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?
FARQUHAR: I’m quite certain.
STYLER: (Turning from the window.) Do you mind if I smoke?
FARQUHAR: My dear fellow, your personal habits are enti
rely 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.
STYLER: Oh.
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.
PLI
MPTON: 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.
Yes?
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.