I’m here outside Parliament where protestors have spent the night demonstrating against Aversion Therapy. As you can see behind me, there’s a large police presence keeping the crowd under control.
Robyn Cooper, a thirty-two-year-old from Bromley, was sentenced to the controversial treatment yesterday afternoon, for stealing ten genetically enhanced cryo-preserved foetuses from the CRYOGEN laboratory where she worked as a technician.
Unable to conceive a healthy child naturally, Cooper alleged she was promised one of the foetuses by a gang who planned to sell them on the black market. Her role in the theft was to give the gang access to the secure labs where the foetuses were kept.
The illegal trade in genetically enhanced babies has grown over the last two decades as effective screening highlights a vast array of potential problems. Many would-be parents use genetic modification to correct these problems, but some issues cannot be solved with therapy, taking away any chance of having a healthy child.
In mitigation, Cooper’s barristers said that, as a technician, she would never be able to afford the fees for gene therapy if she wished to have her own child. Many people in a similar situation live with the knowledge that their baby would be at a disadvantage to other genetically enhanced children, and some even choose sterilisation, as they feel their potential offspring’s chances to be too meagre.
Unlike Cooper, the gang members were not offered the option of Aversion Therapy and were sentenced to eco-labour for twenty years. Some were sent to the now defunct oil rigs in the North Sea which have been repurposed as part-prison, part-recycling plant. Inmates there collect swathes of plastic from the sea in huge metal nets and then gather it into bales which are then sent to the eco-stations on land to be recycled into building bricks. Others were sent to the landfill camps to endure painstaking sorting and separation of landfills, ‘detritus archaeology’ as the head of the Department of Justice recently referred to it, in an attempt to prevent the planet being smothered by waste.
As the gang members settle to the next two decades of incarceration, there’s outrage that Cooper will be released at the end of the week. A large number of protestors gathered late yesterday afternoon in Parliament Square to demand proper punishment. They’ve clashed with demonstrators on Cooper’s side who are asking for leniency. Both groups appear to be against Aversion Therapy, but for very different reasons. Many people are carrying placards displaying phrases such as STATE SANCTIONED TORTURE and FIGHT FOR HUMAN RIGHTS, while others are demanding a return to the old-fashioned prison system, particularly whole-life tariffs for more serious crimes.
The Department of Justice has refused to comment on Cooper’s case.
As yet, there’s no sign of the crowds dispersing, and clashes are expected to get worse as the day goes on.
This is Dan Gunnarsson reporting for NewsFlex.
The clinic was very different from the day of Noah Begbroke’s treatment. The temperature was cool, the blackout electrochromic glass in the windows switched off to let in the morning light, softening the dark grey of the walls. It was simple, minimalist, and could have been any other clinic in the building, except for the chair that sat in the centre of the room – empty, innocent – but a reminder of what Grace had seen and could not forget.
The bio-scanners picked up on her anxiety immediately and she felt the buzz in her bag as the readings came up on her shell. She didn’t need to look to know what it would show.
If Abigail had heard her conversation with Dan, she hadn’t said anything. Now she moved briskly around the room, pushing at various wall panels which opened to reveal the tech kit necessary to carry out Aversion Therapy.
‘So here we have the main emotisonic wave controls. We programme it here before treatment and then use the shell to adjust, but I’m sure you’re familiar with all that.’
‘Yes, we use them in the Tier Two clinics,’ Grace replied, ‘but it’s usually to reassure or calm our clients.’
‘Here we use waves that elicit a negative reaction, as you saw with Begbroke. The therapy is more effective if we agitate their emotions to make them feel less at ease.’
Had that been one of the reasons that Grace had felt so unsettled at Begbroke’s treatment? The very atmosphere had been created to be uncomfortable. Even as the idea crossed her mind, she knew there was much more to it than emotisonics.
Abigail pressed another panel, her long fingers pale against the grey. The push-catch clicked as the cupboard slid open to reveal a defibrillator. ‘Just in case. No one has ever had a heart attack as far as I know, but with this sort of therapy, I suppose it could happen.’
‘My main concern is for the psychological health of the offenders.’
‘You saw yourself with Begbroke, he was a little shaken, but nothing to be concerned about.’
‘I’ll see where he’s up to at his post-treatment appointment.’
Abigail looked at her, bemused. ‘Myriam didn’t do follow-ups.’
Grace felt her brow crease. ‘Did someone else do them?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘Conrad said they weren’t necessary, money was better spent on drugs.’
‘Really?’ Grace’s instinct was to turn round, march back to Conrad’s office and confront him.
But then she remembered. She wasn’t going to be here long. It wasn’t her problem. Right now, she had enough to deal with.
‘Has any offender ever had a psychotic episode in clinic?’
‘No. The worst we see is anxiety before the treatment, or distress afterwards, but it’s to be expected.’
‘And the relaxant, what do you use?’
‘One that doesn’t cause any mental impairment or affect memory. We want the offender to be physically impeded, but cerebrally sharp so that the treatment really hits home.’
‘Is that what this is?’ Grace pointed to vials still in the dish from Begbroke’s treatment.
‘Oh, I was meant to clear that away. No, that’s something else.’ She busied herself taking the vials and placing them behind one of the panels. ‘We use nasal spray for a relaxant because it enters the body very quickly.’
‘Have you worked here long, Abigail?’
‘Just over a year. I was head-hunted from another clinic up north.’ She flicked at her hair with her hand.
Up north. Vague. There were clinics in many of the big cities around the country.
‘Conrad has a high opinion of you.’ Grace wasn’t sure that was true, but if she was going to be working alongside Abigail, she had to try to get on the right side of her. It didn’t take a degree in psychiatry to work that out.
She looked at Grace warily before saying, ‘Really?’
‘He told me that you’re highly competent.’
She seemed pleased by this and started to loosen up a little. ‘I used to work at Newcastle, and Bradford before that. Nowadays, I sometimes go to other clinics to give training – Manchester, Bristol and other places.’
Grace nodded in approval. ‘I’m a willing student. I need to be if we’re going to get to the bottom of this problem.’
‘We?’ Abigail turned her attention to a workstation with a triptych of screens.
‘I’m going to need your expertise, Abigail. I can’t do this on my own.’
Even as the words left her lips, Grace felt conflicted. Yes, she was trying to gain Abigail’s trust, to lower herself so the other felt elevated, as she so often had – a survival technique learned way back. But the pre-university Gracie would have scoffed at this attempt to ingratiate herself.
Abigail placed her hand on a palm-reader and immediately the three screens burst into life. ‘Myriam’s already been removed from the security system.’
Removed. Like a cancer cut out.
‘Abigail Hawesthorne.’ She spoke clearly into the voice recognition mic as the scanner scrutinised one of her golden-orange irises.
‘Heavy security,’ Grace mused.
‘Look into the reader,’ Abigail commanded. ‘Needs to be heavy, we had protestors break in last summer. Some of the photos they took ended up on the media websites. They tried to make out we were torturing offenders.’
‘I heard about that.’ The iris scanner left a lingering red dot swimming in Grace’s vision. She blinked a few times. ‘Looks like Conrad’s stepping up security again. There’ll be new guards starting this week.’
‘Better to be safe than sorry. Handprint,’ Abigail said, pointing at the palm-reader. ‘At any one time you’ll need two of the three identity markers to get in. We’ve had hackers try to get into the system as well. We can’t be too careful.’
That phrase again.
She watched Abigail’s fingers fly over the keyboard as she readjusted the security settings.
‘Okay, now say your name.’
‘Grace Gunnarsson.’
‘And again.’ Her eyes moved from scanner to screen and back again.
‘Grace Gunnarsson.’
‘One more time.’
‘Grace Gunnarsson.’
‘Okay, you’re in.’
The central screen was a dashboard of information about the clinic – who was present, a video monitor of the witness room and various update reports. The bio-analysis reader for the chair was currently flatlining. Grace could see her own readings, her heart rate a little high.
She felt transparent, like a scientific specimen.
Abigail’s did not appear to be responding.
‘Obs can be deactivated?’ Grace asked. Sharing biological information might have become second nature, but she began to worry that her stats might give something away.
Abigail nodded. ‘Look at the settings menu under your name.’
The screen to the left showed the dark blue logo of Janus Justice, the head of a Roman god with two faces looking in opposite directions. Janus – the god of transitions, duality, beginnings and endings. The gateway god who looked to the past and the future at the same time. Conrad’s idea, no doubt, a tinpot god in his own little cosmos.
‘So here we have the clinic log,’ Abigail said, shifting her attention to the screen on the right. ‘As you can see, tomorrow we have Robyn Cooper in for Aversion Therapy. The various windows show all the information about this offender and her case.’ She moved her finger across the screen. ‘Here are the details of the crime. And here’s her background information, medical history, and her pre-treatment assessments. This is the reel that she’ll see tomorrow during treatment, the emotisonics programme and the drugs we’ll use. Myriam already prescribed these at Cooper’s previous assessment. You’ll be prescribing for the next offender.’
Grace felt a wave of uncertainty. As if reading her mind, Abigail said, ‘All the information is here on the screen, the types of drugs and doses that we use. You’ll be able to figure it all out. You can readjust your screen to add in other windows, but these are the main ones. Cooper will come here tomorrow straight from hypnotherapy.’
‘Hypnotherapy?’ asked Grace. It was something they also used in Tier Two but, but like the emotisonics, here she was sure it would be in a negative way.
‘It reinforces the illusion that the criminal is now the victim.’
‘The video of Corrina. It was… disturbing to say the least. Who makes the reels?’
Abigail flicked at her hair again. ‘As the main technician on this floor, that’s my job.’
‘Where does the information come from?’
‘Police records, court cases, audio and video, and witness statements, including the victim, if possible.’ The words hung in the air.
Grace imagined her trawling through hours of digital files, crime scenes and police interviews. ‘How do you feel about making them? I mean, it can’t be easy.’
God, now she really sounded like a psychiatrist.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s essential to the success of the treatment. I take that part of the job very seriously.’
‘I just meant, it must be… difficult to see the files.’
After a pause, Abigail said, ‘Mood drinks help… Lots of them.’
Was that a smile?
Abigail turned away with a shrug and picked up a shell from the workstation. ‘Here, take this home. It’s got all the Tier Three info on it. You can read up on the case and the meds, so you have everything you need before tomorrow.’ She thrust the shell into Grace’s hands.
All the information she needed about Mikey Kilgannon, and more importantly Remy, was accessible to Grace now. Her fingers seemed to crackle with static as she wiped them across the crystal. She eyed the screen, hoping her heart monitor on the main screen didn’t draw Abigail’s attention, and made a mental note to disable her observations as soon as possible.
‘Thanks.’
Abigail turned her attention back to the screen. ‘There. I’ve given you security clearance on that shell too. Just be very careful with that – Myriam took the up-to-date clinic shell with her. This one hasn’t got an iris scanner on it, so make sure you use a very strong password. I know you’re learning on the job, but I’ll be here and it will all become clear in practice.’
Grace leaned in to take a closer look at Robyn Cooper’s information.
‘Stealing a foetus?’
‘Helping to steal ten from a laboratory for a black-market trader.’ Abigail brought up a document on the screen. ‘This is the legal documentation from the court that gives us the power to carry out the sentence. She couldn’t have a genetically healthy baby naturally, so she stole one.’
Grace caught her breath.
She knew all too well the ticking time bomb of something within waiting for a trigger to trip the gene. Problems that might lead to a clinic like this.
A stolen foetus, however, implanted into the womb by any number of shady doctors looking for extra cash, could make it appear that you had your own perfectly healthy child.
‘At least Cooper had the choice of eco-camp or Aversion Therapy,’ said Abigail.
‘That sounds like a tough choice.’
‘I guess so.’ She turned to face Grace. ‘People choose this treatment for all sorts of reasons, usually because they don’t realise how distressing it’s going to be. They want to get their punishment over and done with and move on as quickly as possible. Cooper miscarried, so destruction of property was an added charge.’
‘God, that’s terrible!’
‘Yes, the government want to make an example of her. Stop this kind of thing.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant that poor woman can’t have a healthy child, and then loses the baby and has to go through this too. Surely she needs compassion, not punishment?’
‘She took her chances.’ Abigail shrugged.
Curious about Abigail, Grace asked her a question that was frequently thrown about in bars on a Friday night. ‘What would you choose? A quick, painful fix of Aversion Therapy, or a longer, more drawn-out punishment of eco-labour?’
From a distance, Grace had often seen the yellow hazmat-suited convicts swarming over the disposal sites as she drove to and from the Agrarian Compound.
Abigail didn’t answer the question, but instead said, ‘At least it’s a choice. Imagine the attacks we’d get if it was forced. Many people think it’s an appropriate punishment. Although a lot of people seem to trust a long haul in an eco-prison more than Aversion Therapy.’
Grace could understand why people might not trust the treatment. It seemed so quick, and most people could never really imagine what took place, so they probably didn’t see it as much of a punishment. She herself hadn’t realised until yesterday just how distressing it was. As a psychiatrist, she would have more insight than most about how traumatic such a process might be. She could also see that psychologically some people would want to choose eco-labour, where the penitent offender was seen to be redeemed.
‘But the results speak for themselves,’ Abigail said. ‘It’s cheaper than long-term incarceration, quicker, and highly effective.’
And what would the general population think if they knew that sometimes it didn’t work? No wonder Conrad is worried.
‘And those people therapy can’t fix?’ asked Grace. ‘What do you do with them?’
‘I’ll show you.’