The clinic was silent. Conrad stood, hands in pockets, Abigail perched on the clinic chair as Grace came back in.
‘She’s in a secure room, heavily sedated. I’ve told George to make sure someone’s with her at all times.’
Conrad looked at her questioningly.
‘Suicide watch,’ Grace said. ‘When the sedatives wear off her emotions are going to be all over the place and she’ll realise she’s still going to Tier Four.’
‘That treatment was something else,’ Conrad said.
Grace didn’t reply but went back to the workstation to scrutinise the brain scans. Whether the changes in Penny’s brain were partial or full, long-term or needed constant monitoring, time would tell.
But Grace had done it! She wouldn’t have to fake scans and lie to get Remy out. She was going to be able to save him. She imagined waking Mikey Kilgannon from his Siberia sleep. The future seemed to open up before her, a future where she could make a real difference in the lives of offenders but also keep other people, potential victims, safe too. For the first time in weeks, Grace felt a sense of hope. She wondered if this even extended to Dan. Where would they be after all this was over? Was there any hope for them?
‘Grace, you’re a genius!’ Conrad exclaimed. ‘My contact in the government is going to be thrilled. This treatment means reassurance that the reoffending problem is dealt with, saving money from not having to house Tier Four offenders. And’ – he sighed heavily, clearly relieved – ‘it will get the press off our backs.’
What other revelations had Dan been broadcasting over the last forty-eight hours? Consumed by her work, she hadn’t looked at NewsFlex in days.
‘I knew you were right for this job.’ Conrad folded his arms across his chest.
Abigail rolled her eyes.
‘It’s not a miracle cure, Conrad,’ Grace told him. ‘This is going to take years of testing and licensing before it’s accepted by the Department of Justice and legally allowed in the Neurocourts. You know that, right?’
He didn’t reply.
‘It’s going to need thorough research,’ she went on, ‘and I insist you put into place rigorous post-release checks. That’s essential if you want to get out of the mess you’re in. You can’t take shortcuts this time,’ she added sternly.
Conrad unfolded his arms and waved his hands as if swatting away her concerns. ‘I’m going to tell my minister the good news, ask him to get his spin doctors onto it, before the reoffending story gains any more traction. Good job, Grace!’
He moved towards the door and Grace followed.
‘You agreed, Conrad,’ she said quietly, aware of Abigail.
He raised his chin, brow furrowed.
How could he not remember?
‘You said after initial rounds, if it was successful, I could choose an offender to run my own trial on,’ she said. ‘I want to run a trial on Remy Wilson.’
He gave her a hard stare and then nodded briefly before moving through the doors.
Relieved, she turned to Abigail.
‘Can you bring Remy Wilson to the clinic, please. He’s in the secure room, next to Penny Lithgow.’
‘What do you want him for? We only needed one trial. Wilson’s already been through Tier Three, hasn’t he?’ Abigail said. ‘Anyway, can’t George or one of the guards bring him?’
‘Abigail, what’s the problem? He’s not dangerous. He’ll still be under sedation from having his bio-chip fitted.’
‘So why is he…?’
Abigail was going to be assisting with the treatment – she might as well know. ‘Not that it’s your business,’ said Grace, ‘but Conrad said I could choose an offender and use the new therapy on them. And I chose Remy.’
‘But why him?’
‘What’s that to do with you?’ Grace snapped. ‘Just do your bloody job.’
The orange eyes narrowed.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I haven’t slept much lately and this is an important case… for my career…’
Abigail continued to stare.
‘It’s just that Remy has… an interesting brain. If I can fix him, then I can fix anyone.’
Abigail didn’t break her gaze.
‘Don’t you get it, Abigail? This is a win-win. We provide a far superior therapy, the government approves our treatment and therefore releases offenders from biostasis, and then the protestors will be happier because it’s a more humane way of treating these people.’
Why was she even explaining herself?
‘Apology accepted,’ Abigail said and turned on her heel.
What the hell had got into her? Gracie reared her head – What the hell did you apologise to her for?
While she was gone, Grace organised all the kit necessary for the procedure. There was no footage from the Neurocourt, as Remy had done a runner before the trial, but she’d downloaded the reel from the first time he’d been tried. It was the same type of crime – drug dealing and grievous bodily harm – so it would do.
The thought struck her momentarily. The second time, the victim died, but it was the same crime, the same set of circumstances, a drug dealer, a transaction gone wrong, a blade…
The same crime.
She knew most offenders were one-trick ponies, but something didn’t quite sit right. What Remy had said about Diros recreating crimes came back to her.
Everything was ready but Abigail was taking her time. Grace picked up her shell while she waited and had a quick look at NewsFlex. Dan’s face came up on the screen above the yellow and black logo and the ticker tape breaking news, his handsome features showing no distress whatsoever, unlike Grace whose skin felt paper-thin, whose eyes were red-rimmed and circled with darkness.
‘…a large crowd has gathered outside the Janus Justice building.’ Dan was straining to make his voice heard over chanting. ‘It’s believed that Remy Wilson is being held here…’ The clock on the screen told her this was happening in real time. She moved over to the window and when she opened it, she could hear shouting below. How the hell had they found out?
Flicking back to other reports from the last few days, she saw that Dan had led the reporting on Remy’s capture. He’d known about Remy’s arrest and escape. He knew about Remy’s previous crimes and his original treatment at Tier Three. Maybe Dan had an insider at the police, but how did he have information from the clinic?
Anger reared as she realised he must have been looking at her shell while she slept. How else could he have found out?
Where the hell was Abigail? She’d better not be whingeing to Conrad. Remy was prepped and ready to go, she didn’t have time for histrionics. The faster she completed his treatment, the faster she could get him out of there. Conrad would have to deal with the police or the Department of Justice if questions were asked.
Conrad had promised.
Where was she?
The door opened and a guard appeared, pushing Remy in a wheelchair. Remy’s shoulders were slumped, his head a little to one side, his hands in his lap. He was sedated but she could tell he was angry. His eyes locked on her. She focused on the task – to fix him and free him.
He’ll thank me later.
‘If you see Abigail, will you tell her to hurry, please,’ she said to the guard, but he merely shrugged as he helped Grace get Remy into the chair and strapped in before leaving the clinic.
After injecting Remy with the nano-scanners, she used the magnet to move them into place so that she’d be able to see exactly what was going on in his brain.
She geared herself up. It was time to face facts. Her heart went out to her old friend who didn’t realise how sick he was. She projected the images of his scans onto the main viewing screen so he could see. Would that make him come to his senses?
‘Remy, look,’ she said, leaning down to speak into his ear. ‘Look at the screen.’ She moved his chin with her hand. ‘These are your scans from Manchester, when you went through your Aversion Therapy last time. Look.’
His eyes were downcast.
‘Look!’ she hissed.
His eyes travelled slowly up to the screen.
‘These prove that you’re suffering from psychopathy, and the only way to help you is to treat you with the new therapy.’
He blinked slowly – hell, how much sedative had he been given? – and slurred a single word, ‘Diros.’
‘Remy!’ she barked through gritted teeth. ‘You’re just going to have to trust me. I’m going to fix you and get you away from those people. Any minute now, you’re going to see your brain, in real time, and you’ll see that it’s messed up. But I’m going to make it right, you’ll see…’
The graphics came up on the display, a real-time image of Remy’s brain, and Grace stopped speaking, stood up straight, eyes riveted to the screen.
Remy’s brain did not resemble the scans from his treatment in Manchester.
Not at all.
She was looking at two different brains.
The doors to the clinic flew open and three protestors burst in, yelling loudly. Shocked, Grace couldn’t make out the words. Behind them, a man dressed in black combats, his face covered with a balaclava with shaded eye panels, dragged a screaming Abigail in, one arm around her neck. Grace backed herself into a corner as far away from them as she could manage.
The man in black threw Abigail to the floor, and her head caught the corner of a metal trolley as she fell. The guard who had brought Remy in moments before ran in and the man in black flung his arm out violently, catching the guard on the throat, and he went down to the floor, choking.
The other protestors were not like the man in black – they were teenagers, dressed in colourful sweatshirts with cartoon characters, wearing beanie hats and scarves around their faces. One froze, looking at the guard on the ground in shock, before he pulled an aerosol can from his backpack, jumped up onto one of the workstations and began spraying words in black on the wall.
The alarms started howling as the other two started opening cupboards and drawers and throwing the contents around the clinic. One kicked the glass doors of the drugs cabinet. Another was hitting the viewing screen with a metal dish.
The man in black grabbed the wheelchair that Remy had been brought in on, pulled it towards the clinic chair, unstrapped Remy and bent to lift him.
Grace launched herself at the man but he shoved her hard and she flew back, skidding across the clinic floor and hitting a wall. She got back to her feet and braced herself. The man had got Remy into the chair now.
One of the youngsters had opened a can of fizzy drink and was about to pour it over the main computer. Grace ran towards him and shouldered him out of the way with a shout. The can flew across the room, bright orange liquid splashing on the floor. Startled, he made a run for the door and escaped.
Grace grabbed a stool, ran towards the man in black and hit him as hard as she could across the back with it. It seemed to have little impact, as he ignored her and swivelled the wheelchair to face the door, Remy sitting in it, helpless.
Jumping on the intruder’s back, Grace tried to gouge his eyes, memories of street fights and their instinctive movements flooding back to her. He somehow smelled… familiar. He let go of the chair and swatted blindly at her, but she held fast, digging her fingers into his face.
The guard had managed to get to his feet, his hand to his throat, and he called for help on his radio before tackling one of the kids to the ground.
‘Take Remy!’ Grace instructed Abigail, who was cowering beneath the trolley. ‘Get him somewhere safe!’ Looking slightly dazed, Abigail nodded, clambered up and pushed the chair out of the clinic. ‘Hurry!’ Grace shouted as she continued to struggle with the man in black, trying to keep him from going after Remy.
The guard had one of the youngsters on the floor now, face down, and was zip-tying his wrists together. The boy’s companion stood wide-eyed, spray-can in hand, as George and another guard, a new one Grace didn’t recognise, ran in.
‘Help me!’ Grace shouted as the man jumped backwards, crushing her between his powerful body and the wall. It knocked the air from her lungs and she fell to the floor gasping for breath. As he made a run for the door, George tried to tackle him, but the man dodged him and disappeared into the corridor.
‘I’ll get him,’ the new guard shouted and ran after him as George regained his balance and pulled the remaining kid down from the worktop.
Grace crawled over to the clinic chair and hauled herself up onto it. Her legs were shaking, her heart thumping, her breath coming in staggered, painful pants. She looked around at the devastation of the clinic as George and the other guard restrained the protestors.
‘Did they get him, George?’
He shook his head. ‘He’ll be around somewhere. They’ll find him.’
God, she hoped Abigail had got Remy somewhere safe.
Two sweaty-faced kids, hands bound behind them, their backpacks open on a worktop, lay face down on the floor, their slogan on the wall behind them:
TIER THREE IS TORTURE! HUMAN RIGHTS FOR OFFENDERS!