Slow Burning Lies (27 page)

‘And so began an intensive program designed to cleanse Declan’s mind and realign his moral sensibilities, to mould him into a normal responsible citizen, and to repress what evil thoughts might still lurk in the dark corners of his mind.’

As the Sandman’s talk became more considered – and as clinical as the psychologist’s report might have been – Patrick’s grunts became louder and more frantic. He threw his head left and right, tears flying to the side from red-rimmed eyes fit to burst.

‘All those involved were forced to admit that the course of treatment seemed to have worked. At eighteen the medical analysis was that he was ready to be released into the community with no risk to the public whatsoever. However, in those intervening years the political climate had changed. The government of the day were low in the opinion polls, and weren’t prepared to take the risk of releasing a quadruple murderer.

‘And that was where OrSum came into the picture. Some years before, OrSum and the US government had embarked on a highly covert joint research project to correct the minds of juvenile offenders. They’d carried out some minor experiments, but knew that if the story came out they couldn’t be seen to be attempting thought control on a citizen of the land of the free. The treatment plan had been shelved as unreliable, but one large element was salvaged as being of potential use: the assessment routines to determine the moral rectitude of a subject by assessing their behaviour in the safe confines of a virtual environment. It was a little like the testing of fighter pilots before they’re let into the real thing – but with more advanced technology.

‘On a routine state visit to Washington by the British Deputy Prime Minister the subject was discussed, and it was convenient to both parties to bring Declan over to the US to be the programme guinea pig. It took almost two years of legal wrangling before that was finally allowed to happen.’

At that point the Sandman ripped the tape off Patrick’s mouth.

‘I take it I can now trust you to keep a civil tongue in your head?’

Patrick spluttered and spat the sticky residue from his lips. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You make it sound like Declan was an only child.’

Of course, Patrick did understand.

By then he knew full well the truth of the situation.

He was praying he’d completely misunderstood the story he’d just heard.

‘That is correct,’ the Sandman answered. ‘He was indeed an only child.’

‘What do you mean? What about me?’

‘Surely you’ve worked that out by now?’

‘No. You’ve been talking like I don’t exist.’

‘In a sense, that’s true.’ The Sandman smiled. ‘Patrick doesn’t exist. We invented him.’

‘I… I don’t get it.’

‘Oh, I think you do. As part of the identity change programme Declan O’Halloran ceased to exist. He became Patrick Leary.’

‘Oh, no. Please God no!’

49

‘But… that can’t be true,’ Patrick said to the Sandman. ‘You’re lying.’

Of course, he wasn’t, and Patrick knew it. All roads leading away from the harsh truth were being closed off.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘Declan’s my brother.’

‘And so where is he?’ the Sandman asked.

‘He came across to the US at the same time as me. He lives in Seattle… or LA… or…’

The Sandman gave a sympathetic smile, the sort dignitaries paste on when visiting the sick in hospital. ‘No, Patrick. You got a new name and a new identity – not too dissimilar from your real one so that what few childhood memories you still have would make sense.’ He paused to watch the colour drain from Patrick’s face. ‘It’s true. You know it is.
You
are the subject of our psychological reorientation programme.
You
are Declan – or rather, you
were
.’

‘You mean… I don’t believe you – I
can’t
. You’re telling me I killed that little girl and boy and then killed my own…’

‘I’m afraid so.’ A hint of compassion sat uneasily on the Sandman’s face. ‘And I’m sorry. You were never meant to find out. When you shot Rozita it was a good sign; it confirmed to us that you could make your moral judgement override your greatest desires. That was—’

‘I don’t believe it. You’re lying.’

‘Now please stop this charade. You asked me to tell you all about Declan. I just have.’

‘But if I’m so dangerous what the hell am I doing out in normal life, free and—’

‘Normal?’ The Sandman gasped a laugh. ‘
Normal?
But don’t you see? Your whole life is managed from your job to your apartment. OrSum controls the TV and internet feeds you bestow so much trust onto, they provide high security accommodation for you, they vet most of your acquaintances. Did you really think you were free?’

‘I… I don’t know what to think anymore.’

‘Of course you don’t. You’re permanently pumped up on drugs.’

Patrick thought for a moment. ‘The pink tablets, right?’

‘Correct. Remember who provides your medical care? Well, that includes those little guys you happily take because you think they’ll help your scar tissue. I’ll wager you still think those marks are from the fire. Is that right?’

Patrick sat motionless.

‘You suffered no damage in the fire. The scar tissue is from an amateur attempt to alter your appearance as part of the identity change plan. But it’s all healed. The pills have absolutely nothing to do with them; they’re DKK – a modern variant of LSD, there to precipitate your psychotic incidents, to complement the sounds and images fed to you while you think you’re asleep.’

‘I can’t take this in.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable. After what you’ve been through in the last decade it’s a wonder you have any mind left to take anything in.’

Patrick dropped his head. He wouldn’t argue with that. He looked around the interior of the tiny box. ‘So what’s this thing all about?’

‘This… is the by-product.’

Patrick stared blankly at the Sandman. The Sandman continued.

‘I guess I can tell you now. OrSum weren’t scrupulously honest about the reasons for bringing you across the Atlantic. Broadly speaking we wanted you to test our new generation of video games, specifically to ascertain whether they had any detrimental effect on the moral judgement of the operative – in layman’s terms whether they turned people bad. As you appreciate, there’s a lot of speculation that playing shoot-em-ups turns teenagers into violent, gun-toting monsters. Absolute rubbish, of course, and every study in our favour is beneficial to our stock price.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘I know. Be patient. That was the idea. But when you were hitched up to the equipment a strange thing happened. We were supposed to be feeding your mind scenarios, guiding you in the direction of good behaviour and monitoring how you reacted to those events, how you behaved when put in morally ambiguous positions.’ He leaned down and pulled the strap on Patrick’s closest wrist tighter still. ‘But we found instead you were running away with the ideas and making up new scenarios yourself – very realistic and interesting ones. It turned out you were controlling the equipment, not the other way around. You were helping to create the next generation of gaming. We looked upon it as OrSum’s payoff for helping the government.’

‘Payoff?’

‘We ended up mining your dreams for content for the next generation of TrueVu gaming technology.’ The Sandman hit a switch on the outside of the box and the monitors inside flickered into life.

‘This is the prototype. Oh, I know it’s very rough and ready, but this is the very first WishPhixxer console. The prototype sends alpha-waves to your brain using these leads rather than using the microwaves signals to an implant. Otherwise the principle is identical.’

An array of small icons started queued up on the main screen, eventually filling it like an online movie library.

The Sandman waved a finger at them. ‘These seed dreams represent the sum of your evil thoughts over the past few months. Obviously one or two of the less savoury ones we’ve had to leave out – perhaps to be released in an X-certificate special edition at some later date. You really have turned out to be more evil than we could ever have hoped.’

‘You bastard,’ Patrick muttered. ‘You’ve been paid to help me all of this time, but you’ve just been using me. And how many others?’

‘Just three so far. You and your two neighbours in the secure apartment. A young boy from Chile who formed his own armed gang at eleven, and a German boy with a penchant for euthanasia.’

‘The two other names on the signs in the pedway?’

‘That’s correct, but they didn’t work. They’re not you. You’re special. However, all development tools have a finite useful life. You seem to be burned out, your ideas are starting to repeat. We now have another child waiting to replace you. Some fresh blood.’

‘You bunch of shits. You’ve just been using me.’

‘Don’t we all use each other? You’ve been using people all of your life, both as a child and as an adult. Haven’t you been using women all of your short adult life?’

‘That’s different.’

‘Oh, you’re full of excuses today, aren’t you? The fact is you used women for sex, for your own gratification, your own ends. That’s not so different from what OrSum’s been doing to you, is it?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘You weren’t to know most of the women were plants.’

Patrick drew breath to speak but the words locked in his throat.

‘You think we’d leave that to chance? If I’m being honest here, one or two were genuine encounters – we couldn’t control absolutely every aspect of your life – but for the most part they were high-class hookers.’ The Sandman reached down and rested a brown leather pouch on his knee. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ He opened the pouch and took out a syringe and small bottle.

‘What’s going on?’ Patrick said, croaking the words out.

‘You’re going on another road test, my boy. Think of it as a free rollercoaster ride.’

Patrick twitched as he saw the syringe sucking the clear fluid from the bottle, and being tapped with the Sandman’s forefinger. As the air was pushed up and out of the syringe a jet of fluid followed, and Patrick started to struggle.

‘Goodbye Declan – or Patrick, if you prefer. It’s the end of the road, I’m afraid. You’ve just got too dangerous. While you were… having fun with Mrs Goldberg in the store… I got permission to terminate you. But I’ll always have the pleasure of knowing I treated one of the most evil people to have lived.’

‘Oh, no. Jesus Christ, no!’

‘Still, you’ll enjoy the ride. Perhaps you’ll go too far, have a heart attack brought on by the cocktail of drugs. Not that anyone in authority will know. It won’t get investigated outside a small circle of my colleagues. And the beauty of it all, Declan, is that you no longer exist.’

‘No. Please!’

The Sandman gave the strap a final tug and ran his finger up and down Patrick’s forearm, searching out the biggest vein. Then he withdrew and placed a thoughtful finger to his lip. ‘No. Of course. You’re right.’

‘What?’ Patrick said.

‘We haven’t chosen a seed dream for you yet.’ He ran a finger over one of the screens, whizzing through the icons before settling on the very last one, an asterisk. ‘I know,’ he said with an element of cheer, ‘let’s go for a lucky dip.’

And before Patrick could comprehend what that meant he felt a sting in his forearm. At first he went woozy from the warmth invading his veins, but then his world blurred to a fuzzy coldness.

50

*

When Patrick opened his eyes again it was far from a late summer evening in Chicago. There was a dry, bitterness to the air he was breathing, but at the same time he felt the sun heating his face up every bit as much as a burning building might. He squinted against the unforgiving brightness and glanced down. He was wearing thick fur mittens, and felt a cosy presence enveloping his head and neck, just leaving his face exposed. As well as feeling warmth from the sun, there was also an itchy and unclean nature to his face. He pulled a hand out of a mitten and lifted it to his face, to the soft sponginess around his mouth and chin, which he now realized served to keep his lower face warm. He lifted his hand further, and felt, on the tip of his nose, a dewdrop which popped as soon as he touched it. His nose took a sniff but smelt nothing apart from cold, clean air.

He glanced around. The snow tipped mountains on the horizon looked more like a pretty mural than genuine scenery, as if someone had retouched a photo ready for a tourist brochure.

‘Is yours,’ he heard a gruff voice say from behind him.

Patrick turned. Sure, the wind was cold enough to crack tender skin and the distant scenery was dominated by snow, but the immediate surroundings were more like an English meadow, mostly covered in long grasses but with smatterings of violet, yellow and bright red flowers melding into one diaphanous mass.

The only man-made objects he could distinguish apart from the clothes he and the other man wore were the shotgun that rested casually in the other man’s hand, and a large rusty cage. Inside the cage was an infant bear, resting peacefully.

‘Now?’ the man said, placing his gun down. ‘We do it now, yes?’

Patrick heard himself say, ‘Yes, now.’

The man removed a mitten and took a bottle of milk with a teat on the end of it from his pocket. Then he lifted the cage door and gently stroked the infant bear. The cub was initially wary, but sniffed the air and shuffled towards the bottle.

The man spoke to the cub in a language Patrick didn’t understand, but he delivered the words gently, almost poetically, as if talking to his own baby. The man placed the teat in its mouth and it suckled madly, giving a high-pitched whine as it did so.

‘You do,’ the man said to Patrick.

‘What?’

‘You do it now.’

The man’s accent was strong and the words were delivered in the tone of an order more than a question.

Patrick felt his head nodding, then noticed a toolbox at his feet. He reached inside it and took out a well-worn lump hammer, its short stubby handle cracked but taped up.

The other man kept one hand on the bottle and reached into his pocket with the other. He withdrew what looked like a thin cold chisel with the end sharpened to a point so it resembled a giant metal pencil. Then he pulled the bottle of milk away from the cub, ignoring its pleadings to return it, and dragged it out of the cage by the nape of the neck.

He knelt down on top of the creature, his knees straddling it, then gave its head a few tender strokes and made shushing noises, whereby the cub made a quiet, mewing sound.

The mews became louder and more frequent as the man grabbed one of the bear’s ears in each hand and twisted its head sideways, then pressed down hard with his forearm, grinding the cub’s face into the cold dusty earth. It now began to cry and squirm, but was no match for the man’s hefty bodyweight. The man kept his forearm firmly on the cub’s skull, then grabbed the cold chisel with his spare hand and poked its sharp end into the cub’s glistening nostril, gently positioning it perpendicular to the septum. The cub responded by huffing and squealing.

There was nobody to help.

The man looked to Patrick, then nodded to the lump hammer. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Only then did Patrick notice two other items nearby. Some way behind the man was the huge carcass of an adult bear, lolling on its side, blood seeping down its face from two large holes in its skull into a shimmering oily pool. The other thing he noticed, just beyond the dead bear, was a small log fire, with a large flat piece of sheet metal balanced on top of it, the fire’s flames straining to lick the underside.

‘Now,’ the man said. ‘Is for you. Must do now.’ He repositioned himself so as to get his shoulder directly above the cub’s head, pressed down harder with his forearm, and managed to hold the cold chisel firmly with the same hand. His freed up hand now reached into his pocket and fished out a metal U-ring with a grimy removable bolt on the side. Connected to the U-ring was a length of chain. He placed the U-ring and chain down next to the cub’s snout and gripped the cold chisel firmly with both hands. The cub was still squealing and desperately wriggling as if its life depended upon it, and a little blood seeped from its nose onto the dust.

‘Now!’ the man shouted. ‘Or is mine!’

Patrick took a last look at the scene around him; at the unimaginable beauty of the jagged horizon, at the cub’s dead mother, and at that instant pictured the majestic bear spending every day for the rest of its life dancing on that sheet of hot dirty metal. He grabbed the hammer, swung it behind him, arching his back like a rampant horse, tensing every muscle in the front of his body, and brought the hammer down on top of the chisel.

The noise that broke out of the cub’s mouth was extraordinary for such a small creature, like it was wilfully rupturing its own throat. Blood, mucus and fragments of cartilage flew in every direction. The squealing seemed to carry on for ever, echoing inside Patrick’s mind.

There was only one way to banish such a scream from his mind. He lifted the hammer again and brought it down onto the other man’s head with a metal-on-brick thunk, and then prepared to do the same to himself.

*

The horrific sound continued, only fading into the background as Patrick became aware of the searing pain in his own throat as he threw his head back and let out a roar that sounded like it would never wane this side of hell. The shout took every last breath in his body but still kept coming. Then something struck his head. Then again and again. A fourth time his head felt the force of a powerful blow. And still he felt the spatter of bloody fragments hit his face.

And then Patrick opened his eyes into a silent darkness that managed to be both as frightening as Beelzebub and as welcome as his mother’s warm breast.