****
Jed still felt sore and it wasn’t just about being kicked in the balls. It was about being defeated by an apparently defenceless woman. There was nothing in her file regarding martial arts capability. He sent a message to Richmand.
The Italian cow knows what the vector is and has told her mates. Operation aborted.
****
Probtzl hadn’t sent the whole report to Marcella. He’d only given her enough to tell Gerry about it so that she knew what treatment to administer. The rest of it was both mysterious and disturbing. The worm’s exact genome wasn’t to be found in any of the readily available databases. His colleague in the parasitology lab found similar genetic profiles, though. They were in military databases and the nearest match was an organism developed at Porton Down. Probtzl didn’t ask how his friend had accessed the information: he was just glad to get it. The crow wasn’t a specific host and it was possible for various intermediate forms to infest simpler organisms like earthworms and molluscs. Therefore it was likely that other birds could act as accidental hosts as well as the crows. What other birds could pass the delightful worm to humans? Game birds looked favourite. Should he be looking at the hunting fraternity to see if there had been any trends similar to those in the grads? It was worth a try.
****
Richmand sat at the oak dining table draped with a white table cloth adorned with the accoutrements of the baronial way of life. He smiled at his friends who were all well heeled politicos. They awaited their meal with barely suppressed anticipation. The door to the dining room opened and the butler strode in bearing a large covered silver salver which he deposited in the centre of the table with a ceremonial flourish.
‘Nothing like pheasant shot on your own land,’ Richmand declaimed, as the lid of the salver was raised. ‘Well hung were they, Barnes?’ he enquired of the butler.
‘Of course sir. This pair was in the larder for a week, so the flavour should be just as you like it sir.’
‘Jolly good, Barnes. I’ll carve.’
A few days later, Richmand was working out what he should be doing about the project which his contact in the agency had aborted. He’d have to come up with an alternative plan, something more orthodox perhaps. His homunculus had suggested a job creation scheme in Somalia. Having British graduates teaching Islamists about the wonders of Christianity sounded like a good idea.
While he mulled over other possibilities, he glanced through the Telegraph, finally reaching the obituaries. My God, he thought, old Bunty Higinbotham has died. Had many a good shoot with him. And Harold Ermine-Smythe; he’s gone too. Both had shot themselves. Reading the eulogies in the newspaper made Richmand think about his own mood. He’d been feeling a bit low of late and couldn’t think why.
Black Economy
Maximo Bellini carried the tray of specially prepared fruit juice and tepid cups of tea into the front room. It was crowded with neighbours and a sprinkling of friends, all chattering animatedly about the latest cuts in government spending. The previous day, the chancellor had been on TV yet again with his usual gleeful expression. Higher taxes on the lower paid, fewer benefits and a reduction in the job seekers’ pittance were the order of the day, crowned with a tax break for parents sending their children to the most prestigious private schools. Maximo had immediately labelled it as the Etonians’ charter. Not only would they be born and bred to rule but also they would get their training for the job at the expense of the poor. Yet another example of Thatcherite trickle-up economics, he’d exclaimed. As he ferried his concoctions, he felt a glow of satisfaction. He was fighting back. They might have had him and his wife Alison thrown out of their university jobs through their iniquitous spending cuts but he would not be downhearted. There were other ways of making a living and they weren’t always necessarily orthodox. An old fashioned university education had taught him how to think. He placed the tray on the table and directed people’s attention to the drinks with a welcoming smile.
Alison turned to the nearest group and waved them towards the buffet table.
‘Don’t forget the fruit juice,’ she said. ‘Maximo has his own special Italian blend. There’s nothing else like it.’ In her head she could see him adding a few drops of the extra ingredient. She’d found the Toxoplasma Gondii oocytes on a therapeutics site. It was an attenuated strain but still retained the power to modify people’s behaviour: they wouldn’t even know it was there, making them more daring and prone to take a risk.
The guests drifted towards the table and picked up glasses and cups as directed. A grizzled middle aged man in a scruffy leather jacket and tattered jeans looked at the juice and tea and waved Alison over.
‘Got anything stronger?’ he asked. ‘This gnats’ piss is no good to me.’
The instructions for administering the parasite had specified no alcohol, she remembered, but a refusal would look suspicious. ‘Of course, we have wine or beer. Maximo will get it for you.’
The man wandered off and buttonholed Maximo who grumpily pulled a bottle of Chianti from a cupboard and poured a glass, only to find himself surrounded by people with smiles of anticipation on their faces. Several bottles were emptied in quick succession and Maximo maintained his air of obliging geniality despite his feelings. It would increase their overheads and reduce their success rate if people drank wine rather than his special juice.
The party continued until the buffet food had disappeared and everyone had drunk enough of Maximo’s special brew to make them feel like leaving. All the while, Alison monitored the women and made sure that nobody showing any bumps resembling a pregnancy took any of the spiked juice. She drew the line at infecting the unborn with a parasite.
When the last guest had left, Maximo grinned at his wife. ‘Went like a dream: well, most of it anyway.’
‘How many bottles of wine did they get through?’ asked Alison.
‘Too many, but we’ll get it all back in sales in a few weeks. It worked last time didn’t it?’
****
Maximo and Alison sat opposite their third prospect of the day. Jay Thornwell was one of the people at the tea party three weeks ago and they knew he’d taken a good dose of the oocytes. He was therefore primed for their onslaught even if he didn’t know it. Maximo had called him a couple of days previously to suggest that they meet to discuss a business opportunity and Thornwell had jumped at the chance to make easy money.
Alison explained what they were offering. ‘You see, Jay, it’s like this. We sell franchises for the supply of a new pet that’s so fashionable that all the celebs and their children are absolutely clamouring for it. And we are giving a few select people the chance to get in on the ground floor and make a killing. We thought of you because you look like the kind of guy who is prepared to work hard and make a go of it. What do you think?’
‘It sounded good on the phone,’ replied Thornwell. ‘What did you say the profit margin was?’
‘Five hundred percent if you’re careful over expenses and overheads,’ said Maximo. ‘Just keep to good business practices and you’re made.’
‘So, I buy the breeding stock and the kit from you, is that right?’
Alison replied. ‘Yes, we supply the start-up kit that gets you going as well as a business plan. We also have ads running on our website, on eBay and lots of other auction sites. All of our franchisees get listed. You can place your own ads of course. Local ones work well.’
‘So, what is this pet that’s so popular?’
‘Haven’t you seen one yet? I’m amazed,’ said Maximo, pulling out his e-pad. He pulled up news reports showing minor celebs, with enhanced breasts, cuddling small rodents. ‘The red crested tree rat; it’s a really friendly intelligent kind of pet. Kids love ‘em and they’re very easy to look after.’
Thornwell looked a little doubtful. ‘I’m not really an animal lover. Would I have to breed them?’
‘Of course,’ said Alison. ‘But they have three litters a year and the pups virtually deliver
themselves.’
‘And you’ve done it?’
‘How else could we sell you the franchise?’ said Maximo. ‘Alison is a dab hand at breeding them. It’s her motherly nature that does it. She can teach you.’
‘I don’t fancy it that much,’ said Thornwell.
‘We do have another business idea, if you are interested, replied Maximo. ‘You could become a franchise re-seller.’
‘You mean sell franchises like you do?’
‘That’s right,’ said Maximo. ‘You sell franchises on our behalf. The margin is even higher than selling the tree rats.’
‘And if you recruit any other franchisees, you get a cut, so you win both ways.’
Thornwell leant forward. ‘So, if I sell franchises or get others to sell them, I make more money and I don’t have to handle any little furry rodents?’
‘Exactly. It’s a win, win situation,’ summarised Alison.
Once they were back in the car, Maximo was all smiles. ‘Another successful sale. That T. Gondii really works. It just tips the balance when it comes to the point when they have to take a risk.’
****
Marcella was paying one of her rare visits to her parents. Gerry, her partner, didn’t really get on with her father, Maximo. This had surprised her at first since the two men agreed on many things, particularly over the government and its domination by the odious Old Etonians and their cronies. However, Maximo couldn’t prevent himself from professing the view that since Gerry was the man, he should be out there getting a job and looking after his daughter. Then she could have a family, and so it went on. Her dad was old fashioned in that respect, thought Marcella as she wandered down the garden looking at the summer bedding plants lovingly planted by her mother. She sat down on the bench on the patio and accepted a glass of white wine from Alison.
‘Where’s Dad? Is he at the university?’
‘University? Didn’t we tell you? They gave us the sack. No funding, no students, no course. They threw us out, literally: escorted from the building like criminals we were. You father had been there twenty years and they did that to him. And me for that matter. My department has been closed. This government has a lot to answer for.’
‘I know that Mum. Look at me; one of the pariahs of society, publicly derided on a daily basis because I don’t go and get a non-existent job. Gerry and I are grads, the most hated in the land.’
‘I know dear. It makes me weep when I see those charlatans in the government insulting you. But you’re fighting back in your own way aren’t you?’
‘In a way, yes. Being self sufficient and working through our alternative economy is working and I haven’t paid back a penny of my student loan.’
‘Good for you! Your dad and I are fighting back too. Ah, there he is: I just heard the car door go. Go on, take a look at our new car.’
Marcella stood up and looked over the fence. ‘It’s a bloody Porsche! How can you afford that if you’re out of work?’
‘Your dad will tell you all about it. It was all his idea. Then I’ll show you my little friends.’
Maximo strolled into the garden through the french windows. A broad smile cracked his face and he hurried over and hugged Marcella.
‘How’s my little girl? You’re not still with that layabout are you? What’s his name? Gerry, that’s it. He’s not here is he?’ he asked, looking around for the offending presence among the shrubs and undergrowth.
Marcella disengaged herself from her father’s bear hug and went through the usual ritual of defending Gerry. She noticed that her father’s dark curly hair was showing the odd grey streak but he was as muscular as ever. Then she glanced at her mother. She maintained her usual slim form and her hair looked good with the help of a little blond hair dye. This was in contrast to Marcella who had inherited her dark curly locks from the Italian side of the family.
‘So, what’s this new business you’re in? Mum was real mysterious about it.’
Maximo sat down and poured himself a glass of wine, motioning his daughter to do the same. She could see it was going to be a long story.
****
On her way home, on the train, Marcella had plenty of time to think about her parents and their new way of life. As academics at Liverpool John Moores University, they’d had the comfort of knowing that they were valuable members of society even though they weren’t that well paid. With that kind of life had come ethics and personal integrity, the very things that Marcella been taught as a child. She still valued those principles as necessary for a satisfying life despite the pressures placed on her by external events. She looked out of the window at the houses sliding by. What might there be going behind those windows? Could people inside be plotting and scheming to make money any way they could at anyone’s expense and damn the consequences? Could there be colonies of pet rats being bred for sale to fashion conscious fools who wanted to be seen cuddling rare rodents from Mexico? Her parents were doing it and getting rich. In fact, they seemed to be obsessed with wealth and all of its trappings. Her mother had shown her a diamond encrusted Rolex that cost enough to finance a clean water supply for a small developing country and yet she saw it as a bit of bling. She’d never have done that when she was a lecturer in art history. As for the Porsche, that was purely a penis on wheels for her father to exhibit to all and sundry. She wondered if Gerry would buy one if he could ever afford it. And as for those horrible rats, Mum’s little friends, she had a shed full of them, ready to flood the country with trendy vermin.
Marcella was still thinking along the same lines when she arrived home at her own shed on their allotment, just outside Ormskirk. It was fitted out with all of the accoutrements of a compact home, with a separate bedroom and a kitchen cum diner and a sitting room. Gerry was hunched over his workbench in the kitchen diner, making jewellery from scrap electronic components.
He broke off from his task and looked up. ‘Glad you’re back. I was just thinking of having a drop of parsnip wine. Want one?’
‘I need something. I’ve just had a shock. Mum and Dad lost their jobs.’
Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘Those bloody short-sighted politicos buggering up the education system again,’ he said. ‘They’re ruining this country.’
‘But you haven’t heard the worst. My parents, those lovely fair minded, intellectual people have become entrepreneurs.’
‘Good for them. They’ve not been beaten by the bastards. What are they doing?’ asked Gerry, wielding a bottle of wine and pouring two generous measures into glasses.
‘They are selling tree rats as pets.’
‘I’ve heard of them: all the rage amongst the glitterati. And Maximo and Alison are behind it?’
‘They are the perpetrators, yes.’
‘Nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s an honest trade like my jewellery business. People don’t buy what they don’t want. I sold my entire stock at the market yesterday. That’s why I’m working today, Got an order from a shop as well.’
‘It’s not as simple as that. They don’t just sell the cuddly pets: they sell franchises to other people so that they can do it themselves.’
‘OK, why not?’
‘It’s the way they do it. It’s just not right. Look, you know how you were infested by a parasite that made you suicidal and it was tracked back to the crows you were killing and eating?’
‘Yeah, I remember, and you sorted it out with your alien professor pal. That was good work. How is this related? Is it another government thing?’
‘No, but it’s similar. My mum and dad are infecting prospective clients with a parasite that makes them more amenable to their sales pitch.’
‘Wow, that’s clever.’
‘But then they don’t just sell the franchises. No, instead they sell them a licence to sell franchises and Mom and Dad get most of the money from the sales. Not only that, they get a cut if the client sells more licences. It’s a pyramid scheme.’
Gerry started laughing, almost choking on his
wine. ‘You’re joking. I can’t imagine your parents running a scam. They’re law abiding members of the establishment.’
‘Not any more. They’ve gone feral; huge profits, cash only and no tax.’
‘A bit like us then?’
‘Not at all. They have exchanged morals for mammon.’
****
Jay Thornwell had a splitting headache and he felt both hot and shivery. Over the last two days his joints had been aching and he’d been sick several times. He’d taken paracetamol every four hours but it had made no difference and now he was feeling faint. Images of his cadaverous ex-wife floated in front of him, extolling the virtues of the vegan diet just like she’d done ten years ago, before she’d died. He tried to concentrate on the eBay bids for the tree rat franchise he was selling but the screen swam in and out of focus, alternating with the miasma of his ex-wife.
‘Come on man, gotta keep selling. There’s money to make here,’ he said to himself.
Another wave of nausea passed through him and he projected a stream of green slime over the side of his chair into the bucket he’d placed there half an hour ago. The bids were climbing too slowly. At this rate he’d make a loss. The Bellinis would take the lot unless someone made a last minute bid, he thought. The pain in his head ramped up. Consciousness ebbing, he floated outside himself watching his head burst like a huge fountain squirting bits of brain everywhere.
Thornwell awoke in a hospital bed. A readout on an adjacent machine showed how much money he’d racked up since his arrival and a TV screen on an arm over his bed was running a speech by the health minister telling him what a good job the government was doing by turning the National Health Service into a private company. He watched it fifteen times before screaming and lashing out at the screen. A hand patted his arm.
‘Jay, thank God. I thought you weren’t going to make it.’
He twisted his head around, thinking it would be another mountebank politico trying to sell him yet another empty promise. Instead, he saw his wife Deirdre, looking haggard and almost twice her age.
Parasite World Page 8