The Devil's Landscape

by Ken McClure

  ‘You don’t like politicians very much, do you?’

  Steven gave a politician’s answer. ‘Well, it all depends on what you mean by “like”. What I am saying – and I’ve made this perfectly clear in the past – the question of liking or not liking is subject to constant change and, as such . . .’

  Lucy cottoned on to what Steven was doing and said, You’re good at this. She became his interviewer, ‘Answer the question!’ she demanded. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Well, what I am saying – and you’re absolutely right to ask the question – is Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow . . .’

  ‘You’re a natural,’ conceded Lucy and they both laughed.

  ‘Something tells me you’re not a scientist?’ said Steven.

  ‘An English teacher,’ said Lucy. ‘Maybe it would have helped if I had been and understood more about what Owen was working on, but Bunsen burners and bad smells were never my scene.’

  ‘I don’t think it would have helped at all,’ said Steven. ‘Maybe a master’s in psychology, but even then . . . Owen’s been treading where angels fear to go.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m struggling here myself,’ Steven confessed. ‘It’s a bit like trying to define charisma. It’s impossible, but we all recognise it when we come across it. Those who have it can often influence – even inspire the rest of us – and it’s not unusual for some people to fall completely under their spell. In Owen’s case he’s come up against the evil equivalent of charisma. There are those who exude evil and malice to a spellbinding degree and unfortunately, these people exert influence too . . . sometimes with catastrophic consequences.’

  ‘That sounds positively terrifying,’ said Lucy. Her eyes widened and she seemed to take an age thinking about it before saying, ‘Do you know what I think is the most alarming thing for me? . . . it’s that Owen seemed to know that . . . He spoke about loathing Lawler but also being fascinated by him. He hated him for what he’d done, but the more he hated him the more interested he seemed to become in him. It sounded like an addiction being described by a scientist, but he was talking about himself.’

  Steven nodded.

  And now the big money question, what will happen if he can’t see Lawler any more . . . will he come back to me? Will I get my husband back?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Steven. ‘Understanding what you’re dealing with and what you’re up against can be a big advantage in a situation like this. It helps you rationalise things and, from what you say, Owen knows what’s been going on inside his head. He needed data for his study and he’s been prepared to take the risk of associating with a number of absolute monsters for quite some time. ‘He must have convinced himself he could handle it.’

  ‘And then along came Lawler.’

  ‘I remember when we spoke for the first time,’ said Steven. ‘He said there was something special about Lawler. He couldn’t put his finger on it at the time but it seemed clear that Lawler was in some awful different league to the others in his study. It’s no surprise to hear that Lawler has gotten to him, but he was obviously prepared to take the risk and maybe push his luck . . . too far.’

  ‘I think that explains things perfectly,’ said Lucy quietly.

  Steven said, ‘Many people who come into contact with the seamier side of life on a regular basis convince themselves that they can leave the job behind when they go home at the end of the day and then find they can’t. They start seeking help from booze and pills and then resent anyone who notices they have a problem and tries to help – usually the ones who care the most. An unfortunate few discover just how few steps there are between having a secure family life and settling down for the night under a railway arch.

  ‘Owen’s started drinking.’

  Steven saw the panic in Lucy’s eyes and could see this wasn’t the time to trot out glib assurances. He said, ‘We should consider the positives.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Lawler is the problem.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Moorlock Hall is not going to exist for much longer. Its inmates will be transferred to other secure units. Owen will not be granted further access to Lawler.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I will see to it.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Owen told me you were a doctor,’ said Lucy. ‘but you’re not a psychiatrist, are you?’

  ‘So, what do I know . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . .’

  ‘I was an army medic,’ said Steven. ‘Let’s just say I came across the evil dregs of humanity in my time and saw what they did. I learned from the experience.’

  ‘I see, and now?’

  ‘I’m chief investigator with Sci-Med.’ Steven explained Sci-Med’s function.

  Lucy nodded. ‘Okay, I believe you, no more meetings with Lawler. Happy days.’

  ‘Owen probably has enough samples from Lawler to give him data for his research and, if not, he has material from prisoners in all the other secure units. There’s no reason why he can’t get on with analysing them and completing his project. Maybe once he gets back to working full time in the lab and stops spending so much time with deranged killers, he’ll find his way back to normality.’

  ‘I desperately want to believe you,’ said Lucy with an attempt at a smile.

  Steven got up to go and gave her his card. ‘Call any time if you need me.’

  ‘What should I do about warning Owen there’s going to be stuff in the papers?’ Lucy asked.

  Steven could see the difficulty in the situation. Lucy wouldn’t want to tell her husband she’d been seeking a shoulder to cry on. ‘Don’t,’ he said. Have an early night. Go to bed. Leave a note for Owen telling him I phoned and that he should call me back when he got in. The time doesn’t matter.’

  TEN

  Steven stood in the darkness of his empty flat for a few minutes looking out the window at the lights of the river traffic. It moved slowly and the lights were pretty. He felt uneasy and concerned about Lucy Barrowman. He had believed the situation to be manageable until she’d told him about the attack on her husband and the fact that, despite the experience, he still wanted to continue working with Lawler.

  Although he hadn’t said so to Lucy – because she needed reassurance not cause for further anxiety – that took things to a new level. This was not the normal behaviour of a person whose life had been in danger. Joe and Jill Public would have been more than happy to have the emergency services appear on the scene – the more the merrier – and to have had medical checks carried out and reassurance provided. There was a real risk that Barrowman had stopped rationalising his association with Lawler and had fallen completely under his spell. If that were so, Lucy could be in danger. One thing was for sure, if there was to be any chance of recovering the situation, Barrowman had to be stopped from seeing Lawler.

  The phone rang and broke his train of thought. It was Tally.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I’ve called twice, the last time half an hour ago.

  ‘I went to meet a young lady.’

  ‘I should have known,’ said Tally. ‘Turn my back for ten minutes and you’re out on the pull.’

  ‘I can hear you sharpening your scalpel.’

  ‘No, I’m going to use a blunt one.’

  ‘I went to see Lucy Barrowman. She has fears for her husband.’

  ‘With cause?’ Tally asked.

  ‘I think maybe.’

  ‘Oh dear, so what’s the plan?’

  ‘He has to be kept away from Lawler. I’m going to speak to John in the morning and maybe I’ll pay the director of Moorlock Hall a visit before the world and his wife turn up.’

  ‘You don’t think a D notice will be issued?’

  ‘I can’t see it,’ said Steven. ‘It’s not a matter of national security and whoever set up Moorlock Hall in the first place was clearly in the wrong – lega
lly, morally, politically. Common sense will be excluded from any argument to the contrary.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s stable and comfortable, but the next 48 hours will be crucial.’

  ‘Of course. Did you ask to see the X-rays for yourself?’

  ‘No,’ growled Tally. ‘I’m not the sort to mess with other people’s egos and orthopaedic surgeons have big hammers and sharp saws.’

  ‘Good thought.’

  ‘Apart from that . . . a nurse told me it was a clean break.’

  ‘Good,’ said Steven with a smile.

  ‘It’s ages since we’ve been apart.’

  ‘I know, I don’t like it.’

  ‘Me neither, talk to you tomorrow.’

  Steven was conscious of the fact that Owen Barrowman had not phoned him and this was another source of worry. Maybe he hadn’t seen the note . . . or maybe he hadn’t come home and stayed in the lab working all night. He was about to try calling him when John Macmillan arrived and Steven told him all that had happened at Moorlock Hall. He unloaded all his fears about Barrowman’s state of mind. ‘We have to stop him having any further contact with Lawler.’

  ‘No question,’ agreed Macmillan.

  ‘Did you tell the Home Secretary you were calling a code red on what was going on in Professor Lindstrom’s lab and what was going on with the funding for her research?’

  ‘I did, naming you as lead investigator.’

  ‘Good. Any problems?’

  ‘No,’ mused Macmillan turning to gaze out of the window with an innocent expression. ‘Mind you, I didn’t mention we knew about MI5’s involvement,’ he murmured.

  Steven smiled. ‘An understandable oversight.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t mention it either.’

  The signalling of a code red did not imply anything as dramatic as it sounded. It was simply a notification to all government bodies that Sci-Med was actively investigating something it deemed to be important. Any named investigator in the operation – in this case, Steven – was to be accorded every assistance from all public service bodies including the police in whichever area he was operating, should he request it. Cooperation was mandatory. He was also licensed to carry a firearm should he believe it necessary, although by choice he rarely did. There was also a dedicated phone line he could call at any hour of the day or night to seek expert technical information and advice.

  Jean Roberts gave Steven her, ‘here we go again’ smile as he came out of Macmillan’s office. ‘How can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘I need to see Moorlock Hall for myself and talk to the medical director before any story breaks in the papers,’ said Steven. ‘I guess that means today.’

  ‘Anything else?

  ‘I need to know where it is.’

  Jean stifled a giggle. ‘Give me thirty minutes to make some calls. Go have a coffee

  Steven did as he was told and tried contacting Owen Barrowman, first at the lab where he was told he hadn’t come in yet and then at home where there was no reply. He’d try later.

  Steven explored a wide range of expletives as his Porsche struggled with the surface of the road leading up to Moorlock Hall. He even found himself apologising to it when he failed to avoid a particularly bad pothole. When he finally came to a halt in the small car park he sat for a couple minutes, just savouring the stillness broken only by metallic contraction sounds from the car.

  Steven showed his Sci-Med ID and said that he was expected. The owner of the eyes behind the grill responded by admitting him and putting him through the standard security measures before taking him to see Groves who invited him to sit with a wave of his good hand.

  ‘For a secret establishment, we seem to be doing quite a reasonable impression of a tourist attraction,’ said Groves. ‘What exactly is Sci-Med?

  Steven told him and got an approving nod. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I believe Dr Owen Barrowman from Capital University has been coming here regularly as part of his research project into the genetic and biochemical make up of psychopathic killers.’

  ‘He has, but only one of our inmates agreed to take part in his study.’

  ‘Yes, Malcolm Lawler . . . who “took part” the other day by attempting to murder him.’

  Groves froze for a moment. His eyes showed what Steven saw as a combination of disappointment and resignation. ‘You know about that, do you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘His wife told me. I understand you all conspired to cover it up?’

  ‘Owen said that he didn’t want any fuss and I have to confess I didn’t go to any great lengths to dissuade him. If I’m honest it was music to my ears. We had an inspection in the offing and an incident like that was the last thing we needed.’

  Steven nodded, impressed by the man’s honest appraisal of the situation. ‘How did the inspection go?’

  ‘They found failings,’ replied Groves.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘I’m to be retired.’

  Steven was taken aback. He hadn’t expected to hear anything like that. He’d been assuming that anything bad emerging from the inquiry would be concerned with the hiding of the existence of the place rather than any criticism of the way it was run. ‘I don’t understand. What sort of failings?’

  ‘It would appear that certain elements of our coalition government are worried about the lack of spiritual and pastoral care being offered to our patients.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  Groves gave a little shake of the head as if he couldn’t believe it himself. He sighed and said, ‘There are those who would believe that no one is beyond redemption and that every effort should be made to achieve this. Our efforts in keeping the vilest creatures who ever walked the Earth away from society was not good enough for one such politician, Mrs Lillian Leadbetter. She and her band of all-party day-trippers wanted rehabilitation. She demanded that souls be saved and the hand of forgiveness extended. I, as the culprit who had made no effort to introduce remedial classes or even replace our last chaplain when he left over a year ago, was judged to be a major impediment to Mrs Leadbetter’s reformist ambitions. As a consequence, I’ve been invited to consider my position.’

  ‘Didn’t she understand anything about what these people did?’ Steven exclaimed.

  ‘I think she put her hands over her ears and hummed la la la – metaphorically speaking. In her eyes, I was a dinosaur trying to excuse my insensitivity.’

  ‘But didn’t she understand anything about the reasons for setting up Moorlock Hall in the first place? Surely, she knew what happened when Clifford Sutton fooled all the experts and was returned to the community to rape and murder all over again? Wasn’t that a wee clue for the honourable member?’

  Groves made an attempt at a smile which only accentuated his lack of facial muscle control. ‘The committee actually interviewed Lawler . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He put on a performance that would have had him graduate cum laudae from RADA. I damned nearly applauded myself. He had them positively eating out of his hand. He was a poor misunderstood victim of an uncaring society that had never given him a chance. Yes, he had done wrong, terrible wrong, but he could see the error of his ways. He would give his very life if only he could turn the clock back and undo the harm he had done to all these “poor people” Well, I won’t be here to see what the lying bastard gets out of it. Who said you couldn’t fool all the people all of the time?’

  ‘Surely there must be an appeal process you can go through?’

  Groves shook his head. ‘I don’t have the stomach for a fight. My pension will see me to the end of the road with the occasional glass of malt. I’ll settle for that.’

  Steven nodded then asked as an afterthought, ‘Why didn’t you appoint a new chaplain?’

  ‘Because I saw what they did to the last one.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Father Patrick Burns was under no illusions when he
came here. He knew – or at least thought he knew – what he was up against when he took on the task of persuading Lawler and the others that they should seek forgiveness from a higher power without reminding them too stridently or too often that they certainly weren’t going to find it here on Earth. Despite having contact with them only twice a week, they utterly destroyed him. He lost his faith and was unable to continue as a parish priest after seeking solace at the bottom of too many glasses. The last I heard was that he was recovering in a seminary in France.’

  ‘Good God.’

  Groves raised his eyebrows at Steven’s expression. ‘I still remember what he said to me after seeing Lawler for the last time. He said, “It’s not repentance Lawler needs . . . it’s exorcism.’

  Steven thought about this for a few moments before saying, ‘I really came here today to talk about the growing influence that Lawler has been exerting over Owen Barrowman. I think the fact that he’s a scientist and was aware of the dangers and could even talk about them tended to disguise the fact that he was succumbing to them.’

  ‘I thought he was managing well,’ said Groves. ‘He’s had a few bad experiences of course, when hearing what Lawler did first hand, but I thought he was on top of things. And then the attack happened . . . and I did wonder when he didn’t want a fuss . . .’

  ‘Why was he left alone with Lawler?’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ replied Groves.

  ‘I understood from his wife that he was alone when Lawler attacked him?’

  ‘You’ve spoken to his wife recently?’

  ‘Yes, his boss and his colleagues have all been noticing changes come over him since he started working with Lawler and, of course, his wife, Lucy, was subject to dealing with them more than anyone else. I saw her last night: she’s a nervous wreck. She’s afraid of him. His paranoia even includes her in some imagined conspiracy to steal his research. He mustn’t be allowed anywhere near Lawler ever again.

  ‘Good God, I knew there was a risk,’ said Groves, ‘but I really believed he could handle it . . . but maybe that’s what I wanted to think.’