CONTROVERSIAL CLINIC ATTACKED
By Dan Gunnarsson
A Janus Justice clinic in Newcastle has been attacked overnight in the worst such incident since the controversial Aversion Therapy treatment was made public. At least thirty protestors stormed the building, scuffled with staff and caused thousands of pounds’ worth of damage.
The number of attacks on Janus have increased in recent weeks, escalating in severity from graffiti and broken windows to arson and bomb threats. Aversion Therapy is under attack from different groups, some who oppose the treatment because, they say, it is brutalising offenders, while others claim it’s letting criminals off too lightly.
Conrad Becker, the CEO of the company, downplayed the attack, saying that although some protestors complained the treatment impinged upon human rights, the offenders themselves chose Tier Three Aversion Therapy over being sent to eco-camps for longer sentences.
He concluded by saying this treatment was much cheaper than eco-labour or long-term incarceration and that the safety of his staff was his priority.
The light in the office was rapidly dimming, but Sarge liked the dark so the other two said nothing. They didn’t even switch on a lamp. They knew better.
Instead, they sat around the desk in the gloom, watching Sarge’s heavily lined face, illuminated by his shell, as he stared down at the images of the crime scene. Even from this angle Mal could see the horror.
Finally, he broke the silence and asked cautiously, ‘What do you think, boss?’
Bizzy, his dark clothes camouflaged in the shadows, shot him a glance. Mal didn’t care. Bizzy looked down on him, but so what? Sarge did too, but Sarge was alpha dog, so he looked down on everyone. I might be bottom of the pile, but I’m going to be up there one day.
Shit always floats to the top his dad used to say.
Had Sarge even heard him speak?
Bizzy gave a snide smile.
But then Sarge slowly turned towards Mal. ‘This one’s a nasty bastard.’ There was a glint in his eyes, one that Mal had seen before. He was ready for the hunt. ‘It’ll test our abilities, lads, but we can do this.’ He breathed out slowly through his nose. ‘Mal, what do you know?’
‘He was treated at Tier Three of Janus Justice on the 16th of last month and was released after assessment four days later.’
‘And the treatment was successful?’
Mal nodded. ‘According to the manager, it all went to plan.’
‘So, there would have been no reason to believe he would offend again.’ Sarge nodded thoughtfully. ‘We’re going to have to work hard to prove it was him. No one will believe that someone who’s been through Tier Three has reoffended. It just doesn’t happen. The Department of Justice isn’t going to like this.’
‘Maybe they’ll try to sweep it under the carpet,’ said Bizzy.
Mal found it hard to hide a smile when Sarge ignored him.
‘I’ve downloaded all the files for you, Sarge,’ Mal said, pointing to the shell, ‘and I’ve got the car outside ready to take us to the crime scene.’
Bizzy frowned.
Sarge nodded. ‘Have we got DNA?’
‘Not yet, but I’ll see what I can get from Forensics.’
‘Good job, Mal. Right, lads, get your coats. We’ve got work to do.’
Grace had run a bath. She took off every item of clothing she’d worn at the clinic, even her earrings, dropped them on the floor and stepped into the hot water. The smell of synthetic smoke still lingered in her hair so she slipped under the surface until she couldn’t stand the temperature any longer. She sat up, water pouring down her face, and took a gulp of air.
Her mind turned to Corrina Saunders, the dry heat engulfing her.
She lay back and rested her arms on the side of the bath.
‘Lights down. Emotisonics relaxing, grade four.’ The house system wasn’t as strong as the one in the clinic but she knew it would soon take the edge off her nerves. The minerals in the pale grey resin that made up the walls, floor, bathtub and sink glittered in the low light.
She thought back, maybe twenty-five years ago, to when Lottie used to drink gin in the bath and tell her and Remy to piss off while they giggled at the door. What would Lottie have made of this bathroom? She’d been a rough diamond, no doubt about it. A whore with a heart of gold as someone had referred to her once. Grace hated that cliché. Why did people try to take the sting out of these things? Although there was truth in it. Lottie had been a tom, and a good, loving woman at her core. Not everyone would have taken Grace in.
It had been twenty years too early for Grace to feel the benefits of society’s investment in early intervention with families. Now the family was celebrated as the basic building block of society and, as such, the cause and remedy of many of society’s problems. What would happen when the effects trickled through and the new generation grew into adulthood? Some would always slip the net. Maybe the nature of their problems would change and so her work would have to adapt. But she’d always been adaptable.
Eventually, she stepped out of the bath and reached for one of the soft, grey, cotton towels. People had always been able to tell she wasn’t Lottie’s biological child. She was too small and pale with fair hair. But Lottie had never made her feel like anything other than her own. When Lottie had died, nearly fifteen years ago, Grace had felt her loss more keenly, as far as she could remember, than when her own mother had died.
‘Hey, love,’ Dan shouted, his deep voice echoing through the hallway as he shut the front door. She threw on her robe and made her way downstairs to the kitchen where he was taking two bottles of AltCon out of the fridge. Mood-altering drinks were increasing in popularity and variety after the government ban on alcohol over six years ago. He popped the tops off and handed her one. Even after nine years together, she still sometimes caught her breath when she saw him.
‘You look all pink,’ he said with a smile.
‘Just out of the bath.’ She looked at the label before she took a drink. Relax & Reboot. It was deliciously cold. ‘So then, Mr NewsFlex, what’s new in the world of journalism?’ She smiled, leaning back against the counter. He moved close and leaned his body into hers. He was a good thirty centimetres taller and she nuzzled up, feeling his heart beating against her cheek. She breathed him in, an aroma of pine and sandalwood.
‘What, apart from my wife working for a company that causes massive protests?’ He smiled down at her.
‘Hey, that’s nothing to do with my Tier.’
‘No, but Aversion Therapy certainly keeps me in business. Sometimes I don’t know who’s for it and who’s against it, they’re all shouting so much.’
Grace pulled a face and took a drink. She didn’t want to think about what she’d seen in the clinic.
‘Apart from that, I’m working on something.’
‘Ooh, a mystery solved by our favourite roving reporter, Daniel Gunnarsson. Go on, spill the beans.’
‘Later. Let’s get a food delivery, get cosy on the couch,’ he suggested, kissing the top of her head.
‘I could do with that,’ Grace sighed, as they untangled and carried their drinks into the living room. They relaxed on the long velvet sofa, Grace curling her legs beneath her, Dan stretching his out. He laid his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. She took a sip from her bottle and studied his handsome profile, the strong nose, the fair eyelashes.
‘Good day?’ He opened his eyes and turned to her when she didn’t reply immediately.
‘It was a bit of a weird one.’
‘Go on.’ His aqua blue eyes searched her face.
‘I’ve been offered a promotion.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm.’ She took another sip from her bottle and felt her muscles begin to relax.
‘So, not good?’
She gazed around while trying to put into words how she felt. The living room made her feel calm. It was her safe space with its pale walls, blonde fake wood shelves and coffee table, and a fireplace with clean fuel blocks – retro Scandi chic, to match her husband, she sometimes joked.
Only Grace knew that deep down this design was intended to be as different as possible from Lottie’s house. She wanted to distance herself from the dark reds and rich purples of the rugs and drapes, the scarves over the lamps, the chunky, dark-wood upcycled furniture, the golden Arabic vases and pots, the aromas of ylang-ylang and apple tea.
‘They want to move me up to Tier Three.’
Dan’s jaw tightened. ‘How do you feel about that?’
She tried to laugh. ‘I thought I was the psychiatrist.’
‘Grace, you can’t do that to yourself.’ He reached over and brushed a lock of damp blonde hair from her forehead. ‘One of the reasons I fell in love with you is because you care so much.’ He smiled, but it faded quickly. ‘But you already bring your work home with you. You’re so… open to others, it makes you incredibly vulnerable.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Her tone was a little sharp. He hadn’t meant it as a criticism, had he? Still, she recognised the truth in it.
How could she accurately portray what she’d seen in the clinic? She didn’t want to pollute his mind with that brutal treatment, the once-beautiful melted face…
And she also knew his journalist instincts would kick in and he’d begin to dig for the whole story, and she was too tired to fend off his questions. He was always curious about Janus – who wouldn’t be in his position? They’d argued about it in the past, Grace having refused to give him details when he had reported on the Agrarian. He’d had to go through the official channels for that. They’d agreed not to discuss it at home to keep the peace. But if Dan knew what was going on at Tier Three, just how bad it really was, he’d feel duty-bound to tell the public.
The public knew that Aversion Therapy happened. They just didn’t know exactly what it was like. Neither had she until today. No wonder Conrad had made her sign a confidentiality agreement. If details got out, who knew how the public might react?
They sat not speaking for a while, the swishing sound of Dan swigging from his bottle puncturing the silence until Grace said, ‘I’m not going to take it.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Good decision.’
‘Conrad wants to see me again tomorrow. Thinks he’ll be able to persuade me.’
Dan rolled his eyes. It was no secret how he felt about Conrad.
‘Stick to your guns. You’re much better off at Tier Two where you’re doing something positive and practical. It suits who you are…’
‘Dan, I get it.’ She held her hand up as if to stop his words reaching her.
‘No, listen to me, Grace.’ He put his bottle on the table and turned towards her. ‘There’s something you should know about Tier Three.’
‘What about it?’ Grace asked, a rumbling anxiety building up inside her.
‘It’s not safe.’
‘Not safe? The treatment is rough, but I’m sure Conrad has all the medical licences.’
‘No, I don’t mean—’
‘If you’re talking about the protestors, then the clinic has tough security measures in place.’
‘It’s not the protestors.’ Dan rubbed his face and Grace could hear the faint sound of his stubble against his fingers. ‘The story I’m investigating. It’s not ready to go yet, but…’
Grace felt a shiver. ‘Go on.’
‘It looks as though the treatment in Tier Three doesn’t always work.’
She shook her head with a half-laugh. ‘No, that’s not right.’
Dan sat back on the sofa. ‘There was a murder last night. It’s exactly the same MO as one of the Tier Three offenders who was supposedly cured and discharged about a month ago, a man called Mikey Kilgannon.’
Grace couldn’t catch her breath.
‘Mikey?’ She’d treated him at Tier Two the previous summer. He’d had trouble with addiction which he fed by burgling, but she’d seen an underlying goodness in him, a willingness to help others and a sense of contrition. Although his treatment had seemed successful initially he’d gone on to offend again. It happened every now and then, if they didn’t get to the heart of the matter the first time, like with Nikki Paton. Or when they didn’t go in hard enough with the addiction treatment at Tier Two.
But there had never been a relapse after Tier Three. They couldn’t go in any harder with the treatment.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘He was originally convicted of GBH. He was up to his usual tricks, but one of his jobs didn’t go as planned. Kilgannon had taken a baseball bat with him, he claimed just to threaten his victim with. The homeowner was an old fella, but he fought back. Kilgannon was high on drugs and got the better of him. The man was hospitalised for weeks and Kilgannon was sentenced to Aversion Therapy and the treatment seemed to be successful.’
‘But he did it again?’ asked Grace, incredulous.
‘Another old man was found dead last night under very similar circumstances, but this time it looked like Kilgannon went too far – the man was found bashed to death with a baseball bat.’
A sudden sadness swept over her. Once someone was a killer, Tier Two was no longer an option.
‘Are they certain Mikey did it? It might not have been him.’
Dan shrugged. ‘The bat was found at the scene with his DNA on it.’
Was that why Myriam had resigned? Either she’d lost faith in the therapy or else she had somehow messed up Mikey’s treatment and Conrad had sacked her. Reoffending wasn’t possible after treatment, was it? Surely the post-treatment brain scans would have deemed that he was cured, that he was no longer a threat.
‘It’s not been made public yet,’ Dan said. ‘In fact, I think someone in government is deliberately keeping it under wraps. They don’t want it to look like their justice system is flawed. My contact in the police says they’ve been told under pain of death not to say anything.’
‘But he told you?’
Dan shrugged. ‘I can be pretty persuasive.’ He showed his teeth as he smiled.
Grace knew NewsFlex could afford to pay for information. And pay well. The previous year, after a story about a scandal involving the minister in charge of hydroelectricity plants, one of Dan’s informers had managed to start a whole new life for herself in Alicante with a huge deposit from NewsFlex in her bank.
‘Dan, you’re not going to report on this, are you?’
He shrugged, a slight grin on his face. ‘Depends what I find out when I get to the bottom of it. I’m not going to break the story yet. I haven’t got everything I need. You know me – go big or go home.’
Suddenly, Grace didn’t feel like eating. She didn’t even want to sit with Dan and let him comfort her after such a difficult day. Her head was filled with questions about Aversion Therapy and images of Noah Begbroke’s crime. She put her bottle on the table. If Dan insisted on reporting on this, it was going to cause trouble and she was too tired for a row.
‘You look very pale. Are you okay?’ Dan asked.
‘I’m sorry, I suddenly feel exhausted. It’s been an awful day. I just need to get some rest.’
She didn’t look back as she left him alone on the sofa and made her way upstairs, wondering exactly what she would see when she closed her eyes to sleep.