Silenced Scientists?
If Dr Yagoda has had her work removed, how many other scientists’ conclusions have we had kept from us? What other secrets about KBV’s origins and effects are being concealed, and who by? GADdamNews asks the questions no one else will dare to: has an underground cell engineered this virus to annihilate civilisation as we understand it, and how many governments are in on this conspiracy?
“Well,” said Sherazi, closing Ben’s article on the projector. “I think all of you can congratulate yourself on a terrible job well done, except for James, who can reconsider whether he wants to be a journalist or a literate human being at all.” She sat back on the desk, and pushed her hands under her thighs. “However, Ben wins the coffee voucher for ‘most spectacular bullshit’, and the full knowledge that if he can spin out his bullshit for a few more hundred words he has a successful future as a Mail columnist ahead of him.”
“Oh, no,” Ben said, in mock-horror.
“You could give Amanda DeWalt a run for her money.”
“Oh no,” said Ben, in real horror.
“Ms. Gay Adoption Is Ruining Our Country herself. Coffee voucher,” said Sherazi, holding it up. “Come and get it.”
“It wasn’t entirely bullshit,” said Ben, taking the voucher. “Dr Yagoda’s article did get pulled.”
Sherazi squinted at him. “Really.”
Ben knew she already knew. It had been all over Twitter, it had been over every slightly conspiratorial blog on the internet. She would already know. His was by no means the first article.
“The Graun said it wasn’t in keeping with the views of HPA Colindale.”
“Really,” said Sherazi, holding onto the coffee voucher and anchoring Ben to the spot like a dog on a lead. “And what did Dr Yagoda say?”
“I couldn’t get hold of her,” said Ben, ready to release the voucher.
Sherazi made an exasperated noise. “Then try again. Persistence is the soul of the investigative journalist. You’re not having your coffee voucher until you grown some backbone.”
“You’re a trendsetter,” said Tasneen, that afternoon.
“Wzz?” said Ben, who had definitely not been asleep over his Macbook in the quiet study area.
“Look,” said Tasneen, shoving her phone in his face. “Is KBV a former Soviet Experiment that got out of control?”
“I don’t think that’s anything to do with me,” said Ben. “It’s probably just more speculation from the same source — I mean, it comes from Uzbekistan, that’s not really surprising.”
“Well they published it like six hours after yours went up,” said Tasneen, disappointed, “so I’m calling it your influence.”
“God. It’s not like I’m the first one to—” said Ben, rubbing his eyes until one of his lenses came out. “What time is it?”
“Time you stopped sleeping on your laptop?” Tasneen shoved her phone in his face again. “Look, there’s an investigation to find patient zero’s medical records.”
“I know,” said Ben patiently, trying to replace his contact lens. “It’s my research project?”
“Yeah but look,” said Tasneen, apparently oblivious to his inability to do any such thing. “There’s a whole segment about how diseases just don’t crop up in Central Asia—”
“I know,” Ben repeated crossly, missing his shot. “Can I borrow your mirror, please.”
“How’s the Little Bastard?” Ben asked, as Kingsley came up the stairs with his bike and shouldered the door open.
“In hospital,” said Kingsley, without a trace of humour. “They’re talking about getting him a video link to the court so he can still give evidence but he’s treating it like it’s a get-out-of-truth-free card.” He slammed his bike against the wall, removed the helmet that had been perched on top of a helmet of thick dreadlocks in the first place, and pulled out a cushion. “Fucking hell.”
Ben, who’d been expecting a cursory yeah or he’d not have asked, reluctantly folded up his Macbook and said, “What? Hospital?”
Kingsley gave him a grim look. “Blood test results.”
For a moment Ben was confused, but the look on Kingsley’s face was eloquent. “Ah…oh. Are you going to get a test as well?”
Kingsley shook his head. “That whole non-contact policy seems really, really good right now,” he said, falling back over the cushion and nearly hitting his head on the cat. “So listen, don’t go sharing any of that around, he doesn’t need people knowing he’s got that.”
“I don’t even know his name,” Ben pointed out.
“Good,” Kingsley reached over to tickle Minnie’s stomach with one finger. “Look at my client confidentiality holding up under stress. Man, I am so glad I’m not one of the ones he’s spat at. Janice is freaking the fuck out.”
“Why’d he get the test?” Ben asked, hunching up over the closed laptop and making an effort to rebutton his shirt.
“Came into contact with some of the blood while his stupid shit mate was stabbing that kid out in Acton,” Kingsley grumbled, transferring his attentions to the top of Minnie’s head. “He feels a right fucking idiot now. Could have avoided all of this, the court, the fucking hospital, the death sentence he’s got hanging over him now — just by not going out with that dickhead this one evening.”
Ben made a sympathetic noise.
“Grab us something from JustEat will you,” Kingsley said, hoisting himself to his feet and stuffing the unprotesting cat under his arm. “I’m not cooking, I’m fucking…done. And if Pierre comes tell him to find someone else.”
“What do you want?” Ben asked, opening the Macbook again.
“I dunno. Chinese? I’ll pay you back.”
Ben shrugged. “I probably owe you anyway.”
Kingsley had already disappeared into the bedroom by the time the page had loaded. Ben spent a while considering whether he could be bothered to order anything for himself, and then ordered three times as much as he’d have thought was necessary at the best of times.
Blonk
Expecting a notification, he ignored his inbox for a minute.
To: "Ben M"
From: "Khoo, Daniel"
Subj: if I bribe you with free booze will you do me a massive favour
Okay first off you are a last, last resort and I totally understand if you tell me to fuck off. Second, there is a metric fucktonne of free wine. So much free wine.
There’s an opening/do/thing tomorrow evening which I have literally just been told about, and an unfortunate case called Gina Norris is there and she’s going to try to talk my fucking ear off about her project and you’re a journalist and she is deeply paranoid about hacks and I need you to come to this thing and drink as much as you damn well want and, I don’t know, I’ll answer any questions you have about KBV that I can, if you will just lurk around and make Gina pissing Norris too paranoid to try to bore me to death. Please.
Also if you know any journalist mates who are willing to perform the same service pass this on.
Ben made a face at the email and turned his attention back to the TV until the takeaway came.
“Ben,” Kingsley said, when he knocked on his bedroom door, “how the fuck much do you think I eat?”
“It’s for me,” Ben said.
Kingsley gave him a wide-eyed stare. “You’re gonna explode.”
When he got back to the living room-cum-bedroom, there was another email from Daniel.
To: "Ben M"
From: "Khoo, Daniel"
Subj: turning down an opportunity for ligging?
I don’t think you’re a real journalist after all.
“Well, you got that right,” Ben muttered from around a mouthful of prawn sesame toast.
To: "Khoo, Daniel"
From: "Ben M"
Subj: re: turning down an opportunity for ligging?
Well, if
you’re going to call my credentials into question I suppose I have no choice but to come and drink your free wine. Do I have to wear a suit?
His Google Alerts showed another article involving the words “KBV” and “Soviet”. Ben snorted to himself, and put more toast into his face.
To: "Ben M"
From: "Khoo, Daniel"
Subj: re: re: turning down an opportunity for ligging?
We’re scientists, Ben, no one is going to even wear a shirt that has a collar.
The event — Ben hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask what it was, and hoped like hell that merely showing up where he’d been told to would be enough — was a little more upmarket than Daniel had led him to believe. There were women in the kind of fitted dresses that female academics wear when they know they’re meant to be dressed up but can’t bring themselves to give enough of a shit to actually do it, and Senate House had ponied up a couple of security guards to check passes.
He loitered by the security desk.
“It occurred to me,” said Daniel, appearing behind him, “I should probably have given you my number for this.”
“Too late now,” said Ben. Daniel, at least, hadn’t made any effort more strenuous than applying an industrial quantity of hair gel in order to get a terrifyingly sharp peak to his hair. He was wearing royal blue jeans and a grapefruit-coloured t-shirt which had some sort of cartoon on it involving molecules, which Ben couldn’t begin to understand.
“You should have brought a camera or something,” said Daniel, leading them both to the entrance of the conference room. “Lends authenticity to my claim that you’re a news bastard.”
“I’ve got my NUJ card,” said Ben, who’d spent half an hour looking for it, and trying to obscure any indication that his membership was linked to research rather than journalism, and that he hadn’t paid his union dues since being made redundant.
“I’ll make you a PRESS sticker,” Daniel promised.
The room was half full of people, mostly in the same level of formal wear as Daniel, with outbreaks of better-quality shirts and dresses clustered together toward the centre.
“Scientists are in t-shirts,” said Daniel, “funders are in suits. Lordes is trying to make a good impression so she’s wearing make-up and she looks like a fucking clown. That is Gina Norris—” he pointed with his chin to a nervous-looking black woman in a baby-pink blouse, “—she’s all about bacteriophages. Also she’s paralytically boring.”
Ben couldn’t see any particular sign of boringness on the woman’s face — just a sense of general unease of being in company, which he supposed was probably normal for someone who spent all her time in a lab — but he took Daniel’s word for it.
“That,” said Daniel, unnecessarily, “is the free bar, and that plus the possibility of wringing funding out of them, is the reason anyone has bothered to turn up.”
“This is Ben,” said Daniel, an hour later, as soon as Gina Norris came near him. He bodily shoved Ben towards her. “He writes for the Guardian.”
“Oh,” said Gina, looking even more worried. “Nice to meet you.”
“And GADdamnNews,” said Daniel, a glass of wine in each hand. “He wrote a very incisive article about the origins of KBV recently.”
Ben shot Daniel a look of incomprehension, followed by outright confusion.
“That’s, that’s good,” said Gina, who was apparently drinking nothing but water. “Daniel, would you mind finding me when you’re, when you’re, when you’re—”
“Unencumbered by members of the free press?” Daniel suggested, peering around Ben. “Of course. But I might not break free for a while. He’s pumping me for information. Aren’t you.”
“…Yes,” said Ben, squinting at him uncomfortably. “That’s what I’m doing. Sorry.”
As Gina wandered away, glancing back at Ben a few times, Daniel burst into malicious laughter. Not merely laughter with a malicious edge, but a full and ironic ‘muahaha’ complete with villainous hand gestures. Ben took one of the wine glasses off him.
“Duty discharged,” said Daniel.
“Does that mean I can go?” Ben asked, finishing the wine.
“No,” said Daniel, “she’s going to come back if you do. And there’s free wine.” He reached behind him and plucked another glass off the long table. “Also, I think I owe you some proper answers, don’t I?”
Ben said nothing, and leaned past him for another wine glass of his own.
“Do you have somewhere else to be?” Daniel asked, regarding him with narrowed eyes. “Did I just wreck your evening? Do you have more scientists to interrogate and then fail to understand?”
“Yes,” said Ben, who’d been considering going to an art gallery opening for much the same ‘free drink’ reasons, but in slightly less terrifying company.
Daniel glared at him. “Really.”
“No.”
“Better.” Daniel relaxed slightly. “So. What do you need explaining for your project and if I tell you this is it going to end up on fucking GADdamnNews? Why the hell are you writing for them?”
“Got to pay the rent somehow,” said Ben, with a disingenuous smile.
“Yeah I imagine you have a lot of arrears,” said Daniel, with a sharp look. “Since I couldn’t find any other articles by you and your DJ card links to actual profiles of you doing actual DJ work.”
Ben shrugged. “Why were you looking that up anyway?”
“There was something off about you,” said Daniel.
“Charming.”
“Right,” said Daniel, taking a bottle of wine from under the table. He pointed the bottom of the bottle at Ben’s face. “You’re not going to throw up this time. But you are going to explain why you lied to me about being a journalist, or I’m going to nick some sodium thiopental and have the truth out of you anyway.”
“It’s fucking cold,” Daniel complained, standing under the overhang which shielded the smoking guests from the rain. Technically none of them should have been standing that close to the building at all, but the security guards had very wisely given up.
“Don’t you have a coat?” Ben suggested, one hand in his pocket and the other on the neck of another bottle of wine.
“I forgot you smoked,” Daniel said bitterly. “Vaped. Whatever.”
“Usually it’s just an excuse to get out of the noise,” admitted Ben, who was slightly drunker than he’d realised but nowhere near drunk enough to throw up.
“Mm,” said Daniel, shivering. “I’d rather have the noise.”
“Can I ask a thing,” said Ben, leaning on the wall. A sign told him not to climb on the barrier, which he would never have considered in the first place had he not been suddenly forbidden from doing it. A drop of condensed rain fell from the overhang and into the collar of his coat.
“Can I stop you? You’re a jour…a nascent journalist. Ask questions.” Daniel laughed to himself, evidently also more than a little tipsy. “It’s like science but without any rigour. Amazing.”
“Why Borna?” Ben asked, struggling to remember what the name of the thing was. “If it’s horse disease, why study that? Did you just get given it out of a hat or what?”
“Plenty of people study things for their mechanism,” Daniel sighed.
“I se—”
“Clearly,” said Daniel, gravely, “You don’t. There’s a theory,” he added, putting his hands into the tiny pockets on his jeans, “that it might — might, because it’s so bastard hard to study the effects in situ — it might be a potential cause of long-term depression.”
“Oh,” said Ben.
“And this one time I came home and found my Dad crying under the kitchen table,” said Daniel, as if he was talking about the colour of his shirt. “And after that he didn’t go to work ever again and he and my mother barely speak to each other and he doesn’t speak to me, and after I’d finished shitting myself that he’d somehow found out—” he gave Ben a sharp look,
“—it’s not a good story.”
“No,” Ben agreed. “It’s not.”
“‘Man studies cancer because his mum died of cancer’ works a lot better, doesn’t it.”
“It looks better on a book cover,” Ben agreed, pulling up his damp coat collar. He passed the bottle to Daniel, and put his e-shisha in his mouth. “Still a pretty sad story though.”
Daniel held the bottle by his side. “It’s a fucking dumb story,” he said at last. “I didn’t just go after that because of my Dad. It’s an area with lots of work to be done. Lots of potential for new discovery, lot of potential for publication. High-risk, high-reward. Hard work and worth it.” He pointed the bottle at Ben. “The mawk doesn’t cut it because it’s not the reason.”
“Mawk?”
“Mawkishness. Bullshit emotional…shit.”
“Right.” Ben inhaled slowly, and waited for the feeling of cold discomfort in the back of his neck to evaporate. He felt he should say something, but the one thing he could say in this situation wasn’t something he wanted to.
“So,” said Daniel, after a long moment had passed. “KBV?”
“I literally got given it out of a literal hat,” said Ben.
“That the only reason?”
Ben nodded.
Daniel took a swig of the wine at last. “Either I drink or I freeze,” he suggested.
“Sorry. You don’t have to wait for me.”
“Yes I do,” Daniel complained. “What if Gina is lurking in there trying to tell me how I shouldn’t talk to journalists? What then?”
“You could laugh in her face again,” said Ben, more censoriously than he’d intended.
“I didn’t laugh in her face,” said Daniel, “I laughed at her departing back.”
“So,” Ben repeated, inhaling again. “KBV.”
“I stopped kissing anyone as soon as the saliva came through,” said Daniel, in a quiet voice. For a moment Ben thought this was a non-sequitur, and couldn’t work out what it was in reference to, other than something which made him keen to pocket his e-shisha and make a move for home as soon as possible.
The Next Big One Page 9