by Peter Tonkin
‘Were you present at all of them?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And he has never been taken out of the hospital?’
‘Yes. Once.’
‘Back to the scene of the crime?’
‘Yes. But there was no reaction whatsoever.’
‘Very frustrating. Did you use Pentothal?’
‘Not at that time, no. But I have used it on two occasions since.’
‘On police authority and without the knowledge or agreement of next of kin, I assume.’
‘I did what I was directed to do. Twice.’
‘So it has now stopped?’
‘Oh yes. We haven’t used any Pentothal for more than a week now. The prisoner is routinely interrogated for an hour every morning, but I think they are beginning to see that he isn’t bluffing and that he won’t remember any more than he does at the moment for the foreseeable future.’ Only Tom’s steady grip kept Robin from interrupting. She was beginning to see for the first time how little real protection she had been to the man she had flown halfway round the world to help.
In the corridor outside the little office she exploded and Tom let her talk uninterrupted as she got her bitter frustration out of her system. She didn’t stop until they reached the lift.
‘So,’ said Tom, on the way down in the lift car. ‘They don’t really know what to do with him, do they? They can’t work out whether they want his memory back or not, so they’re hesitating while they think. While they get some more legal advice, I shouldn’t wonder. Treating him medically if not psychologically, treating him very well, in fact, and waiting for things to jump back into perspective, as they usually do.’
‘But they’ve drugged him! Taken him to that … place!’
‘You must see that they had to try both of those approaches. Almost all police cases are based on some kind of confession. All they’re getting from Richard is “I don’t know” and it simply isn’t good enough for them.’
‘It isn’t good enough for us either, though, is it?’ She was beginning to calm down now, seeing where the conversation was leading.
‘No, that’s right. It isn’t good enough for us either. And all we can do is to try what they tried, but do it better. And do it soon. A man who says “I can’t remember” may be said to be pleading not guilty according to the law, but it won’t carry nearly as much weight as if we can make him say, “No, I didn’t do it and here’s what really happened”. And at the moment the only way we can get deep enough into his memory to stand any chance of reaching the truth is to take him back aboard Sulu Queen, to use Pentothal and, with your permission, to try a little hypnosis.’
*
Robin dropped Tom off at Andrew’s office, handed him the pile of records Audrey had faxed out to her and then she and Andrew went back up to Kwai Chung to look through the Sulu Queen’s cargo.
In the car, they talked through what Dr Chu had told her and Andrew agreed to get hold of the transcripts of any interviews which had taken place so far as a matter of urgency, especially those held while Richard had been drugged. ‘I’m not sure that confessions elicited by the use of truth serums would stand up very well in court in any case. The same is true of statements for use in defence and anything Richard says while he’s under hypnosis. You do realise that?’
‘I didn’t but I’m sure Tom Fowler does. He works with the police quite a lot. That’s why I wanted him in on this.’
‘True. Still, I’d better be there too, just in case.’
It took them four hours to go through the cargo and they found nothing untoward. The slow, tedious task gave time for Robin’s temper to mend, however, and she was in a better mood by the end of it. On the way back she asked Andrew if he had handed back the black notebook and he had the grace to blush: he had put it in a plain envelope and posted it anonymously, he admitted.
Much amused, she asked if he had thought to wipe their fingerprints off it. Of course he had, he informed her, surprised that she should have doubted it. She was still laughing when they got to Repulse Bay.
After dinner at the Stephensons’ — Dottie’s speciality of sweet and sour stuffed chicken with baked rice and Chinese vegetables — they split up and each pursued their own further researches. Andrew and Gerry were wading through the first pile of papers that the police had given them and Tom was still going through Richard’s past with a fine-toothed comb. Robin wandered back down to the leave flat. She sat in the window seat going through the print-outs of the records which Daniel Huuk had surrendered yesterday, glancing up every once in a while to look past Tin Hau’s temple over the busy crowds and into the thickening gloom. There was nothing helpful in the printout and she went to bed at midnight dissatisfied — and unsatisfied — in every way.
As she was still awake at three, she put a call through to Summersend where the twins would just be getting ready for bed. She talked to them and to her adored parents-in-law. Then she called her father and talked to him for half an hour. She slept like a log for four hours, greeted Su Lam the amah as Su was on her way in and she was on her way out, and was at Andrew’s door, bright-eyed, by half past eight as usual.
*
‘Your parents send all their love, darling,’ she told Richard at ten, having insisted on some private time before Tom started his first preparatory session. Dr Chu’s revelations of yesterday had redoubled her resolution to see him as often as possible, preferably immediately after the morning interrogation so that she could look for bruises and needle marks. But of course there were none. ‘They’re both very well indeed and the new chair-lift down the front steps is just what your mother wanted. Much smoother than the old one. She’s quite happy to work it herself so she can potter around down at the front just as she does out at the back. And your father says she needs to! The twins are having a wonderful time and are being as good as gold but they’ve set up a cricket pitch on the front lawn and you know how thin the grass is on that sandy soil down at Summersend, and as for the bushes on the boundaries …’
It continued as a daily routine during the rest of the week, varied only by occasional — apparently casual — questions about what had happened on Sulu Queen and what message he had put onto the disk. Even though he answered none of her questions, it became as therapeutic for Robin as it was supposed to be for Richard. This was especially true as her immediate involvement in the preparation of the case moved out of the centre. There were no new facts to uncover, no new adventures to be had. There was only the slog of checking statements and depositions, of cross-checking facts and allegations, of testing and reinterpreting evidence. And in this Richard himself moved into the centre of things, for by the end of the week it became obvious that the only evidence left for them to collect in or around the Crown Colony lay locked inside his head.
*
‘All right,’ said Robin, handing the papers back to Dr Chu.
Tom Fowler nodded and reached for Richard’s hand. Richard gave it to him as easily as Robin had given over the disclaimer forms which the hospital required from them — though not, apparently, from the police. Richard’s eyes dwelt on her, except for the moment when the needle actually entered the vein in the crook of his elbow.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ she said gently as Tom steadily depressed the plunger, squeamish on his behalf.
‘Fine thanks,’ he said with that endless cheerfulness which came near to making her scream. ‘What is this stuff? Is it the same as he used?’ The bright eyes flicked to Dr Chu.
‘Yes,’ said Tom, folding the sleeve of Richard’s pyjamas and dressing gown back into place. ‘Just sit there quietly for a while. It won’t take long.’
Richard looked brightly around the room, smiling cheerfully at the assembled faces. Dr Chu, Tom and Andrew all smiled back but none of them could think of anything to say.
‘I’ve ordered you some new night things,’ Robin told him gently, to fill the silence. ‘I’ll bring them in tomorrow. Is there anything else you want?’ She alway
s asked; he never answered — unable to imagine the detail of what was available out there, she supposed.
But by this time the drug was beginning to take effect so he told her the truth. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I want to go home.’
She opened her mouth, but Tom held his hand up and silenced her.
‘And where is your home, Richard?’
‘With her.’ Richard pointed and smiled. This time his smile was not so bright and shallow.
‘And who is she?’
‘I … I … It’s on the tip of my tongue, but it slips away. It slips away.’ He shook his head, with unnecessary force, as though hoping to shake his memory back into place.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ soothed Tom. And Robin smiled supportively until the violent motion stopped. ‘Now,’ continued Tom quietly, ‘I’m going to ask you some questions, then we’ll proceed a little deeper. All right?’
‘All right.’
Half an hour of gentle probing established that Richard could tell time, understood right and left (and port and starboard), could use his fingers dexterously and could stretch them to a width that Rachmaninov might have envied. That he knew where he was and where the hospital was situated. He had a clear idea where Hong Kong was situated but had no idea of its history or immediate prospects. He realised that he was English but had no idea who the people were in a photograph of his parents. He did not know who the current Prime Minister was, or who was President of the United States. He failed to recognise a range of famous film titles and popular television programmes, but he knew who wrote Oliver Twist and admitted that he preferred Macbeth to Hamlet, but he liked Antony and Cleopatra best, probably because it had good sea battles in it. Tom went on to prove that Richard could focus on a series of objects at various distances away from him. That he could hear equally well in both ears. That he could remember a list of unfamiliar television programmes given to him ten minutes earlier.
At last, Tom put in front of his subject the one piece of equipment he had not used so far. It was a little flat disc about the size of a side plate mounted on a spindle which stood up from a motorised base so that the disc would spin like a little wheel. On one side of the disc was a simple spiral design in bright, almost fluorescent colours. ‘Have you ever been hypnotised?’ asked Tom as he set this up on the table in front of Richard.
‘No. Never.’
‘It’s nice to see you so certain,’ said the psychologist. ‘Have you any basis for the certainty? I see you are becoming a little agitated. Have you actively avoided being hypnotised?’
‘I don’t like …’
‘Don’t like what?’ Tom was a little more challenging. Richard’s agitation was more obvious now. There was even some perspiration on his brow.
‘I don’t like to lose …’
Tom changed tack abruptly, and let the confrontational tone drop. ‘You don’t like to lose what?’ he asked more gently. ‘Your socks? Your tie? Your trousers?’
‘Control,’ said Richard. ‘I don’t like to lose control.’
‘Very good,’ said Tom, his tone of voice betraying that he was genuinely impressed by this statement. ‘But you needn’t worry. You won’t lose control, I promise. We’re all here to make sure of that. Robin will make sure of that.’ Richard’s eyes fastened on her with agonised intensity. ‘I promise,’ she said, her voice as full of intensity as his had been. ‘Nothing will hurt you, Richard, I promise.’
The signs of his agitation began to ease. He nodded slightly, his lips tight and pale, his chin square and resolute.
‘Look at the disc,’ said Tom and he pressed a switch on the base of it which activated the motor. The motor was absolutely silent, turning the disc so that the pattern began to spiral into the centre. In motion, it resembled nothing more than a whirlpool and the others on that side of the room had to be careful to keep moving their eyes away from it or they, too, would have succumbed.
‘All I want you to do is to look at the centre of it,’ said Tom softly and flowingly as though his voice was part of the whirl of the disk. ‘Look at it right in the centre and try to keep your attention on that spinning point. You don’t have to keep your eyes focused. If they begin to blur, don’t worry. Your mind can still pick up on the movement of the pattern — that’s why it is designed with that combination of colours. The less your eyes focus, the more the colours blur, the more your mind interprets the movement. And, as you keep watching, you begin to see that there is a little hole right at the centre of it and that little hole begins to spread in an odd kind of way. Sometimes it throbs with the rhythm of the movement and sometimes it grows and grows and grows under its own steam until it just sucks in the whole of the disk and there’s nothing there to see but a huge black hole and there’s nothing left to do but to fall. Just let go and fall now, just let go and trust us to catch you. Don’t you worry now, we’re all still here and Robin’s here. Robin won’t let anyone hurt you. We’ll catch you and we’ll hold you safe. Just let go now, just let go.’
It came as a shock to Robin to discover that Richard’s eyes were shut. She had gone along with this but had never really thought that her strong-willed husband would succumb. Almost in panic she looked across at Tom and he smiled reassuringly at her. He raised his right hand in a sign demanding silence and with his left hand he turned off the machine.
Richard sat, apparently asleep, entranced.
‘Richard,’ said Tom gently, ‘Richard, are you there?’ Silence.
‘Richard?’
Silence.
‘Who are you?’ asked the psychologist.
‘Survivor.’ The word was slurred and hard to understand. Tom asked, ‘Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘Survivor,’ said the survivor of the Sulu Queen more distinctly.
‘Hello, Survivor. I have a simple instruction for you. Will you be able to remember it?’
‘Yes,’ said the survivor.
‘What I want you to remember is this. When I clap my hands, you will wake up. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. When you clap your hands I will wake up.’
‘Good. Now I’m going to start by asking you some questions. Is Richard there too?’
‘Richard hurts.’
‘But he is there?’
‘Yes. Richard is here. Richard hurts.’
‘I understand that. But can we speak to Richard?’
‘Richard hurts.’
‘Can we speak to him?’
‘Richard hurts too much.’
‘I see. Can you tell me this then. Why does Richard hurt?’
‘They shot him.’ The hands on the table jumped spastically and lurched up through the air towards the gauze-bound temples.
‘Where does Richard hurt?’
‘In the head.’
‘Why does Richard hurt in the head?’
‘They shot him in the head.’
‘Who shot Richard in the head?’
‘More pirates.’
‘Why did they shoot him?’
‘Pirates kill. That’s what pirates do. Rob and kill.’
‘Just rest there for a moment. Relax now. Is that correct, Dr Chu? Were Huuk and his men disguised as pirates when they went aboard?’
‘I have no idea. How should I know?’
Tom’s eyes met Andrew’s. The solicitor gave a nod: he would find out.
‘Now then, Survivor, I would like you to take us back. Please do not move or gesture. That’s right, just rest your hands back on the table there, and relax. Now, I want you to describe what you can see. Start with the man who shot you.’
‘Pirate. Gun. Massive gun!’
‘So that’s all you really noticed about him? His gun? What are you doing, Survivor?’
‘Watching!’
‘What are you holding in your right hand?’
The subject’s head moved, as though he would have looked down — had he not been forbidden to do so. His right hand, on the table, twitched. It was clawed round something only he could see.
‘A gun.’
‘What sort of gun?’
‘I don’t know. Big.’
‘Where did you get the gun?’
‘Took it. Took it!’
‘Who did you take it from?’
‘I took it from him!’
‘You took it from the pirate who shot you?’
‘No. Other! From him. Him!’
‘Him? Does he have a name?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘A member of the crew?’
‘No. Yes.’
‘Which is it?’
‘Yes. No.’
‘And what did he do when you took the gun?’
‘He screamed. He died. Richard hurts.’ The voice was shaking now.
‘He died?’
‘He died. Richard hurts.’ A break in the voice made it clear that the pain to Richard was real and extreme.
‘How did he die?’
‘He died. Richard hurts too much!’ There was childlike simplicity, an absolute trust in the way in which these words were said. The pain was too much now and they had promised to stop it. She had promised.
‘You have to stop this,’ said Robin. She started to clap, as though applauding the show. The psychologist paid no attention to her. Neither did his subject.
‘How did he die?’ snapped Tom, his voice raised. After the quiet and calm so far it was as though he shouted, but he did not.
‘Richard …’ came the choking answer. The hands on the table were shaking now, the one holding the phantom gun jumping up and down convulsively, trying to reach the agonised head.
‘Stop!’ screamed Robin.
‘Richard killed him!’ grated the agonised survivor, his voice breaking as though the confession was being tortured out of him. ‘Richard killed him. Richard killed him. Oh Robin, it hurts. Make it stop, make it stop!’
Robin was sobbing now, beating her hands agonisingly together and watching her poor lost darling with flooding eyes, rapidly going over the edge of her self-control into a pit of pure hysteria. But when Tom snapped ‘Stop!’ she obeyed.
The instant that there was silence, Tom slapped his hands together once, and it was as though a switch had been thrown in Richard’s head. All the pain was gone in the instant. The survivor sat back smiling slightly, absolutely relaxed, once again at peace.
