Captives

SEVENTY-EIGHT

The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind. Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.

Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.

He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.

The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.

It was 10.56 P.M.

'As far as I can see, it's a perfect choice.'

The voice cut through the stillness like sunlight through night.

Nicholson didn't turn, hardly seemed to acknowledge the other voice. He merely shifted position slightly, knotted his fingers more tightly together and continued gazing out of the window.

'No living relatives. There's no family anywhere, as far as I can tell,' said the other voice. 'There's a history of violence, at least that's what the psychological profile says. More recent events would appear to substantiate that supposition.'

Nicholson remained silent.

'I need to be one hundred per cent sure, though,' the voice added.

At last Nicholson turned to face the other occupant of the room.

Doctor Robert Dexter ran a hand through his hair and nodded slowly, as if answering his own unasked question.

'How soon do you want to start?' Nicholson asked.

'I think we should leave it a week,' the doctor told him. 'I need to observe. As I said, I have to be one hundred per cent sure.' He exhaled deeply, in fact, perhaps we ought to wait longer than that.' He looked questioningly at the Governor. 'You said that policeman had been here.'

'He suspects nothing,' Nicholson said dismissively. 'I showed him the graves.'

'Even so, it might be an idea to stop work for a while. Just until the fuss has blown over.'

'What fuss? I told you, I showed him the graves.'

'But you said they'd identified Lawton, Bryce and Magee. What if he isn't satisfied with your explanation? He might come back.'

'And find what?' Nicholson leant across the desk and looked closely into Dexter's eyes. 'We've gone too far to turn back now. There's no need to delay the work, let alone stop it altogether. Unless you're beginning to have second thoughts.' He smiled scornfully. 'One failure too many, perhaps?'

'They were not failures, Nicholson. It can work, I've proved that.'

'So you say, doctor. I'm yet to be convinced.'

'It doesn't matter to you if they die, anyway, does it?'

'Not really, no.'

'I sometimes wonder why you became involved in the first place.'

'You know why.'

'Medical executions,' said Dexter quietly. 'That's what you see them as, isn't it? The ones that don't work.'

'You know my views,' Nicholson said sharply. 'This current situation is all that concerns me at the moment. Will you do it or not?'

'I need a week to observe, as I said.'

Nicholson nodded thoughtfully.

'However, the choice is perfect,' the doctor continued. He picked up the file that lay on the desk and flipped it open. Amid the plethora of papers there was a photo. He picked it up and studied the contours of the face, a slight smile on his lips.

'He'll be a good subject,' Dexter murmured. 'I'll operate as soon as I'm ready.'

He slipped the picture back into the file and closed it, looking once more at the name on the cover:

JAMES SCOTT.