by Ken McClure
Even his wife had turned on him with her constant questioning about what he was doing and whingeing about how long he spent working in the evenings. Christ, he was on the very edge of making a great discovery and she wanted to talk about a bloody baby they hadn’t planned for and what bloody colour the nursery should be. Would it be easier if they knew the sex before the birth? He didn’t give a damn about the nursery or the sex of the sprog for that matter. He had other things on his mind. Why couldn’t they all offer him support instead of constant criticism? The answer if he could work it out would have to wait. It was time for another session with Malcolm Lawler
Barrowman kept small talk with Groves to a minimum although he did feel obliged to bring up the upcoming inspection that Steven Dunbar had told him about. ‘I thought this place was supposed to be a secret.’
‘So did we,’ said Groves. ‘We’re not supposed to be subject to inspection or anything else for that matter. Officially we don’t exist.’
‘Let’s hope it’s just a formality.’
Groves smiled his lop-sided smile but didn’t comment further.
Lawler watched as Barrowman sat down and took out a notebook from his briefcase. As he snapped it shut, Lawler asked, ‘So, where is it?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘The elixir you’ve been designing that’s going to make me one of the chaps, a decent human being, a pillar of society, member of a golf club, chair of the round table and all-round good egg.’
‘I’m afraid we’ve still got a bit to go,’ said Barrowman through gritted teeth but affecting a small smile, ‘but we’re definitely getting there . . .’
‘You disappoint me, doctor. Didn’t you say last time you had identified certain interesting enzyme differences?’
‘Yes, but these things take time, everything needs to be checked and verified.’
‘Ah, I see. You’ve made one of these discoveries where you folks say, hopefully within five to ten years this will lead to blah blah blah . . . a cure for cancer . . . all our power from nuclear fusion . . . transmutation of lead into gold.’
‘I’m doing my best.’
‘And what does your best require of me today?’
‘I’d like you to sell yourself to me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Imagine you’re being interviewed for a very senior post in an international company. I’d like you to tell me all about you, presenting yourself in the best possible light, emphasising your good points, highlighting your skills and abilities. Would you do that?
‘No.’
Barrowman was disappointed. He felt sure Lawler would have been keen to seize the chance to show off. ‘Why not?’
‘The last time we spoke I told you all about me and what went on in my head . . . as you put it.’
Barrowman swallowed involuntarily as the awful memories surfaced inside him. ‘I remember.’
‘Well, I want to know what’s going on in yours. It’s only fair . . .’
‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘You’re married.’ Lawler stared pointedly at the wedding ring on Barrowman’s finger. ‘Who is she? Tell me . . . all . . . about her.’
Barrowman felt instantly uneasy. Apprehension filled him as it so often did in his times with Lawler. Lawler’s eyes remained fixed on him.
‘This won’t help the research at all,’ Barrowman tried. ‘You’re just delaying your golf club membership.’
The joke fell flat.
‘What’s her name?’ demanded Lawler. He drove the words home like rivets.
‘Lucy, her name is Lucy.
‘Lucy,’ repeated Lawler. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
Oh yes it was, Barrowman thought. Hearing Lawler utter his wife’s name was not a good feeling.
‘So, tell me about Lucy . . . is she good looking? Nice body? Of course, she has . . . Tell me . . . what sort of things does she like to wear?
The thought of Lawler getting off on what Lucy wore made Barrowman shudder inside. He was being asked to pimp his wife’s image. ‘Clothes,’ he snapped.
Lawler smiled as he read Barrowman’s mind. ‘Children? Do you have children?’
A shake of the head.
‘Plans?’
‘One on the way.’ Jesus, why did I say that?
‘A baby? Aw . . .’ crooned Lawler adopting a sing song voice. ‘Owen and Loocee and baby makes three . . .I bet you have a house with a garden?’ he asked with feigned enthusiasm.’
‘A flat.’
‘Pity, still . . . there’s plenty of time.’
It suddenly occurred to Barrowman through the anger simmering inside him that Lawler wasn’t just playing a part. He had adopted the personality and mannerisms of someone he had seen on TV, a popular, daytime TV presenter. He was doing it so well that it triggered an idea. He had taken samples from Lawler when he had been simulating a number of psychotic conditions; this would be his chance to get specimens when he was simulating someone who would be regarded by society as normal. His gut feeling sensed that this could be a huge bonus, but his gut feeling was also insisting that his association with Lawler was making him ill.
He had known this for some weeks but couldn’t bring himself to walk away because Lawler was the source of the data he needed to make a major breakthrough. The man was a genetic Rosetta stone and he wanted to be the one to unravel the secrets of the code. At least . . . he thought this was the reason, but there were times when he felt some other force was playing on him and he couldn’t quite focus on it. Lack of sleep, the drive of burning ambition, growing resentment of others and the constant need for deceit were all playing their part in sponsoring short temper, impatience and evasiveness in him, but that didn’t matter, it would be worth it in the end he kept telling himself.
In the lab, previous uncertainty about the future, lack of funding and the constant need for charitable help from other groups had been a useful smokescreen to explain away his apparent slowness in declaring results. It had been accepted as it had for the others in the group because it was to be expected in their impoverished circumstances. In his case, the truth was different. He had been very successful in getting help from other labs because of his previous popularity and he had been secretly taking data home to analyse, something that kept him working into the small hours nearly every night. Lucy had accepted his explanation at first – that he had to keep ahead of others in the field; there were no prizes for second place – but even she had begun to have her doubts about what he was really up to.
Barrowman had spent the previous late-night session going through the results of the repeated tests on Lawler’s samples yet again. Having established there had been no mix-up it now seemed clear after repeated checking that Lawler really could change his biochemical signature to emulate those recorded in a whole range of mental conditions. If the sample he’d just taken showed that he could also display the make-up of a normal person . . . this really would be something special . . .
Barrowman’s excitement was short lived and suddenly eclipsed by a flood of uncertainty. If Lawler really could adopt the genetic state of a normal person, why hadn’t he done just that? Why had he become what he had? Why the hell didn’t he just go through life as a decent human being, making friends, falling in love, laughing, crying? Why would anyone choose to throw switches that made them a monster completely devoid of compassion, taking orgasmic pleasure in the fear he could induce in others, revelling in their agony?
Barrowman forced himself back into the present. ‘Well, Mr Lawler,’ he said, ‘You know about me; I know about you. I think I’d like to take a blood sample now and call it a day.’
‘But we’ve only just begun!’ Lawler protested. ‘I want to hear more about Lucy. What does she do? Is she a scientist too? Maybe you spend your evenings unravelling the secrets of the genetic code? Four little letters . . . ATCG, the basis of all living things. Amazing really, the rest of us can’t even make a proper word out o
f them!’ Lawler laughed like the TV presenter buttering up his scientific guest.
Lawler’s knowledge of the chemical bases which comprise the spine of DNA registered with Barrowman even as he chose to put an end to any more conversation and call in the attendant so he could take a blood sample. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Lawler. ’There’s a seminar at the university tonight I want to go to. It’s being given by an old friend of mine from Edinburgh University.’
‘Old pals from uni, eh? . . . nice.’
‘I haven’t seen him for ages. It’ll be good to catch up,’ said Barrowman, keen to keep the small talk going. He was anxious there should be no delay in taking the blood sample. He needed it to reflect Lawler’s nice guy state of mind, not the angry individual he sensed he might become.
When the attendant came in Barrowman was surprised to see that it wasn’t the one on duty when he arrived. ‘Where’s staff nurse Donovan?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t think you’d be finished for a while yet,’ the man replied. ‘He nipped up to the kitchen for a coffee. I’m Staff Clements . . . Alan.’
‘I need to take a blood sample from Mr Lawler, Alan.’
‘Okay dokay.’
Barrowman turned away to get what he needed from his briefcase, a sterile twenty ml syringe and appropriate needle, two sterile plastic containers for the blood – one containing an anticoagulant, another without so that the blood would separate into serum and a clot – and an alcohol impregnated swab to sterilise the site on Lawler’s arm. If required he’d use one of the leather securing straps on the chair as a temporary tourniquet.
Lawler’s lower right arm had been released from its binding and his sleeve rolled up to expose the inner aspect of his elbow. Clements was holding his arm steady on the chair arm. Owen cleaned the area where he could see a suitable prominent vein and murmured, ‘Don’t think we need a tourniquet, this looks fine.’ He slipped the needle into the vein and slowly withdrew fifteen millilitres. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mr Lawler.’
Barrowman turned away and ejected the blood, half each into the two containers. When he turned around he was instantly aware of Lawler giving him the stare. It was something that reminded him of a raptor surveying what it held in its talons – seeing everything but feeling nothing. It was something he did when he was upset or felt he hadn’t been accorded the respect he thought he deserved. It wasn’t hard to work out that he obviously felt he was the one to decide when an interview was over.
Barrowman was just about to say something conciliatory when Lawler swung his arm round hard into Clements’ face as he moved in to restore his binding. The blow knocked the nurse off balance and sent him sliding across the floor holding his jaw. Barrowman made the mistake of looking to Clements rather than Lawler and paid the price. Lawler’s free right hand shot out and his fingers fastened on either side of his windpipe. He felt himself being pulled down towards Lawler’s face while Clements struggled ineffectually to get up.
‘Fear . . . I can smell it off you, doctor,’ Lawler whispered. ‘The smell of fear . . . soon to be absolute . . . bloody . . . terror . . . His fingers tightened on Barrowman’s neck. ‘Let me tell you, doctor, you’re a loser . . . you just don’t see the big picture . . . You play by their rules . . . the ones designed by the few to keep the rest in order . . . when it could all be so different . . . You’ve saddled yourself with Loocee . . . you’ve got a squalling brat on the way . . . that is the fucking highway to nowhere. You’ve been playing the game wrong, doctor . . . Don’t you understand? Take what you want from life; don’t bargain with it. Destroy anything and everything that gets in your way . . . set out to win . . . don’t set out to . . . comply.’
Barrowman was seeing stars. He had almost used up all his strength in an attempt to prise Lawler’s fingers apart but they were locked in a grip that was stifling his ability to breathe. His brain was telling him he must let go: he should go for Lawler’s eyes with his thumbs. But his overwhelming fear that the instant he let go of Lawler’s hands, his windpipe would be ripped out was proving stronger. He was losing consciousness. He barely heard the ‘What the fuck!’ exclamation coming from Nathan Donovan returning from his coffee break.
EIGHT
‘Clements! You useless son of a . . . What d’you think you’re doing?’ Donovan slammed his fist against the alarm button on the wall, filling the air with deafening whoops and rushed over to help Barrowman. He freed him from Lawler’s grip using sheer brute strength before slamming Lawler’s arm back down on the chair arm and securing him tightly. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Barrowman, getting a weak nod in reply before turning on Clements to continue his tirade.
‘Sorry Nate, I thought these two got on,’ mumbled Clements, still sitting on the floor nursing his jaw. ‘I wasn’t expecting it. Bastard took me by surprise, took a swing at me and grabbed the doc by the throat.’
Donovan raised his voice to be heard above the whoop of the siren and sound of running feet. ‘Nothing ever takes you by surprise in this place, Clements Have you got that? You expect anything and everything at all times.’
Clements nodded.
‘Get out of my sight. This isn’t over.’
Barrowman sat massaging his throat and feeling disorientated.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Donovan asked, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to look into his eyes.
‘Yeah . . . fine.’ Barrowman looked past him at the help arriving and then at Lawler who seemed to be looking at everything as if he were a disinterested party, an onlooker instead of a participant. There was no sign of the murderous violence he had displayed only a few moments before. Lawler saw him turn to look directly at him but the stare had gone. In fact, his expression was quite different, not one Barrowman recognised immediately although there was something vaguely and unsettlingly familiar about it. It was . . . as if . . . as if . . . He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but then it came to him. It was the look that passed between people who shared a secret, the fleeting glance that passed between two office colleagues who were having an affair. He found this bizarre in the extreme, not just unsettling, but scary.
The three attendants who had arrived, two with shields and batons, one wielding a Taser stun-gun, were stood down as Groves followed them into the room. He was full of apologies.
‘My God, I’m so sorry,’ he exclaimed. ‘This should never have happened. I’ve called an ambulance. We’ll get you off to hospital as quickly as possible.’ He ushered Barrowman out of the room with his good arm resting lightly on the small of his back.
Without understanding why, Barrowman felt the urge to decline. ‘No need,’ he said, ‘no real damage done. Let’s go easy on the drama for all our sakes.’
Groves looked at him as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears . . . or his luck. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure . . .’
‘I am. Mind you, a drop of that malt of yours wouldn’t go amiss right now?’
‘Absolutely.’
Groves visibly relaxed and Barrowman knew that the man must have been looking ahead in trepidation to what the inspection team might make of what had happened just before their arrival.
A knock came to the door and Nathan Donovan came in. He placed the blood samples on the desk in front of Barrowman. ‘Thought you might need these.’
‘Thanks,’ said Barrowman, adding sincerity to the word with a look and smile.
‘No problem.’
Groves said, ‘Nathan, we’re having a debriefing session, perhaps you should join us. He turned to Barrowman, ‘What exactly happened?’
‘I’d just taken a blood sample from Lawler and Clements moved in to secure his free arm. Lawler suddenly caught Clements with a swing of his forearm. I saw it happen. The blow was enough to knock him off balance and he landed on the floor. Clements didn’t get up. I was looking at him to see if he was alright when Lawler caught me by the throat.’
‘Clements didn’t get up?’
‘He was still
on the floor when I arrived,’ said Donovan.
‘As opposed to helping Dr Barrowman?’
‘He was sitting there rubbing his jaw.’
‘How hard did Lawler hid Clements?’
‘Hard enough to knock him off balance,’ said Barrowman.
‘But not enough to knock him out?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t think so either,’ said Donovan. ‘He was just sat there watching events when I arrived. There’s hardly a mark on him.
‘You probably know him better than I do. Do you think he froze?’ asked Groves.
Donovan looked doubtful. ‘No . . . I don’t,’ he said with plain meaning. ‘Clements isn’t the biggest guy on earth, but Lawler was still secured to the chair – he only had one arm free. If Clements had got off his backside and waded in, I’m sure he and Dr Barrowman could have put an end to Lawler’s nonsense before he tried to rip out anyone’s throat.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Groves. ‘Not exactly what I wanted to hear.’ He paused for a full five seconds before saying to Barrowman, ‘Clements is a fairly new member of staff; he’s a bit different; he was seconded to us after our existence became no longer a secret.’
Barrowman could see an attempt to improve things before the investigation but didn’t say so.
‘Different?’ he asked.
‘Our people here have to be screened thoroughly for suitability before being appointed.’
‘And you don’t think he was?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ said Groves. ‘He was subject to the same scrutiny as all the others and had signed the Official Secrets act. By different I simply meant that he has a qualification in art therapy,’ said Groves, clearly making an effort to keep judgement out of his voice.
‘He’s been giving lessons to Lawler,’ said Donovan.
‘Ah,’ said Barrowman.
‘And instead of Clements influencing Lawler . . . ‘
‘Clements will be cleaning Lawler’s shoes by the end of the month,’ said Groves. ‘A weak personality in thrall to a strong one. I haven’t seen this involve a member of staff before – it’s usually been something between prisoners as was the case when Sutton and Lawler ruled the roost at Broadmoor. I was there at the time – the axis of evil as some of the staff called it. Their word was law. A whole wing danced to their tune’
