I asked Lupe if she was hungry or thirsty. She held out cuffed hands and demanded to be released. I asked if she were cold, if she would like an extra blanket. She looked me in the eye and told me, calm and clear, that I was attempting to use a series of token kindnesses to make myself feel better about holding people captive while the world went to hell, and maybe I should fuck myself.
I shifted position so I could talk to Knox. He sat by the entrance of his cell.
The doorway to each cell was designated by a series of chalk dashes. When the prisoners were escorted to and from their imaginary cells, they were expected to use this demarcated entrance.
Knox sat hugging his knees. He hummed old Motown hits. I gave him a stick of gum.
I liked him. He had been arrested on an assault charge. He told a convoluted story involving mistaken identity and police racism. He was adamant the case should never have seen trial.
He had been transported to Bellevue for treatment to a hip injury following a minor fracas at Sing Sing. A poker game that ended in scattered cards, shoves and recriminations. The prison infirmary had been damaged by a burst water pipe, so he had been sent outside the walls for examination.
I’m not fool enough to think I am a fine judge of character, that I have a deep insight into human nature. But I sympathised with Knox. The pettiest of criminals. No gang tattoos, no track marks. Not a bad man. Not malicious. Just pathetically weak.
Knox or Lupe? Who would you choose?
Lupe deserved to die. Vermin. Irredeemable street trash. A life-long killer. Probably responsible for a dozen deaths, gang rivals shot or knifed in retaliation for near-imperceptible violations of her honour code. Most people would circle her name without hesitation.
But what is evil? Is murder part of the normal spectrum of human behaviour? Or is it indicative of illness? If Lupe was a psychopath, incap-able of empathy, could that be regarded an actual physical abnormality, rather than simply a mental state? Her anti-social behaviour might be the result of some malformation of the central nervous system. Or it might be the result of post-natal injury. A blow to the head, some form of traumatic encephalopathy. As a doctor, should I regard her as a defective specimen? An imperfect test subject? Was she, on some basic level, less than human?
I handed Ekks the list knowing, as I did so, I had set the death machine in motion.
A folded sheet of paper. Four names. Three crossed in red. A big green tick next to KNOX.
Ekks lay a hand on my shoulder. His solemn, wordless Thank You.
I condemned an innocent person to death. Played my role with cold, clear deliberation.
I did the right thing. I did what needed to be done.
But I’m not the man I used to be. I have become something else. Something ugly. Something broken.
45
Tombes slept, back against the wall.
He swallowed. He choked and convulsed. He woke, and found a thin string of drool hanging from his mouth.
‘Christ.’
He took a bandana from his pocket. He dabbed his chin and shirt. He sipped bottled water and rinsed the taste of vomit from his mouth.
He ran fingers across his scalp. Sudden fear his hair might be falling out in clumps.
Sicknote stood by the barricaded door, forehead pressed to the wood panels like he was deep in prayer.
‘Told you to keep away from that door.’
Sicknote smiled and backed off.
‘You want to go outside, is that it? Want to commune with those bastards in the hall? Embrace the darkness, all that shit? Happy to oblige. Glad to see the back of you.’
Sicknote giggled and walked to the back of the plant room. He sat, rocked, and chewed his nails.
‘Stay there. Seriously. Stay put. I got too much to worry about. If you’re going to freak out for real, I’ll push you out the door. Won’t hesitate.’
Lupe sat opposite Tombes.
‘It’s all right,’ said Lupe. ‘I’ll keep my eyes on him. He won’t try anything.’
‘If he pulls any shit, I got to take steps. I don’t want to hurt the guy. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I get it: he’s nuts. It’s not his fault. But a situation like this, what else can I do?’
‘I’ll watch the guy, all right? He’s my responsibility. If there are problems, I’ll deal with it myself.’
Lupe knelt beside Ekks.
She examined his signet ring. A silver snake, eating its own tail. She tried to twist the ring from his finger. His hand slowly balled into a fist.
She studied his face. Silver hair. Wide, Slavic lips.
She leaned close and listened to breath escape his parted lips.
She clapped her hands. He didn’t flinch. His eyelids didn’t flutter. His jaw didn’t clench.
‘I doubt he is faking,’ said Cloke. ‘Nobody is that good an actor.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past this fuck. He’ll wake up when it suits him. Not before. He’ll lie there, listening to us talk, map our minds, figure out which strings to pull.’
‘You’re building this guy up into some sort of satanic manipulator.’
‘Damn right.’
Cloke threw the notebook aside. He rubbed his eyes.
‘No luck with the code?’ asked Lupe.
‘I’m not a cipher expert. I haven’t got the right sort of mind, the right kind of logic. I’ve never won a game of chess in my life.’
‘I thought you were a scientist.’
‘A very average one. Doomed to be mediocre. Some of my college class were effortlessly accomplished. Not me. I had to study night and day. Everything came hard. That’s why I hate this damned code. A reminder of my limitations. All the times I sat over a textbook, frustrated and helpless, willing the words to make sense. We need to find a geek. Someone with an aptitude for frequency analysis.’
‘We had codes in jail,’ said Lupe. ‘We used to scribble them on the inside of cigarette packets. Little pencil marks on the foil. They’d change hands in the yard.’
‘Contract killings?’
‘No. Little stuff. Drug deals, sports bets, love tokens.’
Cloke picked up the notebook and thumbed pages.
‘I can’t help imagining what it would have been like to be down here, with Ekks, fighting the disease by his side. Dark and desperate hours.’
‘You would have died with the rest of them. Blown your brains out in that subway car.’
‘I’m a vector specialist. Competent enough in my field. I might have achieved something.’
‘You wouldn’t have achieved a damn thing,’ said Lupe. ‘Just an ugly, squalid death.’
Cloke shrugged. He turned his attention back to the notebook.
‘We need some kind of key, is that right?’ said Lupe. ‘Some kind of guide to unlock the text.’
‘Yes.’
‘He would have to write it down, yeah? It would be complicated. He couldn’t keep it in his head.’
‘Probably.’
‘What would it look like?’
‘Most likely some kind of grid or number sequence.’
‘Maybe he wrote it on his body. Have you checked him for biro marks? Little tattoos?’
‘We gave him a thorough examination. There were no marks.’
‘But you frisked him, right? You searched his pockets?’
‘It didn’t occur to me.’
Lupe leaned over Ekks and patted him down.
A dog tag hung round his neck. A tab of stamped metal with a rubber rim. She broke the ball-chain and examined the tag.
‘Feels thick.’
She peeled away the rubber rim. Two tags sandwiched together. A folded scrap of paper the size of a postage stamp between them.