IT’S coming up to a year since I first met Joseph.
I had been briefed of course, all terribly top secret, but when I entered his room I had no idea what to expect, this was new territory for me – and for everybody else of course.
THEY called him The Enabler. Joseph had walked into a police station in Bristol and told the desk sergeant that he could ‘enable’ villains to mend their ways, simply by acting as a physical conduit between the criminal and his or her victim.
By holding hands with both parties, he said he could enable the criminal to ‘experience’ the trauma of their victim. He claimed it was so real, so powerful, that they were overwhelmed by a sense of guilt and would vow never to offend again.
The desk sergeant told him to “sod off” but Joseph continued to return with the same pledge. Eventually he became such a pest that he was deemed to be mentally ill and committed to a psychiatric institution for assessment.
He had been there less than a day when he encountered an inmate who was attacking a nurse and his ‘gift’ was spectacularly demonstrated. After a series of tests, astonished psychiatrists concluded that Joseph could indeed enable criminals to repent.
Offenders of all descriptions were released and monitored and it soon became apparent that Joseph was indeed a very special individual.
“SIT down Paul, peruse the menu dear chap.”
John, at least that’s the name he gave me, was apparently someone high up in an obscure elite branch of the secret service that even me with my contacts, couldn’t trace.
My name is Paul Stephenson, you may well have seen my name in the ‘quality’ newspapers, the ones that cover politics and current affairs in great depth and analysis or on TV, Question Time, Newsnight, or BBC Radio 4, that sort of thing.
I’m a political journalist of long standing and as such I know plenty of people in high places. So when I was approached by John whilst strolling along Whitehall and invited for lunch at a nearby exclusive gentlemen’s club I presumed it was for an off-the-record briefing.
John looked the archetypal civil servant, blue three piece pin-striped suit, immaculately knotted tie with an ‘old boy’ emblem of a posh public school and very expensive looking silver cufflinks. He sported a gold watch on a chain which dangled from his waistcoat pocket. John looked in his early 40s, and although his hair was totally white, he had distinctive black eyebrows which made him very similar in appearance to the former Labour Chancellor Alistair Darling.
However, he was a mean, nasty bastard and quickly cut to the chase.
“You’ve been a very naughty boy Paul haven’t you?” There was a smile but it was streaked with menace.
A raised eyebrow was my only response, I wasn’t quite sure what he was on about but he quickly filled me in, oh yes indeedy.
“You’ve been shagging the Foreign Secretary’s wife, you little scally,” said John as he twirled the watch chain around his finger.
“I…”
He put his finger to his mouth. “Sssh. I talk, you listen. I’ve spoken to Olivia, she understands the way of the world. It’s got to end, and end now. It won’t go public, we won’t let it so you don’t have to worry about your dear wife and your three gorgeous children finding out. Likewise the Foreign Secretary, and his two little cuties, will also not get to hear about your tacky little adventure.
“And, this is the best bit, you’ll be glad to hear that we are not going to do what we are so very, very good at. We’re not going to ruin your career, your reputation, your finances or, in the worse case scenario, whisk you off to a secluded wood somewhere and make it look as if you’ve topped yourself. No, rest assured, we are not going to do that.”
By now I was shaking so much that the maitre d’ came over to ask if I was all right. John assured him that everything was fine, that I was just recovering from a bad cold.
Olivia and I had been so very, very careful and were convinced that no-one, absolutely no-one, knew about our affair. I know it was stupid, reckless and totally without consideration for our loved ones but it was also exciting, passionate and something neither of us had been able to resist. But now there was a price to pay.
“In return, there’s a little favour I require from you,” he said before informing me that he had decided to order the fish for both of us.
THE favour was Joseph. I was to chronicle Joseph’s achievements over a period of time and at some stage in the future, it would be released as a world exclusive, according to John, either as a series of interviews or a book. The bonus was I would receive all payments, the restriction was that John would edit what I wrote. It appeared that whatever story was to come out about Joseph, they wanted my by-line on it to give it a degree of authenticity and authority. As a result I was to spend a lot of time with The Enabler.
He was being kept at a large country house in Berkshire. When I arrived, I was astonished how tight the security was. The house was inside large, walled grounds and there was camera surveillance everywhere and armed guards on patrol.
Joseph had his own, self contained living quarters. He looked in his mid-20s, just under six feet tall, slightly built with a round, handsome face and a mop of jet black curly hair.
What struck me immediately when I was introduced to him was his generous smile which engulfed me in a lovely, warm glow. Even more astounding was the soothing sensation of tingling energy that reverberated through my body when we shook hands.
“Gets you, doesn’t it,” said John who was standing behind me. He then turned and left the room, leaving the two of us alone.
“So you’re Paul, the man who’s going to write my story,” said Joseph in flat, dialect free accent.
“So it would appear, are you happy with that?” I asked.
“Whether I’m happy or not is irrelevant. I am here to help, that’s my purpose,” he replied.
At this point I should point out that despite intensive investigation, no record could be found of Joseph anywhere - fingerprints, DNA, dental records. There was no sign of him ever working, paying tax or claiming benefits. No-one knew where he had come from or where he had lived. He couldn’t or wouldn’t give any details about his background. His response was always the same: “I am here to help.”
And so our time together began. There was a generation gap of course. I’m in my early 50s, slightly overweight and balding. Too many expensive free lunches had taken their toll, although I have to confess that my ‘fling’ with Olivia had lately encouraged me to pay a bit more attention to my turn-out.
So Joseph and I had, on the face of it, little in common. Initially I sat in with him as test after test was carried out, watched as criminals were brought to the house, along with their victims or in the case of people who had been murdered, their relatives. The results were staggering.
I watched a sick, twisted serial killer who had previously shown no remorse, sob and get down on his knees to beg forgiveness. All it needed was for Joseph to hold hands between the man and the mother of one of his victims and the effect was instant.
This went on for several months but I began to sense a feeling of unrest from Joseph.
“Why am I still here Paul?” he asked, his big brown eyes pleading with me for some assistance.
“I don’t understand, what you do mean?”
“Surely they believe me by now. Why aren’t they letting me out so that I can get on with my work?”
“What’s your work Joseph?”
“I’ve told you, I am here to help.” Again the same set response.
“To help whom?” I asked.
“Everyone Paul, I must help everyone, that's why I am here. The more people I can reach, the more the message will be spread.”
“What message?”
“People must stop doing evil things, they must realize that it is the wrong path, I need to rid the world of wrongdoing. The more criminals I get to, the more they will go out into the world to tell others.”
“You want to rid the world of evil Joseph, I’m not sure that’s possible.”
He smiled that smile at me. “Have faith, dear Paul, have faith. It will work, I am here to help.”
The tests went on and on and Joseph became more frustrated. Whenever he asked whether he could go out into the real world, he was fobbed off with one excuse or another.
MY visits to the house became more and more regular, not so much because of what I was writing in what I now called ‘Joseph’s Journal’, but because I was becoming his confidant, friend. He came across as genuine, sincere person but despite his amazing gift, he was also extremely naïve and not at all streetwise. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t being let out.
His background remained puzzling. Joseph didn’t seem to have any awareness of what was going on in the rest of the world, it was as if he has just stepped out of the Amazonian jungle having never encountered civilization.
When I tried to chat to him about current affairs or popular culture he looked confused.
My attempt at being ‘cool’ by introducing Lady Ga Ga into the conversation had absolutely no impact. When asked about family, he would say: “I am only one.”
After that we mainly chatted about things that were happening to him at the house.
One day I arrived after the ‘scientists’ had finished with him and he was very distressed.
“Something’s changed Paul. They’ve changed. They’ve started giving me different tests.”
“What sort of tests? How different?” I asked.
Joseph had spent all of his time in the house dealing with criminals and their victims. But today they had introduced him to a man of Middle Eastern appearance and there were no victims present.
“They said he was a terrorist. But they did different tests, they wanted to know whether I could have any influence on how the man felt. Paul, they weren’t interested in empathy, compassion, they just wanted information. They wanted to find out if I could obtain any information from this man, if I could glean anything from his thoughts.”
“And could you?”
Joseph replied “of course not” a little too quickly for my liking and there was something in his eyes that puzzled me. This wasn’t the Joseph I had got very close to, this was a different Joseph, one that was hiding something. He also looked genuinely frightened.
For the next few weeks this pattern continued. Joseph was only seeing terrorists, or at least men he was told were terrorists.
As Joseph’s concern grew, I eventually summoned up enough courage to confront John who spoke to me in a very polite, but very condescending manner.
“Paul dear boy this is really not your remit. Just concentrate on getting the story down and think about all the cash this will eventually net you. And all the lovely things you can buy for your loving, faithful wife and adoring children.”
Once again that smirk which made me want to punch him very, very hard on the nose.
“But you’re not using Joseph to tackle crime, that’s what he wants to do,” I said.
“Leave that to the PCSOs, Joseph has got far more important work to do.”
“I CAN’T do it Paul, I won’t do it. They can’t make me.”
Those stark words greeted me the last time I saw Joseph, about four days ago.
John and some of his cronies had been to see Joseph and told him they wanted him to ‘persuade’ terrorists to go back to the Middle East and bomb their paymasters.
“It’s wrong, it’s evil, it’s not why I came here,” moaned Joseph.
He was frantic with worry, his eyes flitting around the room. I tried to console him but with little effect.
Then the door to his room opened and John stood there, resplendent in all his Savile Row glory.
“It’s time for you to leave Paul, we need Joseph.”
As I made to leave the room, the look on Joseph’s face chilled me. It was like deserting a young child being dropped off at school for the very first time.
But John firmly ushered me towards the door by grasping my elbow and said: “Have a break for a few days Paul, spend some time with your family. I’ll give you a ring when I need you next.”
“But what about my story, when is it going to be published?” I asked.
“All in good time. Don’t worry, your journal will have a role to play. The public will need to be informed at some stage. However for now, I think you have done enough.” With that John shut the door in my face and one of the guards accompanied me to my car.
I stayed away a day but was wracked with guilt. And for some unexplained reason I also had a dreadful fear that something horrible was going to happen.
By tea-time the following day I was driving back to Berkshire desperate to see Joseph again. I knew I couldn’t help but I just wanted to be there for him.
When I got the house I was surprised to see the giant iron gates open and no security guards around.
I parked up and dashed into the hallway. There was a huge pile of bodies, all seemingly dead from gunshot wounds. At the top of the stairs I found John. He was holding a sub-machine gun and also a pistol with which it appeared he had used to fire into his mouth. It looked as if he had shot the others and then killed himself. His expensive suit was splattered with blood and gore and there was very little left of his white hair. His left hand was still clutching the watch chain. Joseph was nowhere to be found.
THESE are my last words. I’ve got to be quick now and get this sent out. I’ve made up a list of media outlets I think will be brave enough to go with this. I am convinced the security forces will be here soon. I don’t know what happened to Joseph but I do know this a story they won’t want me to ….
© Patrick O’Connor 2010
!Note - If you tell someone to "mend their ways", you are telling them to improve their behaviour.