‘But—’
‘Bye for now,’ croaked the strange voice.
Simmons shrugged. ‘He’s rung off. He’ll only talk to us when he wants to. I guess it’s down to you guys now. We’re sure going to need a lot of patience.’
The Welshman grimaced. ‘I’ve got all the patience in the world, boyo. The question is, does Her Majesty’s Government?’
‘I’ll do my best to keep them off your back, Dai, but you know governments exist to make every simple situation difficult.’
‘The fucking Government,’ said Hopkin. He sighed deeply, and began moving towards the nearest mobile negotiating post. As always, there was much to organise before the real work could begin. He was a stickler for organization, and that meant everything had to be correct down to the last detail. Woe betides any member of his team who didn’t equip himself with a briefcase, notebook, pencils and pens, and a clipboard and folders. He was also pedantic when it came to such minutiae as paper clips, a stapler and markers. He also insisted that each person should have a pocket tape recorder to keep track of conversations, decisions and suggestions. It was surprising when the shit began to hit the fan how many officers forgot suggestions or failed to write down important decisions and details. As for weaponry, each of his team was equipped with a concealable pistol and full body armour. Their clothing had to be comfortable and rugged, such as jeans, trainers or boots with heavy socks, gloves and woollen hats. The vagaries of the English weather meant that windcheaters were normally worn. These bore the logo ‘Negotiator’ so that everyone else would know that they had a right to be there. Each man brought with him an overnight bag with a washcloth, toothbrush, small towel, toilet paper, basic foodstuffs and, of course, aspirin and antacids if things started to get out of hand. Experience told him that this was going to be a prolonged standoff, so he’d arranged for runners to bring the team plenty of hot beverages and light meals.
Hopkin hauled his bulk into the rear of nearest van. ‘Are the tape recorders and the laptops linked up to the mainframe?’ he asked one of the two men who was sitting at a desk littered with surveillance paraphernalia.
‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied with some trepidation. The Welshman was renowned for being a slow burner with hostage takers but quick-tempered with his own staff. A native of Carmarthen, he was often called the Dyfed Dragon, although never to his face.
‘Clear that fucking mess up,’ Hopkin exploded. ‘An untidy desk means an untidy mind, and we can’t afford untidy minds in our business, can we, boys bach.’
‘Yes, sir – I mean no, sir,’ the constable rejoined, as others in the van began an exaggerated cleaning up operation.
The Welshman began to fiddle with the knobs on one of the video cams. Two of his staff would be responsible for keeping a historical record of the negotiations. Team discussions and command decisions could also be videotaped. Sometimes a vital detail might go unnoticed in real time, so keeping a thorough record of events gave the negotiator a second chance, and when it came to desperate men, a second chance might mean a life saved. ‘Where’s the VSA?’ he grumbled irritably.
‘In the other van, boss,’ a hesitant voice piped.
‘I want it in here with me.’ The Voice Stress Analyser was an Israeli-made machine that was virtually a polygraph. It could even register deception from a cassette tape, thus enabling him to analyse a hostage taker’s frame of mind if it became impossible to monitor communications in real time.
‘What about the robots, boss?’ another of his men asked.
‘Sod the robots, boyo, they’re a fucking waste of time.’ Hopkin preferred using his mind to outwit his opponents rather than a lump of dumb metal. The use of robots had never been very successful, anyway.
Hostage takers often refused to allow robots within range, believing the machine contained various exotic devices that could be used against them. Some of these ranged from guns and cameras to lasers and chemical agents. The first and last time he’d used a robot, the hostage taker had believed it contained radioactive x-rays that would not only see through walls, but would make him sterile in the process. No, there were some things far more useful than robots. ‘Where’s the most important piece of equipment in our arsenal?’ he growled.
A set of blank faces turned towards the Welshman, who met them with a look of feigned hurt. ‘My sandwich box, boyos, my sandwich box.’
It was already dark by the time Kieran Kelly had put the finishing touches to his announcement to the world. Besides the police, he had also contacted the Press Association. Within minutes the news had flashed around the globe. He thrilled as he watched television pictures of the siege outside Rosedale. His captives, too, were privileged to see their plight in real time, a fact that he’d imparted to the media. The authorities would soon be wheeling in the wives and kids to make impassioned pleas on their behalf, something that would have little effect on Kieran Patrick Kelly, but would create turmoil in the minds of those shackled upstairs. Their emotions would be running the full gamut, from visions of joyful liberation to those of a horrible death. Let them suffer as his Teresa had suffered.
The Irishman was under no illusion that his true identity would remain secret for very long. Nevertheless, there was no way he was going to make it easy for them. He’d used a hundred and one aliases in his time. Whilst Kelly might have been the name on his birth certificate, he’d rarely used it in his ‘business’ dealings. True, he had reverted to it in London, but then that was simply because The Troubles were over, and there was no need for subterfuge any more, or so he had thought. Anyway, there was a lot to be said for having one of the most popular Irish names if you wanted to veil your identity. There were a million and one Kellys out there. He smiled and donned his balaclava. It was exactly nine o’clock and the game was about to begin in earnest. He adjusted his web cam slightly until he could see himself taking up the centre of the screen. A sudden rush of adrenaline made him light-headed as he dialled the number that would give him access to the world. He placed the voice distorter to his throat. Maybe it would soon make him as popular as Stephen Hawking.
‘Good evening, world,’ he began, ‘the waiting is over, and I’m now going to explain to you why we are holding three men hostage. These three men, as you know, are the Secretary of State for Health, a research director of a leading pharmaceutical company and an obstetrician. Each in his own way is guilty of flagrant disregard for the lives of those whose safety he purports to hold dear. Our protest is also threefold. We protest at the British Government’s blatant refusal to instigate an inquiry into the carnage caused by invasive spinal procedures. We protest at the policies of the pharmaceutical companies that put profits before people. We protest at the doctors who seek to cover up their crass ineptitude with lies and subterfuge. Britain is a secretive society. The general public is constantly kept in the dark, whether it’s about mad cows, foot and mouth, injections into the spine or a million and one other things that affect our daily lives. We demand freedom of information as a prerequisite for bringing about the reforms that are so sorely needed.’
Kelly paused to shuffle his papers importantly before continuing. ‘I will now go into more detail in order to convince the British people, and indeed the world, that our cause is just and that pressure must be brought to bear on the authorities to right these terrible wrongs. Firstly, how many of you women out there are soon to give birth and are contemplating having an epidural to ease the pain?’ The Irishman paused, as if waiting for thousands of ‘me’s’ to erupt from the screen before him. ‘Did you know that common painkilling injections used in childbirth have left thousands of women disabled or even paralysed? Did you know that damage caused by injections into the spine is one of the NHS’s most closely guarded secrets? Remember Thalidomide, and HIV-infected blood given to haemophiliacs? They’re nothing compared to this scandal. Nearly two hundred thousand epidurals are given every year. They’ve almost become a bloody fashion statement. Well let me tell you something, future mothers
of the world, you don’t need them. What’s a few hours of the pain of childbirth compared to a possible lifetime of agony? Let me tell you what an injection into the spine can give you. It doesn’t matter whether it’s an epidural for childbirth, a dye to see if you’ve got a slipped disc or a steroid that’s supposed to relieve your back pain, the result is the same. It’s called adhesive arachnoiditis and it’s one of the worst medical-caused diseases in the world. There’s no difference in the symptoms whether you’re injected by a doctor or attacked with a chemical warfare agent by some tin-pot Arab dictator. If you’re one of the unlucky ones, your central nervous system will be shot to pieces. The chemicals in the injection will poison delicate nerve endings inside your spinal column and cause them to stick together. Your immune system will then go haywire trying to deal with it. That chemical reaction can leave you unable to walk, incontinent, blind and in the most God-awful pain that not even morphine can help assuage. How would you like to feel that you’re hobbling on broken glass or that your legs feel as though they’re being incinerated? How would you like to know that there is no cure, that they’re not even looking for a cure, and that you’ll have to put up with this terrible condition for the rest of your life? How would you like it if doctors refused to diagnose you, telling you that it’s all in your head, in order to avoid admitting their culpability in your suffering? Most of our so-called doctors aren’t even trained to recognise the symptoms. This means that patients get the wrong treatments or get little or no help. Our wonderful Government cites statistics as the reason they’re unable to institute action. They say that not enough cases are reported. Not surprising when you consider that if the true statistics were known, it would lead to calls for legal action, which of course they don’t want. Please understand that most victims don’t want money, they just want an admission of fault and an apology.’
The Irishman paused again to clear his throat, and also to let his message sink in. He knew he had to pace himself, and it helped that he could see himself both on the computer screen and CNN. Auntie BBC was, as usual, kowtowing to the Government and refusing to air his statement live. More fool them.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘let me tell you what some of the stuff they used to pump into your spine did to a couple of inanimate objects. Pharmaceutical companies made a dye used in x-rays of the spine. They put some of it in a Styrofoam cup and it melted. Then some of the crap fell by accident onto a ceramic tiled floor and began eating the tiles away. Still, they said, plastic cups and ceramic tiles ain’t no human spine, so they carried on their merry way. Next they tried it out on dogs and monkeys, and it devastated their spinal cords. Still, dogs and monkeys ain’t human, they said, so let’s market it anyway. In the last fifty years, twenty million people around the world have been injected with that dye, and they reckon five per cent got adhesive arachnoiditis from it. Figure it out for yourselves.’ Again, the Irishman paused to allow millions of minds to do the mental calculation.
Kelly could feel the familiar anger mounting within him, but he knew he would achieve much more by remaining cool, by presenting a reasoned case. He spent the next few minutes explaining how successive governments had shirked their responsibility when it came to invasive spinal procedures. By the time he had finished, the general public knew as much about the issue as he did. Now it was time to list his demands and, of course, the consequences if these were not met.
‘So what do we want in order for our three guests to be returned to their families unharmed?’ he continued. ‘Firstly, we want the Government to set up a full inquiry into invasive spinal procedures, especially those concerning epidurals in childbirth and steroids given for relieving back pain. There is no doubt that if this inquiry does its job properly, it will come to the conclusion that most spinal injections are dangerous and unnecessary. The reason that we do not demand the immediate cessation of all invasive spinal procedures is that this would be unrealistic. Any restrictions must be sanctioned by a government that purports to be of the people, by the people and for the people. We are not anarchists.
Secondly, we demand that compensatory funds be set up for victims past, present and future. These funds shall be financed solely by those pharmaceutical companies that have been actively engaged, and continue to be engaged, in the production of intra-spinal products. The initial fund should be for those who’ve already fallen victim to the injection of dangerous chemicals into their spines. This will include all those who have yet to be diagnosed because of medical incompetence and/or vacillation. The Department of Health will give strict orders to radiographers and doctors to treat each case with the respect it deserves. This initial fund shall be set at ten billion pounds. The pharmaceutical companies shall also be obliged to set aside annually one billion pounds no-fault compensation, this sum to be index-linked. If due caution is exercised, this sum should more than cover the number of inevitable mistakes. Thirdly, a further five hundred million pounds annually should be earmarked for research into the causes of adhesive arachnoiditis, effective treatments and a possible cure. Fourthly, every necessary spinal procedure should be preceded by the patient giving informed consent. It should be remembered that many of the scores of millions of people injected with iophendylate dyes or steroids containing preservatives was ever informed that they could cripple him or her for life. This was scandalous, an absolute disgrace to the medical profession.
‘We demand that legislation be introduced that would ensure, as a statutory right, that patients are fully informed about proposed treatments, the possible alternatives and any substantial risks so that they can make a balanced judgment.
‘Remember that informed consent is a legal doctrine that has been developed by the courts over a number of years. It is your right, and your Government has to make sure you enjoy that right.’
The Irishman had concluded his soliloquy. Now it was time to warn the authorities of the price that would have to be paid if his demands were not met. He did not want to risk the empathy of the general public by using the photographs he’d taken of his hostages. Those had been used simply to strike terror into them, to make them more compliant. He once again stared into the eye of the web cam. ‘I do not have to tell you what will happen to these three men if our demands are not met. Their lives are in the hands of the Government and the pharmaceutical companies who, in effect, almost represent a state within a state. In order to prove the collusion between our elected leaders and the drug companies, I shall invite you all to log on or watch your televisions tomorrow at nine p.m. I can promise you an astounding revelation. Thank you for your attention.’
Kelly instructed his computer to log off. So far, so good. The world now knew what he was about, but it was also important to maintain the interest of the media by offering them the prospect of fresh headlines. He also knew that to be effective, the siege must achieve its aims within a limited period. Too long, and people would become bored. The ongoing saga would be relegated to a paragraph at the foot of an inside page under a headline that might read, ‘siege enters thirtieth day.’ Ho-hum. No, he had plans to keep it fresh, to keep it alive until he was sure he’d won over the hearts of the people and the minds of the powers that be. In the end, it might come down to whoever possessed the strongest will. However, of one thing Kieran Patrick Kelly was still certain: right was indisputably on his side.
No sooner had the broadcast finished than Dai Hopkin was being quizzed by his boss. ‘Well, Dai,’ Simmons said over the link, ‘what did you make of that?’
‘I’d say that we’re in for a long haul, Bob,’ the negotiator replied. ‘This man is no fool. It’s not a case of some crazy or a guy who’s only interested in money for himself. This man has a cause and it’s clear he’s willing to kill or be killed for it. They’re the toughest kind to crack, boyo.’
‘What do you propose to do?’
‘Sleep on it. Nothing will be gained by acting like a bull in a china shop. It’s getting late. The best negotiating time is in the morning. If our
hostage takers suffer sleep deprivation, they’re likely to do something irrational. They’ll probably have a couple awake during the night. I guess our main man will keep to his normal sleep pattern.’
‘There are a few clues in the speech.’
‘Yeah, the guy in the balaclava is hurting. I think he’s had a relative, probably a close one, who’s suffered from some kind of invasive spinal procedure.’
‘The doctor?’
‘Yeah, we wondered why he in particular was involved. I guess you’d better get someone to go through his records.’
‘I can feel my stress levels rising,’ Simmons grunted.
‘It’s the name of the game, boyo,’ replied Hopkin. ‘For everyone.’
The Welshman was well aware that stress was one of the few constants in the hostage situation. At the onset, the hostages, whose safety, after all, was his main concern, had been confronted with loss of life or serious injury, loss of freedom and loss of self-respect. They were bound to be panicky, anxious, uncertain and fearful. They would see themselves as victims of circumstance. At one moment they were going about their normal everyday activities in an orderly world, then that order had been roughly displaced by an uncertain, and possibly short, future. More importantly, they were in a situation in which somebody else was controlling their actions and emotions. Hopkin also knew that the very presence of the police produced stress in the hostages, who would not know how or if the police could differentiate between them and their captors. They might do things that would get themselves killed.
Then there was the stress from both the public and the government. When hostages were taken, the incident evoked a combination of horror and empathy among a country’s population. At the same time, unless a response was carefully planned and successfully carried out, a government could appear impotent or non-responsive to the dangers facing its citizens.
Cry of the Needle Page 25
