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.
STYLER: I never said that. I was never going to say that.
FARQUHAR: Then what were you going to say?
FARQUHAR picks up the scalpel and approaches STYLER who shies away.
You know, usually it’s the biographer who ties down and then dissects his subject, but this time it could be the other way round.
STYLER: Don’t…
FARQUHAR: But I’m giving you an opportunity to save yourself, Mr Styler. Tell me the truth, what you believe, not what you think I want to hear. Give me your eyes…
The scalpel is close to STYLER’s eyes. He moans. Then FARQUHAR whisks it away.
I want to know about you.
STYLER: What? What do you want to know?
FARQUHAR: Well, you could tell me what brought you here. Why this interest in psychopaths?
STYLER: I told you…
FARQUHAR: You told me nothing. Oh, you gave me some bullshit about the human condition but that’s a bit like a crack-head saying he takes cocaine because he’s interested in the social history of Peru.
STYLER: If I tell you what you want to know, you’ll let me leave?
FARQUHAR: If you tell me the truth, I might.
STYLER: I don’t know. I don’t know where to start.
FARQUHAR: How about with your mother?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: Victoria Barlow. That was her name, wasn’t it. Now there’s an interesting thought for you. You said you moved to London. Victoria Station. From one Victoria to another.
STYLER: I lived in Vauxhall. It was close to Victoria.
FARQUHAR: Were you close? You and your mum?
STYLER: You’re not interested.
FARQUHAR: If I wasn’t interested, I wouldn’t ask.
STYLER: Yes! We were close…
FARQUHAR: Victoria Barlow. I seem to remember her. Quite a large woman. Large teeth.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: She lived at number twenty-nine. Twenty-nine, Sunflower Court. She was my neighbour. And according to what you were telling me earlier, before you left her for the other Victoria, you lived with her.
STYLER: (Uneasy.) I was there some of the time.
FARQUHAR: Well, we must have run into each other. There was you living with your mother at number twenty-nine. There was me living with mine next door. You must have seen me.
STYLER: I wasn’t there much of the time. I was at boarding-school. And then at university.
FARQUHAR: York University?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: No?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: Why not?
STYLER: I didn’t get in.
FARQUHAR: That must have been a disappointment.
STYLER: No. Not really.
FARQUHAR: So where did you go?
STYLER: Torquay.
FARQUHAR: There’s a university in Torquay?
STYLER: It wasn’t exactly a university. It was more of a college.
FARQUHAR: What was your subject?
STYLER: Catering.
FARQUHAR: Catering.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: It was a catering college.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: You wanted to cook?
STYLER: No. But it was something to fall back on. A day-job…
FARQUHAR: While you were waiting to become a writer?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: So you were away from home a lot?
STYLER: Most of the time.
FARQUHAR: But not all of it?
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: You must have come home to visit your mum?
STYLER: I did.
FARQUHAR: And you never saw me? On the other side of the garden wall?
STYLER: It was a fence. There was a wooden fence, covered in wi
steria.
FARQUHAR: Yes. I remember it. (Realising.) My Mother’s Garden. Did you write about the wisteria?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: It was in your book. The wisteria between your garden and mine.
STYLER: I mentioned it.
FARQUHAR: Did your mother have any tips about the wisteria. I mean, it must have been growing pretty well anyway, considering all the nutrients I was putting into the soil.
STYLER: I can’t remember.
FARQUHAR: There must have been something.
STYLER: (Remembering.) Chinese wisteria grows anti-clockwise.
FARQUHAR: I’m sorry?
STYLER: My mother said that’s how you tell the difference between Chinese and Japanese wisteria. The stems twine in different directions.
FARQUHAR: Is that it?
STYLER: That’s all I can remember.
FARQUHAR: Well, I suppose in its own way that’s quite remarkable.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: She must have been a remarkable woman.
STYLER: She was.
FARQUHAR: And yet you never mentioned her, not after I told you who I was. And here you are, face-to-face with the man who killed her, but I don’t sense any hatred. Maybe you’ve forgiven me. You said you were going to forgive me. Have you forgiven me?
A pause. STYLER says nothing.
Let’s talk about this. This is intriguing. You and your mum. Why didn’t you mention her earlier? In fact, now I come to think of it, why did you never say that all those years… you and I actually lived next door?
STYLER: (Faltering.) Didn’t I?
FARQUHAR: You didn’t even say you’d lived in York.
STYLER: I did.
FARQUHAR: You said you’d lived in the north but you were careful not to specify where.
STYLER: I didn’t think it was relevant.
FARQUHAR: Of course it’s relevant. We were neighbours.
STYLER: But I never saw you!
FARQUHAR: You’re lying.
STYLER: No.
FARQUHAR: Yes. You saw me all the time. And how do I know? How do you think? Because I saw you!
A pause.
STYLER: Can I have a cigarette?
FARQUHAR: What?
STYLER: I want a cigarette.
FARQUHAR: You want me to give you a cigarette?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: And how do you propose to smoke it?
A brief pause.
STYLER: You’ll hold it for me.
FARQUHAR: You want me to hold a cigarette for you?
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: You don’t think we’re getting a little pally?
STYLER: I just want a cigarette.
FARQUHAR: Alright.
FARQUHAR picks up the cigarette packet and takes one out. He examines it.
How strange.
STYLER: What now?
FARQUHAR: The packet says Embassy. But this cigarette is a Lambert and Butler.
STYLER: Does it matter?
FARQUHAR: I’m just interested. Where did you get them?
STYLER: At a garage on the way up. I don’t know.
FARQUHAR: Did you ask for Embassy or for Lambert and Butler?
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: I’m just trying to work out whether this is the right cigarettes in the wrong box or vice versa. Either way I’d say it’s a direct contravention of the Trade Descriptions Act.
STYLER: Can I just have the cigarette?
FARQUHAR: Certainly.
FARQUHAR puts the cigarette between STYLER’s lips. Then he gets the lighter out of the desk and stretches it on the chain. Throughout all this…
I used to see quite a lot of you. We should have recognised each other when you came in. I’m surprised we didn’t, but then it has been thirty years.
FARQUHAR lights the cigarette.
You had a dog. A golden retriever. It used to bark to be let out. Isn’t it funny how the memories come flooding back. The two of you were always arguing.
STYLER: Me and the dog?
FARQUHAR: You and your mother. I used to hear you – over the fence. (Imitating — in a York accent.) ‘Eeh-up, you’re stepping on the azaleas, Mark. Get your stupid feet off my plants.’
STYLER: I told you. I wasn’t there very much.
FARQUHAR: But when you were there, you argued.
STYLER: Sometimes. She was very fussy about her garden.
FARQUHAR: And about her kitchen?
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: Your mother’s kitchen.
STYLER: Yes. She was fussy about food.
FARQUHAR offers the cigarette. STYLER takes a drag. FARQUHAR removes the cigarette from his lips for him.
Thank you.
FARQUHAR: I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know.
STYLER: Thank you very much.
FARQUHAR: Tell me more about your mother. What else was she fussy about?
STYLER: She was a very independent person. She liked things done her way.
FARQUHAR: She sounds like a bit of a dragon.
STYLER: I wouldn’t say that.
FARQUHAR: What would you say?
STYLER: She was difficult. She was demanding…
FARQUHAR: But you said she always encouraged you.
STYLER: Yes.
FARQUHAR: Yes, it’s true?
STYLER: Yes, it’s true that’s what I said.
FARQUHAR: So she didn’t encourage you?
STYLER: She was sceptical.
FARQUHAR: She didn’t think you could write.
Another drag on the cigarette.
I’ll tell you something. While we’re in this climate of confidence.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: I know where you’re coming from.
STYLER: Do you?
FARQUHAR: My mother didn’t think I could paint.
STYLER: You wanted to paint.
FARQUHAR: I did paint. Only my mother was colour-blind.
STYLER: I didn’t know that.
FARQUHAR: It was one of the reasons I decapitated her. It was meant to be symbolic but to be honest I may have got the image confused with the wrapping-paper.
STYLER: Why did you do it?
FARQUHAR: Why did I do what?
STYLER: Her head…
FARQUHAR: I wrapped it in gift-wrap.
STYLER: Why did you do that?
FARQUHAR: I had to put it in something. And now I think about it, she always used to keep gift-wrap…old gift-wrap. It was one of her habits. If you gave her a present she would unwrap it…sometimes it would take her all morning. She didn’t want the sellotape to tear the paper. And then she’d store the old paper in a kitchen drawer, to use it again when it was someone’s birthday or she was invited to a dinner. And you know, they always knew. Because no matter how careful she was, the paper was always a little crumpled. You could tell at once that it was second hand. And the funny thing was, no matter what she bought you, no matter how generous she was with the present itself, there was never any pleasure in it. There was never any pleasure in getting a present from her.
He gives STYLER another drag on the cigarette. STYLER chokes.
Shall I put this out?
STYLER nods. A pause. Then FARQUHAR suddenly grabs STYLER’s head, clamping his hand over STYLER’s mouth. He twists STYLER’s head and begins to move the glowing cigarette towards STYLER’s face.
You want me to put it out?
STYLER tries to scream, tries to beg, but the clamped hand cuts off almost all the sound. At the last minute, with the cigarette an inch away, FARQUHAR changes his mind. He drops the cigarette and grinds it out. Then lets STYLER go.
STYLER: (Gasping.) Why…? Why did you do that?
FARQUHAR: I didn’t. I changed my mind.
STYLER: But you were going to…
FARQUHAR: Yes.
STYLER: Why?
FARQUHAR: (A smile.) Because I can.
STYLER: You are mad. You’re evil.
> FARQUHAR: Surely one or the other.
STYLER: What?
FARQUHAR: I can’t be both. Come on, Mark. You’re disappointing me. How could you have written a book about me with such sloppy thinking? (Pause.) I mean, think about it for a minute. If I’m mad, then according to the Mental Health Act of 1983, I have a ‘persistent disorder or disability of the mind’. In other words, I’m sick. I don’t know what I’m doing.
STYLER: You know what you’re doing.
FARQUHAR: So then I’m evil — which makes you wonder why I was considered unfit to stand trial and have spent the last thirty years in a hospital for the criminally insane. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? I wonder if it isn’t possible that I’m something else, something neither mad nor evil but… something we don’t understand.
STYLER: Why don’t you just kill me? That’s what you’re going to do anyway. Why don’t you just get it over with?
FARQUHAR: Now you’re being defeatist.
STYLER: I don’t like these games.
FARQUHAR: Games? I’m not playing games, Mark. I’m trying to orientate myself into your scheme of things and at the same time, I hope, I’m slowly easing you into mine. But if you think we’re playing around, if you think this is some kind of mind game, then let’s do it. (Pause.) I killed my mother because I woke up one morning and felt like it. What did you do to yours?
STYLER: We argued, yes. But I would never have hurt her. Never…
FARQUHAR: You never thought about killing her?
STYLER: No!
FARQUHAR: You never thought about killing?
STYLER: Well of course I thought about it.
FARQUHAR: You were obsessed by it.
STYLER: No…
FARQUHAR: Two books on mass murderers and a third in the pipeline not to mention your one work of fiction in which you managed to murder your wife.
STYLER: My book had nothing to do with my wife.
FARQUHAR: You said it was based on experience.
STYLER: Loosely.
FARQUHAR: So tell me about your wife.
STYLER: No!
FARQUHAR: Yes!
STYLER: She’s got nothing to do with this.
FARQUHAR: She was ‘your other half’ wasn’t she? How can I understand you when there’s a whole half that isn’t here?
STYLER: What do you want to know?
FARQUHAR: Everything. What was she like in bed?
Mindgame Page 6