Sharp scratch, p.23
Sharp Scratch, page 23
Lorraine felt a great gulf in her knowledge. ‘I don’t know, Doctor Lehman. I don’t feel capable of this level of interpretation.’
‘Simply look for someone too extreme to be true. I’ll be here waiting for the scoresheets. And the second factor is easy. It’s a single number. As forensic psychologists know, too many psychopaths have been released from custody with tragic consequences simply because they lie with consummate ease. So unless the subject is trained in psychometrics they will fake so exceptional a score that the tripwire built into the test will catch them. Expect a Motivational Distortion score of at least seven and even as high as ten out of ten.’
Lorraine felt her breath growing tight. ‘You mean the Faking Good score? I can’t believe anyone would lie so outrageously.’
Doctor Lehman pointed at the monstrous hunter and his innocent prey on the screen.
‘The wolf simply can’t resist boasting about his gigantic carnivorous teeth. Yet according to the fairy tale, even an innocent child can catch him out. Seriously, I do hope you are wrong about these suspects, Lorraine. I hope you never have to encounter such a monster.’
Hypomania
Question 45: I get thoughts racing in my head that make me feel agitated and restless.
A. Often
B. Occasionally
C. Never
High score description (option A.): Restless, high energy levels, irritable and dissatisfied, takes risks, tries new things.
At Saturday teatime, Bernadette Ince switched on the telly while she heated up some crispy pancakes and frozen peas to eat on a tray, washed down with a celebratory glass of stout. The sports fella was going on about how United were going to play Everton in the cup when she heard him say it again and again – ‘Wilkins’. Now what did that remind her of? Her memory was like a blessed sieve these days.
She was well into Wish You Were Here …?, thinking maybe she could go somewhere herself, spend a bit of her pension lump sum on taking some of the sick of her congregation to Lourdes – when she remembered. Wilkins wasn’t only the name of that footballer; it had also been that place for nurses to stay back in the old days. And Lorraine from Personnel had asked her about it, but she’d got it all wrong. She thought it was the Williams or suchlike. No, it was the Wilkins Boarding House, down at The Glen. Some of the others at work had told stories about all sorts of scrapes they had while living there. She herself hadn’t needed digs because she’d been living with her auntie in Pendleton. Still, it was a pity it was a Saturday or she could have rung Lorraine straight away.
Sunday 13th March
In the morning she went to Mass but after her dinner she just couldn’t settle down with the Sunday Mirror. She had wanted to talk about the trip to Lourdes with Father Maguire but he’d been absent with a touch of bronchitis and no one else had wanted to know. A ragbag of ideas jostled in her mind as she paced the living room, stopping each time to lift the net curtains and look outside. The walkways were empty, the sky was grey, but it was dry outside. If only she could set off for Lourdes today. Well, if not Lourdes she could maybe catch a bus up to The Glen and take a little wander round.
Half an hour later she was rattling along on the bus, getting a fine view of the park that had used to be such a lovely place, with a bandstand and a lake and hundreds of cheery people all out for a stroll come holiday-time. She had once met a young man there called Billy, a haberdasher’s assistant from Urmston, but her auntie hadn’t cared for him. Looking back, she was struck how Auntie had never wanted her to have a life of her own. She’d always hinted how she’d leave her a fine inheritance if she’d stay a bit longer and be the companion of her old age. So like a right idiot she’d stayed and when the old lady passed away Bernadette had got twenty-three pounds, nine shillings and eightpence, and the landlord had given her notice to quit. She had been forced to go begging to the council for a roof over her head. And now the park looked all spoilt and tarmacked over and not at all the sort of place to find a sweetheart.
She clambered off the bus and headed to The Glen where the big old houses were. All those fancy villas that were four and five storeys high were not so posh now. Most of them were bedsits with sheets tacked up at the windows, or those special houses where they put mental cases or ex-cons.
Still, it gave her something to do to check the names on all the stone gateposts that were engraved with the house names. It took her an age to find the name Wilkins on two blackened stumps. And after all that bother, it wasn’t a very nice place at all. It was falling to bits like something off The Addams Family. In fact, she’d have liked to go into work and tell everyone what a dump it was now. It was going to take some getting used to, just sitting at home and twiddling her thumbs. Anyway, it gave her an excuse to ring Lorraine on Monday and she’d be glad to hear all about it.
She was standing at the empty gate – she’d certainly not be knocking on that nasty paint-blistered door – when she spotted a figure watching her from a first-floor window. Bernadette looked up and waved her arm in greeting. The woman stared back at her hatefully, not moving, as if to say, who did she think she was waving like that? Bernadette retreated guiltily away and set off walking at a fair pace, mortified at being caught out as a nosy parker. There was nothing wrong with her eyes, mind you, and she wouldn’t forget the way that woman stared at her like a shop dummy. Of all things, she looked like she was wearing a nurse’s uniform. Not the new blue nylon one, but the old-style one, with a rubber apron over it that you used to wear in the sluice room. Holy Mary forgive her, she didn’t look to be a nice sort of nurse at all. She pitied any poor soul ending their days in there.
You could wait for ever for a bus on Sunday. Some wicked hooligans had smashed the glass in the bus shelter into hundreds of dangerous little pieces. It had started drizzling and now the wet was blowing through the gap in the glass, ruining her perm. She wondered whether to go to five o’clock Mass, hoping Father Maguire might be feeling recovered. She could do with a cup of tea and a natter.
She looked up fretfully for any sign of the bus. Something caught her eye and she flinched back behind the edge of the shelter. A figure was turning the corner and walking towards her. And she was wearing, of all things, the old-style nurse’s outdoor uniform of a dark gaberdine coat and hat. Mother of God, it was one of those Bessie Bunter brimmed hats like they wore in the old days. It was pulled down very low but she was sure it was that same woman she’d seen at the window of the Wilkins place. Flustered, she looked up and down the road. There were a few cars but they were whizzing past her, throwing muck and spray at her stockings if she got too near the kerb. No one else was about. What if this woman accused her of snooping around?
She peeped around the shelter edge and the woman was still bearing down on her. She had her collar up and most of her face covered but what with that funny old rig-out the woman didn’t look quite right in the head. Oh well, maybe if she ignored her she’d walk on past. Bernadette retreated deeper into the shelter and stared steadily into space, avoiding the woman at all cost.
She heard the wet footsteps slow down and only stop when they walked inside the shelter. The sound of breathing reached her, very slow and steady. She didn’t dare look up. Was she imagining it, that the woman was staring at her? She resisted the urge to confront her or move an inch. It was always best not to bother a nutter.
From nowhere it seemed, a deafening noise erupted, then something massive swung in front of her face. She gasped and tottered backwards, her shoes crunching on the broken glass. Two hydraulic doors hissed and a gust of stinky heat hit her face. The bus. Still not daring to look back over her shoulder, she grasped the rail, hauled herself up and pulled her bus pass from her pocket. Thank the Saints, she was that glad to be with people again. Lots of them, crowds of young people with coloured scarves, all crushed together along the length of the bus. The shame of it was, there wasn’t an empty seat in sight. Her knees had gone too weak to stand up all the way so she launched herself up the juddering stairs, clinging to the metal rail and dragging herself up to the top deck.
At last she was seated on smooth green plastic, catching her breath in the damp heat. She tried to look out of the window to see if that funny woman had gone away but she was too late. The bus had roared off from the bus stop and the window was all steamed up. That would serve her right for going off on an adventure. She would say ten Hail Marys for her deliverance when she got the chance. But not now. Now she was going straight home to get some dry shoes on and take a medicinal nip of gin.
It was starting to get dark and the rain was bucketing it down when she got off the bus at the Precinct. What a sorry fool she’d been to wander off like that. She’d forgotten night-time fell so early. She was hopeless on her own, just like Auntie always said. From now on she was going to check the newspaper for the lighting-up times before she set off anywhere. Almost home. Just the walkways to climb, remembering they could be slippery in this weather. She kept herself going with the promise of the gin and a hot-water bottle under her wet toes. And wasn’t it Country Greats on the wireless tonight?
She was waiting for the lift inside the sour emptiness of the tower block when she heard wet footprints slapping on the concrete at the entrance round the corner. A neighbour, she told herself, but she didn’t dare to look around. Just in case. She stared up the stairwell, straining her neck. It was a dizzying sight, spinning above her.
Again, some angel was listening from above. The doors to the lift opened and she rushed inside and jabbed at the button like a maniac. In maddening slow motion the graffiti-covered doors eased back together. The lift groaned its way upwards.
The front door key was ready in her hand when the lift stopped at her own landing. The twin steel doors screeched open. Making little moans of panic, she wobbled forward on her weary feet. Her breath was wheezing by the time she reached her own front door. Holy Jesus, she’d had a proper fright. If she only got inside she would never leave her flat again. She had a bad stitch now and her hands were shaking. She was having trouble finding the keyhole.
Saints above, the footsteps were coming again! They were closer, slap, slap, slap, steadily behind her. She poked the key at the keyhole. It slipped out of her cold fingers and tinkled to the floor. She bent and scrabbled on the ground. Where was the thing? She couldn’t see where it had gone.
There was a warning rustle behind her. The hand, when it caught hold of her mac, pulled her backwards. And the other hand, smelling faintly of antiseptic, clamped hard over her nose and mouth.
Abstract Thinking
Question 46: Which of the following should come next at the end of this row of letters: xooooxxoooxxx?
A. ooxx
B. oxxx
C. xooo
High score description (option A.): Mental agility, insightful, fast learning, adaptable.
Lorraine slept badly in the airless student bedroom in Oxford. Twice in the night she surfaced from sleep, convinced that someone had followed her up the twisting staircase. Or some thing. And that they now shared her narrow single bed. In a half-dream she smelt rancid wolfish breath on her cheek. Later, she opened her eyes in the darkness and saw a darker mass of breathing fur beside her on the pale pillow. Slowly, the creature turned towards her and its bloodstained jaws opened, razor sharp. It was a monster, yet she knew with a nightmare’s logic that its black and chilling eyes were those of a malign human being. She shrieked in terror and groped for the light switch in a sweaty tangle. The room sprang up before her eyes. A blue bedcover, cheap desk and scarred pinboard. The crimson digits on the clock read 6.15.
She hunched up her pillow behind her back and tried to think. Now she had passed the exam it was time to gain a clearer perspective on everything. The police enquiries had turned up almost nothing. This psychopath, this killer, was well disguised. ‘He or she will try to pass themselves off as a normal human being.’ Doctor Lehman’s words chilled her afresh.
She rooted in her satchel and dug out the photo of Rikki in the hospital bed. She tried to picture the long-haired man as he might be now, clean-shaven and most likely wrinkled and grey-haired. She could not detect Doctor Strang’s high forehead or Mike’s close-set eyes. And certainly he was too young and trendy to be Norman. As for the two young women, she saw only strangers with no resemblance to Felicity or Rose or anyone else at the Memorial. The photograph seemed devised to baffle her.
There was that other thing Lily had said. Or was it Dale? The photo had once been in a magazine, a nursing journal. Overwhelmed by work and exam prep, she hadn’t yet checked out the source. Idiot. So far as she knew there was only one prominent journal, the Nursing Times. There must have been an article published beside the photograph, giving the names of the adults in the line-up.
Like a shot she dressed and rushed over to the dining hall and bolted down her breakfast, pleased that the early hour meant that she was alone. Soon after, she presented herself at the library and asked for directions to journal back copies.
‘The Nursing Times?’
The old fogey on the desk recoiled as if she’d asked for a copy of Razzle or Hustler. ‘This is a college library. We hold only learned academic journals here.’
For more than four frustrating hours she drove, then crawled, through miles of coned-off roadworks. At last she neared the tower blocks of Salford, a cluster of alien sentinels dominating the sky. At the university she swerved the car into the ominously empty car park next to the College of Nursing. Feeling like Treasure Hunt’s capering Anneka, she pelted over to the entrance and pulled impotently on the handle. A sign in front of her read, ‘Library Opening Times: Sunday 9 a.m. – 1.30 p.m.’ The doors had closed an infuriating ten minutes earlier.
After collecting Jasmine from her mum’s she arrived home to find two letters lying on the doormat. She picked up the largest, a manila envelope with ‘Sunningdale Housing Association’ printed on the front. It contained a long application form and shiny brochure. Thanks to Phil’s inside knowledge she had a good chance of getting a house – not a flat, but a newly built centrally heated townhouse – when she returned the form with a character and salary reference from work. She glanced through the brochure’s photos of shiny kitchens and bathrooms, her hopes flying high.
The other was a creamy-white envelope bearing a Health Authority crest. Later, she was glad that Jasmine had disappeared upstairs to play before she opened it. The letter was from Norman, a frigid request that she attend a disciplinary meeting at the end of the week, to discuss her incompetence in losing a number of important documents. It warned her that the meeting could result in her dismissal. She was therefore entitled to be accompanied by a trade union representative or friend.
She stared at it, the words blurring before her eyes. The old snake was being pushed out and wanted a last strike at those around him. A warning on her file would ruin any chance of promotion. She would be trapped at the Memorial for ever. Or even worse, if she was sacked she’d lose her place on the postgrad diploma, her small income, the chance to improve Jasmine’s life. The centrally heated house near a better school would be lost for ever, too. She crumpled up Norman’s letter in her fist and threw it against the wall.
Breathing deeply, she began tearing up an unread copy of the NME to light a fire in the grate. Someone was trying to make her lose her job. She recalled Doctor Strang’s personal insults, Raj’s lack of support when she needed it, Norman’s mean-minded hostility. No, she mustn’t take it so personally, she told herself.
‘Think,’ she muttered, fanning the flame until it caught. Next, she unwrapped the lamb chops and kidneys her mum had given her with the advice ‘that range of yours was made for cooking hotpot.’ Mechanically, she chopped up a pile of vegetables and pushed them haphazardly into the pot.
Or maybe Rikki had taken them? That was more plausible, especially if he’d acted under the direction of this secret friend of his. She turned the matter over as she retrieved Norman’s scrunched-up letter from the floor. She smoothed out the Salford Health Authority crest and recalled the patterns on each suspect’s certificate. The idea that someone had gone to all that trouble to humiliate her simply didn’t make sense. Doctor Lehman’s analysis pointed to someone covering up a problem with their professional credentials. Only as she shoved the pot into the range’s cast-iron oven did she at last visualise a chain of cause and effect, from the lost certificates to a logical, if incredible, solution.
Autobiographical Memory
Question 47: Try to remember a day or situation in your past that was important to you. Could you describe it in sixty seconds?
A. Yes
B. Uncertain
C. No
High score description (option A.): The ability to construct a specific mental representation of an event from one’s past, containing unique episodic memories and self-referential information.
I had found Mrs Wilkins’ spare key to Room 7. It was nearly midnight and I was inside the pantry, rummaging through piles of mouldy old possessions: rusty hatpins and ration coupons, balls of string and earwax droppers.
There they lay, a set of spare keys. They were gummy with dust, lying at the bottom of a Robinson’s jam jar. Not wanting to disturb Christie further, I cleaned and oiled them and said nothing to her. Climbing the stairs, I told myself it would be good to remind myself exactly what was at stake. The key turned easily. Inside Room 7 the electric light shocked the room to life. The furnishings are horribly dated: a saggy armchair with a crocheted antimacassar, a small Edwardian fireplace, a cheap desk and iron bedframe. When Christie first created her Memory Room, it had only recently been her own digs. She’d had in mind a shrine where everything could be collected together. Blinking my eyes entirely open, I turned first to the photograph. It is a large black and white print, rather fuzzy since it was blown up, but it catches the girl’s image for ever. She’s a poor diminished creature, her slightly protruding eyes avoiding the lens of the camera, as if she felt herself unworthy. Which she was, of course. She’s wearing a shabby gaberdine coat and a hand-knitted hat. Neglected, half-starved, and cast off; the world hadn’t even made enquiries when she disappeared. Next, there was a display of her records: the birth certificate with a mother’s name bracketed with ‘deceased’ and the line for the father’s name blank. And then the patchy records kept by the staff of Griseford Hall. The last clothes she ever wore hung on an ancient Woolworth’s hanger. The stained blue nylon has a shiny, greasy texture.
