by Lee Stevens
“Because of my expertise regarding pain control, I was asked to look at him along with a neurosurgeon and several orthopaedic specialists. After putting the boy through various tests and eliminating the notion that he was feigning, we could find no medical reason for his lack of recovery pain – especially none involving spinal damage which seemed to be the obvious cause. One of my colleagues suspected Congenital Insensitivity to Pain disorder, but that was quickly ruled out as the boy’s grandmother informed us that he had been a normal healthy child up until the accident who had had his fare share of bumped heads and scraped knees and had cried thousands of tears in his young life. Plus he had none of the trademark signs for CIP; no loss of bladder or bowel control; no old and unknown fractures; no damage to his tongue or oral cavity; no eye damage. More importantly, he told us he could remember feeling pain before the accident but not since.”
Another pause to let his words sink in. Another sip of water to lubricate his throat.
“We assumed that the problem did not rise from his nociceptors. How would it be possible for every pain receptor throughout his body to cease functioning all at the same time? If the problem was in only one part of his body – below the waist, for example - then yes, it would be possible and a hidden spinal compression could be blamed. But, like I have already said, every test performed showed no damage to the central nervous system.
“So, in the end, all we could agree on was that his mind must be behind this most perplexing puzzle. Imagine if you will, someone placing their hand into a fire. The instance any damage occurs to the skin the nociceptors in the hand would pass a signal up through the spinal column to his brain. The thalamus would then assesses this pain and work out what action to take. Not only would a pain signal be sent, the person would automatically pull their hand away from the flames. In Boy D’s case, none of this happens. His hand would burn. His skin would bubble and melt and unless he was aware of what was happening the hand would remain in the fire. Signals would still be sent to the brain warning of the danger and the brain would prepare to start the healing process once the danger was over but a pain signal would not be relayed and neither would a reflex action. His mind simply refuses to acknowledge the feeling of pain yet at the same time it is still very aware of damage being caused to his body. If he is burned, his skin will blister. If he receives a cut, the blood will coagulate. Should he catch an infection, his immune system would try to fight it. If he is cold, he shivers. If hot, he sweats. Yet he feels none of these sensations.”
A few of the audience members began to mumble to one another at that point. Carter didn’t blame them. The story did seem unbelievable. No doubt many of the professionals in this room would be already convinced that Carter and his colleagues had surely missed something in their physical examination and rigorous tests.
“We all know that the body administers its own anaesthetics but none powerful enough to make severe pain tolerable,” Carter went on. “The mind also has powers to control pain, we all know that too. It can be controlled to believe what is not. In the nineteen-seventies Professor Ernest Hilgard used hypnosis in several experiments regarding pain control. In one such case, the subject under hypnosis was asked to place their hand in ice cold water under the allusion that it was room temperature and managed to keep it there comfortably for several minutes whilst those not hypnotised lasted only seconds, thus proving that the mind controls everything, even the sensation of pain. But in this case the mind is being controlled and forced to ignore pain. In Boy D’s case, this action seems to be involuntary.”
Carter turned to his final page of notes.
“Now, the million dollar question – why does Boy D not feel pain? Well, the simple, disappointing answer is that we really don’t know. My own personal opinion is that his condition is linked to posttraumatic stress disorder and not any physical injury. We all know that shock can affect people in very different ways. Sometimes it can kill. Other times it can save lives. Think of the many soldiers in the many wars who have lost limbs in the heat of a battle who later stated that they’d felt no pain until long afterwards. I think an even better comparison to Boy D’s case can been seen in early cases of shell-shocked soldiers in the trenches of the First World War. Their symptoms - back then sadly seen by the majority of officers and medical personal as acts of cowardice - included hysteria, paralysis, anxiety, muscle contractions, nightmares and depression. More interestingly, many cases of blindness and deafness with no physical cause were also reported. Yes, shock can actually render people blind. Shock can also make people deaf. There was no damage to these men’s eyes or ears but they really couldn’t see or hear. One poor chap was profoundly deaf. Couldn’t hear the loudest noise. Yet if you whispered the word ‘bomb’ in his ear he would panic and look for the nearest piece of furniture to hide under. He could hear, but only the one word his brain allowed him to.
“An army major, Arthur Hurst, was one of the first people to recognise the role shock could play on the human mind and the many problems it can cause. He successfully treated many World War One survivors and, in time, a lot of them fully recovered from their various disorders. And I think time is our best hope in Boy D’s case.”
Carter smiled at the audience. It was conclusion time. Well, his conclusion. The truth might never be known.
“I believe that when that poor boy lay alone and injured in that carriage, surrounded by the dead, he went into shock and once in shock his mind went into survival mode. I believe his brain refused to acknowledge pain for the boy’s survival and that condition has persisted for an unknown reason to this day and maybe will continue for the rest of his life. Pain is a sense – an extension of touch. If shock can lead to the loss of other senses such as sight and hearing, why not pain? I’ll finish by stating what I truly believe; that Boy D has been left numb, not by an injury to his body, but by a shock to his mind.”
Carter tidied his notes and placed them to one side. Now for the tricky part.
“Thank you for listening,” he said. “Now, I’m happy to open the floor to questions.”
Dozens of hands instantly shot up and Carter suppressed a smile as he took another drink of water.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to answer most of them.
9
The phrase ‘hit-man’ often conjures up images of a professional killer. An assassin. Someone trained in the art of weapons or poisons or hand-to-hand combat. A person steeped in mystery, called upon to take out a target for an extremely large sum in a quick and effective manner before disappearing back into non-existence, leaving no trail, no clue as to their identity. But, in actual fact, the vast majority of contract killings that happen annually throughout the world are carried out by amateurs willing to do anything for money - like Brian Wilcox and Marlon Tennant, who, by nine o’clock, were parked in the side street around the corner to Twilight Nightclub.
They kept an eye on the passing traffic and the people on the streets hurrying through the drizzle to the next wine-bar or public house. Surprisingly, they hadn’t seen any police yet. They were always out on force on Friday nights, and although Twilight Nightclub was a few streets from the main strip of bars and restaurants, the filth often patrolled the alleyways and side streets here looking for any minor crime to add to their arrest tallies. The sight of the two of them sitting in a stationary vehicle might arouse their suspicions. Even though the car wasn’t registered as stolen, a nosey copper might still knock on the window and want to see some identification and spoil everything.
Still, they’d deal with that situation if it arose. For now, they were sitting pretty, just a few minutes away from earning the second half of a nice five grand.
Everything had gone smoothly so far. Picking up the Corsa from the multi-storey and driving it to the ferry landing hadn’t been a problem. No one had seen them leave it there nor had they been seen at the steelworks when they climbed in the Peugeot a short walk later. When they returned to the multi-storey in the Corsa later they’
d make sure the same guard who’d seen them leave noticed them again. It would be handy having a witness see them in that car. The Peugeot would be underwater soon.
Wilcox was sat behind the wheel and he checked his watch as he inhaled a long drag from his cigarette.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said.
“I know,” Tennant replied.
“Not nervous?”
“For five grand I’d kill my old man.”
“He’s already dead, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. His liver packed in.”
Wilcox nodded and flicked his cigarette out the window. “You can kill my dad then – if I ever find out who he is.”
“If you do, let me know. I’ll not miss with this baby.” Tennant tapped the Uzi submachine gun that lay on his lap, hidden under his coat. Rodgers or one of his men had placed it in the car’s boot earlier, fully loaded and ready for use. It was a good weapon, costly and imported, but worth it. You didn’t have to aim as well with a weapon like this. You just sprayed the scene. Tennant had never handled one before but wasn’t unnerved by it. A gun was a gun, wasn’t it? He’d shot birds with an air rifle a few times as a kid, fired a shotgun at some empty beer cans when he and his mates were stoned out in the woods one night, and he’d fired a handgun once when he was fifteen, emptying all six bullets into the back of a kid from a rival estate who had stolen his brother’s bike. Unbelievably, the kid survived but couldn’t identify Tennant as the culprit. There would be no near misses tonight though.
Tonight, his target wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Just remember to brace yourself for the recoil,” Wilcox said. “You don’t want to lose control and be firing all over the place.”
“Chill out,” Tennant said. “I know what I’m doing.” He laughed a little, like something funny had just struck him. “Taking out Mike Nash – not many people have the balls for that.”
“What if we get caught, though?” Wilcox said. “Are we gonna grass and tell the truth? Say we were paid to do it? And who paid us?”
“We’ll not get caught. Chill – the – fuck - out. Here, have another smoke.”
Wilcox nodded and took the cigarette Tennant offered. He lit up and stared ahead through the rain-spattered windscreen. Time seemed to be standing still.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said.
“I know,” replied Tennant.
10
Thirnbridge city centre has well over fifty pubs and wine bars and ten choices of nightclub, the majority of which are to be found on the south side of the river. Come the weekend thousands pack the drinking dens out, thousands who, despite their age, race or sex, can be separated into two groups – those out to have fun and enjoy themselves, and the trouble makers.
It was the trouble makers who Riley often had to deal with. Like young lad’s not long out of school who thought they could take on the world because they’d downed a few pints, or idiots high on drugs who would kick off for no reason because they didn’t know what planet they were on, or nutcases who would stick a glass in someone’s face just because they thought they were staring at their girlfriend’s tits – foolish people out to spoil the night for others. But luckily, none of them were in Twilight Nightclub tonight. It was closed to the public and just a select two hundred were inside to celebrate Nash’s son’s birthday.
Michael junior was Nash’s pride and joy, his only child from his one previous marriage that had ended in a mess almost fifteen years ago. Nash had gotten custody of Michael without having to fight for him in court after his coke-snorting, free-spending wife disappeared abroad after a blazing row over her behaviour. She hadn’t been heard from since and whispered rumours still circulated about Nash having her ‘taken care of’ after she’d threatened to go to the police with evidence of his dodgy dealings if he didn’t give her a hell of a good divorce settlement. Some people said he’d paid her off to save going to court and she’d eventually overdosed out in the Costa del Sol nearly a decade ago. Others suggested that she was still out there, still snorting the white powder and guzzling the vodka and riddled with STDs. Most people, however, didn’t talk about Michael’s mother and instead focussed on how good a father Nash was and how much he doted on his son, and as Riley looked across the room to where they sat side by side surrounded by friends and family, he had to agree. It was obvious Nash loved his boy more than anything in the world. The only downside was that everyone else was a distant second, including Sandra and Wendy.
Riley ordered a mineral water at the bar and looked around at the party that was in full swing. Several guests had been lured onto the dance-floor, people were mingling well and the sound of conversation and laughter was a constant rumble behind the music. But there was always a chance of trouble. It was always lurking behind every sip of lager, every stare and every loose word uttered, and it could rear its ugly head at short notice.
He phoned down to the doormen to check in whilst he waited for his drink. Even though the club was closed two men had been employed to turn away anyone who might try and gain entry not knowing a private party was underway. That was another good way for trouble to start. Try telling twenty pissed-up lads on a stag night that they couldn’t come in and you’d soon find out.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
“Quiet as a mouse,” Harry Knight replied. Despite the little incident with the dealer last night, Knight and Devlin had escaped with only a verbal warning from Riley and hadn’t been relieved of any shifts. “No one’s tried to get in. Everyone must know the place is closed. It’s gonna be an easy night for us.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“A couple of pints would be nice.”
“When your shift’s finished.”
“You’re too strict, boss.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Riley pocketed his phone and collected his drink from the bar. Then he headed to the back of the room, past the crowded tables full of happy, smiling faces to where Purvis was sat alone, looking like he wanted to be somewhere else.
“Cheer up. It might never happen,” he said, sitting down.
Purvis forced a smile.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just enjoying the party.”
“You’re a poor liar.”
Purvis was staring at the dance-floor, his eyes focussed on Wendy who was dancing on the toes of an elderly man who Riley guessed to be a relative of Nash. He didn’t recognise half the people here. Hadn’t seen them before in his life.
“She looks lovely, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Riley replied. He sipped his mineral water and scanned the room again, his eyes finally settling on Sandra standing by the buffet table who was watching Wendy also. He hadn’t seen her with Nash all night – which was probably best. Over the last few months they couldn’t talk for more than a minute without an argument erupting. “She seems to be putting on a brave face tonight.”
“She has to.” Purvis downed his drink. Riley noticed it was whisky - straight. Purvis usually drank it with coke. No doubt having to watch both the woman he loved and his secret daughter from afar was getting to him more than usual tonight and he needed to feel the burn. Times of celebration could be hard if you had nothing to celebrate.
“You better put a brave face on, too,” Riley told him. “It’s obvious something’s on your mind. You don’t want anyone asking questions.”
Purvis obviously wasn’t listening. He looked up and said, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out soon.”
Riley nodded but found it hard to agree. Usually if you were having an affair with your boss’s partner and it came out in the open then all you would fear is a black-eye and receiving your P45 in the post. If the woman in question was in a relationship with Mike Nash, however, things were very different. He ended relationships, not the other way around and if you were a close friend of his you didn’t touch his girlfriend, no matter how strong your feelings. If either of those rules were broken he’d deal with you in
his own brutal way. Even though Nash must have slept with dozens of women behind Sandra’s back and probably couldn’t tell you the date of Wendy’s birthday, they were both his and his to get rid of if he so desired. No one took anything from him. He was the sort of man who would hunt someone down if they stole rubbish from his wheelie bin. Not because he wanted what had been taken, but out for payback because someone had the nerve to take from him.
“So when are the three of you planning to leave?” Riley asked.
“Soon.”
“How soon is soon?”
“A month or so.”
“That is soon,” Riley said. “You got enough money to set up somewhere else?”
“When I sell the house I will have. It’s going up for auction in a few weeks.” Purvis, like Nash, had seen the potential money to be made in property developing and had bought and sold half a dozen houses in the last five years, each earning him a decent profit. Three years ago, just before Sandra had fallen pregnant, he’d bought a dilapidated shell five miles outside the city that had gone to auction after no buyer had met the asking price of £150,000. Back in the sixties and seventies the place had been used as a kind of community hall, a meeting place for dance-classes and boy scout meetings and such like, and it had stood empty since the late eighties. It had large overgrown gardens to the front and rear, was two storeys tall, boasted ten rooms and with a lot of love and attention could be transformed into a luxury home. Purvis had won the bidding at a mere £92,000 and now, three years later, and close to fifty thousand spent on renovations, it had been turned into a four bedroom cottage with two acres of private land with a potential selling price of three-hundred thousand. No one but Riley and Sandra knew about the house; Riley because he could be trusted to keep a secret, and Sandra because she and Purvis had used the house to meet up privately whenever they could. It was probably that fact which had delayed Purvis selling the place. Riley knew his friend’s ideal use for the property would be as a family home for the family he could never have. He’d invested a lot of time and money into the place. Had spent many hours there decorating it to his own taste. He’d probably made love to Sandra there a hundred times and strolled with Wendy around the large gardens when she was a baby. Selling it would hurt him despite the massive profit.