Ken McClure - Eye of the raven

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.’

‘ I can’t.’

‘ Why not?’

‘ Because I had nothing to do with Julie Summers’ murder.’

Steven shook his head in exasperation but he still felt disconcerted when he saw that the man clearly believed what he was saying. ‘For God’s sake man,’ he protested, ‘the prosecution came up with a perfect DNA match for you.’

‘ So they did,’ said Little sarcastically.

‘ So what are you suggesting? That they made the whole lot up?’

Little’s slight shrug seemed to suggest an affirmative.

‘ How? Why?’

Little shrugged again.

‘ I’m sorry, I don’t believe you,’ said Steven.

Little did not show any reaction. He said simply, ‘Neither did my wife, the police, the prosecuting counsel, the judge and the jury,’ replied Little. ‘It really doesn’t matter any more. It’ll soon be over.’

Steven felt uneasy. Although he felt that continuing denial must be Little’s way of dealing with the burden of guilt, the fact that the evidence against him — however good — had come from Lee’s lab was still a worry. He got up from the table and Little did the same.

The Prison officers came back into the room on hearing the sound of the chairs moving back and Steven watched as Little was led away.

As he left the room, Little turned and said, ‘I really didn’t kill her.’

‘ Like fuck you didn’t,’ growled the officer escorting him.

‘ Some of them are like that,’ said the man with the harelip. ‘They go to their grave insisting they were innocent.’

‘ If I want Mickey Mouse psychiatry, I’ll let you know,’ snapped Steven, almost immediately regretting it. He was on edge.

‘ Get what you wanted?’ asked Cummings.

‘ Not exactly. Did you know David Little has full-blown AIDS?’ replied Steven.

‘ Christ, you’re kidding!’ exclaimed Cummings.

Steven’s accusing look removed any doubt.

‘ Jesus Christ, that’s all I need,’ complained Cummings as he picked up the phone and punched in four numbers. ‘Is the Doctor still there? Gone? Shit.’ Cummings slammed down the receiver and looked at Steven. ‘You’re sure about this?’ he asked.

‘ He’s got Kaposi’s sarcoma on his face and neck. It’s usually a sure sign.’

‘ How on earth would he get…?’

‘ Male rape,’ interrupted Steven.

‘ Christ,’ murmured Cummings. After a moment he thought he saw an objection and said, ‘But he’s been on rule 43 for years.’

‘ AIDS can take several years to develop,’ said Steven.

‘ Of course,’ conceded Cummings. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. Look, I’ll get on to the doctor at home and tell him to get his bloody finger out and organise some treatment for Little. Best I can do.’

‘ He may refuse. He wants to die.’

‘ I’ll have to see what the rule book says.’

‘ I want to take a buccal swab from Little,’ said Steven.

Cummings seemed shocked. ‘What for?’