Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

Matlock didn’t. Never had. But now he felt the urgent need for something to calm his nerves. He took a cigarette. Within seconds the nerve-caressing smoke had damped down his fears and he began to look around.

A mobile dungeon. That’s what these things were. There was no hope of escape if you needed to escape, and just being there meant you needed to escape. Unless you were very lucky.

Superstitiously he diverted his mind from his own lucky break. Leaning back against the bulkhead, he felt a slight tremor which told him the wagon’s powerhouse lay behind him. Not that that told him anything much. He knew that the engines lay dead in the centre of these machines, insulated from assault by compartments such as the one he sat in now. Not that anyone had ever tried to assault a Curfew Wagon.

The Sergeant was seated at a small metal table bracketed to the wall. He was filling in some kind of form with practised ease. On the wall to his right hung the ’phone. To his left was the only other object which relieved the uncompromizing metallic squareness of the compartment. This was the simple control panel for the electric manacles which now dangled casually above his head.

There were, of course, stories of the interiors of wagons which made medieval torture chambers seem very dull unimaginative places and which peopled them with psychopathic manipulators of human flesh.

The truth was even more frightening, Matlock decided. Conscientious men, unaware of any need to examine what they were doing, and with the power to apply the exact level of pain desired to any part of the body.

The Sergeant caught his eye and smiled.

“Won’t be long, Dad,” he said.

The ’phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened, said, “Right,” then replaced the receiver.

“Come on,” he said to Matlock, “we’re nearly there.”

“This is very kind of you,” said Matlock with incongruous but real gratitude.

The Sergeant looked gratified.

“Think nothing of it. We’re here to help, one way or another. Up you go.”

He helped Matlock up the little aluminium ladder he had pulled down from the roof and which led to what seemed the only exit from the room.

“Hurry it up,” shouted the Sergeant below, prodding him unceremoniously in the behind.

“Which way?” asked Matlock when they were both upright in the corridor.

“Along there,” pointed the Sergeant.

Matlock, his heart beating fast in the anticipation of getting out of the wagon, moved smartly along. The end of the corridor seemed blank, but the Sergeant reached over his shoulder and by some sleight of hand conjured up a door into a well-lit room.

There were four men in the room which was obviously the eyes and ears of the machine. Two of the men were watching a bank of television monitors which gave 180 degrees visibility round the wagon. A third was obviously in charge of the radio equipment which was fixed to the wall in front of him.

The fourth, standing with his hands behind his back which was towards Matlock, had an air of authority even from behind which told Matlock as clearly as his lack of uniform that he was in charge.

This was immediately confirmed by the Sergeant.

“I’ve brought the old fellow, the one for the hospital, Inspector.”

“Right,” said the Inspector without turning.

A door slid open in the wall opposite Matlock. This led into a protective bulkhead. Beyond, another door opened and Matlock found himself looking out into the night. A draught of cool air rustled in, refreshing, invigorating.

“Go on,” prompted the Sergeant.

It was only half a dozen paces across the room. Another two would have taken him outside, but some built-in, deeply conditioned politeness made him pause a second, turn and say to the room in general, “Thank you. Good-night.”

The Inspector glanced round. Casually. Then with growing disbelief.

He took a step towards Matlock, his face still full of doubt. But even before the doubt disappeared, his hand was full of gun.

“It can’t be. No. I don’t believe it. But it is! It is, isn’t it? Matlock. Matthew Matlock. Step back inside do! You may not remember me, though I haven’t changed as much as you!”

Matlock remembered now too well. Manchester. This was the man who had been in control the night Percy died.

At his back he still felt the cool night air, but even as his memories of the man flooded back, he heard the doors slide shut behind. Over the Inspector’s shoulder he could see the Sergeant’s face, bewildered, worried, angry.

“Sergeant,” said the Inspector.

“Sir!” snapped the Sergeant.

“This poor old man you’re so eager to help is none other than Matthew Matlock, one time politician, cabinet minister, Deputy Prime Minister, now rebel, terrorist, wanted on any number of charges. Don’t you recognize him?”

“I do now, sir,” said the Sergeant with nervous reasonableness. “But you must admit he doesn’t look much like his pictures, sir. He looks… older. Doesn’t he, sir?”

“Older? Perhaps. But we’ll talk more about your lapse later. I suggest meanwhile you take Mr. Matlock back below.”

The Sergeant, his face a blank of subordination, moved smartly across to Matlock who looked with some unease on the savage eyes which burnt through the mask. His arm was seized violently and he found himself being dragged bodily across the room. In some far corner of his mind he heard the Inspector instructing the radio operator to contact his Headquarters and give them the news. Then he was out in the corridor, being bounced from wall to metal wall. The Sergeant never uttered a word but used the rock-hard edge of his hand with controlled viciousness. When they reached the trap which led back down into the ‘dungeon’, Matlock attempted to drop cleanly through it, realizing his particular vulnerability here, but one boot came down on his hand and crushed it against the floor while the other swung at his unprotected face. He ducked as best he could but felt a gaping wound flower on his forehead as the boot crashed home. Then the pressure on his hand was released and he fell backwards.

He didn’t become unconscious, but was only distantly aware for the next few minutes of what was going on. There was a hubbub of voices, he was lifted up and sat down, and when he finally managed to re-focus his eyes and his mind, he found that the Inspector was leaning over him bandaging his head, which was nice.

Then he tried to move his hands and discovered that he was once again wearing the electric manacles. Which wasn’t nice at all.

The Sergeant was standing stiffly, resentfully, to attention. It was a small comfort to realize he was being reprimanded.

“It is our business to act within the law,” the Inspector was saying severely, “and though there may be times when sheer brute force is the only kind of force available or suitable, this can never be the case in an establishment like this. We have absolute electronic control over the amount of persuasion we administer. It is measured and recorded. Should accusations of maltreatment and abuse of power be brought against you, those measurements and recordings are your defence. You know the precise limits of your authority. But who can measure a kick in the face? You might have killed him. Just weigh the consequences to yourself of that for a moment.”

It was nice to know that there were precise limits to the amount of pain these men could administer, but Matlock reckoned they would be far beyond his tolerance if his earlier experience was anything to go by. He kept his eyes nearly closed in an effort to postpone the interrogation he knew must follow, but he soon became aware with sinking feeling that the Inspector, the bandaging now finished, was carrying on with his preparations quickly and efficiently. He realized now that the Sergeant’s brief application of shock earlier had indeed been casual, routine. Then he had only worn the manacles. Now there was a variety of wires and tubes being attached to his body. At first he thought they were merely refinements of the actual pain-inflicting apparatus, but as his mind cleared, he realized that their function was less directly unpleasant but at the same time more sinister. This was recording apparatus. The Inspector would be able to keep a close check on his pulse, breathing, temperature, degree of consciousness, etc. while questioning him. Through the fringe of his nearly closed eyes he saw the man move back to the control panel and throw a switch.