Nigel Latta - Into the Darklands and Beyond

This book is dedicated with love to one of the finest men I know

my father, Elvyn Rutherford Latta.

There simply arent enough thank yous in the world.

I traveild thro a land of men,

A land of men and woman too;

And heard and saw such dreadful things

As cold earth-wanderers never knew.

WILLIAM BLAKE, THE MENTAL TRAVELLER

I DONT THINK I ever really understood what this book was until right now. When I sat down to write new chapters for this third edition I realised that this would, funnily enough, be the third time I was beginning the book, and the third time Id be ending it. It felt kind of silly, until I realised that maybe it doesnt actually have an ending.

Initially I thought this was just a book about my day job. The nice thing about books is that they have a beginning, a middle and an end. Books, unlike so many other things in life, are nicely contained.

Into the Darklands has become anything but contained. It seems to be leaking out all over the place in all kinds of ways. At present Im filming a six-part documentary series about why people commit crimes called, at the time of writing, Beyond the Darklands. Ive also spent a day with a psychic for another television show called Sensing Murder. I would have to say that this was one of the altogether freakiest days Ive ever spent in my life.

Indeed, in almost every way my answering machine and inbox have been filling with ever more interesting requests. Since the first edition of this book was released in 2003 I have seen over a 1000 new clients, with everything going on from depression to cannibalism. Ive spent so much time on planes Im starting to get worried Al Gore may put me in his next PowerPoint show. Since I last wrote Ive seen and done things even I wouldnt have predicted. By way of example, I was recently thrown down some stairs by a big angry man in Whanganui. Heres my learning from that experience: if the big angry man tells you to fuck off or hell throw you down the stairs, if youre not going to fuck off, at least go down to the bottom of the stairs before you attempt to explain this to him.

It was whilst reflecting on all that has happened over the past few years I suddenly understood that Into the Darklands isnt really a book, its a travel diary. These are literally postcards from the road. Its a special kind of landscape, though; seldom travelled, and not well signposted. You dont need a visa to come here, but you do need a sturdy compass and good eyes.

There is no end in sight at the moment, though; the road stretches ahead into the gloom as far as I can see. All of which raises the question of when does one actually stop writing? When is the story done?

I dont think the story will ever be done, because there is no ultimate destination. I cant see theres ever going to be a point where I think, well thats it, Ive arrived. Theres no more to be learnt, no more to be seen. There will always be more to see, and there will always be more to learn.

So I suppose Ill stop writing when theres no one left to read the postcards at the other end. When they start coming back marked return to sender, Ill stop.

Until then, let me tell you some more of the wonders and horrors Ive seen on my travels

Nigel Latta

August 2007

THIS BOOK IS, first and foremost, about real people and real events. It has to be so or there wouldnt really be anything to say. This said, it is important for you to understand that I have taken great pains to ensure that none of the individuals discussed in this book are identifiable. Names, case histories and various other details have been changed to protect the identities of clients and colleagues. While I discuss some cases where some of the details are now a matter of public record, all other personal details contained in this book have been altered to protect the individuals involved.

The conversations are real, though; no dramatic licence has been taken. What you see here is pretty much exactly what happened. This is what I do, andeven though Im sure it will send some of my colleagues into a bit of a spinhow I do it.

Following on from that, it should also be noted (and this one is intended solely for other professionals who might read this book) that you should not try to do what I do based on the extracts of sessions contained in this book. I have been working with offenders for a very long time, and as such have learnt a great deal about how to engage people in a conversation who dont want to cooperate. Underpinning everything I say and do is the belief that the relationship is the most powerful tool I have. In fact, it is really all I have. So what Im saying is, dont use anything in this book as a basis or justification for how you work with your own clients. If youre interested in how I work, then come to one of my training seminars and Ill give you the whole picture.

Let me also state very clearly at the beginning that in all sessions issues of safety were paramount, both the clients and that of the wider community. Any risks were carefully assessed and managed as they arose, even though this may not be obvious from the extracts.

This is not, and was never intended to be, a how-to textbook. This is a work of nonfiction for a general audience.

In short, dont try this at home.

HES NOT A BIG MAN, but theres something about him. Its hard to say what exactly, but I feel it just the same. Something wrong.

Were sitting in a small interview room at a probation office. Mt Eden Prison squats uncomfortably across the road, pretending not to notice us. The sunlight is streaming in through the window behind me, making me feel hot and uncomfortable. Im originally a South Islander and I hate Auckland summers.

For some reason the sunlight seems to stop at his feet, almost as if its afraid to touch him, as if the sunlight feels it too. Theres poison inside this man, and if you get too close itll get inside you, like some kind of parasite.

I fucking hate them, he says, and as he speaks his face curls into a sneer with the easy familiarity of a cat. Clearly this is somewhere his face has been many times before.

Who? I ask.

Fucking kids.

Why? Im keeping my voice neutral, not wanting to disturb his flow at this point.

They make too much fucking noise.

Hes dressed in blackblack jeans, black singlet, black leather jacket and black leather boots. His hair is shaved almost to the bone. One of his front teeth is dying, slowly rotting in his mouth. Hes been out of jail for two months, after completing the Te Piriti Special Treatment Programme for sexual offenders at Auckland Prison. The report said, in the careful way people in my profession say such things, that this is a bad bugger.

High risk, the report said.

Bad bugger, however carefully you say it.

Five years ago he sexually abused two kids, children of an acquaintance of his. In treatment he talked about more children. Other names.

They always do.

What do you mean? I ask, carefully, trying to find my feet in the conversation.

I mean theyre too fucking noisy. Id like to fucking kill them.

He says it seriously, not offhand. Blinking at this point would be a tactical error, understandable maybe, but an error just the same.

You want to kill them because theyre noisy?

Yeah. He answers as if Im stupid, as if that was the only conclusion a thinking person could reach.

Thats nice, I say, changing my tone, pushing back just a little.

I killed a dog when I was a kid, he says.

Really? Im trying to sound unconcerned. Its never good to show your colours too soon. Dont react, enact, is my motto.

He smiles, and I feel myself pulling back from him. Hed never see it though, because on the outside I dont move a muscle. All hed see is this thirty-something shrink in jeans and a red shirt looking back as if this was just another day at the office. Which it is, but inside I draw back from that smile just the same.