by Simon King
13.
“Ready, Harry?” Ralph had said to him through the bars and then watched as he picked his box up and waited for the door to be unlocked. He noted that the grin was still there and nearly asked him whether there was something else that was making him smile, then decided not to. Ralph escorted Harry to the reception building and had him fill out the final documents then walked him to the big iron gate. It swung open slowly on rusty and tired hinges, creaking and sounding like a movie soundtrack from one of those horror flicks they play down at the Mayfair on a Saturday afternoon.
Harry turned to the guard, thanked him for his respect, then shook his hand. Ralph later told me he hesitated for a moment, as it was an unwritten rule not to shake an inmate’s hand, but Harry had stuck his hand out to him so fast that it caught the young guard off balance, grasping it tightly. He looked him in the eyes and felt his blood turn cold, a dark shadow hiding behind the man’s gaze. Then he let his hand go, turned and strolled out, whistling, as if heading out for a morning stroll. Ralph said he felt a chill as he watched him, gooseflesh popping across his arms. His lawyer was waiting out the front, saw his client emerge from the gate and went to embrace him. Then the gate closed and he was gone.
14.
I could see the first glimpses of the prison through the trees as we neared it, Crab Apple sitting high on its hill. As June turned the car into the driveway that led into the carpark, we could already see the line of cars that had come to see the release of Harry Lightman. As June drove into the carpark, we heard the crowd. And they didn’t sound happy. When she found a space near the back, Steph and I climbed out, thanking June for her help. I tried to listen to what they were shouting. At first, I thought they were angry that he was being released. It made sense, considering this was the community that he had terrorized. But then my stomach sank and terrified realization set in as I saw who the crowd was. They weren’t the people from the community, townsfolk who came to watch. They were reporters, photographers, people that Lovett had contacted to come and witness “the righting of a monumental injustice”, as he put it.
“What’s happened?” I asked the first man I came to, a young guy, carrying a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. His cheeks were flushed, his expression far from happy.
“They let him go early,” he said and my worst fears surfaced.
15.
Of course, they had. To avoid an already embarrassing situation from becoming an outright spectacle, the prison had sent a messenger to Lovett’s hotel room before dawn that morning, which also happened to be at the Railway Hotel. The guard advised him he had five minutes to get ready and accompany him back to the prison.
Lovett had jumped in his car and followed the officer back to Crab Apple, the guards on top of the wall watching him to ensure he didn’t attempt to contact anybody. That son-of-a-bitch had no choice but to stand there and wait for his client.
As Steph and I were discovering her car battery dead, courtesy of a couple of power-sucking headlights, Ralph was escorting Harry to the prison’s gate. They released him at 7am, just as the sun broke across the eastern horizon. A single photographer had managed to capture the embrace between lawyer and client, a young man by the name of Harry Bowden. He worked for the Daylesford Times, a small newspaper that was about to show the whole world Richard Lovett embracing his client as he emerged from the prison gates after being unjustly imprisoned for almost 20 years. The young reporter had awoken early, having had a suspicion that Harry Lightman may be released early, a suspicion that paid off in spades.
Young Harry nearly missed the entire thing. He had set off for Crab Apple at just after 3 that morning, as Steph and I were still enjoying our lightning-infused nap. He had pedalled for two and half hours, arriving at the prison a little after 6. He decided to park his bike next to a gum tree that sat on the edge of the carpark, then sat next to it, staring at the stars. He double checked his camera a couple of times, then rested it on his lap as he stared at Jupiter, burning brightly over the tree tops beside the prison walls. He had nodded off, tired from his early morning ride and almost slept through the whole thing. He slept through the car driving past him as the officer left to fetch Lovett. He slept through two cars returning a short time later.
What finally woke the young man from his slumber, was the eerie screeching of the massive iron gate as it opened up for Lightman to exit. He opened his eyes just in time, recognising Lovett instantly. He picked himself up, grasped his camera tightly and ran as close as he could. He stopped just in time to capture Lovett take a couple of steps forward and embrace Lightman tightly. The angle of the photo showed a beaming Lightman and the back of Lovett’s head. Then he sat back and watched as both men climbed into Lovett’s car. Harry wound his window down almost immediately. Young Harry watched old Harry as they drove past him, and as he did, a tune drifted to his ears, a smooth whistle that young Harry recognized immediately. It was the same song his mother would play on her piano. Fur Elise.
By the time the first reporter had arrived for the advertised time, young Harry was already pedalling hard to return to the office and develop the piece of history now contained within his camera. As Steph and I were asking another young reporter what was happening, young Harry was standing open-mouthed in his darkroom, holding the developed photograph in his hand. What made it even more special was that it was the first time that young Harry had used colour film. He had spent the extra money on the film only the day before, paying four times more than the normal black and white option.
He showed the photo to his editor, the man nearly falling off his chair. The photo was sold and resold, copies being sent across the world. The St. Petersburg Times in Florida, the first newspaper to use a colour photo in its pages earlier that year, offered the editor $10 000 for exclusive rights to use the photo. Harry’s editor counter-offered them exclusivity for the colour part only, offering the black and white version to everybody else. The paper accepted and by the end of the week, young Harry Bowden was riding a shiny brand-spanking new Harley Davidson to his appointments. He had also been paid a $1500 bonus by the editor, a pretty poor sum considering the editor had managed to amass a total of just under $65 big ones from the sale of the photo alone, but you couldn’t have wiped the smile off the lad’s face. The kid had smashed one out of the park.
16.
Steph and I were sitting on the log fence as the reporters continued their anger-fuelled tirade. They had begun chanting at one stage, one older man standing atop the steps that led to the front gate yelling and screaming for the governor to meet them. Thomas never made an appearance. There was a single guard standing on top of the wall, his rifle held up, cradled into his shoulder. We watched them yelling for Thomas, yelling for a statement, yelling for Lightman to be brought back.
We sat in silence, Steph smoking. There were no words needed for how we felt. He had gotten away with it. In some crazy way, the Daylesford Devil had beaten the system. He had help of course, but in the end, he had walked from the prison a free man.
The only way I can describe how I felt at that moment was that I was numb. I felt numb all over. My ribs hurt, my arm throbbed, my head felt heavy, but it was in my gut that I felt that heaviness, that low empty feeling of defeat.
“We have to get him, Steph. We have to speak to the Chief.” She looked at me, her head nodding slowly as she butted her cigarette out on the log.
A car started just in front of us and I saw that the crowd was finally dispersing. Several other cars also fired up and began to leave the prison car park. We waited until they were all gone from the steps, had all walked back to their cars and were heading back to wherever they had come from. We stood as we watched the last of them leave, following slowly behind his brothers. I was about to ask Steph if we should call for a taxi when a very strong reflection caught my eye. It was the sun bouncing off the windscreen of one of the remaining cars. There were about a dozen or so and with all the other cars that had filled this lot a few mo
ments before, hadn’t noticed the one parked almost out of sight along the far edge of the park. It was a black Mercedes, and I knew instantly what I wanted to do next. I tapped Steph’s shoulder, pointing at the car and I saw her face grow dim. She nodded, understanding what I meant to do.
Chapter 11: Secrets and Lies
1.
“Where’s the Doc?” Steph asked the guard as he opened the smaller door that led into the prison. There were two guards standing on top of the inner wall, neither of them interested in us.
“He’s in the med unit,” he said, pointing at the only building that remained from the old Hancock farm, its tin roof glaring in the morning sunshine. Its thick bluestone walls looked ominous as we approached it, its small windows almost beckoning to us as we climbed the steps and walked through the door.
There was very little activity as we walked down the hallway, muffled voices coming from several of the cells that lined the corridor. At the end of the hall was the main medical unit, several beds set up like a normal hospital ward. Two of the six beds were occupied, a single guard sitting in one corner reading a book. A nurse was sitting behind a desk and looked at us as we walked in.
“Dr. Levinson?” Steph asked him and he pointed back down the corridor.
“Last door on the right,” he said, looking back at the folder he was flicking through. Steph and I turned and left the room, making our way back down the corridor. When we reached the last door, we realized that it was the door we had been looking through when we watched Levinson have lunch with Lightman. I opened the door, expecting to find the doctor in the room but it sat empty. I also remembered how Lightman had disappeared into an adjoining room when the Doc had invited us in. We entered the room completely and closed the door behind us. It stood exactly like it had previously. I looked at the door that was set into the other wall and walked toward it. As I reached for the doorhandle, a slow low thudding came through it, sounding muffled and distant. I paused, waited, then when it stopped, turned the handle and opened the door.
2.
The room resembled more of a tiny kitchen than a medical room. I remembered that this room may have been the original kitchen that served the Hancock’s back in the day. There was an old oven, the old timber box now empty, sitting beside it. It seemed a strange room to have Lightman wait while we were engaged in conversation with Levinson in the adjoining room, considering the facility. I had no doubt that there were a lot of questionable practices occurring here thanks to the good doc.
The low thudding began again, once, twice, three times then ceased. It sounded like it was coming through the walls. I looked at Steph but she shrugged her shoulders. I pointed to the exit and was about to head back out when I stopped and froze. The room only had the one door that led in, no windows and no visible ventilation. It had a small walk in pantry to the left, empty shelves lining both its walls. The far wall had a timber trellis wedged against it that had been used to hang fresh produce and jars of herbs from. The hooks, now a rusty brown, were still jutting out looking like greedy fingers. What stopped me in my tracks was a breeze that was coming from the pantry. I turned, walked towards the pantry door and stopped, closing my eyes.
“Jim?” Steph asked. I held up one finger, feeling the breeze on my face. I opened my eyes and waved for her to come to me. I pushed her into place and watched as she felt the breeze, her face peering into the darkness. She took a step into the pantry, feeling her way forward. The low light that lit the kitchen wasn’t quite bright enough to light the pantry, its rays fading about halfway into the small room. Steph held out her hands and felt along the trellis. As she touched it, feeling the breeze come through from beyond it, we heard the low, slow thumping start again. Only this time, it wasn’t coming through the walls. This time, the thudding came from directly ahead.
She looked at me over her shoulder, saw me point at the trellis and then watched as she slipped her fingers through it, grasping it tightly. The trellis acted like a door, old hinges creaking as it swung back into the pantry. Steph took a step back to allow it passage then looked at me, holding it open. My temples were throbbing so hard that for a moment, I thought that the thumping we heard had in fact been me.
3.
There were bluestone steps leading down into a dark passage. Steph and I waited for our eyes to adjust as much as possible before we slowly made our way down, each step taking a few seconds to navigate. When we finally reached the bottom, a dozen or so steps behind us, we were confronted with a low-roofed tunnel. I had to duck a little to prevent smacking my head on some of the rocks that were jutting out from the ceiling. The tunnel was pitch black, the light from the pantry all but faded out, and for a brief moment, Steph and I had to feel our way along the rocky wall. But after about 40 yards, a new light source was fading in from somewhere ahead of us. There was another bend a few yards ahead and as we edged our way forward, we could make out a larger cavity, something like an underground cave. The thumping began again, coming from somewhere directly in front of us now.
The cave resembled a small room, an electric light hanging from the ceiling. The tunnel continued on the other side of this opening, disappearing into more darkness further along. There were a couple of chairs, one lying on its side, and a small table against one wall. We heard groaning coming from somewhere on the other side of the table and could see movement. It was the doctor, lying face-up, the handle of a knife protruding from his chest. I ran over to him and lifted his head up a little, blood leaking from the left side of his mouth. He gargled something, then spat a large wad of blood to his right. There was a piece of timber in his hand with which he had been trying to raise the alarm.
“What happened?” I cried.
“Please, you have to find him,” he whispered.
“I’ll get help,” Steph said from behind me but the doctor spoke up, begging her to wait.
“No, please, you have to hear me out first.” His voice was quiet and laboured, his lungs gargling with every strained breath. I took off my jacket and folded it then placed it beneath his head. Steph tried to open his shirt to see his wound but his face contorted in pain and she stopped. She saw the piece of paper that had been pinned to the doctor’s chest with the knife and pointed at it. I saw it, noticing writing on it, blood smeared across the five letters.
JAMES
I couldn’t pull the paper free without tearing it apart and thought it better just to leave it be for the time being. The doctor took a couple of garbled breaths then began to speak, almost whispering most of his words.
“I’m so sorry. I was blinded by my own need for glory. My research took me to places I should never have gone,” he coughed, more blood trickling down his chin, “but Harry was such a perfect specimen.”
“Who is Loui?” I asked. He raised his eyes to mine, realising that I knew some or maybe even all of what he had been trying to hide.
“Loui is Harry’s brother. Only, he IS Harry. You see, Harry has three distinct personalities. Harry is the oldest, the one you speak to most of the time. The second personality, the one born when he saw his mother killed, was Eddie. Eddie appeared on Harry’s sixth birthday,” he rasped, wheezed, then spat again,” Eddie is the quiet one.” His head suddenly turned to Steph, his eyes fixing on hers. Her head began to shake from side to side even before he began to speak, knowing of the words that were about to rise from his lips. “I’m sorry, my dear. Eddie is your father.” Steph screamed; her worst fear finally confirmed. I tried to reach out to her but she pushed my hand away and turned from us, running down the tunnel, continuing to wherever it led. I called after her but she didn’t slow. The doctor looked back at me and grasped my arm.
“What about Loui?” I asked again. He hesitated, then drew in another breath.
“Loui was born the moment that whore bit his penis off. Loui is the embodiment of every bit of anger, despair, rage and hatred Harry has ever experienced. Loui is the younger brother but also the most dangerous. He is the one I have been expe
rimenting with. It’s him I have been trying to control” He coughed again.
“Is he the one you’ve been using MD17471 on?” His eyes grew wide as he heard the name.
“How do you” he began, then realised, “, ah of course, Tami,” he said, nodding a little, understanding that she must have left a message. “Do you know what that serum is for, Jim?” I shook my head. “It’s designed to reduce the gaps between the personalities in someone suffering from multiple personality disorder. It’s supposed to bring them together. Think about the millions of people that suffer from this condition. My work was going to help them all.”
“Your work killed innocent people. Is that the price for helping people? To kill more?” It was too late to try and make this man see sense. Even if he did understand his crimes, he would never see the inside of a jail cell. His days had come to an end and he knew it. He would never pay for his crimes and the monster he had created was now out, back in the real world, free to wreak havoc.
“One of the side effects of MD17471 is the propensity for extreme rage. When Loui had too higher dose, his violence grew off the scale. He was uncontrollable. Jim, he’s taken the vials.”
“Vials?”
“He’s taken the entire supply. He can turn himself into-” A coughing fit grabbed him, shaking him violently. I sat, waiting for it to subside
“Was it him that killed the Chief?” I asked when it finally did. The doctor nodded, looking away. I wanted to punch him then, right in the face, remembering what had happened to the chief and his wife. “What about Tami?” I asked, my own anger now growing, my fingers grasping his jacket tighter and tighter. “WHAT ABOUT TAMI?” I screamed into his face. I wanted to grasp the handle of the knife and plunge it deeper, pushing it down until the blade exited through his back, ending his life. But I took a deep breath, fighting my fury and relaxing my grip. I needed this man’s information and needed to keep myself under control. Killing him now wouldn’t bring Tami back, but his information would help me stop Lightman from killing another. His eyes drifted away from mine as he coughed again, a large chunk of congealed blood landing on my hand. I grimaced as I wiped it onto his jacket.