Simon Green - The Man with the Golden Torc

"Yes, and no," said Molly. "You’ll have to see for yourself. Oddly John’s position here is…complicated."

We started down the hillside, slipping and sliding on grass still wet from the dawn, heading towards the home for the criminally insane. All at once, the heavy iron gate didn’t look nearly heavy enough. I studied the manor house dubiously until the rising stone walls shut it off from view. I’d never been to a madhouse before. I wasn’t sure what to expect. When Droods go seriously crazy, we kill them. We have to. The armour makes them far too dangerous. Like Arnold Drood, the Bloody Man. I can’t believe that bastard was able to fool us for so long. Molly and I reached the bottom of the hill, and I trailed after Molly as she headed for the entrance. I wasn’t holding back. It was just that Molly knew the way.

"So," I said. "Criminally insane. Are we talking…ax murderers and the like?"

"Oh, at least," Molly said cheerfully. "But not to worry; I’m sure everyone will make you feel perfectly at home."

We stopped outside the iron gate, which seemed even bigger close up. It looked like it had been cast in one piece, with bars so thick you couldn’t get a hand around them. Its design was stark and purely functional. It was there to keep the inmates in, nothing more. Molly hit the buzzer recessed into the thick stone pillar beside the gate, and after a lengthy pause a heavyset man in hospital whites came over to glare suspiciously through the gate at us. The leather belt around his thick waist held a radio, pepper spray, and a long heavy truncheon.

"Hello, George," Molly said easily. "Remember me? I’m here to see my uncle John again. John Stapleton."

"You know the routine, Molly," said George in a surprisingly soft and pleasant voice. "You have to show me a signed and dated pass from the hospital administration."

"Oh, sure," said Molly. She held an empty hand up before him, and he leaned forward for a closer look, his lips moving slowly as he read the details on a nonexistent pass. He finally nodded, and Molly quickly lowered her hand. George worked an electronic lock on the other side of the gate, and there was the sound of heavy metal bolts disengaging. The gate swung smoothly open on concealed hydraulics, and Molly led the way into the house grounds. The gate swung shut behind us, locking us in with the inmates.

"Shall I call up to the house for an escort to take you the rest of the way?" said George, his hands resting on his belt next to the pepper spray and the truncheon.

"No, that’s all right, George," said Molly. "I know the way."

I must have looked a bit disconcerted, because George smiled reassuringly at me. "First visit? Don’t worry. None of the patients will bother you. Just stick to the path, and you’ll be fine."

We set off up the wide gravel path. "What was that bit with the empty hand?" I said quietly.

"Basic illusion spell," Molly said briskly. "Lets people see what they expect to see."

"Uncle John," I said with some emphasis. "And you knew the guard’s name. Are you a regular visitor here, by any chance?"

"Spot on, Sherlock. I found out who Oddly John really was by accident, and I’ve been keeping it to myself ever since. I was hoping I could use him to dig up some useful dirt on your family. Some secret piece of insider knowledge I could use as a weapon."

"And?"

She looked at me briefly, her expression unreadable. "Wait till you meet him. You’ll understand then."

Wide green lawns stretched away on either side of the path, cropped and cultivated to within an inch of their lives. Patients in dressing gowns, with wild hair and empty eyes, wandered listlessly back and forth, taking the air. A handful of bored-looking guards in hospital whites were enjoying a cigarette break by the ornamental fountain. Some of the patients muttered to themselves. Some just made noises. None of them looked like an ax murderer. And none of them even glanced at Molly and me, caught up in their own private worlds.

As Molly and I drew closer to the big house, I realised that all the windows were barred, with heavy metal shutters ready to be swung into place. Swivelling exterior cameras watched us approach. The main door looked very solid and very shut. Molly leaned over the electronic combination lock set into the post by the door and pecked out four numbers.

"You’d think they’d change the number once in a while," she said fussily. "Or at least come up with a decent combination. I mean, it’s been 4321 for as long as I’ve been coming here. Just so the staff won’t have any trouble remembering it in an emergency. Anybody could guess it! Or at least, anyone with the normal number of marbles. I’d write a stern letter to the hospital governors, but you never know. I might need to break in here some day. Or break out."

The door swung open, revealing a pleasant open lobby. Nice carpeting, comfortable furnishings, plaques and commendations on the walls. The only off note was that the receptionist sat in her own little cubicle behind heavy reinforced glass. She was a middle-aged, matronly figure in the ubiquitous hospital whites, with an easy, welcoming smile. Molly smiled and nodded familiarly back, and the receptionist pushed a guestbook through a narrow slit in the glass for us to sign. After only a moment’s pause, I wrote Mr. & Mrs. Jones.

"Oh, that’s nice," the receptionist said cheerfully. "Makes a change from all the Smiths we get coming here. Most people don’t care to use their real names, when they come visiting relations. Just in case someone finds out there’s a cannibal in the family. Though of course we’re always very careful about things like that. Good to see you back again, Molly. Most people don’t like to come to a place like this. We get all the bad ones here: the child killers, the serial rapists, the animal mutilators…All the patients no one else wants, or can’t cope with. We had the Dorset Ripper in here just the other week. No trouble at all; sweet as you like."

"We’re here to see my uncle John," said Molly, cutting off a monologue that threatened to run and run. "John Stapleton?"

"Of course you are, dear. Oddly John, we call him. He’s never a problem, bless him. Don’t know what he did to get sent to a place like this, before my time, but it must have been pretty bad, because there’s never any talk of transferring him to a less secure establishment, for all his good behaviour. Remember: always watch your back here, dears. Many of the patients in this place are the last faces a lot of people ever saw. Now, you make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll call for an attendant to escort you up to the top floor."

Molly stretched out in a comfortable chair, but I didn’t feel like sitting. This was not a comfortable place, for all the trimmings. I looked through an open door into an adjoining parlour, where patients were just sitting around in dressing gowns. It wasn’t what I’d expected. No thrashing figures in straitjackets, no muscular guards hovering, ready to beat the crap out of anyone who misbehaved. Instead, just a collection of very ordinary-looking people, sitting in chairs, flicking through papers and magazines, or watching morning television shows. The only attendant nurse was sitting at the back, doing the Times crossword puzzle. Molly moved in beside me, and I jumped a little despite myself.

"It’s all done with kindness, these days," she said quietly. "The chemical cosh. They’re all doped to the eyeballs, so they won’t cause any trouble or talk back. It’s a lot cheaper than restraints. Though you’ll notice there are surveillance cameras everywhere, just in case. The real hard cases are kept out of sight, so as not to upset the visitors."

"That’s right," said our escort, appearing suddenly beside us. Another muscular man in hospital whites, this time with a shaved head and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He kept one hand on his belt, right next to the truncheon. He didn’t offer to shake hands. "Hi; I’m Tommy. Ask me about anything. I’ve been here, like, forever. It’s good money, with lots of vacation time, and the work’s not exactly demanding most of the time. Hardly any excitement, these days. The wonders of modern science; better living through chemistry." He looked though the door into the parlour and sniggered openly. "Look at them. You could set fire to their slippers, and they wouldn’t notice. Like your missus said, we keep the real animals downstairs, in the Bear Pit." He sniggered again, looking sideways at Molly. "We had to put your uncle John down there a few times, when he first came here. He didn’t give us any more trouble after that."