Jaggy Splinters

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘What have they replaced them with?’ he asked, looking as livid as he was worried. It was my guess that ‘poison’ would be a preferable answer to the one he was truly dreading.

  ‘According to the letter, patients prescribed Bryonia, Chamomilla and Aconite have been taking clinical test-standard placebos for the past month. Harmless in and of themselves, but what worried me, naturally, were the consequences of patients taking placebos in place of vital prescribed drugs. However, as you just said, everything’s running as normal and nobody has noticed any change, so clearly it could have been a lot worse.’

  Timothy swallowed and took a moment to compose himself. He took a step back and folded his arms.

  ‘Clearly,’ he said. ‘this is something that will require more than cursory examination, Mr Parlabane. It may well be a lot worse. I will have to investigate thoroughly, find out when these replacement drugs were prescribed and who to, bring in the patients concerned and make sure they haven’t suffered any harm.’

  ‘Absolutely. How soon can you let me know your findings?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. This may take some time.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I assured him.

  The break-in story ran the next day. Took a bit longer than that for Timothy to get back to me with his findings, not for want of me calling to ask though. Nor was there much emerging from the polis regarding the break-in. They were unable to work out how the intruders gained entry without setting off the alarm system, and were further frustrated by the fact that the CCTV files for the night in question had been erased from Sucrosanto’s system.

  ‘It’s as if they were never there,’ a police source told me.

  What Timothy was able to tell me was that there had been little need for him to get in touch with individual affected patients: they had been streaming in unbidden, swamping the hospital’s appointments schedule, uniformly reporting deterioration of their various symptoms. I wondered how many experienced a sudden worsening of their condition before they heard about the great pill-switch.

  To make matters worse for poor Sucrosanto, they suddenly found themselves clean out of Bryonia, Chamomilla, and Aconite at precisely the same time as the ELHH was urgently requesting huge quantities of all three to replace the contaminated supplies they’d been forced to junk. Fortunately, Charles Litton was able to come to their rescue. He called up to inform them that some clerical error at Sucrosanto’s end had led to place b. taking delivery of massively surplus quantities of Bryonia, Chamomilla, Arsen, Nux Vom and Aconite.

  ‘Probably a computer error,’ I suggested to him. ‘I think a couple of zeroes got added to all of our orders. Either that or we got a hospital order by mistake. Anyway, if you can arrange an uplift and please ensure we’re not invoiced for this lot…’

  ‘Of course, Mr Litton, of course. We’ll have someone round to collect the supplies within the hour.’

  ‘The hour? That’s sharp.’

  ‘Serendipitous, Mr Litton. You may not know it, but you’re a life-saver.’

  ‘Albeit I’m not allowed to make such claims for my therapies.’

  Weeks went past with Timothy still unable – or unprepared – to report his findings. A month slowly turned into two, and two into three. I was patient. I had closed up place b. after a month, and had my own findings – as recorded by the participating GPs – ready to produce when the time came.

  After fully four months, Timothy was finally able to report his findings, though not merely to me. He called a press conference in the ELHH’s lecture theatre, where he was to make a major announcement regarding a breakthrough in homeopathic research. It was a surprisingly busy affair, with journalists present from a few of the nationals, as well as representing several ‘body and spirit’ (ie woo) publications. Timothy called the room to order and proceeded to read from a prepared statement.

  ‘A few months ago, as you are all aware, some maliciously intentioned and thoroughly uninformed individuals, in a misguided act of protest, broke into the Sucrosanto facility in Edinburgh and replaced our supplies of three homeopathic remedies with clinical trial placebos. This was the cause of a great deal of upset and distress to many of our patients, to whom we have made our profuse apologies. However, in their attempt to discredit homeopathy, these so-called protesters have in fact inadvertently managed precisely the opposite, because I can reveal that the results of their unapproved double-blind test have been quite the opposite of what I am sure they were anticipating.’

  It almost seems superfluous to state that he was looking directly at me when he said this. ‘As the paper my assistant is distributing shows, a significant number of patients suffered a marked deterioration in their symptoms as a result of this sabotage. But just as significantly, they enjoyed an equally marked improvement after the resumption of their correct homeopathic prescriptions.

  ‘These, I must stress, were independent, medically verified changes in symptoms, not merely anecdotal verbal accounts of patients saying they generally felt better or worse. This therefore constitutes very strong evidence of the efficacy of homeopathic remedies as being far and above placebo levels. I will be publishing a paper presenting a more detailed analysis of the results, but even at this early stage I feel confident that this could be the breakthrough that homeopathic research has long been waiting for.’

  Timothy then took questions, mainly from the tame hacks of the woo glossies, who teed up for him with lots of ‘can you confirm’s’ and ‘would you agree’s’. I waited with easy patience: I’d waited four months as it was, there was no rush. Timothy wasn’t in a hurry to call me either. I was the ghost at the feast, but both of us knew he’d need to give me the floor at some point, being the person who broke the original story, and to whom the protestors had sent their materials. It wasn’t merely to remind him of this that I held up another black folder instead of merely raising my hand.

  ‘Mr Parlabane,’ he acknowledged, with over-state weariness. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Well, I’d hold off firing into that research paper if I were you,’ I told him, removing a page from the folder as I got to my feet. ‘There’s been a wee development regarding your protestors. They have released the CCTV files they procured covering the night of the break-in. This is a print-out of a still from one of those files, with a time-stamp matching one of the original stills they sent me. As you can see, it shows the packing centre at Sucrosanto, but with nobody in it. Here, however, is a still showing the two protestors posing against a blank background. The two images were then combined using Photoshop to create a fake composite. There was no break-in. Your patients experienced – how was it you put it? – a marked deterioration of their symptoms while taking precisely what they were prescribed here at the ELHH.’

  Timothy came over a little pale at this point. I toyed with asking if he could do with some Arsen or Nux Vom.

  ‘All of which is not to say that a pill-switch did not take place,’ I continued. ‘It most certainly did. As Sucrosanto will confirm, the large quantities of remedies they supplied you to replace your supposedly contaminated stocks were, due to a computer error, first delivered, a couple of days before, to the place b. alternative therapy practice in Pilrig Street. And it was at place b. that the close-up footage of the switch was filmed. Again, Sucrosanto will confirm the serial numbers involved, and they will demonstrate that your patients experienced – once more in your words - an equally marked improvement, while taking clinical trial placebos.

  ‘The place b. clinic, as the name suggests, was also prescribing placebos during its trial month of operation, though the consultation and prescription was carried out by a completely unqualified individual: me. I have the independent, medically verified results of its therapies here for anyone who wants them, and though the sampling is admittedly small, they do show symptomatic improvement levels consistent with every clinical trial of homeopathy. Any comment, Doctor Cullis?’

  The look on Timmy’s face was, well, let’s just say it would b
e vulgar to attempt to place a value upon it…

  Of course, the final irony was that all of my efforts turned out to have something of the homeopathic about them: i.e., they did absolutely fuck all. Homeopathy remains as popular – and trusted – as ever, and continues to be available on the NHS.

  Sugar, anyone?

  Out of the Flesh

  Restorative Justice, they cry it. That’s what happens when wee scrotes like you get sat doon wi’ their victims, mano a mano, kinda like you and me are daein’ the noo. It’s a process of talking and understanding, as opposed tae a chance for the likes ay me tae batter your melt in for tryin’ tae tan my hoose. The idea is that us victims can put a face tae the cheeky midden that wheeched wur stereos, and yous can see that the gear you’re pochlin’ actually belongs tae somebody. Cause you think it’s a gemme, don’t you? Just aboot no’ gettin’ caught, and anyway, the hooses are insured, so it’s naebody’s loss, right? So the aim is tae make you realise that it’s folk you’re stealin’ fae, and that it does a lot mair damage than the price ay a glazier and a phone call tae Direct Line.

  Aye. Restorative justice. Just a wee blether tae make us baith feel better, that’s the theory. Except it normally happens efter the courts and the polis are through wi’ their end, by mutual consent and under official supervision. Cannae really cry this mutual consent, no’ wi’ you tied tae that chair. But restorative justice is whit you’re gaunny get.

  Aye. You’re shitin’ your breeks ’cause you think I’m gaunny leather you afore the polis get here, then make up whatever story I like. Tempting, I’ll grant you, but ultimately futile. See, the point aboot restorative justice is that it helps the baith ay us. Me batterin’ your melt in isnae gaunny make you think you’re a mug for tannin’ hooses, is it? It’s just gaunny make ye careful the next time, when ye come back wi’ three chinas and a big chib.

  Believe me, you’re lucky a batterin’s aw you’re afraid of, ya wee nyaff. Whit I’m gaunny tell you is worth mair than anythin’ you were hopin’ tae get away wi’ fae here, an’ if you’re smart, you’ll realise what a big favour I’m daein’ ye.

  Are you sittin’ uncomfortably? Then I’ll begin.

  See, I used tae be just like you. Surprised are ye? Nearly as surprised as when you tried tae walk oot this living room and found yoursel wi’ a rope roon ye. I’ve been around and about, son. I never came up the Clyde in a banana boat and I wasnae born sixty, either. Just like you, did I say? Naw. Much worse. By your age I’d done mair hooses than the census. This was in the days when they said you could leave your back door open, and tae be fair, you could, as long as you didnae mind me and ma brer Billy nippin’ in and helpin’ oursels tae whatever was on offer.

  We werenae fae the village originally; we were fae the Soothside. Me and Billy hud tae move in wi’ oor uncle when ma faither went inside. Two wee toerags, fifteen and fourteen, fae a tenement close tae rural gentility. It wasnae so much fish oot ay watter as piranhas in a paddlin’ pool. Easy pickin’s, ma boy, easy pickin’s. Open doors, open windaes, open wallets. Course, the problem wi’ bein’ piranhas in a paddlin’ pool is it’s kinda obvious whodunnit. At the end of the feedin’ frenzy, when the watter’s aw red, naebody’s pointin’ any fingers at the nearest Koi carp, know what I’m sayin’? But you’ll know yoursel’, when you’re that age, it’s practically impossible for the polis or the courts tae get a bindin’ result, between the letter ay the law and the fly moves ye can pull. Didnae mean ye were immune fae a good leatherin’ aff the boys in blue, right enough, roon the back ay the station, but that’s how I know applied retribution’s nae use as a disincentive. Efter a good kickin’, me and Billy were even mair determined tae get it up them; just meant we’d try harder no tae get caught.

  But then wan night, aboot October time, the Sergeant fronts up while me and Billy are kickin’ a baw aboot. Sergeant, no less. Royalty. Gold-plated boot in the baws comin’ up, we think. But naw, instead he’s aw nicey-nicey, handin’ oot fags, but keepin’ an eye over his shoulder, like he doesnae want seen.

  And by God, he doesnae. Fly bastard’s playin’ an angle, bent as a nine-bob note.

  ‘I ken the score, boys,’ he says. ‘What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh. Thievin’s in your nature: I cannae change that, your uncle cannae change that, and when yous are auld enough, the jail willnae change that. So we baith might as well accept the situation and make the best ay it.’

  ‘Whit dae ye mean?’ I asks.

  ‘I’ve a wee job for yous. Or mair like a big job, something tae keep ye in sweeties for a wee while so’s ye can leave folk’s hooses alane. Eejits like you are liable tae spend forever daein’ the same penny-ante shite, when there’s bigger prizes on offer if you know where tae look.’

  Then he lays it aw doon, bold as brass. There’s a big hoose, a mansion really, a couple ay miles ootside the village. Me and Billy never knew it was there; well, we’d seen the gates, but we hadnae thought aboot what was behind them, ’cause you couldnae see anythin’ for aw the trees. The owner’s away in London, he says, so the housekeeper and her husband are bidin’ in tae keep an eye on the place. But the Sergeant’s got the inside gen that the pair ay them are goin’ tae some big Halloween party in the village. Hauf the toon’s goin’ in fact, includin’ him, which is a handy wee alibi for while we’re daein’ his bidding.

  There was ayeways a lot o’ gatherings among the in-crowd in the village, ma uncle tell’t us. Shady affairs, he said. Secretive, like. He reckoned they were up tae all sorts, ye know? Wife-swappin’ or somethin’. Aw respectable on the ootside, but a different story behind closed doors. Course, he would say that, seein’ as the crabbit auld bugger never got invited.

  Anyway, the Sergeant basically tells us it’s gaunny be carte blanche. This was the days before fancy burglar alarms an’ aw that shite, remember, so we’d nothin’ tae worry aboot regards security. But he did insist on somethin’ a bit strange, which he said was for all of oor protection: we’d tae ‘make it look professional, but no’ too professional’. We understood what he meant by professional: don’t wreck the joint or dae anythin’ that makes it obvious whodunnit. But the ‘too professional’ part was mair tricky, it bein’ aboot disguisin’ the fact it was a sortay inside job.

  ‘Whit ye oan aboot?’ I asked him. ‘Whit’s too professional? Polishin’ his flair and giein’ the woodwork a dust afore we leave?’

  ‘I’m talkin’ aboot bein’ canny whit you steal. The man’s got things even an accomplished burglar wouldnae know were worth a rat’s fart – things only valuable among collectors, so you couldnae fence them anyway. I don’t want you eejits knockin’ them by mistake, cause it’ll point the finger back intae the village. If you take them, he’ll know the thief had prior knowledge, as opposed tae just hittin’ the place because it’s a country mansion.’

  ‘So whit are these things?’

  ‘The man’s a magician – on the stage, like. That’s what he’s daein’ doon in London. He’s in variety in wan o’ thae big West End theatres. But that’s just showbusiness, how he makes his money. The word is, he’s intae some queer, queer stuff, tae dae wi’ the occult.’

  ‘Like black magic?’

  ‘Aye. The man’s got whit ye cry ‘artefacts’. Noo I’m no’ sayin’ ye’d be naturally inclined tae lift them, and I’m no’ sure you’ll even come across them, ’cause I don’t know where they’re kept, but I’m just warnin’ you tae ignore them if ye dae. Take cash, take gold, take jewels, just the usual stuff – and leave anythin’ else well enough alone.’

  ‘Got ye.’

  ‘And wan last thing, boys: if you get caught, this conversation never took place. Naebody’d believe your word against mine anyway.’

  So there we are. The inside nod on a serious score and a guarantee fae the polis that it’s no’ gaunny be efficiently investigated. Sounded mair like Christmas than Halloween, but it pays tae stay a wee bit wary, especially wi’ the filth involved – and bent filth at that, so we decided
tae ca’ canny.

  Come the big night, we took the wise precaution of takin’ a train oot the village, and mair importantly made sure we were seen takin’ it by the station staff. The two piranha had tae be witnessed gettin’ oot the paddlin’ pool, for oor ain protection. We bought return tickets tae Glesca Central, but got aff at the first stop, by which time the inspector had got a good, alibi-corroboratin’ look at us. We’d planked two stolen bikes behind a hedge aff the main road earlier in the day, and cycled our way back, lyin’ oot flat at the side ay the road the odd time a motor passed us.

  It took longer than we thought, mainly because it was awfy dark and you cannae cycle very fast when you cannae see where you’re goin’. We liked the dark, me and Billy. It suited us, felt natural tae us, you know? But that night just seemed thon wee bit blacker than usual, maybe because we were oot in the countryside. It was thon wee bit quieter as well, mair still, which should have made us feel we were alone tae oor ain devices, but I couldnae say that was the case. Instead it made me feel kinda exposed, like I was a wee moose and some big owl was gaunny swoop doon wi’ nae warnin’ and huckle us away for its tea.

  And that was before we got tae the hoose.

  ‘Bigger prizes,’ we kept sayin’ tae each other. ‘Easy money.’ But it didnae feel like easy anythin’ efter we’d climbed over the gates and started walkin’ up that path, believe me. If we thought it was dark on the road, that was nothin’ compared tae in among thae tall trees. Then we saw the hoose. Creepy as, I’m tellin’ you. Looked twice the size it would have in daylight, I’m sure, high and craggy, towerin’ above like it was leanin’ over tae check us oot. Dark stone, black glass reflectin’ fuck-all, and on the top floor a light on in wan wee windae.