Ken McClure - Eye of the raven

Watching a fat man in overalls, sitting in the passenger seat of the white van in the lane beside him, chew gum and gaze at the nude picture in the tabloid newspaper he was reading made him consider Darwinian evolution for a few minutes. He felt it was anything but cut and dried.

When the traffic in that lane finally started to move, it afforded him a temporary view of the high walls of Barlinnie Prison where David Little had been incarcerated for the past eight years. The file said that he was a rule 43 prisoner — in solitary confinement at his own request. Solitary confinement for life?

Steven grimaced at the thought. How anyone could retain their sanity under such conditions was quite beyond him. He could understand why Little might have opted for rule 43 at the outset of his sentence when, after all the publicity, other prisoners would have been queuing up to establish their credentials as ‘regular guys’ by beating the shit out of him. In prison as in life, all things were relative. Everyone needed someone to look up to and someone to look down on. Child abusers and murderers were welcome in prison because they made robbery with violence seem almost respectable. Beating up a child abuser made you the Lone Ranger. ‘Who was that masked burglar, Mommy?’

On the other hand, it was possible that Little might regard solitary confinement as some kind of penance for his crime. The conditions would be almost monastic — an enclosed order, basic food and endless hours available for contemplation. Perhaps he had even found religion in his now otherwise meaningless existence. He wouldn’t be the first and conditions would be absolutely right for it. Disorientation followed by suggestion — the first rule of brainwashing or religious conversion for that matter. But even if he had, how could he hope to come to terms with having carried out such an awful crime? Could atonement ever be achieved or would guilt stretch out before Little like the expanding universe?

Almost to his own surprise, Steven found himself indicating a left turn and edging across to the nearside lane in order to take the next exit. He had decided that he needed to confront Little personally. If there was the slightest chance that the man now acknowledged his guilt he might well be prepared to answer some questions about what had really happened on that awful night and in particular, how he got the scratch mark on his arm.

Although there had been nothing in the files to indicate that Little had stopped maintaining his innocence, there was a chance that the files hadn’t been updated for some time. As far as society was concerned, Little had been convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment for the rape and murder of Julie Summers. End of story. Whether or not he admitted it was neither here nor there.

Almost as soon as he had parked the car and started to walk towards the prison his sub conscious started searching for excuses not to proceed. Prisons had that affect on him. They were more than just grey, forbidding buildings; they were monuments to human failure, housing a hellish mix of wasted lives and broken dreams, often spiced with evil and violence. They were Pandora’s boxes with the lids wide open.

He glanced at his watch. So far, it had taken him fourteen minutes to reach the office of an assistant governor. His path had been impeded by bureaucracy at every step of the way. The natural response of officialdom to any out of the ordinary request was to set up a wall of obstruction. His ID card had been passed around like a parcel at a party. He had been told by one man that he would have to go through official channels and apply in writing and by another that his request was simply not possible… ‘Because it wasn’t, that’s why.’ It was only his insistence that a phone call to the Home Office be made that eventually paid off and he found himself in the office of Assistant Governor, John Cummings, an angry-looking man with short red hair and a clipped moustache. He had the florid complexion of a heavy drinker but the build of a gym teacher although perhaps a little on the short side.

‘ Little doesn’t see visitors,’ said Cummings.

‘ Has anyone ever asked to see him?’ asked Steven.

‘ That’s beside the point,’ insisted Cummings. ‘He has his books and that’s all he needs. He doesn’t speak to anyone he doesn’t have to. ‘He reads and makes notes. That’s it. He’s shut himself off in his own little world.’

‘ What kind of stuff does he read?’

‘ 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.’