Mindgame (7 page)

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!

PLIMPTON: Help me!

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)

 

The second act picks up the last moments of the first. The alarm is still ringing. NURSE PLIMPTON (Carol Ennis) has just been killed. DR FARQUHAR (Easterman) is talking on the telephone.

FARQUHAR: My security clearance is twenty-nine. My labrador's name is Reginald.

Even here there are subtle differences. The security clearance number has changed. And as the alarm stops ringing and the flashing lights stop, we can see (but might not notice) that more changes have been made to the set and to the costumes of both FARQUHAR and STYLER.

It's time to start work on Chapter Two.

STYLER: (
Total panic
.) Jesus Christ! Oh Jesus…

STYLER — impeded by the strait-jacket — lurches to his feet and runs over to the door through which PLIMPTON made her entrances. He tries to open it, turning round and scrabbling with his hands. FARQUHAR watches him. Then…

FARQUHAR: I don't think you're thinking this quite through.

STYLER twists round to protect himself as FARQUHAR approaches slowly.

STYLER: Get away from me! Just get away from me! Get away!

FARQUHAR: Even assuming you could get that door open, which I very much doubt, you wouldn't get very far. It's a cupboard.

STYLER runs over to the other door.

STYLER: (
Shouting
.) Help me somebody! Help me somebody, please.

FARQUHAR: There's nobody in the building who can help you. There's nobody in the building you'd want to help you. How about Borson? Why don't you ask Borson for help? I'm sure he'll be happy to supply you with a little mouth-to-mouth.

STYLER: Oh God!

STYLER sinks to his knees and tries to get out of the straitjacket.

FARQUHAR: What are you doing?

STYLER: Let me go, please. Please, let me go.

FARQUHAR: You want to go?

STYLER: Yes!

FARQUHAR: But you've come all this way. You drove three and a half hours up the motorway just to see me.

STYLER: I came to see Dr Farquhar.

FARQUHAR: (
Pointing at the skeleton
.) There he is.

STYLER: (
Slumps to the floor, moaning
.) No…

FARQUHAR: This is very sad.

STYLER: Please don't hurt me!

FARQUHAR: (
Angry
.) Stop saying that! What do you think I am?

STYLER: I know what you are. I know what you are. You're…

FARQUHAR: Go on.

STYLER: You're Easterman.

FARQUHAR: Yes.

STYLER: You're going to kill me.

FARQUHAR: How do you know?

STYLER: You killed Nurse…Dr Ennis.

FARQUHAR: That was self-defence.

STYLER: (
Hysterical
.) Self-defence? How can it…? What do you mean? Self-defence?

FARQUHAR: She hit me first. Do you want me to help you into a chair?

STYLER: No.

FARQUHAR: (
Approaching him
.) You'd be more comfortable…

STYLER: Keep away from me!

FARQUHAR: I didn't mean to kill her. But then of course, if I were responsible for my actions, I wouldn't be here, would I?

STYLER: Easterman…

FARQUHAR: Yes.

STYLER: Listen to me.

FARQUHAR: I'm all ears.

STYLER: (
Getting up
.) Take this off. Please. Take off this strait-jacket and let me go. I promise you, I won't tell anyone. Nobody needs to know I was ever here. Let me go and I'll go home and leave you to whatever it is you want to do. I promise.

FARQUHAR: You want me to let you go?

STYLER: Please.

FARQUHAR: And you won't tell anyone?

STYLER: I promise.

FARQUHAR: Do you think I'm mad? I mean, do you think I'm crazy? I let you go and you really just forget the whole thing happened?

STYLER: Yes!

FARQUHAR: No.

STYLER: Then what are you going to do with me?

FARQUHAR: What am I going to do with you? (
Pause
.) It's bizarre, isn't it. When I first saw you here in this room, I had no idea who you were. You see, it was three weeks ago that we took over Fairfields. Did she tell you…Dr Ennis?

STYLER: She told me, yes.

FARQUHAR: It started right here in this office…just the three of us, Dr Ennis, Dr Farquhar and me. In psychodrama. You have no idea how much I used to dread those bloody sessions. The warm-up. The action. The journey through the spiral. It was so embarrassing! I mean, they wanted emotions. It all had to be out there. ‘Why did you kill your father?' (
Another voice
.) ‘My God! I didn't know I had killed my father!' (
Third voice
.) ‘You did kill him and I should know because I am your father.' The whole thing was absurd — and since we've been talking about Laing I should say I use the word entirely in the non-existential sense. I can't help thinking that the world of psychiatry will be better off without them Doctors Ennis and Farquhar. What they were trying to do here was so obviously idiotic that only the most highly qualified and respected psychiatrists would be unable to see it.

STYLER: Was that why you killed them?

FARQUHAR: I killed them because the opportunity presented itself. We massacred the entire staff apart from one or two whom we kept for recreational purposes. I hope you noticed the ‘whom' by the way. As my potential
biographer I'd like you to know that I'm a stickler for good grammar. Who and whom…you know the difference?

STYLER: Yes. Yes, of course.

FARQUHAR: Well, that's reassuring. Anyway, we butchered the staff, quite literally in one or two cases I'm afraid. (
Gesturing at the skeleton
.)

STYLER: Oh God. I'm going to be sick again…

FARQUHAR: Why don't you sit down?

STYLER: No!

FARQUHAR: You'll feel better sitting down.

STYLER: No…

FARQUHAR: (
A scream
.) Sit down!

STYLER is shaken out of his nausea. He sits down. FARQUHAR continues his explanation as though nothing has happened.

Well, as soon as things had quietened down, I took over the running of Fairfields, working out of Dr Farquhar's office. My immediate concern was to make sure that what had happened here remained, at least for as long as possible, our own little secret…and that proved to be somewhat easier than I had thought. We are, after all, in a very secluded corner of Suffolk, if indeed that most ill-defined of English counties can be said to have corners.

STYLER: I should never have come.

FARQUHAR: From the moment I saw you, all I wanted to do was to get you to leave. I tried to make you go, but you wouldn't listen.

STYLER: I want to go now.

FARQUHAR: Of course you want to go now. But now I'm actually quite glad you've stayed. And you know what it was that changed my mind? (
Pause
.) Your book.

STYLER: Why?

FARQUHAR: Call it vanity, if you like. The vanity of being published. The fact that you wanted to write about me. Not Borson. Or Morgenstein or any of the rest of them. Me! I was flattered. I admit it. I was interested in your book.

STYLER: I still want to write it.

FARQUHAR: Really?

STYLER: (
Grasping at straws
.) I can still write it. If you don't hurt me.

FARQUHAR: I would have thought you'd write with a great deal more conviction if I did hurt you. It would certainly help sales.

STYLER: No…

FARQUHAR: ‘Mark Styler, best-selling author of
Serial Chiller
and its sequel, the even more fatuously titled
Bloodbath
was tortured by his next book…
Easterman: the York Minster Monster
and quite literally so by its subject. This can be discerned from the growing incoherence of each chapter culminating in the short sentences of the final paragraphs written, it is believed, by the writer using a pen held in his toes, following the loss of all his fingers…'

STYLER: Oh no.

FARQUHAR: ‘…and indeed hands…'

STYLER: Please…

STYLER sobs uncontrollably. FARQUHAR watches him.

FARQUHAR: I was only joking.

STYLER: What?

FARQUHAR: You're safe.

STYLER: Safe.

FARQUHAR: In my hands. But that's the point I'm trying to make right now. How safe would I be in yours?

STYLER: What?

FARQUHAR: If you were going to write a book about me, and perhaps you may still write a book about me, what would you put in it? That's what I want to know. I want to get inside your head, not because I'm interested in you — I'm not — but because I'm interested in just how and why you're interested in me.

STYLER: I was going to tell your story.

FARQUHAR: Yes. But my story according to who?

STYLER: You mean — ‘to whom'.

FARQUHAR: (
Furious
.) Don't play the pedant with me, you little shit! (
Pause
.) You were going to write what you thought of me, not what I am. Those are two quite separate things.

STYLER: I would have been fair.

FARQUHAR: Oh yes?

STYLER: Yes. I swear. I wanted to understand you, to know why you did…what you did. If you'd read my other books…

FARQUHAR: I haven't.

STYLER: …you'd know. I mean, look at Chikatilo. Even him. I tried to be sympathetic.

FARQUHAR: What was the title once again?
The True Story of a Monster in the Ukraine
. That's not what I'd call sympathetic.

STYLER: That wasn't me. That was the publishers. They wanted the book to sell. They liked the word ‘monster'. But I never thought that. I never used the word. Not once…

FARQUHAR: You used it about me.

STYLER: No.

FARQUHAR: When you were talking ‘Dr Farquhar'. ‘What turned this golden boy into this revolting monster?' Those were your exact words.

STYLER: I said that?

FARQUHAR: You also said I was homosexual.

STYLER: (
Remembering
.) Oh shit…

FARQUHAR: A repressed, mother-dominated homosexual. That was what your deeply profound and incisive view of my life amounted to. That was your opinion and you were going to shout it out from every W H Smith in the country.

STYLER: No…

FARQUHAR: What? I misheard you, did I?

STYLER: No. But…it was just a theory. (
Quickly
.) I can see it was wrong now. I don't think that any more.

FARQUHAR: (
Effeminate
.) Oh? What makes you think it was wrong?

STYLER: Please…

FARQUHAR: Easterman — the novel. The story of a pathetic nancy boy who killed fourteen men and five women — five women, thank you very much — simply because he was artistic and because he'd wet the bed as a child.