Breaking a man’s legs with a hammer is harder than it looks.

I was supposed to meet the top man. One of the mysterious men in white coats who prowled the corridors of this place, he’d insisted on seeing me before I was allowed to meet the man I’d travelled  all this way, in a thunderstorm, to interview. Helping with my enquiries as a police officer may have said. I wasn’t a police officer, but there was no need for him to know that. He’d assumed I was and that was fine by me.

I wanted to know how the person in question had managed to have  so many people’s limbs rearranged while an inmate in a maximum security mental hospital, but I had my doubts whether the inmate in question was going to help me find out.

The doctor certainly wouldn’t be helping with my enquiries, that was immediately apparent.

“Just a few brief questions,” he said, clipboard  in hand, pen poised.

“No problem.”

“I’d like to make sure your presence here doesn’t make my job any harder than it is already, you see?”

“Hmm.”

“The man you’re booked in to see, he’s a difficult patient.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“ Yes, quite. I’d like to get some idea of your motivation, what you’re expecting to get out of your visit.”

I could have produced my card, signed by the Home Secretary, told him to move his fat arse out of my way and bring the ‘patient’ to see me, right now, but I didn’t. Ever the diplomat I just said, “Mmm.”

‘Perhaps a few technical questions to start with,” Doctor fat-Arse said.

“Right. No problem. Only, please don’t show me any sodding ink marks.”

“The infamous Rorschach ink-blots? No, not today.”

“I just don’t see how that helps,” I said, hoping I was demonstrating genuine puzzlement and not just ignorance. “You know, showing someone a few dozen odd shapes and making out it means something when the patient says it reminds him of his dead mother. What’s that all about?” Was it right to say inmate? Should I have said patient or something? Who fucking cares? If you can’t say something sensible, just shut up.

“Interesting.”

“God, that’s just what I’d have expected you to say, interesting.” I said, laughing out loud. My mirth quickly died away with the realisation that I was the only person present who found anything amusing.

“The test has many uses. There are only ten ink blots actually. Not a few dozen.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t known that. I tried to look interested. Humour him and he might go away.

“When Hermann Rorschach introduced these patterns in 1921 they were considered a radical breakthrough. He died the following year so we can’t say for certain how he himself saw their actual development, but over the years a huge amount of data has been collected. I should imagine it would be quite difficult to arrive at a conclusion that hasn’t already been made at some time or other.”

“I see.” I was still trying to look as if the subject fascinated me, but it wasn’t getting any easier.

“Of course, it is a pretty nebulous activity, delving into the human mind as it were, so any tool can be considered useful. That’s all we can hope for, most of the time. You’ll find no arrogant statements of certainty in this place. No such thing as a sure thing in psychology.”

I nodded.

“Exactly what were you hoping to discover today as a result of your interview with the patient?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, doctor, that’s really none of your business.”

He didn’t look happy. “What you must understand is that the patient is in a vulnerable state at present. I’d be concerned if your questioning induced a setback in his rehabilitation.”

I nodded, understandingly. Reassuringly. There would be nothing to gain here by pointing out that the ‘patient’ was a ruthless man who had been responsible for the violent early death of at least five people. I’d personally seen him break the legs of a rival with a hammer. It took a dozen blows to accomplish this task and he’d laughed aloud after each blow.

I wasn’t interested in his ‘rehabilitation;’ I just wanted to try to prevent him carrying out any further atrocities. He may talk to me. I was a friend, or so he thought. I wasn’t expecting miracles.

“Just a chat about old times,” I said. “Nothing to get him excited at all.”

Doctor Fat-Arse beamed. “Excellent. Well, I’ll get things moving. So glad we understand each other.”

We shook hands and he bustled out, white coat flapping. I composed myself and put myself back in the zone. The ripped and battered leather jacket I was wearing had once belonged to the man I was about to see. He’d given it to me a year ago as a token of friendship.

We’d bought and sold hard drugs together, planned major crimes, talked about the future development of the ‘business.’

We were mates.

In his eyes, we still were.

I certainly hoped so.