by Mick Norman
Angela took one of the vials out, and carefully tipped a measured amount into the orange juice. Using a glass rod, she stirred it round. After she’d put the vial back, she locked the cupboard, locked the room, put the drink back in the fridge and went happily to bed.
The label on the vial bore the neatly-type words: Scopolamine – Hyoscine. Underneath, in her own precise writing, she had added the words: Truth Drug.
Thirteen – It’s Bad For Your Health He Said
Extract from Uses Of Psycho-Therapeutics In The Treatment Of The Recidivist
by Beulah-May Howell.
Published by Ortyx Press,198–
It has often been suggested that there is no such thing as a ‘truth drug’. Too many medical experts are prepared to discard the overwhelming body of evidence that shows that such drugs do indeed exist, and have been used under practical conditions for many years.
Their basic principle is the same as that used in certain forms of anaesthetic, where resistance is lowered in pre-operative conditions to ease the way for the final anaesthetic. This lowering of resistance is exactly what is needed to take a person to the position where he finds it difficult to resist any question. Where it is simply easier to tell the truth than to lie.
There was long held the opinion that it was only possible to make someone confess to things that he actually wished to confess to. And, that it was not possible to make anyone reveal anything that he or she did not wish to confess to. In other words, that a simple determination to resist was sufficient to keep the truth from an inquisitor. Subsequent events have repeatedly shown how outdated this idea is.
There are three main drugs used in this form of interrogation. All are forms of barbiturates. Perhaps the least used is Amobarbital, which has long-lasting effects and is generally felt to be one of the least effective of this group of so-called ‘truth-drugs’.
An anaesthetic sometimes used by dentists is Sodium Thiopental. Administered intravenously, it has the effect of a general anaesthetic. Because of this, it is less than satisfactory used as a drug to break down resistance in cases of psycho-therapeutics.
It must be administered in doses subject to the most careful control, otherwise the subject will simply either not go under at all, or will lapse into total unconsciousness.
At this stage, it must be stressed that I am not advocating any kind of illegal use of these drugs, nor should they be used for ascertaining military or criminal information. That would be a gross invasion of privacy. Nor should they ever be used without a patient’s consent, as their identity may become confused.
It is only in cases of recidivists and quick-return criminals that I advocate the use of such drugs. This is to try and discover any deep-seated blocks that may give a psychiatrist a clue to any personality disorder. I cannot stress the dangers enough of illegal or uncontrolled use of these drugs.
The last of them, and the most commonly used, is Scopolamine – Hyoscine. There is an increasing use of this in cases of difficult childbirth, as it can – when combined with morphine – produce a state known as ‘twilight sleep’.
An alkaloid of the belladonna family, it is found in nature in Deadly Nightshade. In small doses it depresses the parasympathetic nerves. It is in this state that it can be used as a truth drug. It has a particularly wide use because of its easy solubility in any liquid.
But, caution! It is a highly toxic material, and extreme care must be exercised if it is to be used ip any larger dose. Apart from its effects when used in moderation, in higher it affects the autonomic ganglia. That is to say the main motor functions of the body such as bowels and, more importantly, the heart. It can stop the heart.
Used in moderation, it can have the effect of putting the subject into a slightly confused and forgetful state, whereby his resistance can be broken and he will reveal facts that he would otherwise not do.
NOTE: All of these materials are dangerous if improperly used, or if a dosage is repeated with any frequency.
Fourteen – The Death Count Gets Higher
The attack was two days in coming. The weather stayed warm, but Gwyn and Monk insisted on sentries being posted, while a couple of the old ladies, organised by Modesty, dressed up in pretty summer dresses and kept an eye on the camp of the Star Trekkers. It was on the evening of the second day that Modesty came running up to where Monk lay asleep on one of the broken pews in the quiet of the shattered school-house.
‘Tonight, love.’ Geneth was up on the hill watching them and she saw them cleaning guns through her glasses. ‘Guns love. That means big trouble.’
Monk rolled over on one elbow and looked up at her through his sunglasses. ‘Thanks, love. And, thank Geneth for us. You’ve done well. Yeah, guns are always fucking trouble. Looks like they really want to make this a big one. Wipe the Wolves right off the fucking map. I’ll go and talk to Gwyn. Better get our plan ready.’
The plan was nearly ready. It was just a question of whether it was to be a day plan or a night plan. It now looked as though it was going to be a night plan.
During that early evening, the old ladies and the mamas gradually dropped out of sight, making their way by a devious and secret route out of the ruined village, to camp high on the eastern slopes of The Rivals. Yr Eifl, as the Wolves called them, Near the ancient camp of Tre’r Ceiri. There, they’d be safe, whatever happened.
Because it wasn’t going to be any easy win for the Wolves and the Last Heroes. They were both outnumbered and certainly outgunned. Between them, they could muster about twenty-five fighting brothers. Only half of the Manchester chapter. And, they had no guns. But, they had local knowledge on their side, and they were probably more ruthless and experienced in real eyeball confrontations.
As the sun went down, Gwyn and Monk made their rounds of the camp, checking that all the brothers were where they should be and that they were sober.
After the checking, it was just a matter of waiting.
The president of the Star Trekkers was called, predictably enough, Kirk. His second-in-command was called Spock. He’d even taken the extreme step of having his ears altered so that they resembled the pointed shape of the old Vulcan hero. The sergeant-at-arms was Scottie, and other brothers were called Bones, Sulu, Chekov, Kang, Koloth and Korax (these three all admired the warlike Klingons and had taken their names) while Kirk’s old lady had changed her name of Tunnel, to the more beautiful Uhura.
As a chapter, the Star Trekkers had only been established for a couple of years, but they had already built up a reputation in the North of England for being the meanest bunch of hell-raising mothers ever to straddle a hog. In those two years they had challenged and beaten every other chapter of any note in the North and Midlands.
What galled them, was the romantic magic still attached to some of the old names. Chapters that had actually been chartered before, the great clamp-down and had, somehow, managed to survive through the seventies into the eighties. These were the ones they wanted. The Last Heroes were too far away, and there were many good reasons for leaving them till last. The most pressing of these reasons was that they were the best.
After them, the most magic of the chapter names was the Wolves. The white-maned albino and his band of Celtic brothers, riding the desolate cwms of the northern Welsh peaks. They were the ones to try for.
The first two skirmishes had been inconclusive, with losses on both sides, but no sign of a final result. Now, tonight was to be the big one.
Kirk had called his council-of-war and had decided on a simple sea-borne attack. Their previous sallies had involved subtle plans and split forces. Now, since they had an overwhelming numerical advantage, Kirk had decided to make one great rush and end the affair. But, he didn’t realise that the odds weren’t quite as much in his favour as he thought.
They stole their boats from Nefyn, after the last holidaymakers had left the sweep of fine sand, using engines stolen from a marine supplier in Caernarvon. Petrol from a garage near Abersoch. Guns, ammunition and
knives from their own home city.
They chugged round the bay, heading out to sea in a tiny armada of overloaded boats. All of them wearing their colours, with heavy boots. They were lucky the tide was on the turn, and the waves quiet and flat. When they were a mile out to sea, Kirk gave the signal, and they all cut their engines. Moaning and cursing, they got out the paddles and oars and started the long trek in to the elevated beach at Nant Gwrtheyrn.
Using night glasses that he’d liberated from an army camp when he was showing a bit of anti-English class, Gwyn watched them plodding in.
‘I make it seven, no eight boats. Jesu, that’s not many for all that lot. Unless they’re a diversion and there’s another lot coming over the back.’
‘Relax, Gwyn. We’ve got men out along the top, and they’d have let us know by now if there was anything.’ In the blackness, he could easily make out the pale face of the Wolves’ president, the lips pulled back from the teeth in a feral grin. He thought, as he had before, that this was not a man he’d like to have to face on a dark night.
A night like that.
It wasn’t until they were within fifty yards of the beach that Gwyn’s first-row defence came into action. Most of the Wolves could swim, and swim well. Few of the Star Trekkers could swim at all.
Quietly, secretly, they were creeping closer. Suddenly, a hand came over the side of one of the boats, and pulled down hard. With twelve men in, plus their weapons; the dinghy was already crowded to the gunwhales. Immediately, icy water sloshed over the side. The Angels panicked. In the blackness , it was hard to see where the beach was, and the boat wobbled and rocked. Spock was commanding it and he yelled at his men to sit still. All pretence at secrecy was forgotten in an instant.
Despite Spock’s shout, the panic didn’t cease. And, when a Welsh brother appeared over the other side of the boat and knifed a Star Trekker in the chest, screaming with wild laughter as he did so, there was a rush to get out of the boat. It tipped over and filled instantly, throwing them all into the cold sea.
Cyllell swirled among them, his flensing knife pointed upwards. Fifty yards is only one length of a big swimming pool. Not far at all. But, at night, wearing heavy clothes, with a man after you with a knife, then it’s not so damned easy.
The Wolf did his work so well that only three of the twelve made it to the shore at all. The rest either drowned, or bled to death in the salt green depths.
Two other boats went the same way, until Kirk managed to get the others to start their engines and roar for the dubious safety of the beach. One Angel died, losing an arm to the tearing teeth of a propellor. That was tough on that brother, but it was a cheap price to pay for that stunning blow at the onset of the battle.
The Manchester Angels straggled on to the shingle, looking round for the attack they expected to come at any moment. Their guns raked the hill above them, looking for the silhouettes of their enemies.
This was a crucial psychological moment. Monk had urged that they hold off, in case they didn’t manage to sink enough boats. If they had attacked, there were still enough guns to cut bloody gaps in their ranks.
Hidden on the bluff, Gwyn passed the heavy glasses to the acting president of the Last Heroes. ‘See. You were right, boy, there’s still a fucking crowd down there. I make it at least twelve with shotguns.
Monk was also busy counting. ‘Eleven shotguns. Their president, if that’s the big guy, looks as though he’s got a fucking Luger. Have to watch him. Bloody good, though, Gwyn. I reckon they lost nearly twenty men there. Stupid bastards. Wait till that hits them.’
It had already hit Kirk, and most of his senior brothers. It had seemed a game when someone suggested they set out to be top chapter. And, the first few fights hadn’t been too tough. They’d only lost two in the first year and a half. Three more had wiped out trying to show a bit too much class on a crowded motorway. Then, things had started getting much tougher. They’d got the guns, and that had tipped the balance. Until these Welsh bastards, nobody had wanted to tangle with them. Preferring to simply back down. But, they had grievously miscalculated over the Wolves. They were the gutsy, old-fashioned brothers. And, they fought for keeps.
Kirk was shattered by what had happened. Spock had crept among the survivors, reporting that their original party of forty-eight was now only twenty-nine.
‘Dead. All of them! Fucking God! What went wrong? Listen, we’ve got to wipe them all out. Every single one. And their women. Otherwise, we’ll have the police on our backs.’
Still the attack didn’t come on them. Minutes passed, and tension stretched nerves to breaking point.
They had spread out to form a loose ring, about fifty yards apart.
That was what Monk wanted. He waved his hand, and the second phase started.
Stones were lobbed accurately into that circle, and all around it. They bounced off the shingle and rattled around like a charge of cavalry. At the same time, Monk shouted out at the top of his voice: ‘Come on Wolves! And Last Heroes! At them!’
It was enough to spook the Star Trekkers. First one, and then another of the brothers with guns started to use them. Spinning around in the blackness, blasting away at each other. Pellets bounced and richocheted off the shingle, lodging in bone and muscle and flesh. It took over a minute before Kirk managed to regain enough control to stop the firing. By then, five more of his landing party had died, while several more were coughing and moaning on the rocks.
‘Hold it! Hold it! You stupid bastards! There’s still only us on the beach. Group together. We’re going in.’
Privately, he was demoralised, and that’s over half way towards being defeated. The thought of the police who must inevitably be brought in with that number of dead and seriously wounded tore at his mind, making it hard to concentrate on what he was doing.
That was something that the other Angels in the ruined village, higher up the mountain, didn’t worry about. There’d been other killings and other times when they’d had to go underground. This time, though, the bodies were going to be many more and take a lot of explaining. So, they’d make sure that none of them were left alive to give any explanations.
Kirk split his men up into three separate groups, hoping to outflank and encircle the defenders. With the advantage of height and the night-glasses, and now even a numerical advantage, it would have been better if he’d cut his losses and gone home. But, he pressed on stupidly. Above him, with all those advantages, the Wolves and Last Heroes waited.
And watched.
The first group was led by a thin brother called Sulu, and consisted of eight of the toughest members of the chapter. The slippery cliff rose sheer above them, so Sulu tried to cut round by what was left of the old quarry. Creeping along in single file, they climbed through a narrow ravine, with a fast-flowing stream to their right.
They froze as the voice of Cochise echoed from in front of them. ‘Let there be light! And there was light. Close!’
At the last word, the ambushing brothers all tightly closed their eyes, pressing their palms to shut out what they knew was happening. Deintydd was a bit of a chemist, and he’d made a string of magnesium bombs, that all ignited at the same moment.
The glaring white light blasted at the night, turning it to a ghostly pale day. The Star Trekkers, their pupils ready for blackness were immediately blinded. Although they closed their eyes at the first dazzling flash, it was still too late. One of the Wolves who had wrecked his own night-vision to watch the flares gave the shout the second blackness had fallen again.
It was all too easy. Like taking shot guns from blind men. The three who fought were clubbed quickly into unconsciousness. The remainder never knew what was happening till they felt the prick of a sharp knife nudging at their jugulars, threatening them with an instant one-way trip to eternity.
It took less than five minutes to subdue the best third of Kirk’s floundering command. Over to the right, the second third had got themselves lost and were sliding and cursing as they t
ried to climb an unclimbable rock face. Monk had taken command of that flank, and simply waited at the bottom, until they slid down to where he waited with his men. Since the Star Trekkers fell in ones and twos, he was able to take them easily. Only one of the Manchester brothers died there. He’d broken free and was running along the shingle, breath rasping in his throat, when a small, almost dwarf-like figure appeared out of the beach at his feet and opened him from groin to neck. The shock was so great that he tried to keep on running, despite his hideous wound, finally falling when he got tangled up with his own intestines.
‘Never did have any guts, these bastards,’ muttered Rat, looking down at his handiwork.
That left the middle eight, with Kirk and Spock. The brother with the mutilated ears had played a mute role in the battle. If such a one-sided slaughter could properly be called a battle.
While they looked up at the steep climb that faced them, they suddenly saw a vision from the depths of hell, grinning down at them. The face was as white as scrubbed ivory, and the red eyes seemed to gleam at them, in that deep darkness. The voice was as soft as a caress, and as vicious as a scorpion’s sting.
‘Brothers. Can you hear me? Brother Kirk and what is left of your Star Trekkers?’
In answer, Kirk wildly fired both barrels towards the face, which promptly disappeared. And, reappeared some yards to the left of where it had been.
‘Naughty, naughty. That will only get you all dead. You ought to know that all the rest of your party are dead or captured. Which may amount to the same thing, depending on whether you decide you’re going to be sensible or just fucking stupid!’
On the last two words, an edge crept into the voice. ‘You’re bluffing. We’d have heard something.’
Gwyn smiled. He knew that Kirk really believed him. ‘Do you think that? Call to them. See if they answer. Or, would you like me to have them brought here and cut their throats one by one while you watch?’