STYLER: What?
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?
STYLER: The waste-bin! Quick!
PLIMPTON snatches up the dustbin just in ti
me 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!
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)
Act Two
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.