‘ Journals mainly, scientific journals.’
‘ I’d still like to see him,’ said Steven.
Cummings shrugged and said sourly, ‘And you have friends in high places, right?’
‘ Not friends,’ said Steven acidly. ‘Employers; I believe they just might be yours too if I’m not mistaken.’
Cummings thought for a moment before conceding. ‘Well, don’t blame me if it’s a waste of time and he refuses to say anything. You can take a horse to water etc.’ He picked up the phone and gave instructions that David Little be brought to an interview room. He and Steven sat in silence until the phone rang to confirm that this had been done. A prison officer with a badly repaired harelip and impaired speech because of it was detailed to escort Steven to the meeting with Little. He didn’t say anything en route but Steven was aware of several prisoners along the way affecting a speech impediment as they passed. Most of them did it almost out of earshot but one did it too close for the officer to pretend that he’d not heard.
‘ You’ll be sorry, Edwards,’ the officer spat out the corner of his mouth.
He said it with such venom that Steven had little doubt that the man would, but then he didn’t doubt that life in Scotland’s toughest jail would be anything other than a constant battle of wills with an undercurrent of threatened violence.
The room allocated for his meeting with Little seemed little different from a cell. It had four bare walls and a high, barred window affording glimpses of passing clouds. Perhaps the rough table and two plastic chairs altered its status, he surmised. ‘I want to speak to him alone,’ he said to the accompanying officer. The man opened his mouth as if to protest but changed his mind and said, ‘I’ll be right outside.’
Steven was shocked at David Little’s appearance when he was finally brought in. He had only seen a photograph of him, taken at the time of his arrest but all trace of youth had now disappeared from the man standing in front of him. His head was shaven, his cheeks were sunken and his eyes had retreated into large dark hollows. He was painfully thin. The officer escorting him undid his handcuffs and Steven asked the man to wait outside. He indicated to Little that he should sit opposite him at the table.
‘ My name’s Dunbar,’ said Steven, showing his ID card. ‘I work for the Sci-Med Inspectorate. I’m looking into certain aspects of the Julie Summers case.’
Little looked Steven in the eye but didn’t say anything. Steven thought it was a classic ‘You-didn’t-ask-a- question-so-I’m-not-replying’ response.
‘ I’d appreciate if you would answer some questions,’ said Steven.
Little got out of his chair as if to indicate that the interview was at an end.
‘ Sit down,’ snapped Steven.
Little sat down and resumed his stare.
Steven found it unnerving. It wasn’t dumb insolence; it was something more detached. It was the look of a man who had given up on life, someone who was no longer a participant but merely a disinterested spectator.
‘ I won’t bullshit you,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t feel any sympathy for you. What you did to that young girl was beyond the pale. But why you did it is another matter and I’m willing to concede that there are all sorts of mental aberrations that medicine knows very little about. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe you couldn’t help yourself. But whatever the reason, you can help lessen the aftermath of what happened by answering my questions.’
Little made no response. He simply maintained his stare.
‘ I’ll be straight with you,’ said Steven. ‘I’m here because a man in the State Hospital at Carstairs, a convicted killer named Hector Combe, confessed on his deathbed to the rape and murder of Julie Summers.’
Although Little didn’t say anything Steven saw a change of expression in his eyes. It was only there for a moment but he was almost certain that he saw the veil lift to be replaced by… what? He found that harder to interpret. Sadness was the best that he could come up with but he suspected it was far deeper than that. It was as if, in an instant, Little had caught a glimpse of what his life might have been like had things been different. ‘Did you ever meet Hector Combe?’ Steven asked.
Little shook his head slowly.
‘ You’re absolutely sure?’
A nod of the head.
‘ Julie scratched you on the arm,’ said Steven. ‘Tell me about it.’
Little behaved as if he hadn’t heard. His gaze moved off to the middle distance.
‘ Did you hear what I said?’ prompted Steven.
Little remained silent.
‘ Come on man,’ urged Steven. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose by telling me now.’
‘ I can’t help you,’ said Little, speaking for the first time and taking Steven by surprise. The voice was calm and cultured.
‘ Why?’ demanded Steven. ‘What’s the big silence all about? Does shutting yourself off make the guilt easier to bear? If you maintain you’re innocent you don’t ever have to face up to the guilt? Is that it? If you don’t say the words it can’t be true? Christ man, you’ve got a lot of years ahead of you to keep that up.’
Little seemed unimpressed. He looked down at Steven’s ID card lying on the table. ‘You’re a doctor,’ he said.
Steven nodded.
Little leaned forward and planted the index finger of his right hand on his right cheek and held it there. ‘What do you think this is?’ he asked.
Steven took a closer look and saw there was a small purple lesion there.
‘ And here,’ said Little, moving his finger to the side of his neck.
Steven saw another purple mark. His blood ran cold as he recognised what the lesions were. ‘Good God,’ he murmured. ‘Kaposi’s sarcoma.’
‘ Well done,’ said Little, without emotion.
‘ Are you telling me you’ve got AIDS?’ asked Steven.
‘ I think we can both agree on that,’ said Little.
‘ But… how?’ asked Steven.
Little let a long silence elapse before he said, ‘When I first came here some of my fellow prisoners — fine upstanding chaps that they are — felt I should be taught a lesson. They decided that I should know what it felt like to be raped — just like my “victim”. At least, I think that was the rationale behind it.’
‘ My God,’ whispered Steven. ‘And you finished up with AIDS.’
Little’s silence was more eloquent than any reply. Eventually he said, ‘So you see, I won’t have all the years you imagine.’
‘ But you must be getting treatment,’ said Steven, although it was more of a question. The look on Little’s face made his blood go even colder. ‘The authorities don’t know?’ he asked almost incredulously. ‘You haven’t told anyone?’
‘ No point,’ said Little. ‘And they haven’t noticed although they probably will when the next little pathological ‘treat’ for me arrives. What d’you reckon? Pneumocystis pneumonia? Tuberculosis? Some creeping fungal infection? Maybe a brain tumour?’
Like Little, Steven knew there was no way of predicting what a person with AIDS would fall prey to next once their immune system had packed in and left them open to the myriad invading forces of the microbial world. ‘But surely the prison doctor noticed these marks on you?’ he said.
‘ He might spot a broken leg on a good day,’ said Little.
‘ But my God man, there’s a lot they can do to help these days. You should be on combination therapy,’ said Steven.
The look on Little’s face made Steven suddenly realise that he was overlooking the now obvious fact that Little didn’t have much interest in slowing down the condition that was going to kill him.
Little read Steven’s mind and said quietly, ‘I’ve really nothing left to lose. My job, my wife, my children, my freedom, my self-respect — all long gone. Ironic really but AIDS is going to be my saviour, my get-out-of-jail card. No more hell on earth, just sweet, beautiful, endless sleep.’
‘ I don’t know what to say,’ said Steven.
‘ Just as long as you don’t start suggesting it’s God’s way of punishing me,’ said Little.
‘ No,’ replied Steven. ‘I won’t do that but I’d still like you to answer my questions if it’s all the same to you.’
