes. It was called Serial Chiller: The True Story of a Monster in the Ukraine. It was something of a best-seller.
FARQUHAR: And don’t tell me. You’ve come here because you want to write a book about one of the residents here.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: Did you mention that in your letter?
STYLER: Well, obviously. It’s right here.
FARQUHAR: And I invited you here to see me? I’m afraid there must have been some sort of misunderstanding. I couldn’t possibly allow you access.
STYLER: Isn’t that a little bit…autocratic?
FARQUHAR: No. It’s entirely autocratic. But you see, I am the master of Fairfields. And what I say goes.
STYLER: So you keep your patients locked up, isolated. What’s the point in that?
FARQUHAR: There would be no point if that were the case. But I can assure you we do much, much more than that.
STYLER: Tell me.
FARQUHAR: Why?
STYLER: Because I’m interested.
FARQUHAR: No. I think you should leave.
STYLER: I’ve driven three and a half hours to get here, Dr Farquhar…
FARQUHAR: From where?
STYLER: From London.
FARQUHAR: Three and a half hours? (Pause.) From London?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: That seems an inordinate amount of time. You came by car?
STYLER: Yes. (Pointing at the window.) Mine is the red BMW near the main door. I got lost outside Framlingham.
FARQUHAR: We’re nowhere near Framlingham.
STYLER: That’s how I knew I was lost. Would it be possible at least to have a cup of tea before I go?
FARQUHAR: (Impatient.) Mr Styler…
STYLER: I drove three and a half hours without passing a single café. There was nothing. And I’ve been sitting here in your office…
FARQUHAR: There’s a Happy Eater on the A12.
STYLER: I didn’t see it.
FARQUHAR: Just outside Colchester.
STYLER: Maybe it was closed.
FARQUHAR: I was there yesterday.
STYLER: It wasn’t open today.
FARQUHAR: A cup of tea.
STYLER: If it’s not too much trouble.
FARQUHAR hesitates. But he can see that STYLER is determined. He reaches out and presses a button on the intercom.
FARQUHAR: (Into the intercom.) Nurse Plimpton. Could you come up, please? (Pause.) There…
STYLER: Plimpton?
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: Is that her name?
FARQUHAR: Yes. Why do you ask?
STYLER: Well, I knew a Plimpton once. That’s all. I suppose it’s just a coincidence.
FARQUHAR: She can take you through to the kitchen and get you a cup of tea.
FARQUHAR: On your way out.
STYLER: Right. (Pause.) You were about to tell me about Fairfields.
FARQUHAR: Was I?
STYLER: You were going to tell me what you do here. I was wondering about the name.
FARQUHAR: Well of course we changed the name when I first came here. It used to be called the East Suffolk Maximum Security Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
STYLER: That can’t have done much for the local house prices.
FARQUHAR: There are no local houses but anyway that’s not the point.
STYLER: How many inmates do you have here?
FARQUHAR seems tetchy. He glances at his watch.
Forgive me, Dr Farquhar. But can’t we at least use the time until your nurse arrives?
FARQUHAR agrees.
FARQUHAR: Actually, I’m not very partial to the word ‘inmate’. It smacks too much of the judiciary. True, the patients here have been sentenced by the courts and are here for life. They have no hope of release or remission. But what drives Fairfields — our philosophy if you like — is that the very worst examples of humanity, what the tabloids and writers like yourself call monsters still have some hope of redemption and reparation. That a lifetime incarcerated need not be a lifetime entirely wasted. I’m a great believer in the work of Ronny Laing…R D Laing. And as he put it: ‘Madness need not be all breakdown. It can also be breakthrough.’
STYLER: So how many patients do you have?
FARQUHAR: At the last count there were fifteen.
STYLER: Are they all dangerous?
FARQUHAR: Not all of them. No. Two of them are well into their eighties although even with them I wouldn’t go too close to their dentures. As for the rest…I’m sure you know perfectly well. Fairfields houses the serial killers. Society’s bogey men. The monsters who’ve murdered their wives and their children. Who have tortured and raped and killed. Who have eaten their victims and kept parts of them as souvenirs. Who have committed atrocities so appalling that even the tabloids have had to show some deference, tiptoeing round the truth. We are what most people would call a Chamber of Horrors.
STYLER: I have to say, I didn’t see a lot of security coming in here.
FARQUHAR: Did that make you nervous?
STYLER: No. There was one thing though.
FARQUHAR: Go on.
STYLER: The man at the gate. The guard.
FARQUHAR: Yes?
STYLER: Well, I don’t want to be cruel, but there did seem to be something wrong with him. I mean, he was disfigured.
FARQUHAR: Ah — that must have been Borson.
STYLER: He was quite badly disfigured — his face. He must have had some sort of accident.
FARQUHAR: Yes. It happened when he was a child. He never talks about it but I’d hate to think that you believe it disqualifies him for the job.
STYLER: No. Not at all. It’s just that he didn’t ask me for ID or anything. I could have been anyone. And if as you say this institution is meant to be maximum security…
FARQUHAR: It is.
STYLER: …well, to be honest with you, once I’d got through the gate, I felt more as if I was coming into a country hotel than a…
FARQUHAR: …lunatic asylum.
STYLER: Yes.
A speaker clicks into life and suddenly the room is filled with soft, syrupy music. This music will click on and off at random throughout the play.
FARQUHAR: It wasn’t what you’re expecting.
STYLER: That’s right. (Pause.) What horrible music, if you don’t mind my saying so.
FARQUHAR: I don’t. I agree with you. But the patients like it…although I will admit that we’ve been having a few problems with the speaker system.
STYLER: ( Joking.) Don’t tell me you can’t turn it off!
FARQUHAR: (Serious.) We can’t.
STYLER: Oh.
FARQUHAR: It turns itself off. And on, unfortunately. It was damaged a couple of weeks ago…quite a nuisance really. We’d get someone in but it’s a Swedish system… Anyway, you were saying. More like a country hotel than a lunatic asylum.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: It’s a common preconception. The very word ‘asylum’ has come to mean something that’s grim and foreboding. Gothic towers and huge creaking doors. People have forgotten that prisons and asylums are two quite different things. The former are to lock people in. The latter are to protect people by keeping the world out.
STYLER: You don’t want this to feel like an institution?
FARQUHAR: Exactly.
STYLER: So why the terminology? You were talking about B-wing.
FARQUHAR: There are three wings. Their names are Bee, Honey and Flower. (He gestures at the portrait.) This is Karel Ennis who founded Fairfields and who personally raised the money to landscape the grounds.
STYLER: It doesn’t disguise the fact that the patients here are still prisoners.
FARQUHAR: It’s not intended to. But I’m not here to keep prisoners. My job is to set them free.
STYLER: Not literally, I hope.
FARQUHAR: From themselves. ‘To enlighten the endless night of insanity with the torch of responsibility.’ That’s Michel Foucault.
STYLER: And you do that by giving them a nice garden?
FARQUHAR: (Annoyed.) I can’t explain it to you. Nurse Plimpton will be here any minute…in fact I’m surprised she’s not here already. (Speaking into the intercom.) Nurse Plimpton. Can you please come to the office?
STYLER: I’m sorry. How do you set them free from themselves?
FARQUHAR can’t decide if it’s worth continuing. But he gives STYLER another chance.
FARQUHAR: Well, in broad strokes, we start by putting back the lines, the human connections that were absent for far too long in mental hospitals such as this. I want my patients to feel at ease so that in their sessions with me at least part of that psychiatrist-patient relationship will be broken down. I want to meet them as equals.
STYLER takes this as his cue to sit in FARQUHAR’s chair — on his side of the desk — for the first time.
STYLER: And what then?
FARQUHAR: That very much depends on the patient. Dr Ennis was a great believer in psychodrama.
STYLER: I’m sorry?
FARQUHAR: He studied under J L Moreno in Vienna.
STYLER: Moreno?
FARQUHAR: Yes. He was the director of the Theatre of Spontaneity.
STYLER: You make me feel I should know about him.
FARQUHAR: You should. Moreno was inspired by watching children at play in his garden in Vienna. This was in about 1920. He began to see that play, and play-acting, could be used as a therapeutic process and that’s what Ennis brought here.
STYLER: He wrote plays.
FARQUHAR: No, no. He was interested in spontaneity-creativity. Role-playing. He encouraged his patients to take the parts of their parents, their children, their wives or whatever and by playing out these often disturbed relationships to arrive at the cause of their emotional distress. Of course, I’m simplifying what was actually a very precise and highly structured process. Anyway, Ennis took the mechanics of psychodrama one step further by applying them to psychotics – alas with only limited success.
STYLER: Why only limited?
FARQUHAR: Because in the end one of them turned round and killed him. That was when I took over.
STYLER: Do you still use psychodrama?
FARQUHAR: I’m more selective about the patients I apply it to and I have to say that one of the first things I did when I inherited this office was to have a decent alarm installed. (He points to the button on his desk.) But yes, I’m trying to continue the work that Ennis began.
There is a sudden, terrible scream from outside; the demented, blood-chilling howl of a wild man. STYLER springs up. FARQUHAR appears not to have noticed it.
STYLER: What the hell was that?
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: Didn’t you hear it?
FARQUHAR: I’m sorry?
STYLER: It came from outside.
STYLER goes over to the window and looks out.
FARQUHAR: There’s no one outside.
STYLER: But I heard them.
FARQUHAR: It came from B-wing. This is Wednesday night. They have scream therapy.
STYLER: It’s not Wednesday. It’s Thursday.
FARQUHAR: No. It’s the twenty-first. Wednesday.
STYLER: Are you sure?
STYLER: (Turning from the window.) Do you mind if I smoke?
FARQUHAR: My dear fellow, your personal habits are entirely your own concern.
STYLER: No. I mean — do you mind if I smoke now?
FARQUHAR: You want a cigarette?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: Please. Go ahead.
STYLER: Thank you.
STYLER takes out a crumpled packet of ten Embassy cigarettes. He takes one out, puts the packet on the desk, then searches his pockets.
That’s strange.
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: I seem to have forgotten my lighter.
FARQUHAR: No lighter?
STYLER: I’m sure I put it in my pocket this morning.
FARQUHAR: When you left London.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: You have your cigarettes?
STYLER: Yes. But I’ve forgotten my lighter. You wouldn’t have a match?
FARQUHAR: I’m afraid I don’t smoke.
STYLER: Aah…
FARQUHAR: And as a security measure I don’t keep matches in the office. Maybe Nurse Plimpton will have some when she arrives. (Annoyed.) Where is Nurse Plimpton?
STYLER: Dr Farquhar, why won’t you at least consider what I have to say?
FARQUHAR: About your book?
STYLER: Yes. Obviously I’ve only skimmed the surface, compared to you. I’m a populist and I’m not ashamed to admit it. But even so, if you read my books, you might surprise yourself. You might even be impressed by their honesty if nothing else.
FARQUHAR: You wrote about Chikatilo?
STYLER: Yes. And after that I wrote another book which covered nine more serial killers including Nilsen, Sutcliffe and Dahmer.
FARQUHAR: What was it called?
STYLER: Bloodbath. Inside the Minds of Nine Serial Killers.
FARQUHAR: And did you get there? Inside the minds?
STYLER: I did my research.
FARQUHAR: There is one thing I’d be interested to know, Mr Styler. Why do you write these books? What’s your interest in these people?
STYLER: Well, I suppose I’m trying to illustrate one aspect of the human condition; the relationship between good and evil. That’s what it really comes down to. The fact that humans are capable of acts of extreme evil as well as extreme good.
FARQUHAR: Saints or sinners.
STYLER: Exactly.
FARQUHAR: But taken to extremes.
STYLER: It’s only natural for a writer to be interested in extremes because that’s where the essence of human nature will be in sharpest focus.
FARQUHAR: So why didn’t you choose saints? (Pause.) Bloodbank. Inside the Minds of Nine NHS Nurses.
STYLER: Well. I suppose sin sells better.
FARQUHAR: And this next book of yours…
STYLER: It’s going to be very big. I have a publisher, a very reputable house. They’ve been talking to the Sunday Times and we may have a serialisation. The Americans are interested…in fact the publishers were queuing up at Frankfurt. All this on a three-page outline. Come on, Dr Farquhar! Six one-hour interviews. That’s all I ask. I’ll let you have the questions in advance and you can be in the room from the start to the end.
FARQUHAR: Perhaps you should try again in a year or so’s time. As it happens, I’m planning to leave Fairfields.
STYLER: You’re retiring?
FARQUHAR: I’m leaving. Quite soon, as a matter of fact. I want to travel. I could be going any day now. Maybe you can approach my successor.
STYLER: No. It has to be now. We’re coming up to the thirtieth anniversary of Easterman’s arrest. It’s event publishing. The book, the serialisation, perhaps even a BBC tie-in. It couldn’t be a better time.
FARQUHAR: Easterman?
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: You want to write a book about Easterman?
STYLER: Didn’t I say?
FARQUHAR: No. You did not.
STYLER: I’m sorry. I should have said right away. That’s the book I want to write. I want to write about Easterman.
A pause. FARQUHAR seems almost shocked. And then the door opens and NURSE PLIMPTON comes in. Somewhere in her forties, still curvaceous and attractive, she’s wearing a starched white nurse’s uniform which is very slightly small for her. Her hair and make-up are dishevelled and everything about her is strained and unnatural. She seems to be frightened (although she’s doing her best to hide it). All in all, she has the air of a woman who has been horrendously abused.
FARQUHAR: Aah — Nurse Plimpton, at last.
PLIMPTON: I’m sorry I’m late. I was tied up.
FARQUHAR: What?
PLIMPTON: In B-wing.
FARQUHAR: I rang you twice.
PLIMPTON: Yes. I know. I’m sorry.
FARQUHAR: Well, you’re here now.
PLIMPTON: Yes. What do you want?
FARQUHAR: We have a guest.
PLIMPTON: I can see that.
FARQUHAR: His name is Mark Styler. He’s a writer.
PLIMPTON: I know his work.
STYLER: Do you?
PLIMPTON: I read your book about Andrei Chikatilo. What was it called? Serial Chiller.
STYLER: I’m flattered.
PLIMPTON: I didn’t enjoy it.
PLIMPTON: I thought it was gruesome.
FARQUHAR: Mr Styler wants to write a book about Easterman.
PLIMPTON: Easterman!
FARQUHAR: Yes.
PLIMPTON: (To STYLER.) He won’t talk to you. You’re wasting your time. Anyway, it’s against the policy of the hospital. You ought to go. Now. (To FARQUHAR.) Do you want me to show him out?
STYLER: I think that was the general idea.
FARQUHAR: Mr Styler wanted a cigarette.
PLIMPTON: I don’t have any cigarettes. I don’t smoke.
FARQUHAR: He has his own cigarettes.
PLIMPTON: Then why was he asking?
FARQUHAR: He doesn’t have a light.
STYLER: That’s right. I seem to have forgotten my lighter.
PLIMPTON: There’s a lighter in the desk.
FARQUHAR: Is there?
PLIMPTON: The second drawer down. On the left.
FARQUHAR is surprised. He opens the drawer.
FARQUHAR: You’re absolutely right. I’d forgotten.
PLIMPTON: It’s always there.
FARQUHAR: I can see that. It’s unlikely to stray. Does it have gas?
PLIMPTON: No. It’s a petrol lighter.
FARQUHAR: (Annoyed.) Does it have petrol?
PLIMPTON: I expect so. There’s a spare can in the drawer.
FARQUHAR takes out a small petrol can, glances at it and puts it back.
FARQUHAR: You’re right. (To STYLER.) Then you can have your cigarette.
STYLER takes out his cigarettes. FARQUHAR takes out the lighter and moves towards him. But the cigarette lighter is on a chain and reaches only half way across the room.
It seems you’re going to have to meet me half way.
STYLER: Security?
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: With respect, Dr Farquhar, I wouldn’t have thought it was something you’d forget. A thing like that.
FARQUHAR: I’ve had a lot on my mind.
STYLER steps forward. FARQUHAR lights the cigarette for him.
STYLER: Thank you.
PLIMPTON: I’ll show you to the main gate.
FARQUHAR: Actually, I think I might give Mr Styler a little more of my time.
STYLER: Really?
PLIMPTON: Why?
FARQUHAR: I’d be interested to know why of all the people here he chose Easterman for his next oeuvre.
PLIMPTON: But you’re not going to let him write it.
FARQUHAR: Anything is possible. I hadn’t realised he was such a major literary figure.
STYLER: Well…
PLIMPTON: He isn’t.
FARQUHAR: He has a publishing deal with a reputable firm. A possible serialisation in the Sunday Times.
PLIMPTON: Dr Farquhar…
FARQUHAR: We actually called you up here because he’s hungry.
PLIMPTON: That’s not my business.
FARQUHAR: I know. But I was wondering if you could talk to Cookie.
PLIMPTON: Cookie?
FARQUHAR: In the kitchen. I was hoping they might be able to rustle something up.
STYLER: I don’t want to be a nuisance.
FARQUHAR: No. You’ve driven three and a half hours to get here. You didn’t pass a single Happy Eater. I kept you waiting. It’s the least I can do.
PLIMPTON: But the kitchen’s closed.
FARQUHAR: Already?
PLIMPTON: Cookie’s gone home.
FARQUHAR: It’s very early.
PLIMPTON: She wasn’t well.
FARQUHAR: She never told me.
PLIMPTON: You were busy. (To STYLER.) You could go to the pub. There’s a pub just a mile down the road. The King’s Head. They do a very good shepherd’s pie.
FARQUHAR: Mr Styler doesn’t want a shepherd’s pie. He just wants a cup of tea and a sandwich.
STYLER: Just a cup of tea will be fine.
FARQUHAR: Surely to goodness we can rustle up a sandwich for a guest who’s driven three and half hours to get here.
A pause. PLIMPTON realises she has no choice.
PLIMPTON: What sort of sandwich?
FARQUHAR: Mr Styler?
STYLER: Anything really…
FARQUHAR: There you are then. (To PLIMPTON.) Ham. Cheese and pickle. Tuna and cucumber. Egg and cress. Peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Anything you can lay your hands on.
PLIMPTON: What if there’s no bread?
FARQUHAR: Of course there’s bread. There’s always bread.
PLIMPTON: There may not be.
FARQUHAR: Then give him some Ryvita.
Again, PLIMPTON can see she’s not going to win the argument.
PLIMPTON: I suppose I can look.
FARQUHAR: Just bring him a sandwich with anything you can find.
PLIMPTON: Right.
FARQUHAR: And a cup of tea.
PLIMPTON: I’ll see what I can do.
FARQUHAR: That’s very kind of you.
A dismissal. But PLIMPTON doesn’t leave.
PLIMPTON: He needs an ashtray.
FARQUHAR: What?
PLIMPTON: Mr Styler’s cigarette. He needs an ashtray.
STYLER: Thank you.
FARQUHAR: (Irritated.) Nurse Plimpton…
PLIMPTON: He’s going to get ash on the carpet.
FARQUHAR: I don’t have an ashtray.
PLIMPTON: There’s one in the desk. Third drawer down.
FARQUHAR: On the left or the right?
PLIMPTON: The right.
FARQUHAR: You seem very familiar with the contents of my desk, Nurse Plimpton.
PLIMPTON: Yes. I try to be.
FARQUHAR: Third drawer down.
PLIMPTON: On the left.
FARQHUAR leans down behind the desk. At that moment, PLIMPTON’s whole manner changes. She produces a folded note and urgently waves it at STYLER. He responds with puzzlement and is about to come over and take it when FARQUHAR suddenly looks up, suspicious.
FARQUHAR: I can’t find it.
PLIMPTON: It should be there.
FARQUHAR: But it isn’t.
PLIMPTON: Did you move it?
FARQUHAR: I never even saw it.
PLIMPTON: Perhaps it went into the second drawer.
FARQUHAR: On the left?
PLIMPTON: On the right.
FARQUHAR leans down again and at that moment, PLIMPTON slips the note to STYLER who hides it. But right then FARQUHAR pops up again, this time holding the ashtray. He is immediately suspicious.
FARQUHAR: Nurse Plimpton?
PLIMPTON: Yes, Dr Farquhar?
FARQUHAR: Is there something I should know?
PLIMPTON: No, Dr Farquhar.
A pause. FARQUHAR is still suspicious.
FARQUHAR: A sandwich and a cup of tea.
PLIMPTON: Right away, Dr Farquhar.
PLIMPTON glances one last time at STYLER, trying to warn him with her eyes. Then she goes. Note: as she opens the door we see that the corridor outside the door has changed colour from the time when she walked in. FARQUHAR hands over the ashtray.
FARQUHAR: A souvenir of Torquay.
STYLER: Torquay?
FARQUHAR: Yes. I can’t actually remember ever going there. It can’t be much of a souvenir.
STYLER: I suppose not.
FARQUHAR: Have you ever been to Torquay, Mr Styler?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: You’re not trying to hide something from me, are you?
STYLER: I’ve never been to Torquay.
FARQUHAR: I’m talking about Nurse Plimpton. (Pause.) Just between you and me, Mr Styler, that woman’s begun to worry me. That’s the trouble with working with the criminally insane. Your perception gets twisted. You have no sense of what’s real any more. No sense of anything. Maybe it’s time she considered another career. What do you think?
STYLER: I don’t know…
FARQUHAR: Why don’t you tell me what’s in that note she gave you?
STYLER: What note?
FARQUHAR: She gave you a note.
STYLER: She seemed to be afraid of you.
FARQUHAR: She’s afraid of everything. Heights. Insects. The dark. Her own shadow. The note, please…
STYLER: Are you saying she’s sick?
FARQUHAR: I’m saying she’s overworked. (Pause.) Mr Styler, I’m trying to co-operate with you. But I can assure you that unless you give me that note, the note that Nurse Plimpton gave you after she so clumsily diverted my attention with that ashtray, your book contract and your serialisation and your BBC television series will have less chance of realisation than an afternoon of strip poker with the Queen Mum.
A long pause. STYLER produces the folded note.
STYLER: She wanted me to read it.
FARQUHAR: And I don’t.
FARQUHAR: I’m her employer.
STYLER: ‘The master of Fairfields’.
FARQUHAR: Exactly.
STYLER hands over the note.
Thank you.
STYLER: Are you going to read it?
FARQUHAR: Maybe.
STYLER: I’d be interested to know what it says.
FARQUHAR: It’s almost certainly irrelevant.
STYLER: Even so…
FARQUHAR opens the note and quickly reads it. He smiles.
FARQUHAR: I was right. It’s nothing.
STYLER: You read it?
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: Without your reading glasses?
FARQUHAR: She has large handwriting.
STYLER: So can I see it?
FARQUHAR: No.
FARQUHAR picks up the lighter and sets fire to the note. It burns in his hand.
STYLER: What are you doing?
FARQUHAR: What do you think?
STYLER: But why?
FARQUHAR: Call it an act of spontaneity. Spontaneous combustion.
STYLER: I don’t understand you. I don’t understand any of this.
FARQUHAR: Nurse Plimpton is a fine woman. She’s been here as long as I have. So can you really blame me if I try to protect her from her own worst imaginings. She needs help.
STYLER: What did she write?
FARQUHAR: You really want to know?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: She thought she knew you.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: She thought you were someone else.
STYLER: I don’t understand.
FARQUHAR: Nurse Plimpton thought she recognised you as someone who in fact you aren’t. She was accusing you of being an imposter.
STYLER: That’s ridiculous.
FARQUHAR: Exactly…
At that moment, there is an explosive alarm. A bell rings and lights flash on and off in the room. The alarm is so loud it’s shocking.
STYLER: What now?
FARQUHAR: I don’t know.
With the alarms still screaming, FARQUHAR picks up the telephone on the desk and punches a number.
(Shouting into the telephone.) This is Farquhar. Can you tell me what’s happening? I said…can you tell me what’s happened? (Pause.) It’s a false alarm. Repeat! False alarm!
The bells stop.
(Into the telephone.) Thank you. My security clearance is twenty-nine. My labrador’s name is Reginald.
FARQUHAR hangs up.
STYLER: What was that all about?
FARQUHAR: Stupid of me.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: Burning the paper. I forgot that we have a very sophisticated smoke detector installed here. It set off the alarm…
STYLER: Will the fire brigade come?
FARQUHAR: No. You heard me give the security clearance. My ID number and a seemingly irrelevant personal detail but one that only I would know. So now they know it’s a false alarm. Let’s talk about Easterman.
STYLER: Actually, you know, I am beginning to feel a little uneasy. There’s something about this place. It doesn’t feel quite right.
FARQUHAR: I’ve treated you badly.
STYLER: Well…
FARQUHAR: I’m tired, I admit it. I was annoyed you were here. But now that you are here, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself, your work. Tell me about your books. Did you bring them with you?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: A shame. But you were saying there were two of them. Bloodbath and…
STYLER: Serial Chiller. Actually, I wrote other books too.
FARQUHAR: Also ‘True Crime’?
STYLER: No. My first two books were quite different. They were about my mother.
FARQUHAR: Should I read something into that?
STYLER: Only that I had a very happy childhood and that I admired her. My father died when I was quite young and I was an only child. I was brought up in the north.
FARQUHAR: You don’t have an accent.
STYLER: I suppose I lost it after I moved to London. My mother died when I was twenty-one…
FARQUHAR: I’m sorry. Was it illness?
STYLER: (Hesitant.) No.
FARQUHAR: An accident, then?
STYLER: Yes. It was very sudden. But anyway, she’d always encouraged me to write. She was a great believer in my abilities. So after she died, I decided to write about her.
FARQUHAR: A biography?
STYLER: Not exactly. She was a very ordinary person, not someone you could write a book about. But she was a wonderful cook. So I wrote a book called My Mother’s Table which was a collection of her favourite recipes interspersed with anecdotes about her life. It was a bit like The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady. I suppose you don’t remember that.
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: You do.
STYLER: Well, it had the same success, so the publishers asked me to write a sequel. So I came up with My Mother’s Garden which was really the same thing again but this time about her garden…tips on how to get the best out of your flowers and shrubs. That sort of thing. My mother spent a lot of time in the garden. It was nice to remember her that way.
FARQUHAR: It seems you made quite a killing out of your mother.
STYLER: The second book did almost as well as the first, it’s true.
FARQUHAR: And you were still living in the same house? ‘In the north’?
STYLER: No, after she died I moved to London. I got married and bought a house in Vauxhall, near Victoria Station.
FARQUHAR: You’re married?
STYLER: Separated.
FARQUHAR: Any children?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: And what did your wife do? Was she also a writer?
STYLER: No. She was a vet.
FARQUHAR: So tell me. Was your next book about her? My Wife’s Pussy Cat ? Hints on animal care interspersed with anecdotes from a marital breakdown?
STYLER: No. Although actually it was partly inspired by her, by our relationship. I’d always wanted to write fiction so I wrote a sort of tragic love story. It was called Blaming Jane.
STYLER: No. (Pause.) No. This was fiction. It was only very loosely based on my experience although one of the characters was a vet. Anyway, to be honest the reviews were less than lukewarm but it became a best-seller and in fact last year we sold the option to Hollywood.
FARQUHAR: They’re going to make a film out of it?
STYLER: Yes. I understand Quentin Tarantino’s interested. There’s a team of script-writers working on a new draft even as we speak. Apparently it still isn’t violent enough.
FARQUHAR: But it is violent?
STYLER: The book is about a woman who pushes a man to violence, yes. He kills her. But that’s not the point. The book isn’t about violence. It isn’t even about blame. It’s about understanding. I’ll send you a copy, Dr Farquhar. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.
FARQUHAR: It seems to me you’ve pursued an unusual career, Mr Styler. From cookery and gardening to fiction and then…
STYLER: Chikatilo.
FARQUHAR: So what happened?
STYLER: He did. I just got interested.
FARQUHAR: In what? In murder? In torture? Or in cannibalism? All three featured fairly prominently in his career.
STYLER: I was thinking about writing a story, a novel set in Russia. This was the end of the eighties…the start of 1990. And then I saw this story in the newspapers…
FARQUHAR: Andrei Chikatilo had kidnapped young boys and girls in the woods outside Rostov. He tied them up, sexually abused them, tortured them — sometimes removing their eyes — stabbed them many times and then ate them. He had a liking for liver, I understand. The human liver. Something he had in common with Easterman, incidentally. They were both happy eaters.
STYLER: Yes. (Pause.) I was interested in the idea of a serial killer in Russia. The police investigation. The killings adding up. In fact, the more I read about it, the more I thought it had all the makings of a real airport blockbuster.
FARQUHAR: I suppose it depends which airport you go to.
STYLER: Anyway, in the end I realised there was no need to add fiction to what had happened. So I wrote it as True Crime and sold more copies than anything I’d ever written before.
FARQUHAR: But I still find myself wondering what sort of readers would interest themselves in a sexually deranged schoolteacher from the Ukraine. Hormonally challenged teenagers perhaps. Or the sort of ghouls who like to watch multiple pile-ups on the M25.
STYLER: The book sold half a million copies. You think they were all ghouls and teenagers?
FARQUHAR: And their friends.
STYLER: I think you’re being a little…high-minded, if you don’t mind my saying so, Dr Farquhar. Every writer from Chaucer to Milton and Shakespeare has been attracted to evil. Think of Iago. Lucifer. Moriarty. Darth Vadar. We’re attracted by these figures because they’re part of us. That’s the truth of it. They’re the dark, unspoken part of our own psyche and we need them because they help us live something out, if only vicariously and we thank them for it. Look at Jack the Ripper. Every child in the world grows up knowing about Jack the Ripper. Tourists come to London just to go on Jack the Ripper walks. And do you know how many books there are about him, how many films? There have even been Jack the Ripper musicals! And this was a man who stabbed women in the womb. Who cut their throats so savagely that he nearly decapitated them. Who dragged out their entrails and probably took pieces home as souvenirs. But you tell me this. Is Jack a villain or a hero? Is he your sinner or your saint? Maybe the answer…maybe the answer is that he’s neither. Maybe he’s something else, something we don’t quite understand. But it isn’t revulsion we feel when we hear his name even though it should be. It isn’t loathing. It’s a sort of excitement.
FARQUHAR: Was it excitement you felt when you were writing about Chikatilo?
STYLER: (A pause.) I suppose I would have liked to have met him. I wrote to the Russian authorities but by the time anyone even replied to my letter they’d already shot him.
FARQUHAR: And now you want to meet Easterman?
STYLER: (With a sense of foreboding.) Is he really here, in this building?
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: It’s strange to think that he could be just a few metres away from where we are now.
FARQUHAR: He could be closer.
STYLER: Has he changed very much?
FARQUHAR: In what way?
STYLER: Well. (Pause.) His appearance…
FARQUHAR: (Interested that this should be the first question.) His appearance.
STYLER: How he looks.
FARQUHAR: He was twenty-three when he was brought here. For ten years he wouldn’t even leave his cell, ten years without seeing the sun. Gradually we managed to coax him out, into the grounds, into therapy but it took another two or three years before he’d even agree to speak.
STYLER: He was ashamed of what he’d done.
FARQUHAR: Not at all. He seemed to be unaware of it, though secretly I think he was rather proud. As you rightly said, he’s been here for twenty-nine years now. Half his life. He must be about the same age as me. I doubt if you’d recognise him.
STYLER: I’ve only seen a few photographs of him.
FARQUHAR: Most of them were destroyed when he burned down his house.
STYLER: There was one taken by an aunt. He must have been about eleven years old. Slim. Fair hair. Blue eyes. Dressed all in white. He was a very beautiful boy, I thought. The face of an angel.
FARQUHAR: Was that what drew you to him? His looks?
STYLER: No. Of course not. But on the other hand, I knew it would give a commercial edge to the book. Most of the serial killers are so depressingly ugly. Chikatilo bald and wild-eyed. Dennis Nilsen every inch the minor clerk that he actually was. The Wests, hideous. Myra Hindley either dowdy or satanic. Easterman was different to all of them. But you know as well as I do that it wasn’t just his looks.
FARQUHAR: You said you did research?
STYLER: Of course.
FARQUHAR: I’d be interested to know what you found. Your take on Easterman.
STYLER: Why?
FARQUHAR: What are we, Mr Styler, but what other people perceive of us?
A pause.
STYLER: Easterman was every mother’s dream of a perfect son. Healthy, good-looking, athletic, intelligent. He went to a local grammar school. The family lived in Yorkshire.
FARQUHAR: In York.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: Was that near you?
STYLER: Yes. It was, as a matter of fact.
FARQUHAR: But you never met him?
STYLER: (Hesitant.) No. (Pause.) When he was sixteen, his father died.
FARQUHAR: He killed his father. On a wine-tasting holiday at the Chateau Mavillion in France.
STYLER: No. His father died in a car accident.
FARQUHAR: Easterman was driving the car. He reversed it over his father.
STYLER: Accidentally.
FARQUHAR: Twice.
STYLER: That never came out in the trial.
FARQUHAR: Since Easterman refused to speak at all during the time of his trial, a great deal didn’t come out.
STYLER: Well, however he really died, after the death of his father Easterman lived with his mother, in York. According to his neighbours he was a completely trouble-free teenager.
FARQUHAR: He killed the neighbours.
STYLER: He only killed one of them.
FARQUHAR: Ah yes. Mrs Barlow.
STYLER: (Pause.) Yes. That was her name. (Pause.) But you’ve jumped ahead of me. The bulk of his killings took place in the eighteen months between age twenty-one and his arrest at the age of twenty-three. He actually killed his mother on the morning of his twenty-first birthday.
FARQUHAR: That’s right. When her head was found it was still covered in gift-wrap.
STYLER: He buried her in the garden and went on living in the house. It makes you think a little of Hitchcock, doesn’t it.
FARQUHAR: No.
STYLER: The Bates Motel? His next victim was his girlfriend, Jane Plimpton. (Realising.) Nurse Plimpton! That’s where I’d heard it before!
FARQUHAR: Where is Nurse Plimpton? She seems to be taking a devil of a long time with your sandwich.
STYLER: She’s not related?
FARQUHAR: I hardly think so.
STYLER: Well, anyway, at this time Easterman was running the family wine shop in Bootham Gate — just in the shadow of York Minster by some horrible irony. What nobody knew was that he had adapted some of the cellars, the ones furthest under ground, to his own horrendous end.
FARQUHAR: He had turned them into a torture chamber?
STYLER: Yes. He picked up hitch-hikers, some of them students at the university. He drugged them and took them down there. And then he played with them.
A dozen victims. Maybe more. I don’t suppose you want me to go into the details.
FARQUHAR: You want to save them for your book?
STYLER: Well, it was the usual thing. Sexual humiliation. Torture. Rape. For each one of them a long, drawn-out death. He cut up the bodies when he’d finished with them. Some of them he took home in pieces and buried in his mother’s garden. Of course he kept souvenirs. He also cannibalised some of the corpses. He liked to eat…
FARQUHAR: The liver.
STYLER: Yes. Things only came to a head when his neighbours started asking questions about the state of his lawn. It’s hard to imagine what took them so long. By the end his garden must have looked like an archaeological dig. Anyway, the neighbours must have asked one question too many because one night he attacked all of them, killing Mrs Barlow at number twenty-nine and mutilating the Bundies at thirty-three. Then he walked into York police station and gave himself up.
FARQUHAR: But not out of remorse?
STYLER: Remorse never came into it. He pleaded guilty. He was found unfit to stand trial and was sent here.
FARQUHAR: All of which is accurate, more or less, but still doesn’t answer my original question.
STYLER: Which was?
FARQUHAR: Why did you choose him? For your book?
But before STYLER can answer, the door opens and PLIMPTON comes back in carrying a tray with a single sandwich, a tea-pot, tea-cup and small jug of milk.
It looks like your dinner’s finally arrived.
STYLER: Thank you.
FARQUHAR: (To PLIMPTON.) What took you so long?
PLIMPTON: There was no one in the kitchen.
FARQUHAR: You didn’t see Cookie?
PLIMPTON: I told you. Cookie’s gone home.
FARQUHAR: Oh yes.
PLIMPTON: I did the best I could. (To STYLER.) I thought you might have gone.
STYLER: No. I’m still here.
PLIMPTON: I can see that. But I thought…
FARQUHAR: Mr Styler decided to stay for dinner.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: So you managed to rustle something up on your own?
PLIMPTON: No. Borson did it.
STYLER: Borson?
PLIMPTON: Yes.
STYLER: I thought he was on security.
PLIMPTON: He is. But he came into the kitchen while I was there and when I told him what Dr Farquhar wanted, he insisted on making the sandwich.
FARQUHAR: And what did Borson put in the sandwich?
PLIMPTON: Liver.
A long pause.
STYLER: It’s very kind of you. But I’ll just have the tea.
FARQUHAR: You don’t like liver?
STYLER: Not especially.
FARQUHAR: It must have been left over from lunch. Isn’t that right, Nurse Plimpton?
PLIMPTON: I don’t know. I didn’t have lunch.
FARQUHAR: (Solicitous.) Why not?
PLIMPTON: (With a shudder.) I was in B-wing.
FARQUHAR: And how was Borson?
PLIMPTON: He didn’t say anything. I told him you wanted a sandwich for your guest and that was what he gave me.
FARQUHAR: (To STYLER.) Left-overs. You’ll have to forgive us.
STYLER: I don’t mind left-overs, really I don’t. But I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t go back to my hotel. They’re expecting me for dinner.
PLIMPTON: Did you tell them you were on the way? I mean, did they know you were coming here and that afterwards you’d be returning for the night?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: Then we mustn’t disappoint them. ( To PLIMPTON.) You’d better ring them and tell them Mr Styler will be spending the night here with us.
PLIMPTON: But he wants to leave. (To STYLER.) Don’t you, Mr Styler?
STYLER: Well, to be honest, I do feel a bit uncomfortable about spending the night in a place like this. Nothing personal…
PLIMPTON: There you are.
STYLER: I’m booked in overnight. I could come back tomorrow.
FARQUHAR: I’m afraid I can’t see you tomorrow.
FARQUHAR: I’m busy tomorrow.
PLIMPTON: No you’re not. All your morning appointments have been cancelled. (To STYLER.) Dr Farquhar could see you tomorrow at nine o’clock.
FARQUHAR: Nurse Plimpton. Don’t you think you’re taking your responsibilities a little far? Anyway, I don’t remember opening my appointments book to you.
PLIMPTON: I’m just trying to be helpful, Dr Farquhar.
FARQUHAR: If you want to be helpful, you could go down to Easterman and see if he’s awake.
PLIMPTON: What?
STYLER: You’re going to let me see him?
FARQUHAR: No. Not necessarily.
PLIMPTON: You don’t want to see him.
FARQUHAR: (Annoyed.) Nurse Plimpton…
PLIMPTON: Please, Mr Styler, listen to me. Easterman is a monster. He’s not mad like the other patients here. He’s evil. He knows what he does and he gets pleasure from it. Even here at Fairfields.
FARQUHAR: (Threatening.) …be careful what you say…
PLIMPTON: You can’t write a book about Easterman. He’s different to all the others. You don’t want to be in the same room as him. You don’t want to be anywhere near him. Because he’ll play with you…like the devil. And then he’ll break you down. He’ll destroy you.
FARQUHAR: Nurse Plimpton, you are pushing me perilously closer towards disciplinary action.
PLIMPTON: (Muttered.) What more can you do to me?
PLIMPTON: What?
FARQUHAR: Just go. I’ll call you back if I need you.
A pause.
PLIMPTON: Shall I take the sandwich?
FARQUHAR: Leave the sandwich.
PLIMPTON: But he doesn’t want it.
FARQUHAR: He wants it.
PLIMPTON: He said not.
FARQUHAR: He may change his mind.
A pause. PLIMPTON takes one last despairing look at STYLER, then leaves the room.
Dinner.
STYLER: Actually, I’d quite like a cigarette.
FARQUHAR: Let me pour you some tea. (He pours.) It’s Lapsang Souchong. (Pause.) Milk?
STYLER: No, thank you.
FARQUHAR: Eat. You must be famished.
STYLER: I am hungry, yes.
FARQUHAR: Well there you are, then. STYLER: Right.
FARQUHAR offers the plate. STYLER picks up the sandwich. Thinks for a moment. Dismisses the foolish thought that was going through his head and bites into the sandwich.
FARQUHAR: How is it?
STYLER: (Mouth full.) Good.
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: Sometimes, when the meat comes out of the freezer, it can be a little dry.
STYLER: Are you going to let me see Easterman?
FARQUHAR: No.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: You still haven’t persuaded me that there would be any point to it. Oh yes, you’ve done a certain amount of research. But what you’ve told me anyone could have found out in a half an hour in a newspaper library. Why Easterman? That’s what I want to know. Why Easterman as opposed to Sprintz or Chaplin, Morganstone, Netley, Borson or any of the other patients here.
STYLER: Borson?
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: You said Borson… You said Borson was a patient here.
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: But Borson was the name of the man at the gate. He was also in the kitchen.
FARQUHAR: That’s a different Borson. It’s quite a common name.
STYLER: I wouldn’t have said that.
FARQUHAR: There are two Borsons. It’s a coincidence.
STYLER: Another coincidence.
FARQUHAR: Just answer my question, Mr Styler. Tell me what’s so different about Easterman, why he of all people should appeal to you. Believe me when I say that your entire future — the future of your book — depends on your answer.
STYLER: Well. (Pause.) Every serial killer I’ve ever studied has been screwed up as a child. Jeffrey Dahmer was ignored by his parents. So was Ted Bundy. Peter Kürten…
FARQUHAR: (Interrupting.) This is all very familiar.
STYLER: Yes. But that’s why Easterman is different. He had a wonderful childhood. His father, despite what you say, was devoted to him. His mother adored him. Right up to the time when the killings began there isn’t a hint of deviancy in Easterman’s life.
FARQUHAR: Go on.
STYLER: It was Socrates, wasn’t it, who said that nobody ever does wrong willingly…by which he meant that if they really knew what they were doing, they would choose not to do it. Well, Easterman finally proves him wrong.
FARQUHAR: On the face of it…
STYLER: That’s the point of my book. It’s not a whodunnit. It’s a whydunnit. Why did Easterman do what he did? What turned this golden boy into this…revolting beast?
FARQUHAR: Now you sound like your own back-cover blurb. How’s the sandwich?
STYLER: Good.
STYLER takes another bite.
FARQUHAR: So do you have any clues? Any answers to your ‘whydunnit’? Any first thoughts?
STYLER: It’s hard to say, not having met him. But… (Pause.) Given his looks, given his family background, given the lack of any apparent conflict in his life, I wonder if there wasn’t some sort of sexual problem.
FARQUHAR: Do you?
STYLER: Well, it’s just a thought. But he lived with his mother and she was his first victim. His girlfriend, Jane Plimpton, was number two. After that, the great majority of his victims were male. Young men and boys. So — and I know this is a little simplistic but — maybe he was a homosexual. Maybe he was unable to come to terms with his sexuality and that was what started the psychosis, what triggered him off…
FARQUHAR: So he was a mummy’s boy.
STYLER: I didn’t say that.
FARQUHAR: He killed nineteen people because he couldn’t cope with being gay?
STYLER: Where did you get that figure from?
FARQUHAR: I think your theory, Mr Styler, is pathetic.
STYLER: I’ve annoyed you.
FARQUHAR: (Annoyed.) No. I’m not annoyed. But quite frankly I wouldn’t say there was much mileage in a book about someone who tortured and mutilated his way through the entire city of York just because he was too scared to ‘come out’.
STYLER: Let me meet him and maybe I’ll find out for myself.
FARQUHAR: You really think…? You really think that — what was it you asked for — six one-hour sessions with Easterman and you’ll be able to find out more than we have in the constant, intensive therapy of the past thirty years?
STYLER: I didn’t say that.
FARQUHAR: (Getting up.) No, Mr Styler. I think I’ve had enough of this.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: You think you can just walk into my office because you’ve had a best-selling novel optioned by Hollywood as well as two boilers out of your mother’s pot. You think you’re some kind of expert because you’ve got two gaudy paperbacks on the shelves of the True Crime department at your local library.
STYLER: Dr Farquhar…
FARQUHAR: You know, Mr Styler, I recognised you for what you were from the moment you walked into my office. You’re Mr Television. When they need an opinion on Newsnight or Panorama, you’re the expert they wheel in at fifty quid an hour plus a G and T with Jeremy Paxman. Fred West hangs himself. Myra Hindley is turned down for parole. Let’s go over to Mark Styler who’s ready with an instant opinion and a quote from Socrates. Nurse Plimpton was right about you. You’re a fake. I don’t know why I’ve wasted so much time with you.
STYLER: Wait…
FARQUHAR: Go on. Get out of here. Go back to your hotel.
STYLER: Easterman killed my mother.
A pause.
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: That’s why I want to write a book about him. That’s why I want to understand him. He murdered my mother.
FARQUHAR: There were never any victims called Styler.
STYLER: She went back to her maiden name after my father died. Victoria Barlow. She was Easterman’s neighbour. He killed her.
I was away when it happened. I was a student. But that day I came home for a visit. The first thing I saw was the smoke. Easterman had set fire to his own house. But first he had gone into hers. I tried to go in. But they stopped me. They held me back…
FARQUHAR: (Gently.) Why didn’t you tell me this before?
STYLER: Because… (Pause.) It was after what he did to my mother that I moved to London. My poor, beautiful, kind mother. The police asked me to identify the body. They tried to hide the worst of it but…the way he’d slashed at her. I couldn’t identify her. I couldn’t recognise her. It was as if some wild animal…
FARQUHAR: And you wanted to meet Easterman. Why? What were you going to do if you found yourself in the same room as him? Did you want to kill him?
STYLER: No. I wanted to understand him. That’s all. I thought, if I wrote about him, I might be able to…
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: (Surprising himself. ) …forgive him.
FARQUHAR: Forgive him?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: You really think you could do that?
STYLER: Yes.
A pause. FARQUHAR picks up the telephone.
FARQUHAR: (Into the telephone.) Nurse Plimpton. Could you come back please?
STYLER: May I have another cigarette?
FARQUHAR: Help yourself.
STYLER takes out his crumpled ten-cigarette packet and opens it. He takes out a cigarette and lights it.
Is that better?
STYLER: Yes.
A pause. STYLER smokes.
FARQUHAR: If you were to meet Easterman…
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: You wouldn’t be afraid of him?
STYLER: Afraid of him?
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: Should I be? Is he still dangerous?
FARQUHAR: He’s unpredictable.
STYLER: Unpredictable.
FARQUHAR: Which can be very dangerous indeed.
STYLER: Well, you’ll get some security…
FARQUHAR: Not at this time of night. Security will have gone home.
STYLER: What about Borson?
FARQUHAR: He’s on the gate.
STYLER: Maybe I could meet Easterman in his cell.
FARQUHAR: Both of you in his cell?
STYLER: Him in his cell. Me outside.
FARQUHAR: It’s sound-proofed. The walls are two-foot thick.
STYLER: Oh. (Pause.) Could you restrain him?
STYLER: In a strait-jacket or something.
FARQUHAR: (Frustrated.) Mr Styler…
STYLER: What have I said now?
FARQUHAR: I thought I’d explained the philosophy of Fairfields to you. But now I wonder if you listened to a single word I said!
STYLER: I listened.
FARQUHAR: The whole purpose of this institution, the founding principal, was to try to get beyond the terror that has for so many years imprisoned the mentally ill.
STYLER: (Helpless.) But you said he was in a cell…that the walls were two-foot thick.
FARQUHAR: That’s his choice. It is Easterman who is hiding from us.
STYLER: I don’t understand.
FARQUHAR: Well maybe if you put yourself in a strait-jacket you’d begin to. In fact that’s not such a bad idea. Have you even seen a strait-jacket, Mr Styler? Have you ever held one? Have you ever put one on?
STYLER: No. Of course not.
FARQUHAR: Then it’s time you were educated.
STYLER: Wait a minute…
FARQUHAR: Let me show you what I mean.
FARQUHAR goes over to the door through which he made his first appearance and opens it. Now we see that the door has been subject to one of the many changes that have taken place throughout the first act. On the other side there is no longer a corridor but a cupboard with three shelves cluttered with books, papers and medical equipment. FARQUHAR takes out a strait-jacket.
STYLER: What’s going on here?
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: That cupboard…
FARQUHAR: What about it?
STYLER: You came in that way.
FARQUHAR: I’m sorry?
STYLER: You came in that way.
FARQUHAR: You think I came in from a cupboard?
STYLER: No. You came in that way. But it wasn’t a cupboard.
FARQUHAR: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
STYLER: It wasn’t a sodding cupboard.
FARQUHAR closes the door.
FARQUHAR: We were talking about insanity.
STYLER: Yes…
FARQUHAR: Put this on.
STYLER: I’m not sure that I want to.
FARQUHAR: Of course you don’t want to. If you wanted to, there wouldn’t be any point.
STYLER: No…
FARQUHAR: Think of your book.
STYLER: It’s got nothing to do with my book.
FARQUHAR: It’s got everything to do with it.
STYLER: You really think this will help?
FARQUHAR: Put this on or there is no book.
STYLER takes the strait-jacket. He holds it as if it’s an alien object.
STYLER: I don’t know where to start.
FARQUHAR: I’ll help you. Your arms go in here.
FARQUHAR continues as he puts the strait-jacket on STYLER.
There you are. The left first, then the right. That’s it. You are, if you like, embracing the very nature of madness. What do you think it would tell you about yourself, wearing one of these?
STYLER: That you were mad.
FARQUHAR: (Still fitting the jacket.) That you were considered mad — it’s not quite the same thing. The man who put it on you might believe that you were, in his opinion, mad. But it might occur to you, it might cross your mind that it was in fact the reverse that was true. You might believe that it was he who was mad and you who were perfectly sane.
STYLER: I don’t understand the point that you’re trying to make.
FARQUHAR: The point is, that once you’re wearing one of these, it no longer makes any difference. You have abrogated control, or rather, control has been taken away from you. It not only devours you. It defines you. A man wearing a strait-jacket can only be one of two things. An unsuccessful escapologist or a madman. There…
FARQUHAR stands back. STYLER is in the strait-jacket.
How do you feel?
STYLER: Helpless.
FARQUHAR: You are. Tell me that you’re sane.
FARQUHAR: Tell me you’re sane.
STYLER: I’m sane.
FARQUHAR: I don’t believe you.
STYLER: Okay. You’ve proved your point.
FARQUHAR: Carpet.
STYLER: I’m sorry?
FARQUHAR: Carpet. Envelope. Wallpaper. Cigarette. Jelly.
STYLER: I don’t understand you.
FARQUHAR: You think I’m talking nonsense.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: But how do you know it is not I who am talking complete sense and you who are hearing nonsense? The strait-jacket puts the weight of the argument on my side.
STYLER: (Struggling.) Yes, yes, yes. I was wrong to suggest using it. Now take it off.
FARQUHAR moves closer to STYLER and speaks gently.
FARQUHAR: (Quoting.) ‘He does not think there is anything the matter with him because one of the things that is the matter with him is that he does not think that there is anything the matter with him.’ *
STYLER: There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t something the matter with you. From the moment I arrived…this whole place.
FARQUHAR: (Suddenly mad.) It’s a madhouse!
STYLER: Bloody hell!
FARQUHAR turns to the desk and picks up a scalpel. He advances with it menacingly. We should notice that, like the room, his character is rapidly changing.
FARQUHAR: Let’s take it one step further.
STYLER: What are you doing with that?
FARQUHAR: Does it make you nervous?
STYLER: Of course it does. What do you think?
FARQUHAR: You’re afraid.
STYLER: Look. Put it down and let me go. Why are you playing these games with me?
FARQUHAR: Games? Do you remember what Nurse Plimpton said?
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: (Cruelly imitating her voice.) ‘He’ll play with you…like the devil. And then he’ll break you down. He’ll destroy you!’
STYLER: She was talking about Easterman.
FARQUHAR: (Holding the scalpel.) Let’s play games with this.
STYLER: What are you going to do with it?
FARQUHAR: Well, since you so obliged me by slipping into that strait-jacket, I thought I’d begin by cutting out one of your eyes.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: Your left eye or your right eye? I could give you the choice.
STYLER: What do you…what are you talking about?
FARQUHAR: If you say, ‘Please, Dr Farquhar, will you cut out my left eye,’ then I’ll cut out that one. Or you can say, ‘Dr Farquhar, I’d like you to cut out my right eye,’ in which case that’s the one that will go. Or you can keep quiet in which event I’ll cut out both.
STYLER: That’s enough!
FARQUHAR: Of course, I don’t need to start with your eyes. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be skinned alive? Edward Gein manufactured waistcoats out of his victims, inspiring not one but three Hollywood movies — Psycho, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Silence of the Lambs — demonstrating what you were talking about earlier, the enduring fascination we have with insanity.
STYLER: (Struggling.) Please…
FARQUHAR: Or have you ever played ‘Slasher’?
STYLER: No!
FARQUHAR: The rules are very simple. I close my eyes and swing the scalpel so…
FARQUHAR swings the scalpel in a fast, vicious arc. It misses STYLER’s face by an inch.
The idea is to get as close as possible without actually slashing your face. If I do slash your face I lose a point and have to start again.
STYLER: God!
FARQUHAR: Exactly. That’s who I am, right now, to you. Because here you are, alone in my office, alone in this asylum, and you have no one to turn to, nothing you can do. That is the meaning of power. Power without responsibility. Power for power’s sake. And can you imagine what it feels like to have it, to actually have a man’s life or death in your hands, to be able to make the choice on a whim, to have him wetting himself with gratitude or with blood and agony if that’s what you decide? Not many people have that power, Mark. But I have it now.
STYLER: Are you mad?
FARQUHAR: You’re the one in the strait-jacket.
Then the door opens and PLIMPTON comes in. She takes in the room — the scalpel, the strait-jacket — with one glance.
PLIMPTON: What’s happening?
FARQUHAR: Nurse Plimpton. You’re not needed now.
PLIMPTON: What are you doing?
FARQUHAR: I said…you’re not needed now!
STYLER: Please. Help me, for God’s sake…
PLIMPTON: (To FARQUHAR.) You can’t do this.
FARQUHAR: He wanted to meet Easterman.
PLIMPTON: Let him go.
FARQUHAR: He asked to meet Easterman.
STYLER: No…
FARQUHAR: He wanted to understand.
PLIMPTON: He’s had enough!
And with her final word, PLIMPTON picks up the empty bottle of wine and smashes it across FARQUHAR’s face. The glass shatters and he falls unconscious, dropping the scalpel. A pause. PLIMPTON crumples in on herself.
Oh God! Oh God! I couldn’t let him do it. I couldn’t.
STYLER: I don’t understand. Please. What’s happening?
PLIMPTON: Oh God!
STYLER: Nurse Plimpton…
PLIMPTON: (Angry.) That’s not my name!
STYLER: What?
PLIMPTON changes from this moment on. She is more serious, determined. She has lost some of her fear.
PLIMPTON: That’s not my name. That’s what he made me call myself. (Pause.) My name is Carol Ennis.
STYLER: Ennis?
PLIMPTON: Dr Carol Ennis. I am the psychotherapist at Fairfields.
STYLER: I don’t understand. (Looking at the unconscious man.) Dr Farquhar…
PLIMPTON: That’s not Dr Farquhar.
STYLER: What?
PLIMPTON: Haven’t you guessed? Isn’t it bloody obvious! That’s Easterman!
STYLER: But… What…?
PLIMPTON: That is Easterman.
STYLER: So what happened to Dr Farquhar?
PLIMPTON comes over to STYLER and starts to undo the strait-jacket. Or tries to.
PLIMPTON: We’re going to have to get out of here. You have your car outside?
STYLER: Yes. It’s by the main door.
PLIMPTON: It happened three weeks ago. There was a psychodrama session in this very room. Easterman and Borson were here and Alex — Dr Farquhar — was supervising. I was next door, observing. (She points.) That’s a two-way mirror. Anyway, the session got out of control. Easterman grabbed Dr Farquhar and half-strangled him. At the same time, Borson came after me.
STYLER: The lunatics taking over the asylum!
PLIMPTON: Yes.
STYLER: What happened?
PLIMPTON: They killed all the staff. Some faster than others. The ones they particularly hated…you don’t want to know. Easterman toyed with Dr Farquhar for a week. He was quite mad by the end. Delirious. And unrecognisable. It was horrible. Horrible. And even when he finally died, even then it wasn’t over.
STYLER: What do you mean?
PLIMPTON: Easterman boiled him down and then…maybe it was revenge or maybe it was just some sort of horrible game. He reassembled him. The bones.
STYLER turns and gazes at the skeleton.
STYLER: No.
PLIMPTON: Yes. That’s Dr Farquhar, standing there, what’s left of him.
STYLER: Oh my God!
PLIMPTON: They’ve kept parts of him in the freezer. They’re still eating him.
STYLER: What parts?
PLIMPTON: Pieces of flesh. His heart. His liver…
STYLER: (Gagging.) Oh God…
PLIMPTON: What is it?
STYLER: The waste-bin!
PLIMPTON: What?
PLIMPTON snatches up the dustbin just in time for STYLER to be sick in it.
His liver. Oh God!
PLIMPTON: I tried to warn you.
STYLER: Why didn’t you just tell me, for God’s sake? Why didn’t you just tell me to go?
PLIMPTON: I tried to. I gave you that note.
STYLER: He burned it.
PLIMPTON: It set off the alarm.
STYLER: Yes, I know.
PLIMPTON: If I’d told you the truth, he’d never have let you leave. I did the best I could.
STYLER struggles to get out of the jacket.
What are we going to do?
STYLER: What do you mean, what are we going to do? Can’t you get this thing off me?
PLIMPTON: The straps are too tight. (Struggling with the straps.) You have to get me out of here. I’m the only one left alive. Do you have any idea what they’ve been doing to me for the past three weeks? It’s been so terrible. Everything they wanted. I couldn’t say no. I tried but…
PLIMPTON breaks down. STYLER wants to comfort her but he can’t — not while he’s in the strait-jacket.
STYLER: Not now. Not here.
PLIMPTON: (Sobbing.) You have no idea!
STYLER: (Desperate.) You can tell me about this later.
PLIMPTON: They played with me. So sick! They made me dress like this. They…
STYLER: We’ll get out. We’ll leave together.
PLIMPTON: (Pulling herself together.) It’s not as easy as you think. They’re everywhere. The whole asylum. And the gates. They’re electronic. They control the gates.
STYLER: Can’t we telephone?
PLIMPTON: They cut the wires. Easterman took charge of everything. The master of Fairfields…that’s what he called himself. I don’t know what he was planning. Somebody must have noticed something was wrong sooner or later. But I don’t think he cared…
STYLER: Can’t you get this thing off?
PLIMPTON: I can’t. Why did you let him put it on?
STYLER: I was humouring him. (Pause.) He had a scalpel. He must have dropped it when you hit him.
PLIMPTON searches for the scalpel.
PLIMPTON: I can’t see it.
STYLER: It’s got to be there somewhere. Please, Nurse Plimpton…
PLIMPTON: Dr Ennis.
STYLER: Yes.
PLIMPTON: (Finding the scalpel.) Here it is. Here…
PLIMPTON turns back towards STYLER but at that moment, FARQUHAR’s hand suddenly jerks upwards, grabbing hold of her wrist.
FARQUHAR: That’s mine I think.
STYLER: (A shout.) No!
FARQUHAR stands up. He and PLIMPTON are locked in a sort of terrible, frozen dance. He throws her back onto the desk and her body lands on the alarm button. At once there’s a repeat of the smoke alarm, bells ringing and lights flashing, adding a further nightmarish dimension to the events on stage.
STYLER: Let her go, you bastard! Let her go!
But FARQUHAR can barely hear STYLER who is still helpless, squirming in the strait-jacket. FARQUHAR smashes PLIMPTON’s hand against the desk, forcing her to drop the scalpel. Then he drags her to her feet and backhands her across the face. PLIMPTON slumps. FARQUHAR throws her onto the floor so that she falls behind the medical screen.
FARQUHAR turns to STYLER and smiles.
FARQUHAR: Excuse me. This won’t take a minute.
Then, taking the scalpel, FARQUHAR throws himself on top of PLIMPTON. The lighting allows us to see their shadows behind the screen. We see his arm come up with the scalpel; once, twice, three times. PLIMPTON screams. The alarm rings. The lights flash.
Now blood splatters out — onto the screen. We watch as if in a shadow play as PLIMPTON is brutally killed. And all STYLER can do is squirm and scream.
STYLER: Don’t hurt her! Oh for Christ’s sake! Help someone! Help!
A pause. FARQUHAR steps out from behind the screen, his mad eyes fixed on STYLER, a mad smile on his lips. The glistening scalpel is in his hand. He is soaked in blood.
He picks up the telephone and speaks into it.
FARQUHAR: (Into telephone.) My security clearance is thirty-one. My labrador’s name is Reginald.
The alarm stops. FARQUHAR advances on a terrified STYLER.
Time to start work on Chapter Two.
Blackout.
End of Act One.
* Quoted from Interpersonal Perception by R D Laing (1966)